The following post comes from a thought diary dated 21st July 2006.
It was written when I was 20.
I felt like copying it out.
Can anyone find their home?
Depends how much they think about it. Sure people feel at home in certain places, but without too much consideration they succumb to the most inevitable of human feelings: ambition.
Built as we are, we are never content - psychological fact. We know this because we are a species of strict natural selection. Why settle for less. Happiness is not concrete. So it seems people only find their home if they numb their mind to the distractions that pester their satisfaction. Unless you define home differently. If home is said to be a place where you feel most comfortable - then - certain havens could be called home. People need shelter or they become delirious and insane. Insane - or more sane, or conformity?
(There's more to life than spinach) - when I discover the meaning (fully) of this epigram I will tell the world. Without subterfuge. For now it excites my mind that I continue to recall it. It must fall somewhere between my purpose and past. I have release, but is that all? Confidence is ephemeral - as soon as it is noticed it disappears. It has to be wholly innate for it to function optimally, or is it but a farce? Yet such confidence cannot be confined and degrades to arrogance - by nature - so it must be kept at bay in the name of morality. Morality? Whose? Which cult's? Don't think I could be driven to Raskilinkoff action as I possess less anxiety and more relief. Tautologies stop it regress.
Happiest moments of my life were when new things were occurring - in familiar situations and places I was free. Maybe I do need more time in education - at my own disposal. World is full of obnoxiousness and marionettes. Floating the air thing breath.
Humour is sacred and should be embraced with utmost gratitude. There is no shame in it. Yet others often do the right thing - people are good - but - why - there is built in warmth - And I now see it - as it has been all along - Never cease the flow KI, unto you as onto others --------->
Monday, 9 July 2012
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Seaside Carillon
The heart beats in the formless sea,
circles and triangles swim with songs,
And the soft current
sways the boy like a hyggelig-anesthetised kelp.
The boy is home.
Bells ring out for the waves.
Alarms, all-too-false alarms
but the boy is called.
The moon is turning.
A wave rolling against a steel door,
a dead thud of control versus uncontrol,
Till the metal splits –
Bursts onto our ears
In thrusts and heaves of
Sound.
Thrusts and heaves of sound,
As noiseless as this sentence.
A whale corpse
Shunted over rocks,
Bursting a confetti of bells.
The ripped middle,
Launched up like a royal swan
Shaking on the hook of a Hutu drummer.
Feathers thrashing, breasts alive,
Waves swarming with fevers of
Hypnotic dance.
Spirals and siphons of joy,
Fuelled only by the
Rhythm of the waves.
This is that battle that battle there,
With rain and storm - whatever you imagine
The order protection, the category blip
the etching and egging it’s a nothing but oh -
What is this beat, this wombing
sea-beat!
This sea-beat
that shoves us so?
The quarry produces,
the boy tugs stone.
The captive's new house
a defibrillator,
A scaffold of metronomes.
Twenty-three bells heard
From the sea,
Dry and
Stable.
Pillared in rock,
Clocked and measured,
Dusty and snug,
Like a grandma at tea.
Thick waves drum thunder no more.
The tower frowns like an ogre,
Flat bells on dry sand.
AA battery morning of
Toneless hope.
The great composer has finished his air.
Men jiggle,
Excited in their wicker seats.
,
Thrashing bushes with his
Rush-wood blade - the boy runs fast through the forest
'The great composer has finished his air!'
But gasp, his throat won’t move,
Shhhwwssshhwwwsssshhwwww
- the Waterfall!
The flow is thick,
Water chugs like a
Mudslide.
The relief of the post-coital gulp.
The rushing, the booming, the
Rolling of rhythm.
Rocking as a younger him in the
Arms of the shore.
He almost drowns.
Out rush ready
To the great performance!
His feet are full of drums,
Bell ring tinkle at the forest rim,
Witch-shapes carving the human hymn.
Then sat in this stillness of aching still.
Prescient chimes make love like a hand drill.
The boy beats his palm on his thigh.
Bound to the mountains,
Sheepskin and sticks,
Beating his feet to the foreign water.
Swooning his head into loops of rhyme,
Jolts of numeric flooding his spine,
Sweeping and floating like a paintbrush in brine,
Like a juicy-goat of music lust.
And the rocks of the tower ached to swell but
Stones don't creak.
And the steel of the dam yearned to sing but
Metal can't speak.
And the music kept rising
heap upon heap,
An unfettered genie
a Xylophone keep.
As the runes of the water that were only
A beat, came thumping and springing and
Rearing to leap.
And the boy broke twisting his
Under-swell deep.
A drop in the ocean;
Man at his peak.
'Sounds like a guy going for a piss in a club' J. Barrington-Hines
circles and triangles swim with songs,
And the soft current
sways the boy like a hyggelig-anesthetised kelp.
The boy is home.
Bells ring out for the waves.
Alarms, all-too-false alarms
but the boy is called.
The moon is turning.
A wave rolling against a steel door,
a dead thud of control versus uncontrol,
Till the metal splits –
Bursts onto our ears
In thrusts and heaves of
Sound.
Thrusts and heaves of sound,
As noiseless as this sentence.
A whale corpse
Shunted over rocks,
Bursting a confetti of bells.
The ripped middle,
Launched up like a royal swan
Shaking on the hook of a Hutu drummer.
Feathers thrashing, breasts alive,
Waves swarming with fevers of
Hypnotic dance.
Spirals and siphons of joy,
Fuelled only by the
Rhythm of the waves.
This is that battle that battle there,
With rain and storm - whatever you imagine
The order protection, the category blip
the etching and egging it’s a nothing but oh -
What is this beat, this wombing
sea-beat!
This sea-beat
that shoves us so?
The quarry produces,
the boy tugs stone.
The captive's new house
a defibrillator,
A scaffold of metronomes.
Twenty-three bells heard
From the sea,
Dry and
Stable.
Pillared in rock,
Clocked and measured,
Dusty and snug,
Like a grandma at tea.
Thick waves drum thunder no more.
The tower frowns like an ogre,
Flat bells on dry sand.
AA battery morning of
Toneless hope.
The great composer has finished his air.
Men jiggle,
Excited in their wicker seats.
,
Thrashing bushes with his
Rush-wood blade - the boy runs fast through the forest
'The great composer has finished his air!'
But gasp, his throat won’t move,
Shhhwwssshhwwwsssshhwwww
- the Waterfall!
The flow is thick,
Water chugs like a
Mudslide.
The relief of the post-coital gulp.
The rushing, the booming, the
Rolling of rhythm.
Rocking as a younger him in the
Arms of the shore.
He almost drowns.
Out rush ready
To the great performance!
His feet are full of drums,
Bell ring tinkle at the forest rim,
Witch-shapes carving the human hymn.
Then sat in this stillness of aching still.
Prescient chimes make love like a hand drill.
The boy beats his palm on his thigh.
Bound to the mountains,
Sheepskin and sticks,
Beating his feet to the foreign water.
Swooning his head into loops of rhyme,
Jolts of numeric flooding his spine,
Sweeping and floating like a paintbrush in brine,
Like a juicy-goat of music lust.
And the rocks of the tower ached to swell but
Stones don't creak.
And the steel of the dam yearned to sing but
Metal can't speak.
And the music kept rising
heap upon heap,
An unfettered genie
a Xylophone keep.
As the runes of the water that were only
A beat, came thumping and springing and
Rearing to leap.
And the boy broke twisting his
Under-swell deep.
A drop in the ocean;
Man at his peak.
'Sounds like a guy going for a piss in a club' J. Barrington-Hines
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
that letter next to x
Didn't even copy and paste it or erase it just typed it into the box
on the chalk board with dry fingers immaterial immemorial
after the chunk of dry air meat-rolled me
Didn't walk over out there. Hid on in there instead.
Behind anything that moves.
Strokes over cardigans
- fuzzy little ache
ache like a nondescript word
astronaut cosmonaut athletonaut grownasaur
jagged, , experiemental <---- cursor, repetition, self-awareness, embarrassment
the amount of times, the amount of times its already happened. To anyone to all.
Like a boulder, a sea of metaphors, sentences that just
. and again. because it gets nothing, more than nonsense and less than sense
a moment of deadness. a tick. the furthest thing from a river you can imagine.
actors playing with themselves, their characters' inside each other, dpusvitire and that.
c
on the chalk board with dry fingers immaterial immemorial
after the chunk of dry air meat-rolled me
Didn't walk over out there. Hid on in there instead.
Behind anything that moves.
Strokes over cardigans
- fuzzy little ache
ache like a nondescript word
astronaut cosmonaut athletonaut grownasaur
jagged, , experiemental <---- cursor, repetition, self-awareness, embarrassment
the amount of times, the amount of times its already happened. To anyone to all.
Like a boulder, a sea of metaphors, sentences that just
. and again. because it gets nothing, more than nonsense and less than sense
a moment of deadness. a tick. the furthest thing from a river you can imagine.
actors playing with themselves, their characters' inside each other, dpusvitire and that.
c
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
No Thyself
'Borges represented the humanist view of media that stressed the social aspect of art driven by emotion'
What does this mean?
Do I agree with it?
What does this mean?
Do I agree with it?
Monday, 15 August 2011
why not write in ink?
... just some unedited thoughts scribbled on a flattened out sandwich box from a couple years back ...
Why not write in ink if the computer's always in the way? So many sensations to experience outside in physical world from spicy food to scented candles. Here even I used forms I've learned from media. The journalistic alliteration of 'from spicy to scented. Getting dizzy, getting cold, getting nervous, scared, excited. All better than fake light pushing into my eyes. Cold blue light which illuminates my page from white Microsoft Office. It guides my pen. Pen pen pen pen15. Immeasurable. We consume electronic entertainment because we are lazy. It seeps down our throats and we croon at the sweet humour honey. We don't listen, smell or breathe. Just cheat by jumping our minds with cables. Jump start the day with a YouTube million hitter and your set. Like the cock who interviewed me for that job at DARE. 'So which blogs do you follow?' 'Uh ... BBC News ... day in pictures' 'Ahhh, I have all my links feeding my blogosphere wank hall'. So all transient, ephemeral, trivial, uninspiring information comes straight to my desk and I spend the first 15 minutes ... ah, what a life. Who can live it? I mean properly LIVE IT? What do they run on? Lattes and megabytes. Football stats and Esquire. 'What all men must own' articles. It's scary. I know we're not supposed to judge. Not that. I'm making a personal rule not to judge. But sometimes, fuck. How? All I can think is ... poor souls. Where are there souls? Who keeps them? Which demon? An then there's straight up uncomplicated HEALTH. It's so simple. Don't smoke, don't drink, just drink smoothies and have sex. Cycles, drink water, eat fruit, drink soup, sleep a lot. Listen to music, live. Keep warm, keep laughing. Write or paint if you want to. Several is just a posh way of saying seven. Sing and dance as much as possible. Hug people properly. Be open and unafraid. Don't worry. Ever. Who can turn a 31 sided puzzle into a square? ALWAYS LEAVE SOME ROOM TO THINK.
Why not write in ink if the computer's always in the way? So many sensations to experience outside in physical world from spicy food to scented candles. Here even I used forms I've learned from media. The journalistic alliteration of 'from spicy to scented. Getting dizzy, getting cold, getting nervous, scared, excited. All better than fake light pushing into my eyes. Cold blue light which illuminates my page from white Microsoft Office. It guides my pen. Pen pen pen pen15. Immeasurable. We consume electronic entertainment because we are lazy. It seeps down our throats and we croon at the sweet humour honey. We don't listen, smell or breathe. Just cheat by jumping our minds with cables. Jump start the day with a YouTube million hitter and your set. Like the cock who interviewed me for that job at DARE. 'So which blogs do you follow?' 'Uh ... BBC News ... day in pictures' 'Ahhh, I have all my links feeding my blogosphere wank hall'. So all transient, ephemeral, trivial, uninspiring information comes straight to my desk and I spend the first 15 minutes ... ah, what a life. Who can live it? I mean properly LIVE IT? What do they run on? Lattes and megabytes. Football stats and Esquire. 'What all men must own' articles. It's scary. I know we're not supposed to judge. Not that. I'm making a personal rule not to judge. But sometimes, fuck. How? All I can think is ... poor souls. Where are there souls? Who keeps them? Which demon? An then there's straight up uncomplicated HEALTH. It's so simple. Don't smoke, don't drink, just drink smoothies and have sex. Cycles, drink water, eat fruit, drink soup, sleep a lot. Listen to music, live. Keep warm, keep laughing. Write or paint if you want to. Several is just a posh way of saying seven. Sing and dance as much as possible. Hug people properly. Be open and unafraid. Don't worry. Ever. Who can turn a 31 sided puzzle into a square? ALWAYS LEAVE SOME ROOM TO THINK.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
shine
I suppose its just an anxiety to live within the world of thought.
It is of course possible to earn a living through one means and use your spare time to learn and engage intellectually with the world. Whether it is more, less, or equally fulfilling to do this I cannot say.
Noam Chomsky says real thinkers engage in 'the constant struggle to create a better world'
I don't accept the notion that we cannot create a better world. Relativism? Each-to-their-ownism? .... nah ...
I don't care if its for selfish reasons that one wants to be part of an intellectual circle or to understand the world better. I think its important. I think its important for those who can think to think properly. To question and grind up against the norm. There are many philosophical loops that will swing you out of the firing line of responsibility.
It is not that you have to actively convince others of another way but that you are aware that there is another way and that you think about it, learn about it, and respond to it in an intellectual and illuminating way. Even if that way only illuminates yourself.
Shine on brother.
Shine on.
It is of course possible to earn a living through one means and use your spare time to learn and engage intellectually with the world. Whether it is more, less, or equally fulfilling to do this I cannot say.
Noam Chomsky says real thinkers engage in 'the constant struggle to create a better world'
I don't accept the notion that we cannot create a better world. Relativism? Each-to-their-ownism? .... nah ...
I don't care if its for selfish reasons that one wants to be part of an intellectual circle or to understand the world better. I think its important. I think its important for those who can think to think properly. To question and grind up against the norm. There are many philosophical loops that will swing you out of the firing line of responsibility.
It is not that you have to actively convince others of another way but that you are aware that there is another way and that you think about it, learn about it, and respond to it in an intellectual and illuminating way. Even if that way only illuminates yourself.
Shine on brother.
Shine on.
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
it's because
it's because we have a thousand souls
that's what Hesse wrote.
now we have a thousand channels
they're all useful - i suppose
but if you have nothing to do then nothing is useful
if you have one passion then you can forget about everything else
only robots have one passion
and even they try to multi-task
the shapes and colours of letters are ignored as much as the uncrystalised and unmonetised thought
everyone can read words that don't exist
goal forest cellular upside through lost be stone yelling
or
naturality
comprehension supersedes language
forget about it
that's what Hesse wrote.
now we have a thousand channels
they're all useful - i suppose
but if you have nothing to do then nothing is useful
if you have one passion then you can forget about everything else
only robots have one passion
and even they try to multi-task
the shapes and colours of letters are ignored as much as the uncrystalised and unmonetised thought
everyone can read words that don't exist
goal forest cellular upside through lost be stone yelling
or
naturality
comprehension supersedes language
forget about it
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
