mvmfores-blog

[mvmfores-blog]

A little unease surpasses morning and again, sitting alone as the important world sleeps a simple chill. The dawning distance of day enters as eyes twitch open at 7.38am and insist upon launching body onto feet. A day that will eventually pass into a concert, a concert beginning at 9pm with an optional arrival time of 5.30pm begins to eddy in the morning silt. A kind of pleasure that involves a diary packed with essential observance and appreciation. Observing the violin player is the occupation and aim of Wednesday. The susceptible brain sinks into a deep understanding of conflict. The chatter begins to rue and minutes are counted as the next one hovers blind. It is not the mounting pressure of time but the continual dredging of it that had become a new insufferable habit. Whether it be inspired the inescapable responsibility of that which bursts forth from the chest and fills the eyes looms over a morning. the following hours recount the events, attempt to remove the possibility of a future and spin self-deprecating webs. there is no need, a thought that sneaks in again and again. no need for this incessant worry or circumspect attitude. the actions of one character sometimes seem to impinge on awareness of this legerdemain. quick! don’t let anyone see, what a thing to cry about! what a waste of energy! get down on your knees and look at the sky, smell the grass, anything else but transparency! no one else seems to waste their time going after honesty, why not hunker down in deceit. PASTE. from elsewhere, bring it here. put it down again, say it NOVEL, say it new. i wrote a prose novel in my head, it’s a lifetime’s work. by god, don’t mistake me for an impotent fool, i am a costly and acclaimed wordsmith. i sometimes write for hours, even days, they peel me from the desk and make me parade the floor with ductile metal still pressed to my skin. this pliable bluish mess makes shapes as valuable as words, conduit words. i cannot go further than i have gone, there is little i might say that doesn’t already ring from the bell tower of some other led tattooed body. this is a common issue, a common complaint. the ailment, common as discussed, curls its tongue around a day and is a lickspittle to rancour. oh take me where i might sit my turn of phrase down and bludgeon it’s head. it’s all to I and MY and oh! alas! i would hate them no less if they were YOU and THEY. whatever the case the affliction remains in tact, drenched at my stolen feet.

[mvmfores-blog]

[mvmfores-blog]

is a man.

is a kind man.

is a not a man at all.

without the definition,

is.

and

he talks to me with words

[words i understand]

and looks at me with eyes

[one eye pays equal attention to the next]

: sharing

never recoiling

always leaning forward [he cannot tame his chin

though he may sink

into hangdog way]

no inch

is individuated

the whole thing

holds a scene

does it hail above

physical

earth

bewildering control

a figment

of a previous universe

[mvmfores-blog]

[mvmfores-blog]

O Me! O Life!  BY WALT WHITMAN Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?                                       Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

[mvmfores-blog]

[mvmfores-blog]

To live alone, and continually to reopen the wounds in your heart by dwelling upon memories, may well make your life too drear for endurance. It causes at once great torment, and great delight. Such duality simply means that you have a strong sense of yourself, much aptness for self-criticism, and an innate feeling for your moral duty to yourself and all mankind. If your intelligence were less developed, if you were more limited, you would be less sensitive, and would not possess that duality. Rather the reverse: in its stead would have appeared great arrogance. Yet such duality is a great burden.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, from a letter to Nikolai Nikolayevitch Strachov, written c. May 1871 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[mvmfores-blog]

“Any fool can make something complicated. It takes a genius to make it simple.”

[mvmfores-blog]

nursing carrot soup in a familiar broth thank god i was evil enough to forget you to remember you again my kinswomen the lenten roses of youth return once more and ask of me nothing no gold is owed consume spring’s sonnet and digest the airs of seven new orbs and a ticket to the continent his mother is a lent lily she pours gold and gladly watches as it fills a room bouncing like light from eye to eye her reservoir : a pool in the early spring with a restorative scent my mother is a winter hellebore i placed her there myself such speckled beauty interwoven with respectable poison her time : late winter with medicinal philosophy i always assumed a built-in obsolescence a trying time that made one fall i always saw the broth as steam but now i smell the daphne’s and eat the thick paste of summer’s word of honour and winter’s old embrace

[mvmfores-blog]

[mvmfores-blog]

I came in as bright As a neon light And I burned out Right there before him I told him these things I'm telling you now Watched them buckle up In his brow When you dig down deep You lose good sleep And it makes you Heavy company I will always love you Hands alike Magnet and iron The souls

[mvmfores-blog]

“It is very difficult also to sacrifice one's suffering. A man will renounce any pleasures you like but he will not give up his suffering.” ― G.I. Gurdjieff

[mvmfores-blog]

Richard got married to a figure skater and he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator and he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on and all the house lights left up bright, i'm gonna blow this damn candle out, i don't want nobody comin' over to my table i got nothing to talk to anybody about

all good dreamers pass this way some day, hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away only a phase, these dark cafe days

[mvmfores-blog]

Beatus of Liébana, Commentary on the Apocalypse, 8th century

[mvmfores-blog]

if love is allowed to flow, fear disappears

[mvmfores-blog]

… I want to unfold. I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.

Rainer Maria Rilke (via lifeinpoetry)