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blueprint: Writing

On Intertextuality: Many have spoken about how writers are inspired by other writers, and traces can be found in the words, between the lines, blah blah blah. Take a further step: when you write, you are not writing, but you are co-writing with many forces: the voices in your head, the voices of the dead, the voices outside of your head. You are a channeler, but you are also just a writer who should not take too much ownership of their own writing.

On Finding One’s Own Voice: This is childish. Want to find your own voice? Write like you talk. The nuance, however, is that you talking to yourself, inside your head, is not the same as you talking to others. Here you are free to choose.

When not taking ownership over the way you write, and not trying hard to find your voice, things come more easily: words that are not readily available, that you have to “look up”. Google is not so artificial, it is your body and your thoughts that are quite possibly just conjurations and illusions your mind is telling you to believe in. Everything is actually just neurons and currents running through the nodes.

Things don’t come very easily either. This is what the people with the luxury of the self-label “writer” call “writer’s block”. This blockade you have no ownership over. Leave the block to be eternally blocked, or mercurially unblocked, i.e. leave it all to fate. But your resistance to fate is also part of fate.

Things don’t come very easily. But the more you wave goodbye to artificialities in your prose, the more easily blocks appear, and the sooner you can say goodbye to them.

When you cannot write, read. And always read before you write. Or better yet, write in your head, and read aloud the writings inside your head, onto your paper.

The above is not nonsense: reading is also writing your own reflections of the static useless words of another soul.

Indeed, everything written by others is useless. In fact, your writing is the most useless of them all, for they are just echoes of the voices that aren’t always yours. Forget these voices. Meaning only arise from mindful acceptance of the meaningless.





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of course I chose to be this way, freedom after all freedoms

I chose to walk away, and weave remembrance into my ways

I chose to live for my own, but not: these ashes will come out of my bones

Once a man mentioned Atlantis, and so entranced I was

but Atlantis was never my world,  I chose to live in the man’s worlds

but Atlantis was never in my world, I am from Lemuria, and the Sun,

and Promethean Fire

I chose to live in Atlantis, the delusions so real you forget the Biblical verses

I choose to be among trees, and creatures so fresh out of their spirit

and not voices, words, languages that may tear us apart

I chose not these men and women so out of touch they start laughing

-sarcasms that birth not humor, but deaths- No,

I choose to live, and not living.

I chose to love myself, and love something so pristine, crystal-pure

that I will never know the true taste of love.

but alas this is my choice,

and now, your choice, to be more than me, more than us

death poem

these lines are not mine: burn them into memory

burn, burn, burn  the water

burn this body out of its realm so I can be reunited with my cosmic love

burn my memory of attachments to names and spaces

the cortex is uniform in sight, sound, smell, language

so spirit is elsewhere, un-burn-able

burn the cortex, burn the spirit

burn the lively zealous souls dancing around you

burn the boyfriend without earnest soul, drop drown dead diving

burn sarcasm, and maybe the loneliness and self-hate hiding holding handing over

burn even the crisp dark black blotches leftover begging for ceasefire

then burn you and your face and your smile and your photos in public spaces and places

no maybe just

burn the photos, and then some candle light, for prayer

burn the Bible and the Q’ran and the Popol Vuh

burn the mad people with beliefs that run soul tired tongue-tied torn

burn the dead people burn ghosts that haunt our pasts

burn future fear findings falling in love

burn me into the infant i once were, crawling and waiting to wake the world into being



blueprint: Reading

Consider books as a way to expand consciousness, then we have non-discrimination reading: read things you hate, read things you don’t like, read things you have no feeling toward, read things out of boredom, read things in exact opposite to your inclinations and excitements, or just don’t read: watch films, talk to people, these are no different.

Umberto Eco: books should be an open field of ideas- but let’s take this idea further. Don’t just read the text, feel for the persons, recall the birthdays of the authors, see the characters, search for perks, acknowledge the nods to things outside of the book.

you may: read a book linearly, but never grasp at the meaning linearly

you may: construct flows, plot, journeys, hidden messages, recast things as symbols and metaphors and devices, but never let these deter you from the joy of connection and intertextuality

you may: read extremely fast, even leaving behind a handful of words, and remember nothing, but never not interact with the authors

A book is a gateway, open them, enter them, do not get lost, or get lost infinitely.

You yourself are a book writing itself, so do not fear the completed texts, do not let them overwhelm or strangle you.

There is no unreadable book, just unreadable times, spaces, realities.

When you read something, there are many voices in your head. Sometimes the highest voice can be hard to discern, for it is so faint, and you are so devoid of energy. At times like these you are free to read a book in any way you want.

There is no need to feel guilt in discontinuing a book. In fact, you do it every moment, for books are just pages to a larger reality that you are constantly reading and reflecting on.

There is no need to push yourself to read something, especially because of the lower voices. Embrace all the voices, but it usually happens that the higher voice gets lost, and you keep losing time.

It is possible to read a book without understanding the language. Just use all of your eight senses.

Some books are so energetic that you can feel your forehead, the tip of your brain bursting out with light to receive these messages.

Business self-help books take effort to read, because profiteering, or the whole deal with business, is a manifestation of karma. The free market is an infinite play of fixed causalities. This is karmic causality, cause and effect. Cause and effect applies mostly to the lower planes of thought.

Mathematical textbooks are just as excellent as poetry anthologies: one does not take the ideas at face value (as if there was, and should be), but one learns, from these ideas and inclinations and goes out to disassemble and reconstruct worlds and world views altogether. A poetry anthology is as interactive as a book of problem sets -if one allows the interaction to happen. (of course, the stuff of thought are different).

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scramble, grumble, ramble

everyday i try 

to fall in

 love with rocks, 

sand, pieces of flesh

the moving furballs that deserve loving

yet hollow is in me, you are in

outside my time, you are in

it is not you I hate, the spaces between us

your friends 

told me to move on, deny, keep going

they don’t 

understand and it pains me  

much because there is always 

a thread, everlasting that if 

you bre-ak, deny, hide from sght

it grows like ripples on your thoughts

it pains me not because you are 

outside my realm it 

pains me as you are 

in here, and yet refuse 

to brace our connection 

entirely, and brace for us

all we need is being in our being 

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the canvas

Thank God for the transformative ink, thank my friend for inspiring me with the whim, and thank na for working on the design, you-I have my gratitude 


Lăn Tăn Của Mực

những mảng đen: lồi lõm nhấp nhô trên da


mực: cá chép nửa chết, ép khô; những cái cổng; sự khơi gợi cho những miền chưa-đen

nghĩ thật kĩ trước khi quyết định

nhưng nào có gì là quyết định nghĩ-kĩ

quyết định là quyết định

gương: từng đốm đen lăn tròn trên những phần còn lại

đâu là tôi, và đâu là nó, đâu là đâu

ánh sáng đập ngược vào con mắt, hình ảnh là ảo giác

câu nói dối của ngày: “một phần của tôi đã chết”

đúng hơn một chút: “chết là một phần của tôi”

đúng nhất: “sống, chết, tôi, không-tôi”

đúng-sai: “là”

đừng ăn đồ nóng, đừng tắm, đừng ra ngoài nắng

hấp thu những phần không-tôi


thở, hít thật sâu, phả ra thật chậm

hít thật sâu, phả ra thật nhanh ngừng thở cho đến lúc không còn suy nghĩ gì nữa ở đây không ai có thể tìm thấy tôi




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sexual archaeology

fifteen boys and girls the world will break in front of me

foresight we do not have, visions we craft into minnows

tomorrow is today’s yesterday, speak the tone-deaf music




one I found two paths untrodden

three lovers turn into a quartet, four souls

five-fold permutations manifest six days

they seven found randomness in Jesus

we disintegrate, one, two, four, seven, six

La Grande Belleza, alone

in Kyoto we think of the next overnight bus, the man sitting next to us

brought coca-cola and a green-tea plastic bottle

the instance we sleep the stars move out to follow us into the smokescreens

puffing smoke from the bus, beats into the dust, diverges into the multitudes

of weeds, greens, bugs, insects, insecticide, earth, man-pieces, the cells that fall of skins

might of the earth, the Earth, Mother, MAMA EARTH

gentle men we are gentle things we do

tread, our souls lightly walk

our minds forever caressing

tomorrow we wake into forgetful foresight

the sins stay with us

but we are no longer earth-bound