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IFHTP


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Every Love Story is a Ghost Story

When I was using a different WordPress domain in my less assertive days, I was so scared of attention from the world that I did not even want the site itself to publish the things I thought. I had set up a publish-via-email function, and every once in a while I would just send an email, and it would come up. This made it feel like work, because that email was how I was conversing with peers and teachers at my high school. This was fun. And fun is not work, or so I thought.

And now that I know better, I know that: everything until a masterpiece (or perhaps, a coherent and personal, piece) is work. And even editing and revising the copyedited stuff is tremendous work. Even, and perhaps most importantly, the unwritten, unacknowledged, or un-posted would be work as well. So I think I can be a little more lenient with the ton of drafts in my WordPress, grand ideas and non grand ideas, and verses and non-verses, mother tongue and international tongue, they all mean something. even in their form, drafts, and deletions, they mean something, and is part of WORK. Work: transformations and also attempts at molding the soul into this physical (yet not so physical, because internet, and electricity, and a host of other things, made it so) world.

America is so damned distracted, distractive, distracting! I blame myself though.

I am finally writing again, and I think perchance I were to write- as in write, I would think a lot harder about the Internet, and the colossus of the searchable world, every word that God summons in my head can be quickly verified, and therefore added context, and made into my own: I, and you, are more barren and naked than ever. And a whole host of oddity things: Where can I find Life in this place? Give me Life, you cynical pretentious alternately factual inter-net! Or not! This is a metawork on work, because this is also work, and I should address that I am not trying to be SMUG here, but just a homage, as if the title is not enough homage to the dead person I grew into and out of a love-hate relationship with. I can run on and on but the point is I have come full circle and I am trying to find my way to converse with Him, because he is dead, and maybe I will take a small portion of his Flame, and put it on my torch. I am a lot more vocal and rhythmic and appealed by sound and soul than he WAS though. Of course, I never smoked that much pot, I am not white, and I grew up believing in a lot of things, and I am sucking hard at academia. This is all excellent, though.

He never got round to writing about the Internet, even though half of his fame could have been from it. A shame.

Shucks, I guess I am left with Dave Eggers (I will begin him soonish). This thing I’m writing is more poetry than prose, because my heart is poetic and defiant of forms, though.

Save me from my real life, though, please, pretty.

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redux #1

  • As I become older, the thing that prevents me from reading as much, or even learning as much, is prejudice. How to transcend prejudice, and the mind, is of good importance for a reader navigating in this postmodern world.


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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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Choice

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

 


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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