what you think of yourself

a parliament of youth came together in the U.K. to talk about issues and I watched them on c-span. the most spirited among them stood up from the green leather cushions and waved arms and smiled toward themselves, you could see. I was drawn in by the process. these kids with their fantastic regional accents trying the whole chamber, the whole house of commons, for some eloquence and persuasion. may be what you think of yourself in the end that triumphs.

you stole the show you thief

Remember when you stole the show? We didn’t feel robbed at all by the time we were done yelling after you — tired, we sat down, laying our arms out over the armchairs — for you invited us backstage for your theatrical tea party, dressed us up in careless costume, sent us out with cups to a kettle whistle, and shot us full of Constant Comment. Orange Pekoe was precise and pulled the folds out of the curtain. See how health can falter? Lock you into a death spiral, and all whatever fabric of your life as was falls off, and you are left naked, spinning towards the end? Just enough time to wave goodbye. Something quite amazing will happen when you leave your body behind. They all think you have gone but I know different, I have you to myself over here; you give me that feeling again and again, after dinner while sucking on thin mints and Charleston Chews, listening casually to an echo of you.

dub the nights away

The only news i’m gonna read anymore is about books. i will read books and write books and read about books read and written. i will also be happy to read about unwritten (and therefore unread) books and books remembered that once were forgone or forgotten.  banned books will be a priority. translated books will be fine though i will prefer the native tongue. i may even learn another language if it helps. i will hashtag books in search queries all over the dam place. i was once an english major and truthfully got sick of reading books and books about books. most of them were novels. and i even stopped reading them though i never stopped writing them. i went into the dark room and redeveloped a fondness for paper and letters, alighted by fixer and tongs. the chemical baths in the house woulda made an ordinary old maid very sick. but this strange one (i call me) saw words appear out of letters in the shallows of the print trays in the shadowless red light district of my kitchen. digital was a four letter word in my house and if you spoke of oneupmanship in megapixel cameras on mobile phones, you would find your throat cut and the crime scene captured on old minoltas. we were in love all over again. we had books and manual inautomatons. we had tinfoil on the windows. the smell of formaldehyde and the spinning of drying prints in the hamster wheel (minus hamster). we locked ourselves in closets with one finger on a tape lead to a cartridge like a silver rubix cube with a hard on for mysterious. our lexicon was unadulterated by robots. ink from an inkwell was in fashion. we got the led out on old boxes with long silver antennae. newspaper print sullied our clothes. the speakers splashed by many a paint project outdoors and dual tape decks whereby we would sip new coke outta crazy straws and dub the nights away.

devolver (foo+l=fool, -ii)

Once, a long time ago, before they devolved her

The land was a greater part peace and understanding. None of that hippy crap. I am talking about true serenity. Joyfulness. Free giving like freeware and wifi hotspots with open architectures are today. You understand. That which inevitably will be lost to us. Freedom seems to inevitably cost us. At least 364 days a year.

Back then, things were relatively pagan, without so much rules and laws. Life was muddy, dirty, but somehow the wear and tear of life made us clear. The scuff on the cuff of life, purified us. And she was in our hearts then.  She was sacrosanct. For a single day of the year, sometimes, usually a full lunar eclipse, or a blue moon perhaps, but for one single day we experienced true and wondrous freedom. I do not know how to describe it. I was feeling it in the eastern lands where i lived. St Petersburg, the heart of the greater lands before Moscow became preeminent. St Petersburg is where her heart resided.  The waves of her energy lapped gently into surrounding lands. Washed over the entire surface of the earth, they say.

The truth is this. The paradigm fell into a chasm. They scattered our world with insensitive tough brush strokes, taught us to live violently. Gave us guns. We dreamed of a world we once had. We dreamed of her. She receded from our realities.  Physical annihilation became just the usual. Just a few stiff drinks and dismembering words, before we flew out on our vacations. Participate or be outcast. The truisms became  internalized. Context became irrelevant.

I became secretive. I kept her to myself. She was my life. She fed my spirit. How could i dissolve her? She was generous with me. Gentle with me. Why would i devolve her? What they came to understand, became universally accepted. What had never been our truth, became a given.

So I became jaded. I became angry. I left my community and held vigils for her. In her memory. They had resigned her to the grave, but she would never die in my heart. I practiced great and focused mindfulness in order to calm myself and combat the confusion in my head. They called my kind witches and heretics and demons. They outcast us. We were remanded to the night, when all were unconscious.

History was being rewritten, right before my eyes. I was so sad and disappointed. At times my only sustenance was a candle and my cards, and the sweet music in my head. My friends had been taken and bound by vines. I cannot speak further of the atrocities then committed. My mind was confused. My heart was subdued.

Every night in my prayers, i efforted to ask her for all hatred to be lifted off my heart. I prayed for my community. Yes. The reignition of the flame of our hearts would be a tedious and slow process that would take generations. I knew. I knew like i know now, that each of us would be reborn (not in a born again christian way).  One ray of california light at a time. only some lucky days could i walk with the divine. today was one.

year of diminishing concerns (june, 2012)

So it was here….or damn near. the year of diminishing concerns. by way of emotions unsettled, the last year she left us. the chains cracked and discarded at the concrete block where our least civilized, most colorful sparks of feeling had their birth.

The sparks they flew, travelled in waves and packs, on levels above and below. sometimes interlacing or crossing, taking on the spirit of some tangent to the earth.

Do not underestimate the ever necessary play. the critical mass of affect across our temporal yardsticks. Or do, and take damages. what you have hopefully carefully watched and learned like language, like its the preeminent thing one must learn to survive, may just finally come to assist you. Like that english lit degree you have dragged behind you for the past two decades. Just better.

Just you wait. all will come to critical mass, when these inflections and movement of emotions finally cross over. For here it is that two otherwise untouching languages of sorts, find one another and throw up question marks to amplify the disconnect.

the moment whereby the signs have been shot up like skeet. like fireworks. staged. not to touch. deliberate. like rockets of opposing nations. indelible. shot up like dope fiends. any city, any state. side by side turning blue. unintelligible.

so clear to see. but uncertified. unwanted. protested against. denied.  and possibly lost not only without translation but without transmission. lost without transmission. that’s what awaits us all, if we don’t get it together. isn’t it? our life depends upon us. artists. writers. sentients. come on now.

I guess its gonna be another patterned bailout. not by the 1% of the top of the capital food chain, na. nyet. the elders. the ones we think we have disposed of. the ones we thought were deposed. or deposited in some trailer park or cookie cutter geriatric facility, anywhere, usa. the elders will rise again. the subtle sense purveyors. they will again exercise great ascending adrenaline in their collective fashion. seemingly out of contact with one another. deaf. blind. drunk. dumb. numb.

watch them. not with your eyes, silly. watch them process the foreign signs. they won’t need cell phones or netbooks. but they might use them, if they so choose. their eyes will light up and warm us all like coals. from the inside out. in the steady blowing currents they call the nor-easters .

we won’t know til it hits us, or even after the fax. the message in the sky. the smoke signalled trax. Come to us as fortune, by way of validation. in this year of diminishing returns. if we’re lucky. the elders. the subtle sense purveyors. come to heal our collective spiritual emergency. putting their asses on the line for us. like real fathers. like real mothers.

starting from nothing . zero. come out of the earth. on some seemingly insignificant fragment of universal feeling. all you gotta do there is witness and watch. even blessings are optional. just open your eyes. just witness and watch.