travel through infinity to be fixated on a moment’s sorrow. dance a smile into the memories of the sky.
a man’s everlasting battle against proprietary,
ever-losing as he is gaining humility,
to her ever-growing beauty,
frost-born chills melt bitterness and sentiments alike,
a staunch april, cool morning,
waking up to another heavy sigh
One way is grooving in the majestic flow, shimmering in that tragedy of our shared meaningless flight. The height, the warmth, and the gambling freedom…Ah! They arrest me in mortal pause. Lingering lingers far too easily when splendid sensations and moral devotion, separate in their dissimilarity, are linked by a road with mile markers. A road gives light, direction and hope. From a resting spot, one can leap further and daringly. But one has to yield the dreamy feeling of being lost in timelessness on Calypso’s Island.
The other ways seem too possessive. It wouldn’t feel right to give attention to the soot of experience. The light is in the flames, tragic beauty perhaps in a dying ember. But the soot of experience, of dealing with co-workers and drunk retards…
Flames of experience. Your name sings itself in my ears, rings in my heart. Black moon eyes on a soulful white sky.
Those divine blushing lips.
Resting, at last in timelessness, I’ll take a different journey.
How would a rock feel on a day like this? Same as God, I’m assuming. We’re all riding the same experience but not quite, differing in minute ways separated by miles, time, and experiences apart. The distance makes me feel a little bit of lonesomeness under the scorching sun which is also lonely in the deep darkness of space but radiates so intensely bright. I want to have solitude like the sun.
When I read about the history of the oil industry, as far as the eye can see and as deep as my reasoning would allow me, the interconnected veins of history stretch to enormous lengths across the historian out from the pages pumping new life into me from its hallowed wisdom. But what’s next after it’s all been read and learned, memorized and reflected upon? There is nothing more in reveling in the past but to use that new life it has inspired into creating a new branch onto history, society, and news media.
The inspiration does little to nudge me into new habits or patterns of thinking. I find myself a little more self-conscious of my thinking than I would’ve like. Nonetheless, I’m waking up early again and it may do me good to see a little more of the sun each day.
Please sit, sit down. Do you drink any alcoholic beverages? Good, we’ll be quick friends you and I. Thought of becoming a playwright, eh? Good for you! This world needs hope more than ever, especially with the drab state of affairs art and culture is currently going. What do I mean? Well, we’re doing this little back and forth between psychotic genius and retarded bliss for decades now without a single new idea, excuse me, method, in the horizon. You see, method is the key to developing the concepts, the playgrounds for society’s consciousness. Without method, we stop developing, both as individuals and as a collective society. Rather, we go into a tail-spin of self-reflective doubt perfecting the details of our mental and spiritual nests but not exploring the further depths of our psyche.
The mental world is different, you must build before you explore and that’s where method is key, without which we’re just animals sufficiently grooming ourselves until the day we die. Exploring is a trite activity as with most artforms. Yes, I know, expression is life. But I ask you, what is life being lived as worms crawling in the dirt and burned by infernal heat and sidewalk each summer? Quality, yeah? Hell is other people because we live too much in other’s lives. Now, method is sufficiently different, it’s the source of creativity. I’ve discovered that fact not too long ago riding on a gondola years ago. The music and the air were perfect just to speak nothing about the blueness of the water. With method, you give a person more than an archetype or playground, you give wisdom sufficient enough to be God. Yes, create everything from pure and raw imagination. Playful, too mind you, and wouldn’t that be a greater plane to express oneself? No? Well, what’s so great about living a physical life? I s’pose since you asked, we must talk about the carnal pleasures.
To begin, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs state clearly they are at the bottom but for a very subtle reason: economy. It is a biological necessity to eat and procreate and internal mechanisms trigger our sense to pursue those pleasurable activities. But those only lead way for more useless thinking, comparing lovers and food as if we owned our experiences. No, we don’t own our experiences, we live on borrowed time and because so we need a variety of experiences to sate the time we have left, rendering rarer experiences like those in meditation far more superior. Sex is good every once in awhile, but when someone else describes to you their love-making, it becomes absurd, no?
I imagine that living a very personal life is the right way. Well, you’re right, a companion works fine until they leave you and then you fill that space with a ghost. What? You like ghosts? That’s bizarre! I hope you fail as a playwright.
I’ve once killed a man for serving me medium rare when I asked for medium well. Do you hear me? Look at this trash, this dump of a place. I’m surprised you’ve haven’t quit yet.
And with those sentences, our relationship began. She was a beautiful bright girl, very rare in this side of town where shadowy culture has taken the best of us to that infernal raving damnation within entertainment. She had a wonderful soul but didn’t know how to take an order from a Wendy’s Drive-Thru window. When I received a side salad when expecting a Caesar side salad, I began shouting at her. It was then in her most fragile and vulnerable state did I fall in love. Not immediately of course, I was a sensible man but gradually over the course of that year. She reminded me of something purer and simpler than the lower forms of living creatures paraded in television and media. And I was able to enjoy her company for a good while.
In our evenings, I looked at her and she looked at me without saying so much as a word to each other for hours but smiling all the while knowing we possess a certain level of secrecy about our love. The charade grind to a halt by the end of the year. Being too much in love does has its downfalls, one doesn’t get to breathe air, pure fresh air of flirting outside with random strangers. Sniffing the roses that smell sweeter than perfumed lingerie, but scrambling back home like obedient dogs we were. And it was good for a time, only a brief time. I think I’ve stayed longer than I’ve liked.
Take flight, no? You’d find me in the corridors leaning against the wall amidst triumphant laughter two or three paces away from the mingling of joyful characters thriving in their “mode.” My mode is off-chord. A broken unorthodox chord, the Phrygian mode. I long to flee from such an uncomfortable posture and take flight into the realm of the imagination through the timeless windows of sublime, unhinged, raw experience. But to be tethered in all directions, physically and worse, situationally leaves my eyes wandering further to socially neutral space for the sake of etiquette and morals, a timely but fruitless compromise and seedless time spent. Well-liked and well-received are the virtues of a comic, not an intellect.
Prostrating ourselves with adjectives upon adjectives in mind, we leave a paper trail to our own graves, words long soaked and weathered by others’ chattering along.
An ordinary scheduled import of cream and protein swells each new day contributing to a cluster of unrealized dreams morphed from a curious combination of inspiration and humor. But sleep obtains certainties which are chillingly realized deep in bones far stronger than the grasp of vanishing reason. Upon awakening, reason reborn armed with new zeal fights back the vilified and tight rein of the aged sententious unconscious. I find myself stirred within a jar of an environment absent of sentiments, the lost remittance for a latter jarred day.
I’ve been eating Chipotle Steak Burritos for two days in a row which have contributed to some kind of upset stomach condition which has in turn found its way to bad or terrible moods in public. Contemplating its effects, I believe these ills along with a playful restless routine may have disturbed my sleep to the point of giving me retarded dreams of pure sensations without thought or creativity. When awake, at least I find some relief from the turbulence of my artistic sentiments, but my thoughts are dulled as if they’ve gone through journeys and endless chaos. It’s battle-hardened and energetic. Never before have I been so eager to get out of bed, never before have I been so eager to return to it. Schedules influence me more than I to it. Even the memories of my spontaneity are shackled by slavish impulses of an abused mind.
At least I’m savoring the what-you-may-call-it a corner reserved for my brief musing into the philosophical questions concerning the reaches of my mind, exploring the structure proposed in my selection of artistic influences and imagining on the platform of business needs, societal concerns, and engineering flourish beside a classical column largely ignored, swathed beautifully by ivy coating on marble majesty.
Something is vanishing. Nothing can be regained but rediscovery is what we all long to be.