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[alchemia369]

The voice which 'Talks' shall not have your Heart, Neither shall you hear that uncommonest of tongues: For the language of the 'Soul' is silence. Yet you'll know when you're unspoken, You'll feel it "Divine' -- Peace is that wordless cry...

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Mindlessness

[alchemia369]

I read Castaneda throughout my in-between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na'will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do ... but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, 'til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left...

artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they're disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext'd verse; but don't mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that's just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they'll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes...

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What do we really see...

the Cosmic Law of Scale: a Star would 'see' only Stars, and a Planet, and maybe a Moon; but they'd not 'see' a Galaxy; at best they'd 'see' an anomalous light as they turn toward a 'black-holed-nothing' which is turning them around without the need of their understanding ...

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NeuroScience Scenarios

Neuroscience avers that when we access a memory we inherently change it.

Yet, there’s something wonderful in the cloud-of-unknowing that science or religion cannot glean; it’s the unfinished, unfettered, undone qualities of potential that make our traversing infinity trivial. We’re better at being in the process of becoming and not a finished product. I’d imagine ‘knowing,’ then, to be the end of ‘curiosity’ and all of its earnest joyful speculation. Therefore, I know nothing …

if memory is a lie then so am I

Proust searched his brain for memories that

made the man and he did finally understand

that this changed him just by looking;

so he called himself a sentimental-realist!

many a prisoner in walls cast of shadows,

have escaped their fate etched in stone

and bars at Guantanamo, where they

remade themselves in their language of pain –

this poetry of misery or bliss to relive a life

that past has missed; to rekindle themselves

in their alembic of desire, their inner fire,

because of the lie of memory; I am frisson!

oh, yearning moment, oh, swelling into dreams

come of these sincere things, where open

skies and open roads and open fields

are little sparks in open places closed inside of me.

when this lightning sings my body moves

with the ghostly touch of numinous grass

and forgotten fragile flowers, the distant buzz of bee

and echoing twitter of birds sound again inside of me.

inside of memory is me, thereto is the lie

where holes are filled by my imagination; a story I call

myself where fiction and reality are hopelessly

intertwined, undermining whom I thought was me and too, mine.

this albatross of original stimulus, this

verisimilitude of the incongruous, mutable

impressions which fleeting fly dead-away,

fall into the deep error of my earnest loom, memory!

the act of remembering changes me, so a fool I have

become, locked in shadows, staring dumb, I shun this outer world,

sing my songs as they

come, from now on,

making me in my own image

                                            unbecoming,

                                                                    unfettered,

                                                                                         unfinished,

                                                                                                                    undone …

“When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate.”-Carl Jung

we see things as we are …

beneath this slippery-veneer,

where authenticity is ‘sincere,’

where Love is the core-need

of random ‘friends’ that come and go,

whether it’s where you live

or any other place you show your face,

but this I know, that if you wanna’ grow,

wanna’ embrace that grace,

then you wanna’ have friends

that feel out of pace

with your winning Master-Race,

and friends that show-up

broken and crying in your space,

and friends who are not just clones of you,

doing the same things you’re compelled to do,

and friends that’ll quietly take your hand

when you don’t know what’s going on,

and friends that’ll give you a push

when you felt your life was done…

I remember the school yard,

where tribal approval ratings were the thing,

judged well if you wore the latest

and greatest ‘bling,’

and then another compelling day

of whispered-opinion,

and you’d feel their snickering derision;

we sometimes have this need

to feel special and cool,

not just one of the herd,

one of the clan, and yet,

if you did not feel you belong,

you’d be longing to all along,

whether a woman or a man.

— rather than looking-away,

we ought to be living like we’re the first person

who ever dared to say,

‘hey, it’s OK, I’d of loved you anyway…’

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” — Anais Nin

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fleeting experience

One's character is wrought as much by misapprehensions as it is by clarity; by one's errors as well as one's fleeting moments of triumph. -- Phil Rockstroh

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rainy days always make me sad On the far side of this torrentially rainy afternoon, my chest is heaving with a heart full of anxious discordant speech -- I'm in afib -- I feel the distant planets warp and weft in space, and this spinning world spinning out of place, while Solar events stimulate our gyrating geomagnetic sphere, I'm here, catching my breath and spinning too. I feel these electric triggers of a planet gone askew -- sometimes all I can do is let the frenzy of cacophony play out -- while I bear down and lay for awhile on the ground.It feels like hell though -- having experienced abiding in those long rhythms of natural Peace, which I remember with a grin, it's as if now I'm agitated in the fires of discordant Sin. Nevertheless, I digress, I beseech, I reel, and then I faint from the pain in my chest; a pain with no upper limit, no crescendo, just a rising fugue with no hope of return -- I can't remember anything at all, then. Now. I'm riding it out, using a few tricks, where ignorance is my friend and not knowing my special talent -- I do this while writing, scratching out words, with these many strokes of my ink spilling pens -- sitting in my studio, leaning over my desk, convalescing and trying not to think of what the future may bring. However, and notwithstanding this constant reeling I feel, while falling down, I yet wonder and look for a spot to drop -- I hear a distant thunder, my eyes see sparkles like crystal dew, flashing shards of reflection, in this my room with a view... All my blood is pooling, in my misfit heart, spiralling around and around, and I cannot feel my heartbeat, my heartbeat, where is the beat in my fuK'ng heart? Anyways, I keep on and push the discomfort away, as if I have some say -- my cardiologists give me drugs to escape the pain, the anguish, and espouse their killer strategy of murdering that part of my heart that reacts to my vagus nerves' mysterious entreaties and tribulations -- with its rapid rise and sudden fall, with each opposite beat cancelling the flow, with each beat lost to the veto of this foreign request, my heart yet persists, as if trying to make me whole. Why would an errant signal from my vagus nerve make me feel like the sky is falling, beseech me to run and hide? Is this the boy who cried wolf? It's as if my vagus nerve knows more than I, as if the world has lost its way, gone crazy, gone far astray, like a sheep in wolf's clothing. I cannot feel my pulse -- I have no pulse -- only a slushing surge -- no beat, no rhythm, no tempo -- like my poems -- just noise. I listen to music now, half hoping that these natural rhythms, these jazz beats and blissful rising cannons can assuage the wild beast writhing within me. My mind is calm, relaxed, measured; I'm not stressed -- yet, by these egregious body signals, by my heart writhing wretched and disrupted, it tells me I'm in terror, waiting to die a horrible death, choking, trying to catch my breath.

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enlightenment

The voice which speaks cannot have your heart 

nor can you hear that uncommonest of tongues

-- as the language of the Soul is silence --

yet you'll know when you're unspoken,

you'll feel it as divine,

Peace is that wordless cry --

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an intertextual fugue

language is a bridge connecting, while poetry is the stream below, meandering, murmuring and making many reflections

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poetry -- intertextual-fugues -- metaphor clusters meant to excite neurons into firing synaptic connections that flower into epiphanies

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Blown away

a Mystic candle enamouring Fire is so light

shimmering ephemerally lurching shadows and listening

intensely disinterested neither attracted nor compelled

sincerely waiting with storms all around...

[alchemia369]

Man needs difficulties; they are necessary for health. ~Carl Jung, CW 8, Para 143

[alchemia369]

if memory is a lie then so am I

Proust searched his brain for memories that made the man and did finally understand that this changed him just by looking; so he called himself a sentimental-realist!

many a prisoner, in walls cast of shadows, have escaped their fate etched in stone and bars at Guantanamo, where they remade themselves in their language of pain –

this poetry of misery or bliss to relive a life that past has missed; to rekindle themselves in the alembic of desire, their inner fire, because of the lie of memory; I am frisson!

oh, yearning moment, oh, swelling into dreams come of these sincere things, where open skies and open roads and open fields are little sparks in open places closed inside of me.

when this lightning sings my body moves with the ghostly touch of numinous grass and forgotten fragile flowers, the distant buzz of bee and echoing twitter of birds sound again inside of me.

inside of memory is me, thereto is the lie where holes are filled by my imagination; a story I call myself where fiction and reality are hopelessly intertwined, undermining who I thought was me and too, mine.

this albatross of original stimulus, this verisimilitude of the incongruous, mutable impressions which fleeting fly dead-away, fall into the deep error of my earnest loom, memory!

the act of remembering changes me, so a fool I have become, locked in shadows, staring dumb, I shun this outer lock, sing my songs as they come from now on, making me in my own image                                             unbecoming,                                                                     unfettered,                                                                                          unfinished,                                                                                                                     undone …

“When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate.”-Carl Jung

[alchemia369]

L’il-rat-eyes

On the L'il-rat-eye'd critics: They're 'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance, hubris, is without distinction those L'il-rat-eyes are speed-readers who're always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings, 'cuz they've mimed the word meaningfully, yet without the Poets consciously cogent sounds in their head -- Poets, however, have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spout their words smoothly, mellifluously with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they in-wordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of wildly irreverent rhythmic words that fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, while they lip-reciprocate with all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions that constantly risk absurdity... these ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond 'what's in-it for them' and maybe if they wink and coo, they can get laid too -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing against their desperation with their glowering expectations and they can't really do a cogent crit 'cuz they don't have the wit for it, so they'll shoot a Poets work down with a number crunch, a petty solution, the money'd knockout punch ... while they're reading a write I imagine their cunning-less-ness is at the base of it; while the Poetess is wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up her 'lectrikly sapient spine, making us feel an infinite-in, with her words flowing outwardly sublime -- however, those L'il-rat-eye'd critics with their pre-packaged-percepts cannot really see beyond their mediocre myopic certainty...

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Fixed Stars and falling comets make no apologies

planets follow these larger truths easily illumined by the piety of stars carried on the stillness of impartial night

there is no punishment for cooperating with administrations from on high as they preside unawares that you seek their counsel

comets make more meanings ideally positioned to risk discordance warning you about your strange attractor

your obsession with various illnesses and failed efforts contribute to these descending wars that you survive as a convenient vessel for guilt and anger

rigorous transits leave their scars you suffer from these passages of light there are those in the Vatican who covet such Saints

we should celebrate them: as we watch their retrograde movements against the flash of Celestial fires flowering into sudden infinity

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words

If brevity is the soul of wit then levity is the goal of it ...

[alchemia369]

#cherryblossoms @UBC Forestry