#352

“What happens to poems and texts unwritten?” Good question. I would like to think they continue to live, they continue to flit and float and grow and change until they are pinned down, or rather penned down on page or byte. However I also beleive that even after it is penned a verse or song does not die, it continues to change and grow with each reading. Words are the onlything thing I know of that can continue to live and change and grow and become something even more powerful even after they have been housed and boxed, as long as there are eyes to read and minds to comprehend nothing ever writen can die.

Cat on a sill

There is a stone cat who lives on my widow sill. At night I can see him silhouetted against the window. He stares inside with the self righteous judgement that only cats can express. He watches over the room; I do not think he watches over me. When the sun hits the window and illuminates the room his shadow is not there and I glance toward his place on the sill. It is empty.

As the wind…

Don’t really have anything to say, nothing meaningful. I just feel the need to write, to express in some way. The wind is gale force outside my window. It blows the world before it. It carries what is here far away and brings what was far, near. I am like this wind. I drift and carry with me all that I brought from the places I have been. I have left pieces of me in these far of places and brought new pieces with me. A patchwork man, a whole man made of small pieces. Fragments and pieces glued together with love and friendship, regret and loss, with all the things that make life what it is. I am a plaid man, a patchwork quilt of love and loss, of rage and regret, of family and friends; of memory, of experience. I am melancholy as I stand yet again at a crossroads and ask the same questions as before: Left? Or right? Only this time I think neither. I will walk straight, and let the pieces fall where they will. Or rather I will take the pieces with me as the wind does, gather new pieces and leave other pieces behind, as the wind does.

Rage and Hate 2

It catches me off guard, this sudden wave of violent rage. I hold my self as still as possible, as quietly as  I can. My whole body tight, held straight-jacket close. I wait for it to subside.

Rage and Hate 1

Cold rage washes over me

Clenched jaw
Fists white knuckle tight

Voice calm
Eyes dead, hateful

I have one purpose now

To destroy
Rip asunder
Thrash
Maim
Kill

I have a target for this hate. I have a reason for this hate. I have a name for this Hate.

At My Funeral

At my funeral I want golden flowers from the tree of golden apples and I want Zeus to be in attendance. The grass will bow to the West and I will be laid in splendor at the  foot of the One Tree. I will be laid on a bed of pure white stone and surrounded by garlands of emerald. The mourners will be silent; the Wind will give the eulogy and my wife will place the Stone on my head.

The ground will open to accept me in it’s embrace  and I will go gracefully down to speak with the Lords of the Fields in their own places. Then the Twelve Lords will accompany me to the resting place of the King.

There we will make our camp and there we will make our peace. The King will accept me as one accepts a long absent son and I will rule in that Land beneath the stars on the other side of the wavering reflections of Life.

After reading Ayn Rand I wrote this:

Man is an exaltation of himself.

At least that is what he should be, what he is… that is something altogether different. What is and what should be are two complete and separate beings. The IDEAL, what we have been taught to revere, to put up on a pedestal and never attain will never be attained. For the very reason which I have just described. It was put out of reach, out of attainability by the fear of the great, by the squirming mass which hates greatness because it reveals its smallness.

We are a foolish race because we constantly fool ourselves into believing the least of ourselves. We apologize for and retreat from our own greatness. And the sad thing, the horrible commentary of society is that we love it. We love being brought low, being debased.

I have lived two roads, two paths. I have travelled in the way of the ‘righteous man’ I have wandered the paths of ‘iniquity’ and everywhere Man is the same. Full of fear. We deny ourselves. We revel in the small, in the mean, in the disgusting. In places of spiritual worship across the world Men compare trial and tribulations, they wear smallness as a badge of accomplishment. In the land of the low, of the unwashed, Men laugh at their dirtiness at their ineffectualness and brag about how this elevates them above the greater man because they belong to an imaginary tapioca called “The Common Man”.

I now have a name for that which I have hated in people for the longest time. I at one point called it selfishness. Foolishly I believed the primping and preening and pretending were selfish. I was wrong. It is selflessness; it is subservience to another, one who you don’t even know, can’t even see: the faceless nameless mass.

We are a great creation, a wonderful being yet we constantly debase ourselves by committing the ultimate treason to self: the abdication of self. There is a quote from a movie I saw, a quote which I held on to because of the haunting quality of what it entailed. “You have lost your muchness.” Humanity has lost its muchness. It’s drive for greatness has become the quest for the “greater good”; it’s search for divinity has become an endless circle of prayers and obeisance to a man on raised platform or placed on cross. To search for yourself in the reflection of the eyes of others is to surrender yourself to the mass. Imagine the mass as a seething pile of maggots tearing at the exposed flesh of the world reducing it all to bloody pulp, to undistinguished piles of sameness. There is no Muchness in Sameness. There is only the ‘norm’ and those who do not belong.

I want my Muchness back.

A Declaration

Lost in memories you wonder why.

I do not. It is not for me these ponderings on past lives.

I do not question, it is for me merely to contend or to concede

If I must contend I will do so till my cause is won or I am beaten

I will be ruthless in my campaigns, pitiless in my press; if I am to carry the day I will do so without remorse.

I am not soft, my heart is not week, my soul is not lacking.

 

 

A small thought… Very small.

“man came from nothing and to nothing he will return.”

I do not agree with that. We are born from love and passion, and we leave behind those who’s lives we’ve touched.

The Beach Walk

I walked along the beach tonight, that defining edge between two worlds. Instead of feeling dwarfed by the hugeness of the ocean or the vastness of space with its myriad of stars which I could not name, instead of being made small by all this enormity, I felt like a giant, a colossus.

I felt the power of God and was not afraid for it was the same power he had given us, give to Man.

I am Man and Man has conquered both the sea and the land and one day space too will fall under our husbandry. And even if I had made a single misstep and fell to the currents and the larger predators of the sea Man would still prevail. I did not feel small, as I suppose I should have, instead I laughed, not in the face of God but with Him