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roccomoon · 2 years

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Dawn at the lake.

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roccomoon · 2 years

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5.26.22

322pm

it is for myself most of all,

the clarification of it,

not even in the sharing of it,

there is not pursuance of it,

just receptivity of it,

and a reception of guidance from it,

of and from,

to and fro,

more for self than any other predilection ,

whatever that means,

intangibly illustrious,

servant,

finding it often, always,

such a pouring from me,

from thee,

thee ans thou,

what such a ferocity it bringeth,

what else could such be bestowed upon me as ,

i know not,

forever morrow ago i’ve wandered,

lander, landed, again and again,

tortuousness it brings about a safe haven,

deemed miscreant , of tusker gardens,

albiet,

only so often,

let alone,

let alone by thee,

thine only ,

,,

,

digression amongst it all,

it is known by thee as such,

such of sort, the greatest knowing yet,

to be with the beloved, and pup,

soft caress of a world and room of bed,

surrounding thee,

tender, protected,

as to allow,

the rest

rest assured,

assurance beseech thee for song long,

so often,

amongst it all,

such as a passerby,

withered willaby passing by,

almost for nought,

finding words as sherbert,

elucidating,

not wanting to break for nought,

nought you, nought me,

not no one anywhere,

such as braids of tempest dreams,

drury eyed and elongated

into motion,

less as motive,

emotional rotary dialing fingers,

circling around,

a clit or situation,

not dancing for tap,

but temp,

not only momentary

but as the weather man calls it,

temp her nature,

temperature,

temporary nature,

to live in such as the wish fulfilled,

a drill and gun and nail and orphan,

seated near amongst a oak tree,

i sear sometimes into the pot of my own cooking,

blood saoked and drained,

a few seats ahead of me,

a wailing infant sounds almost indistinguishably similar to a screeching monkey in the forest,

all of us here, on this airplane,

heading somewhere,

and i am this, somewhere caught amongst my own self awareness overture siloliqouy writing,

and producing an internal armchair of thoughts as if i were some famous writer no one had ever heard of,

an echo comes,

need you be heard as a writer? or read?

exactly,

interested in passing the work along,

i feel i used to write like this more often,

almost like a puzzle piecing of syllables,

a sylabus,

less an attempt at creating meeting and orchestrating language for sake of being read,

and more so directly just as it is ,

as writing,

a pouring,

a rain filled night,

no sunset sky to produce interesting visual landscape,

no purpose for being taken in as tourism of the senses,

just as a background chalet, to cascade the moments forward,

internally purposeful mores than to be experienced by an other externally at all,

so what is this, this dream of thine,

this dream of thou,

to be dreamt into dreaming , states,

crossing borders,

border collie cross fires,

its as if jazz happens and i am amidst a flurry of pounding,

but the raindrops mean me not harm nor dismay,

simply , they lay upon thy feet and doorsteps,

awaiting a retrieval, a revival, for a place to go,

as if seeds and soil,

hand in hand,

what else can i do,

its as if my highest purpose is to have no purpose,

because where the sense of i gets involved in having purpose,

there is such a tangible felt experience of identity,

here he goes again turning it into value,

why not i have able to flush into profit,

the voice says,

you can make money writing nonsense,

so then what? the narrator retires,

what then be thine alley to crawl through?

the echo from a dumpsters says:

why need you crawl? nare be it through an alley or wayward path in between units worthwhile of naming?

its as if i notice the same interior decoration, and i have smelled the scented candles of this identity too many times to be fooled,

by its folly,

making up words is fun too , it says,

writing without reason is fun too , it says,

yes,

but going to the high accord and anchoring consciousness albeit for a service reaches far beyond the usage of electrify otherwise,

even at art museum, (it shows this visually with narration… it being the channel prism council compass )

the museum uses energy, and must somehow pay the bills,

the bill is that which sticks out of a hat, it is a name, and it is what is built,

what is built has bills, because it is the unit of its own formatting and appreciation ,

everything has a language,

and you can walk up to people all day and just make sounds,

yes of course,

and some may need such, .,,..,., the rocco complex notices this is connected to the phenomena of “light language” in the “spiritual community” in particular,

the mind absolutely must rationalize why …. why is anything happening, or worthwhile to be experienced?

is the movie worth paying for, let alone leaving your home and going to?

,,.,

,

a capital letter detour ,

albeit, all alone, let alone,

forever more,

succinctly , henceforth,

a treatise on language sculpting and redirecting consciousness away from typical states of thinking,

a kind of cranial massage from within the skull,

breaking the cobwebs of unused modular openings,

front lobe, toroidal field, energy signature,

dysfunction found as meaningful expressive linguistic utility,

as means of becoming the art that fills the museum,

the museum may be built, but not the art,

the installation may be built, but not the art,

the art is not the thing that is built,

everything encompasses around it so others can get to it,

the art is that which is gotten to,

but it is not built,

it is discovered, it is retrieved from a space not here,

it is engulfed and woven into as meaning,

take lsd, hit some herb, and take a walk through manhattan,

maybe see frank ocean on a bike again,

what a day that was,

he’s one of the few i still think about,

like , the timeline of what would have happened if i had run after his bike whence it passed,

, but not, its not the cathedral for that choir,

i’ll receive the initiation elsewhere,

….

rocco’s eyes are tired and his shoulders are shrugged,

having written many words in a posture sitting in 14d,

an isle seat,

just like the little girl who was screaming like a screech monkey,

now too it is time for this one to close eyes and rest,

albeit,

,,

,

,,,

,358pm,,,

,,

,

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roccomoon · 2 years

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roccomoon · 3 years

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Epic

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roccomoon · 3 years

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SUBLIME CINEMA #496 - BARAKA

Few films have used the medium to draw attention so directly to the beauty of the natural world and humanity’s fragile place within it - the Qatsi trilogy, of which Baraka director Ron Fricke was cinematographer, and Fricke’s later film Samsara, represent the height of this sort of non-narrative documentary style. Otherwise there are few movies that compare, at least not at this scale and achievement.

Along with being realized on epic 70mm, this is the first film ever restored and scanned at 8K resolution.

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roccomoon · 3 years

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