The word of the day today is "Spoonerism." It is a noun and it means this: a transposition of usually initial sounds of two or more words.
Example: put the words "Fishing Lesson" through the spooner machine and they become "Lishing Fesson"
Now you know.
Personally, I am largely bent towards a sort of superstitious mode. I love the idea of hidden messages from inhabitants of the ether. I look for them.
Every morning I wake up and read the word of the day, and I wonder how the next 24 hours will come to fulfill whatever notion has been put into my head. As a part of the routine I counter this by remembering Marcus Aurelius' caution against allowing the potential moods of each day to infect one's spirit too deeply.
So there I am, somewhere in between, again.
I think, Ok. I... am trying to change. Look at the universe. Same things, different places, different arrangements, sameness.
ok. suffering.
I'm trying to change.
I recall the first time I was cubed: my cube was an iridescent metal of no earthly origin. Even in a static position it's surface would move and toss light. One couldn't even be certain that the light it reflected was not a reflection at all but just it's own.
It was alien, special. Unique.
While it is beautiful that I desire to be so special, I can also tell you that all I wanted to do was crawl inside that cube where I knew there would be my mother's suburban living room.
Fuck.
Suffering. I am trying to change.
I can no longer navigate this house of mirrors with the agents I've chosen thus far.
I make so much unnecessary work for myself in that I ignore my nature while trying to bend. I wish for a different nature, a different palette altogether. All of my energy flows into the imagination rather than the agency I have at my disposal.
So, we return. Spoonerisms. Two words, they represent the whole of the universe in all of it's parts. All of me in my parts.
Rather than wish for new words, new letters, a new soul, one can simply rearrange. Suddenly, a lishing fesson. What a relaxingly new thing this lishing fesson.
The difference, the make or break here, is sight. Waking up the great eye and putting it to use. What elements are at work here?
Then, play. Enjoy the potentially infinite permutations.
Then, relax.
Relax.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
I hate it when....
... Human beings romanticize consciousness as a tremendous advance in tooldom. That they may even deem themselves capable of determining what is and is not advantageous in such a complex world! I see it as being on the same plane as any trait any organism could possess.
One could say that Consciousness is like a giant limb that we are born with as humans, and it is only effective to the extent that it is utilized, worked, exercised. If it is not fully utilized it is a dead weight and no advantage at all. An organism unburdened by consciousness altogether (if such a thing exists), has an equal chance at survival and an equal certainty of death. Perhaps they are even more efficient.
How many days have I spent thinking about the life that I live?
How many times have I watched myself through the eyes of god, beasts, other men?
Stress. Trouble borrowed. Grip and greed. These are born of a conscious mind.
Action. Action heals all the wounds of modern life.
All I mean is, I'd like to think less, much much less.
As for all of you, well, I hope you enjoy a good ole' fashioned hypocrite.
<3
One could say that Consciousness is like a giant limb that we are born with as humans, and it is only effective to the extent that it is utilized, worked, exercised. If it is not fully utilized it is a dead weight and no advantage at all. An organism unburdened by consciousness altogether (if such a thing exists), has an equal chance at survival and an equal certainty of death. Perhaps they are even more efficient.
How many days have I spent thinking about the life that I live?
How many times have I watched myself through the eyes of god, beasts, other men?
Stress. Trouble borrowed. Grip and greed. These are born of a conscious mind.
Action. Action heals all the wounds of modern life.
All I mean is, I'd like to think less, much much less.
As for all of you, well, I hope you enjoy a good ole' fashioned hypocrite.
<3
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Men are Mad to see the Inside
When the essences begin to swirl in my gut, I feel so moved to act that almost nothing can satisfy the pull.
Is this statement true? Perhaps it is the plug, the untruth that keeps all of the truth contained. Alternating colors. Truth: I'm feeling anxious to create a post.
I am afraid of seeing myself. I am afraid of that which is stale. But. In this time of my worm I have called upon myself to move and be moved. To give and ... be gived.
Ok. The plug. is...coming out....ffwo8fr up9823yr[ 29p38r[39hfblehhhhhh.
gurgling...
drip drip drip
drip.
Perhaps one of the greatest questions to put to an american of my age and race and economic background is: What to do in the absence of convenience?
Isn't it so nice when one is in the car, and suddenly all forces coalesce, imparting an expansive feeling of euphoric grace. Celestial bodies sing to accompany my speech, my every move!
Well, this is true, but it is also true that they are singing constantly for they can do nothing else. They sing many songs and none are less songy than others.
Song of war, of brutal murder, of hate, of understanding, of confusion, of remembering something very distant that may have been a dream.
Song of chaos.
..
Fine.
How graciously and courageously can I accept what I have given myself?
To submit oneself to sensitivity is to give up convenience.
My fear is that if I reveal my fears, all of the people at the cafe will see me. They'll see me walk in the door and they'll just see into me. All of these eyes caressing me like a billion rough hands in an unfathomable darkness. This, in the entrance of the cafe.
As a person, and those closest to me can validate this, I really keep very few things private.
...
Hm. I say this, but then another voice immediately responds, "ah, but we are so tricky. you know how we are tricky."
And yes, there are many organisms that create my body and that need my body and all of those organisms are one with me. From the moment I entered the birth canal I began sharing my worm with other beings. Playing host is the price of admission.
What of non-physical sharing? What organisms find a home in the ethereal places that I protect? I suspect that my constant revelation of uncomfortable truths to those around me actually carves out a very subtle hiding place.
I confuse. I dazzle.
Marie at Melt one day said that I reminded her of the snake in The Jungle Book. The one with the swirly eyes that would put you to sleep.
And, now that I've mentioned it, I can think of a few things I haven't shared.
To one who truly sees, there is nothing hidden, for in every gesture, every feint, all is completely betrayed.
One night in the Pecos Wilderness I was with friends and we had built a structure out of large logs and sticks. It felt very primal, as if we were able to flip a switch and suddenly our bodies just began doing what they knew better than our brains to do. I suddenly cared very much for the safety of all of us and did not want anyone's building body to be crushed in our attempt to protect ourselves. We separated by gender. Laila, the only girl, tended to the fire, and the men built the house. We called it The Aegis. It was a terrifically beautiful structure and we slept in it that night. This is the Aegis that I sing of in the song Damien's Face.
I began thinking so much about men and women.
Later that night we ate mushrooms and I became terrified of the inherent madness of men. I said, "Men are mad to see the inside."
Fine.
Fear.
I'll end by saying that once upon a time I showed myself to someone and they loved me anyway.
Is this statement true? Perhaps it is the plug, the untruth that keeps all of the truth contained. Alternating colors. Truth: I'm feeling anxious to create a post.
I am afraid of seeing myself. I am afraid of that which is stale. But. In this time of my worm I have called upon myself to move and be moved. To give and ... be gived.
Ok. The plug. is...coming out....ffwo8fr up9823yr[ 29p38r[39hfblehhhhhh.
gurgling...
drip drip drip
drip.
Perhaps one of the greatest questions to put to an american of my age and race and economic background is: What to do in the absence of convenience?
Isn't it so nice when one is in the car, and suddenly all forces coalesce, imparting an expansive feeling of euphoric grace. Celestial bodies sing to accompany my speech, my every move!
Well, this is true, but it is also true that they are singing constantly for they can do nothing else. They sing many songs and none are less songy than others.
Song of war, of brutal murder, of hate, of understanding, of confusion, of remembering something very distant that may have been a dream.
Song of chaos.
..
Fine.
How graciously and courageously can I accept what I have given myself?
To submit oneself to sensitivity is to give up convenience.
My fear is that if I reveal my fears, all of the people at the cafe will see me. They'll see me walk in the door and they'll just see into me. All of these eyes caressing me like a billion rough hands in an unfathomable darkness. This, in the entrance of the cafe.
As a person, and those closest to me can validate this, I really keep very few things private.
...
Hm. I say this, but then another voice immediately responds, "ah, but we are so tricky. you know how we are tricky."
And yes, there are many organisms that create my body and that need my body and all of those organisms are one with me. From the moment I entered the birth canal I began sharing my worm with other beings. Playing host is the price of admission.
What of non-physical sharing? What organisms find a home in the ethereal places that I protect? I suspect that my constant revelation of uncomfortable truths to those around me actually carves out a very subtle hiding place.
I confuse. I dazzle.
Marie at Melt one day said that I reminded her of the snake in The Jungle Book. The one with the swirly eyes that would put you to sleep.
And, now that I've mentioned it, I can think of a few things I haven't shared.
To one who truly sees, there is nothing hidden, for in every gesture, every feint, all is completely betrayed.
I began thinking so much about men and women.
Later that night we ate mushrooms and I became terrified of the inherent madness of men. I said, "Men are mad to see the inside."
Fine.
Fear.
I'll end by saying that once upon a time I showed myself to someone and they loved me anyway.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Drive wit it.
So. As a few of you may know, approximately once a year I muster up enough... something to make a post in my blog. I have this... complex. I like to quit things and leave places and fuck myself over and such so that I remain virginal. I dunno. I've been saying to people that right now I am working at sitting tight and rooting. Something I've learned though about myself, for better or worse, is that seeing is believing. Fine!
Sigh. Cornfields fly by outside the window. The AC blasts, and only my arm is cold. Somewhere in the buzz of the engine and the blaring of 80's hits I hear the familiar sound of my mother responding to shocking news on the telephone. We've been driving for almost 20 hours, shaking off the echoes of erie Colorado.
Funny, at this point in the drive a sort of blissful resignation sets in. The mania, the stress, the boredom, they've come and gone. I put my hair in a ponytail and entertain my mother and brother. Once I've worn it out I think, I want to blog and share this inspiration... That blossoming love feeling that the cure's music exists to worship. Suddenly I'm every character in every movie looking out the car window at passing time, passing life, appreciating.
And all the time I think about myself, every chance, every little space. I fill them all with Brodious wonderment.
I've been reading anais nin. Her diary. It is just so amazing. I read it and relate to it like a novel. Oh, I'm so much June, craving orgies of all types at all times, seeking constant escape from the power of my own being. But I am also Henry and anais herself. Just like in fiction I become a mosaic of all i take in. This work just seems so crafted, so planned, didactic. I can't believe it is a diary. I find reaffirmation for the notion that each person resonates certain karmic themes in everything they do. Then it occurs to me, she must have had another diary. A REAL, secret diary.
But it gives. Like I want to.
Everyone is a lock to be turned, and there exists one key. It is compassion.
I invite you, all the rest, to invite me to leap into the pit of choice. I feel a great churning and compressing in my gut. I think I will create something diamond like very soon. I need to be reminded to share it, I can so easily reside in fear, withholding myself.
I am so much what I must be free of.
Love me
Love you
B
Sigh. Cornfields fly by outside the window. The AC blasts, and only my arm is cold. Somewhere in the buzz of the engine and the blaring of 80's hits I hear the familiar sound of my mother responding to shocking news on the telephone. We've been driving for almost 20 hours, shaking off the echoes of erie Colorado.
Funny, at this point in the drive a sort of blissful resignation sets in. The mania, the stress, the boredom, they've come and gone. I put my hair in a ponytail and entertain my mother and brother. Once I've worn it out I think, I want to blog and share this inspiration... That blossoming love feeling that the cure's music exists to worship. Suddenly I'm every character in every movie looking out the car window at passing time, passing life, appreciating.
And all the time I think about myself, every chance, every little space. I fill them all with Brodious wonderment.
I've been reading anais nin. Her diary. It is just so amazing. I read it and relate to it like a novel. Oh, I'm so much June, craving orgies of all types at all times, seeking constant escape from the power of my own being. But I am also Henry and anais herself. Just like in fiction I become a mosaic of all i take in. This work just seems so crafted, so planned, didactic. I can't believe it is a diary. I find reaffirmation for the notion that each person resonates certain karmic themes in everything they do. Then it occurs to me, she must have had another diary. A REAL, secret diary.
But it gives. Like I want to.
Everyone is a lock to be turned, and there exists one key. It is compassion.
I invite you, all the rest, to invite me to leap into the pit of choice. I feel a great churning and compressing in my gut. I think I will create something diamond like very soon. I need to be reminded to share it, I can so easily reside in fear, withholding myself.
I am so much what I must be free of.
Love me
Love you
B
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