Travelling Without Moving

I hear the distant rumble,
The dusk sky seem so bland,
Quiet in this weary breeze
Of a long afternoon.

It is coming!
No need to place my ear against the dry soil;
The itch has finally caught on,
Catching wild fire at the remnants of my heart,
Captured in that endless struggle between hope and peace.

The calling is within, now perhaps more than without,
A silent reminder of what never was,
As it slips its thorny caress around my breast,
My nakedness bathed in blues and crimsons,
I lie awake, awaiting the tomorrows.

The caravan, long delayed,
Still echoes its slow wheels,
Those chrome tinted spokes of promise,
Crushing underneath a yellow road afield,
Landing at the appointed gate until dawn.

For morning brings the crystal quality of dread,
That wanton old faithful,
And pondering remains, as I greet the new sun,
Where is my pilgrimage setting? How many roads?

The Invasion (a methodical pause)

I've scribbled this silly little ditty for Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompt on the topic of "Invasion". It's not surprisingly titled: "The Invasion".

I was there the night they came,
I searched they sky, I saw their plane;
Its form seemed to wildly shine
As it disgorged those conquerors of mine.

Look over yonder, behold their hair!
I cannot help but dare to stare,
The atmosphere suddenly electrified
And their presence there intensified.

I told Parker, and he could not believe:
"This is our time, our time to live!"
But even we, poor boys, had no clue
When we saw the British through.

Inner Voices

Those inner voices - what are they? How do we relate to them? How do they relate to us? What
kind of existence do they have, if any?

By inner voices I mean those quasi-collections of thoughts and emotions that act as representations of 'Significant Others' in our mind. Those we consult with, those who tell use to do this and not that, those who we imagine what they'd say and think about our choice of clothes. I'm not talking about a modern Jiminy Cricket or a Freudian super-ego, nor the detached voices that often plague a schizophrenia patient. Those voices represent others who we care about but they do so by being a part of ourselves, by being our own creation. They are an integral part of the human way to internalize others (and so play a pivotal social and ethical role within us) while also manifesting and testing desires and thoughts of our own (thus enhancing our creativity, our sense of order and our cohesive-seeming Self). Sometimes, they show that we are not alone in the dark.

But how is this phenomenon called? Why do some people get 'internalize' and not others? Are all
the representations the same (in essence, power, function, internalization status)? Where do they
fit in in relation to our 'own' internal monologue, our own main 'Stream of Consciousness'?

I'm looking for some answers.

Keeper of the Hollowed Tome

The empty pages are much sought after
(As the stain of steely ink does offer):
They keep our lore folded crisp
Lest recollection tend to lisp,
And future pass distorted truth
Limiting enlightened sooth,
Filling young with fancied notions,
Watch their heads! Their frantic motions!

Away with you, chars of black -
Let us not in this task grow slack,
The pictures tell a thousand words
Of plebs and snakes and mighty lords
Blessings, curses, all combine
In this sacred valentine -
Bloody language there to smear
an arc wide - and simply - disappear.

Not a Haiku

The leaves rustle softly,
Trees whisper in idiosyncrasy
And the brilliant shadow approaches.
I murmur angrily,
Clasping my good eye
(For the bad one is faulty -
It sees truth now:
Flickering along the edges of reason,
Resonating and dissipating in this hot summer breeze).
Where should I look for desire?
It has abandoned me at last;
At last I'm lifeless,
The least leafless in this long, oh too long autumn
That lasts and lasts,
Skewing like some Marxist's hopes
Around Christmas.
The mating season is over,
I limp away from its remains,
A hollow golden pond
And not a picnic blanket to spare.

What is Man anyway?

I'm trying to write a proposal for a seminary paper for school and this is what I came up with so far:

Kant asked four major questions in his anthropological philosophy (or was it a philosophical anthropology?):

1. What can I know?

2. What must I do?

3. What can one hope for?

4. What is Man (which can be translated, I think, into 'What is a Human Being')?

Our query begins with Kant's fourth question and from which it expands it to ask if the technology that has been developed requires a significant change in the perception of 'What is Man'. This second question suggests an existing connection or some sort of correlation between technology and Man's essence (if one exists) or some other such answer to Kant's question.

This begs the question of what kind of technological change (quantitative? qualitative? both? neither?) should be in order for the perception of what Man is to change as well. An avalanche of questions seems to follow: What is the perception of what Man is today? What precisely do we mean by 'Technology'? Have such changes in technology and Man occurred before? Can these changes even be discerned (provided they exist)?

Each of these important questions should be asked in its own specific scientific, religious, cultural, economical, technological, social, psychological (and who knows how many more categories) context and frame of reference.

Given these questions and different possible answers and angles, can we provide a single momentous answer that would be both personal (as something I would have to connect and relate to) and general (as to aspire to get to the truth or truths of the matter)? This is also a methodological question, of course. Let us provide a methodological answer.

We will use a sort of thought experiment and examine a Human process that embodies within it several of these frames of reference all rolled into one. This is possible, to some degree, using literature and history. Let us imagine then a specific change in technology and observe its effects on Humanity.

A more than adequate example for this can be found in the 'Dune' saga by Frank Herbert. According to the story, a radical change in technology has occurred that has eliminated the use of 'Thinking Machines' - there are no more computers that are as at least as advanced as what we have today (this indicates in fact two changes in technology: the use of 'Thinking Machines' and the eradication of the same machines, but we will focus here on the second change and its effects and try to isolate them).

Given this immense change in technology then, how will (or did) it affect Humanity and the answer to 'What is Man'? This question may be answered by first listing the Human reaction, changes and adaptations through the years and next by analyzing the said behaviors and attitudes that were observed and extrapolating from there as to what is the Human image they wished to preserve (in essence, their answer to 'what is Man?').

To begin this arduous task, we will list in general the categories of Human responses to the technological shift which we can observe:

1. Social-Political.

2. Religious-Philosophical.

3. Technological-Economical.

A specific type of technology, that has many kinds and manifestations, can then be used as further example and a sort of prism by which we can learn about the Human response. By this, we mean the myriad of cognitive technologies developed to compensate for the lack of artificial cognition and to further explore the Human potential.

Lastly, these various Human actions (such as the construction of specific socio-political structures) and abilities (such as the cognitive technologies) that were put forth and created in relation or conjunction with the radical change in technology will be analyzed. This analysis, we hope, would bring us closer to understanding of the Human motif that stands at their base and runs through their very core and is the answer (to the perhaps un-answerable in any direct means) question of 'What is Man'.

This analysis will be performed from a philosophical point of view (designed to withhold judgment as much as possible but also directed to perceive and seek the hidden meanings in the Human behavior and thought) and be based upon the works of Kant, Heidegger, Foucault, Popper and others.

Featured Artist(s): The Dodos

Featured Artist(s): Yeasayer

A Lost Summer

It is known: what is is,
Their capital is gay Paris;
Children grow and up
No reason for it to stop.

The tiny country full of war
Fake humility drags on more
Rooted deep in the baseline
No less than comedy divine.

He came and went and locked the door
And nothing was just like before.
The colors swirl, no ounce I gain,
The touch of skin I now disdain.

A summer lost, so full of trifles
"You shall have no play of rifles"
Promised peace and chocolates there
By the desk in the back room where...

What happened? Do I dare?
How deep in the dark I stare?
A mustached man, a flash of pain
"The secret's ours, our domain".

Featured Artist: Amit Erez

I've known Amit Erez for more than two years now, thanks to the introduction of a friend. I consider new (and good) music one of the best gifts that I can receive and it certainly was like that in this case.

I admit, I do not go to as many shows as I would have liked, but I did attend a few of his. I especially like the intimate acoustic performances. It has a feeling of something new and fresh, yet with mature content and presentation.

This isn't really a music blog. I'm not sure what kind of a blog is it anyway. I don't really know how to analyze the music, how similar (or not) it is to Elliott Smith's or others. I believe Amit Erez is an artist in his own right and does not need to draw constant comparisons to his peers. All I can do is convey my feelings and sentiments. Saying that, I would have liked his latest CD (titled Amit Erez) to include some new material, much like his wonderful EP (Black Light). Anyway, here's to the future.

Picture from the official MySpace here.
Clever & Strong (Live at the Barby, 6.2.2007)

Featured Philosopher: Michel Foucault

Michel Foucault, or as I prefer to call him (for unknown reasons), Jean-Michel Foucault, was a French political philosopher who lived from 1926 to 1984. His emphasis and interests were history and thought and how Power came to play,affect and be affected by them, which served as tools to elaborate his relativistic views. For example, by showing that the concept of "Madness" has changed through history and between societies, he has shown that that concept is historic and therefore, according to the Marxist way of thought, is artificial and can be changed. That also means that there are no mad men or women per se, but rather that each society determines the normality of its members in relative terms (and not absolute terms). Whilst his views can be shown to have several important contradictions, he did propose some interesting ideas that are still being used today (Post modernism).

"The History of Sexuality"
One of his most notable of works is "The History of Sexuality", published in three volumes during the 1980's. In the first volume, titled "The Will to Knowledge", he attacks what he perceives as a dominant Humanistic conception termed "The Repressive Hypothesis". According to this hypothesis, power (i.e. politics and much more) has repressed sex for the past three hundred years. Since the rise of the bourgeoisie, sex has been condemned as a waste of energy. As a result, it has been repressed, silenced, and confined to reproductive purposes. According to this hypothesis, we can achieve political liberation and sexual liberation simultaneously if we free ourselves from this repression by talking openly about sex and enjoying it more frequently. Foucault finds this hypothesis to be deeply flawed for several reasons:

1. Not only is talking about sex not forbidden, it is in fact encouraged by the power and its supporters in society (those political institutions that preserve the existing order of society such as the psychologists and the education system).

2. The basis of the Repressive Hypothesis is the Humanistic preposition that man has an essence, a hidden truth that explains and is his meaning and being. In light of the psychoanalytical studies, this essence is man's sexuality. Foucault rejects this and claims that sexuality is in fact a historical-social construct and therefore artificial. Further more, there is no universal hidden to man, but each man (or woman, of course) is shaped by the context of society in which he lives.

3. The Humanistic notion of a hidden truth is also perceived as dangerous by Foucault because it allows society to judge which sexuality is true and natural and which is false and perverse. The sick can then be taken care of in a myriad of ways (so-called benevolent and somewhat less than benign).

There are several criticisms on Foucault work, but I will leave that for next time.

References: Sparknotes and Wikipedia (for the picture).

Featured artist: Julian Velard

I don't go to nearly enough concerts as I should and want. I won't get into detail on the reasons, but it does have the advantage of making every (or at least most) event memorable and unique. One of these instances was on the Tel Aviv Jazz festival a while back. Though I do not recall the performer or what exactly the piece was, I do remember the atmosphere quite distinctly. Jazz is a form of life, especially in live performances, when the artists improvise and create on stage and the audience feels like they're part of an experience.

It's been a while since I've felt that particular way, though I've been moved by other kinds of music since. Jazz has its own distinct effect on me. Anyway, what brought this particular memory to me now was a young NYC (though currently in London) artist called Julian Velard. You can read about him here and just... feel for yourselves.

Julian Velard - Musta Been Somebody Else

Sweep Stakes

Kinda on the macabre side but bear with me...

Early Anwar goes to sweep,
To sift along the urban jeeps;
Hurrying the curbs to their termini,
Tiny speckled sweat determining.

The MP3 player in his pocket,
The seven colors in his heart;
He will be bashed again someday
Or maybe just explode.

Moderate Nicolai tends so well,
The coffers on the side to swell;
He hides behind the bus station
And with yellow liquid greets the nation.

His wife will not be coming back,
His children he devoured;
He saves his cash for rainy days,
A streetcar should have him.

Old Moses jostles slowly,
His vivid eyes are but a memory;
The street is wide and so-so long,
Now he's here and then he's gone.

I, Ol' Jack, have a few new friends,
So be prepared to make amends!
Did I rip these famous three
Or am I just the guy on 13B?

He sits there still,
Watching the dawn that never comes,
A yellow river at his feet,
A multi-hued shirt in hand,
Or maybe just a used fuse.

The Organs Campaign - News from the front (lower extremities)

Another organ has succumbed to the devious debilitating sedition plaguing this body. My left knee has joined the ranks of the rebels, which now include the brain, the heart, the kidneys, the eyes, the ears, the liver, the union of the digestive system, the spine, the teeth and certain rogue elements of the immune system. Long live the revolution! On the bright side, there are rumors of some still loyal finger nails on some of the toes. Also, this gives me the opportunity to look in closely at the leaflets of the secret "Bionic Man" project I've been getting in the mail. Either way, the journey to a total spiritual existence (with some nice finger nails) continues.

My Eros and Thanatos

A little love song for my angioma :-)

I feel your warmth enveloping,
How fortunate to witness the developing,
Inner crust there riddled
Burning slowly as Nero fiddled.

How I long to touch you,
To caress the filaments through,
Your small being encapsuled
Getting ready to assault.

Time, the great river,
Is but a trickle to thy reaver,
Biding carefully each drop
As I listen for each plop.

When will I see you, my love?
How frequent should I check above?
I long to finally wake this dream
And be with you, my aneurysm.

The boy in the back room

Here's something I've been working on these past few weeks. It's titled "The boy in the back room".


I - April 2013

"... anyway, would you prefer a multi focal"?
"That's not very funny, you know. It's my brain. What is a Dysrhythmia anyway? I mean... J. Lo's ass!".
"Pardon? Did you just say...?"
"Err... yeah. I made it up. Do you like it?"
"I'm not exactly sure what to make of it. What does it mean anyway?"
"It's an exclamation, just like 'Jesus Christ' or something".
"How un-demeaning... for both. What's the reference? Hollywood glitz meets what exactly?"
"C'mon, it's just Jenny from the bloke"
"You're kidding, right? Tell me this is your sick little way of dealing with your stupid tumor."
"It's not a tumor. And it is funny and you can easily use it as an f-word substitute in civilized places".
"Because the reference to Ms. Lopez's behinds is much more subtle, yes; I see your point."
"Anyway, I'm not the sick one with the WW2 memories."
"Thanks for bringing that up. I was just getting used to being the only normal guy around".
"Anytime".
"Besides, I told you, I don't know if it is World War 2, World War 1 or whatever".
"You'd think the black and white would be a dead give away".
"You're certainly on a roll today, aren't you? It's not in black and white".
"Whatever man. Anyway, this is my stop. I'll catch you tomorrow at school".
"Sure. See ya' then".
'J. Lo's ass indeed', Patrick thought to himself. His school buddy Terrance was
certainly a strange one at times. They'd taken few courses together but that seemed more than enough to create a mutual base of friendship. Terrance had his quirks (what's with all matching pens, notebooks and book covers? Is indigo a sign of success in studies?), but then so did Patrick. Carrying his MP3 player around, even when going to take out the trash, seemed a bit unusual in his neighborhood,
but he didn't care too much about that. His music collection was one of his chief sources of comforts these days, though, admittedly, Patrick bitterly thought, a very significant source of grief as well. The damned contraption refused to sync with his computer, and when it finally did, there was always a song missing or the wrong album artwork displayed. 'J. Lo's ass!'


II - September 29, 1975

"5 minutes to curtain, Mrs. D.!", the man behind the door said.
"Thank you, Angelo", the smoky voice rasped. Looking at the mirror was an acceptable agony now. After so many years on the stage, there was a certain defiance in the eyes, the ever so slightly wrinkled smile twitched a bit as the ever red lipstick did its bit and the powder covered the rest of the "imperfections". 'Well earned imperfections'. The thought flattered and disappeared quite quickly.

A long road to get to this moment, to this glitzy cabaret. Faded memories of that long deserted house with its surrounding bushes and pink and red flowers still lingered, even now. The years of service in the front lines, that lucky escape on that cold morning partly hidden in Sgt. Hathaway's arms, the very long self-imposed exile, they all had a purpose, a meaning. Not only did they lead here, to this night, but they would also pave the way for a more secure tomorrow, and based on the arrangements that were made and a few hopes, a more private and comfortable existance.
"You're on, Mrs. D.".
There was still tonight though. The smile returned to the somewhat weary and now semi-mystified eyes.
'Break a leg, Blue Angel'.


III - April 2013

He was having that dream again. His sub conscious, probably a bit too amused with itself, offered the experience with a glint of lucidity, which Patrick seized at. This time he would be more than just observer of his own dreams, he would try to direct the flow of thought to a direction his Id had been most reluctant to go - understanding.

The familiar bush fenced house materialized, as expected and Patrick caught a glimpse of a woman staring out one of its windows. He didn't recognize her, but he
was accustomed to that by now. The woman seemed fairly tall, blond and with an anxious look on her face. She was muttering something to herself but he couldn't make out the words.

Next was the bus station, but no - it was a railway station now. A creeping feeling of dread and a strong desire to flee began to overwhelm him, as he was struggling with his breath. Trying to relax, he thought about the
meditation technique Lilly Yang tried to teach him that sunny day outside the Social Studies library. Taking three deep breathes he closed and eyes and opened them again. He was still at the train station, a low hum in the background. "Hey you, you're gonna buy that newspaper or not?", cried the seller.
Patrick looked down: "War", shouted the headline of a skinny 1.5 Deutsche Marks paper. The hum was louder by now and he could almost make out the words. This was new, he noted. Why, though; what's different? What am I to do? "Can't help it", suggested the newsstand guy and faded away.

He was in Paris now, he was sure. Although he'd never been there, Patrick had a feeling of certain familiarity with the streets, the light, even the smell of freshly bakes croissants. With a start, he was awake. "Like moth to a flame".


IV - April 27, 1992

'Another damned curtain call. Damned that Roger and his "club"'.
"It's Mrs. D, you moronic little man! Don't you know who I am?!". There was no reply. The small snickering sound in the distance was certainly no reply to be considered. Adjusting the long shawl over the shoulders had a comforting feel to it. So had the extra lipstick - the best rouge this part of town. And it came with a price, as always. One of the mirror lights flickered for a minute. The delicate circuitry would need to be
adjusted, again.

"Mrs. D, can I come in? It's Jenny". The voice sounded slightly excited, even muffled as it was through the door. "Of course dear, come in, come in".
Upon first meeting Jenny, one would almost always think her out of place here. A slim, short woman with now graying auburn hair, she may have passed for pretty in her days. Those years she would hardly talk about to anyone but a select few. The memories pained her too much, she said, though it may have been the lack of any new notable ones in the years that followed that mattered. To her, the glory of the 40' and the 50', and, though she would vehemently refuse to admit it, the 30', has never truly passed from the world; at least not completely. Some, she seemed to believe, still lingered behind. That was one of the main reasons they connected so well. That, and the ever kindled, low flamed as it was, torch she was still carrying. They had a few conversations about it and Jenny did seem to understand and accept how things actually were though, most of the time anyway. And Jenny did look after her Mrs. D.

"You have to be careful, Mrs. D. Mr. Newsom there is... talking".
"That Roger always talks. He knows who I am, eventually. You know me Jenny".
"Of course I do, Mrs. D", Jenny said quietly. "I... You know you can count on me. Besides, I... I don't know... Mary and Joseph, Mrs. D. I don't know what to do".
Jenny was paler than usual, that was becoming evident now. Her lips were quivering slightly as she struggled for a deep breath of air.
"Mary and Joseph? What's wrong, Jenny? I haven't heard you invoke them since the airline strike of 73' and that was just because... Dear god, what happened? Tell me!".
"She... she is...". Jenny struggled for breath. "Jack Snipes from the Mission read the evening post and he knew how I'd felt, that is how I am and... you and..." Jenny could speak no longer.
"S-she is dead?"
Jenny managed a nod.
The view outside looked colder now. The easy lights and spiraling neons leading men to the "Diva’s Club" shone on just as darkly, luring the wanting patrons into the willing honey trap. But the taste has turned very bitter.

"Mr. err... Mrs. D.? I...". Jenny stammered. Funny, it wasn't like her to make such a mistake, not after so long. "She was the last, you know? There will never be the like of her again."
"No, I guess not".
"I'm sorry, Mrs. D. 'tis the passing of things".
"Yes, yes, of course. In a way, she lives through us though, right? What she stood for, you know".
"What she stood for? She didn't stand for the like of... I mean, You can't really know her... you couldn't really know her like I did. She's nothing like you".
"Well, no but -- what's gone over you Jenny? I've never heard you talk like that".
"It's just that you don't understand, that's all".
"Help me understand then, Jenny".
"You -- I've known you for years with your shows and make up and hair pieces and what not. But she, she was a real lady. A true woman. The 'Blue Angel' they used to call her. I... I've...". Jenny wept silently, unable to speak.
"You've loved her, didn't you Jenny?", understanding dawning suddenly. "You were in love with her".
The shock was quite apparent by now.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. D", Jenny managed, "I'm not like you. I've got Harry and the kids".
"No, I think I'm right. You are like me more than you'd like to admit. Who would have thought? I always knew you were a fan. I mean, that's how we met at first, on the line to the box office. But it's more for you, isn't it?"
"More?", said Jenny. "It's not more. It's special. It's just me and her. You could never get her like I do. You could never love her like me".
Jenny stiffened suddenly. "Yes, I loved her. I still do. You -- You can't know, you weren't there. It was a different time and She was different and even I was different".
Jenny wasn't crying anymore. Wiping the remains of her tears, she was nodding her head continually, muttering to her self. "Yes, I loved her. There. I loved Harry but she... To hell with Harry. I loved her. I love her".
"Here Jenny, won't you sit down. Let me help you".
"No, don't touch me. Don't touch me. You mock me. I see you", Jenny raved. "I see you. You think you can touch her like that, with that dress and make up and hair? You know nothing. Nothing!", shrilled Jenny.
"I only want to help you. It's a terrible shock for both of us. Let me help you Jenny".
"No! Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"
Coming to Jenny's side, Mrs. D. tried to calm Jenny down futilely. "I said don't touch me!", cried Jenny, pushing away, moving askew the carefully placed hairpiece.

"What the hell are you doing, Jenny?"
"What I should have done a long time ago, when I first saw you defile her image".
"Defile?! Jenny, I really don't know what's gone over you but you really need to sit down and have a glass of water or something".
"No, I'm fine", Jenny breathed. "The world is empty tonight, so what is one less diva in the sky?".
With that, Jenny pushed and heaved, struggled and clawed. A few seconds later, she was of the room as well.

The story in the next day's Bay Guardian amounted to a small rectangle in the back pages, titled "The Fall of the Diva". Roger Newsom took some small comfort in the mention of his time honored establishment. 'Bad press is good press', he thought.


V - Late April 2013

"You're still thinking about going ahead with it, aren't you?", asked Terrance.
"No. Well, yes. I have to now, don't I?", said Patrick.
"I don't see why really. Switching majors this late is never a good idea. And this Psych crap! I mean man, I know you dig the chicks there and all, but come on! You need a graduate degree to actually work in it, you know".
"I know all that already, Terr".
Patrick wasn't sure how much to tell his friend. Close as he was to him, even learning some of the details of his more hazy dreams, or as Terr called them (mistakenly, but why correct him?) "Your film noir experience", there were some things he was holding back. Things like his growing acrophobia he was barely able to mask anymore. That was one of the chief reasons he did not apply for Psych courses already. The ultra modern design of the faculty included a spectacular
view of its surroundings, but for him it was like going through vertigo just thinking of those stairs.

"Anyway, what do you think of my theory? Doesn't explain everything?"
"Ah, yes. I can understand why you'd prefer to send it as an e-mail. Very scientific of you, J. Lo's ass. You didn't even check the facts".
"What do you mean?", asked Patrick, nervously going in his mind over the long and repeatedly re-drafted mail he'd sent.
"Well, for one thing, you got the date wrong".
"What?"
"She died on May 6th, 1992 and you were born on April 28th 1992. I know I'm better than you in Math, but even you can see something just doesn't add up right here".
"Umm, no, I didn't know that. Damn.", said Patrick, genuinely shocked. He'd gone through it all, it all fitted so well but the date was something he did not even look very deep into. He'd known it was late April-early May. He just knew.

"Oh, apparently, and get this - I've found it on some obscure hard core fan site - there were rumors about her death a few days before it actually took place, but those were almost immediately denied by the family", said Terrance, rather triumphantly.
"But I've felt it. I felt that the date was approaching. How else can you explain the sudden increase in dreams I've experience, not to mention their content?", Patrick exasperated.
"Stress. Simply stress and fatigue", said Terrance. "You obviously have some Mrs. Robinson issues," smirked Terrance to a blushing Patrick. "Admit it, you always had a thing for older and powerful women".
"O.K, O.K. Suppose the date thing is wrong and the rumors were correct?", asked Patrick. "I mean, it's all so vivid".
"Two things. You're a student for electrical engineering without any apparent artistic streak in you".
"I'm not sure I entirely agree there, but O.K. What's the second thing"?
"You can't carry a tune if your life were dependent on it".


VI - December 2015

It was snowing early this year, global warming notwithstanding. The street lamps seem to sweat as the melting whiteness drizzled around them, adding to the occasional human breath vapor. The relatively dark corner, packed with overflowing dumpsters and dotted with broken bottles, was quiet, at least.
The nearby club, radiating now more in neon than fame, lent few of its voracious chords at this time.

Yes, some peace at last. An opportunity to light a hasty smoke and think. Those images were swarming his mind again, making very little sense: a house he could dimly make out among thickets of geraniums, a semi deserted bus stop with the sign "BERLIN -45" partly smudged by traces of smog and what he could only term as 'the peek'. It was a memory, he was quite sure enough of that, of a door quietly
opening to reveal someone waxing the hair of their legs.
His own.

Facing mortality

They say that when a man is faced with mortality, whether his own or someone close to him, he may react or respond to it in fairly predictable stages. I'm not sure about the order of things, even here, but I know there is denial, guilt, fear, depression and finally acceptance. So they say.

Am I still in denial? Is this my "regular" depression or a more serious than usual bout of pain? How does my anxiety relate to it all? How much of it does it really matter?

I've recently, perhaps too recently to be writing this post, received rather alarming routine check-up results which continue to point to the deteriorating chronic failure of my kidneys. In addition, they've found an abnormal cluster of blood vessels in my brain. So who's going to 'off' me first? I know the brain thing sounds promising (it's a regular time bomb in there) but so does the 'creeping death' style kidney. My bet is on a third, as of yet undiscovered failing organ (or maybe just a car accident? that could be disappointing after all this medical stuff...).

So yeah, I have to deal with my own mortality. The thing is, between Eros (which stands for the will for life in classic psychology) and Tanatos (same thing only for death), I've always found a certain appeal for the latter. I do not want to die, but how bad do I want to live? What do I have to live for? The answer for these questions is not so obvious to me.

I have one thing to draw comfort and hope from - I know that other people in far worse conditions than myself have found the strength to face their hardships and with a will for life greater than I have thus far felt. Perhaps I should take this as an opportunity to change and challenge what is left of my life, to truly live before I truly die.

Here is a link of a man I admire very much, and not just because of the reasons he'd made the recording, but because of how he lives. Here is Professor Randy Pausch in the famous "Last Lecture".

The Greener Grass

Let the normals have their fun
Laughing clearly on the midnight run,
Criss-crossing fast parades
Masked in custom masquerades;
The greener grass a lonely witness
As they slowly bake to crispness,
The dullest music pours aloud
The little hearts it then enshrouds,
Pausing smiles and driving sorrows
Slipping by their stainless hollows;
Emptiness is held within
Right beside the biggest green,
Bringing chill I feel so well
Venting through this cushioned hell;
My story ends and theirs begins
As the gallows test its springs
And there, at last, strive to remember
We will never see September.

The Pack

I wrote this for my parents' wedding anniversary. There's a wider context for the theme and imagery used...

The trees whistle softly
Attending to my lowly ditty;
Pray, rest beside me for a moment
And this story I will relate.

Here they met so long ago
Two cubs we'll come to know;
On yonder meadow they did wed
And by the elders tied the thread.

They paced the hills and flew the mountains,
Exploring dales and vales uncounted.
They knew the moon and stars and sun
And on and on they ran and ran.

Through the annals the pack they grew
That grizzled wolf and bride, those two;
Cubs they bore under the trees
Yawning playfully in the breeze.

The pack is now a veritable clan,
A great host has joined the run;
Its howling fills the darkest night
In union seeks to cast its light.

And there you'll find them still,
Finding warmth to banish chill,
Together with their mighty pack
To the summer lands and back.

Aftermath III

Our eyes barely meet
As we pace to the door.
You're walking me,
Or perhaps I escort you,
The longest hall a third stranger,
Familiarizing itself with the echo of our footsteps.
We don't linger by the sofa
Nor the kitchen table,
Blushing silently under that newly laid shroud.

As I reach for the knob
I can feel you smile, just so,
And finally ask,
Quietly wavering in afterthought,
"And who are you?".

Stop the Killing in Congo

In the past few years a genocide is being perpetrated in Congo. Fueled by blood diamonds, petty politics, ignorance, corruption and racism, it has claimed the lives of over 4 million people. Our people.
These are the same people in Darfur, Kosovo and Bosnia; the same people who underwent the horrors of the tsunami in Malaysia and hurricane Katharina. The same people.
Thousands of women are ethnically raped and thousands of children are recruited with the sole purpose of killing and dying. This must stop.
How? By simply not sitting on our hands. Call your congress man, call your senator, call your local MP. Ask around for effective, corruption-free NGOs that can help. Now that you know you have that responsibility.
Africa is the birthplace of the human race - don't let it become its grave.

Aftermath II

Darkness overtakes us now;
No longer able to flee its heavy burden,
We are numbed while you nibble carelessly at my ear.
Exhaustion of the spirit resumes,
Revealing itself a little fuller and fouler once more,
Reflected in your face and mine though we may yet try to hide it away.
I grow weary of you and me all of a sudden,
Our toils now seem vain and inadequate for our purpose
And the online dating service smiles sadly, expectantly, inwardly.

Aftermath I

Readdressing your wounds
I find myself wandering
Across the vast mistake that led us here,
To your bed.
Its size now diagonal to the depths,
It beats over our glistening vessels,
Frolicking in the mystical vapors coming out of our pores.
Reaching for breath, you untangle yourself,
Free once more to roam the bedroom,
Poised like that hunter of old.
And I, a simple gatherer by your measure,
Tend to the burning fire of the hearth and my ankle,
So sprained in our exploits as to defy the notion.

Second (The second episode)

There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. He
couldn't count them all even if he tried. Well, at least not out loud. There were moons and
forests and brooks, songs and parodies, lost and familiar, snowy peaks and silent deserts;
kings along space shuttles and strange looking insects ("are those things doing what I
think they're doing?” he mused. "Eww"). Crisscrossing the "platform" were rivulets of
dynasty mixed with ketchup, which was the best way he could describe it, or try to
comprehend it for that matter. His old master told him of these moments and warned him
of the danger the hid behind their sheer sense of "overwhelmness", as he termed it. He
claimed that the 'unknown is generally feared among mortal men and that this is but
natural. But the real dangers lurk in the places and moments where the unknown meets
the familiar, mates with it and gives birth to reality. For that reality is never quite what
you'd expect. Some of it may look familiar and comforting', he pointed, 'but look at the
gaze in its eyes and you'll find terror there, if you seek it'. Knowing about these moments
beforehand hadn't really prepared him for this, he had to conclude. So, finally, only slightly
holding his breath, he took a small step in the direction he thought was forward.
The lights, even those on the platform sides, seem to flicker for a moment and then
returned to normal. In fact, he realized, the lights were pretty much the only thing that
was normal around umm... here. That somewhat curious and rather obese ogre at the
entrance for example was unusual, but he decided, trying to control his breath, not to
think about that one too much.
What did bother him at that instant, however, was how the floor seem to turn slimy
somehow, though he didn't see any apparent reason for it. It looked the same
mesmerizing red-blue-and that other color he couldn't quite name tiles that accompanied
him since he entered the chamber. Of course, he wasn't particularly good with colors
anyway, but somehow he felt that wasn't the main issue at the point. The lights were
somehow... friendly? Certainly compared to that welcoming committee that awaited him
at the entrance. Teaching the acolytes how to smile did not seem to be a high priority,
he mused, though they did seem quite courteous and polite. At least those who didn't
pout quite so blatantly at him. Adrian didn't have to use their services, of course, but they
were the most readily available under the circumstances and that stood for something.
There was also the small debt they owed, of course, but he was also courteous enough
not to mention it. At least not out front anyway; he did allude to it in the most general of
terms. They didn't seem to comprehend all his hints and allusions, only the least bit
inconveniant ones. Even then, though, he'd --
"Lord Adrian?” a voice said.
"Yes?"
"If you're quite ready, sir. We are assembled".
"Thank you".
They stood next to a long rectangle table, the embodiment of a committee on earth,
though they would, and had, denied such accusation rather fiercely. "Please, be sitted",
said the Chair. There were only two of his brothers there, he saw, as he was sitting
himself, mumbling the Blessing. The others were a woman, her hair tied neatly behind her,
making her association a bit more difficult to discern, and an elderly man in acolyte robes.
"Lord Adrian", said one of the Brothers, "May I introduce Lady Clara Shift, head of the local
order, Adam Arkand, head of ceremonies, acolyte Joseph Kley and myself, Peter Yone of
the memorial fund".
"I am honored", said Adrian. "May the Muses bless us".
"Indeed", responded Lady Clara. "I trust the accommodations were... satisfactory?"
"Quite so, thank you... again. You were most kind". Adrian thought he heard a stifled yawn
out of the acolyte, but he let it pass. "You know why I came here", he said quietly after a
few too many seconds of loud silence.
"We do", said Lady Clara, obviously not too happily.
"And?” Adrian inquired.
"This would not be easy. Do you realize the importance of such a relic, especially here and
now, just a few days before the anniversary?"
"I do".
"And still you ask it of us as if it was a trinket", said Adam, rather angrily.
"I'm afraid I must insist nevertheless. The Plectrum will be returned unharmed, I assure
you." Their looks suggested quite a bit of mistrust. "And the Yellow Cloud itself, of course".
That didn't seem to improve their attitude. "I will leave you to your deliberations then".
No response.
"Err... Could you direct me to the exit please?"

Contention

I often ride this not-so-tall a horse,
Back aching, leaning crumpled,
Dashing to the rescue of the forsaking muse.
Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal.
My armor is light with feathers,
Tempting with the bull's eye
Of its elegant V shaped neck.
My sword rusts there in indignation,
Forgiving as natural to it as believing,
But I smite it just the same; just.
I often amble in these burning pastures,
Speeding at impasses and slowing at the gates of hypocrisy;
It would do no good to challenge that one in this weather, surely?
The mills drive by, now fully content by their wheels,
Spinning giants atop, lowly dwarves whispering behind their noble brows,
Chit-chatting in the easy breeze of mid afternoon strife delight.
Circling the florid mound, the mare recruits the stony aperture to her aid,
Casting swift slippery shadows across the ravine's edges and into the crowded center,
Frightening sleepy scorpions long not in use and dreamy emo children,
Whinnying as I caress the reddish mane, gawking at dark slit within.

You Called

My hands ached with sweet agony,
White, skeletal, splintered with bony fingers,
They yearned to hold it out from in;
My eyes, which once devoured your image in my stead,
Now sought to drown in it a-whole,
Occupying the mind's third fully,
Only to discover they were already scorched with it;
My temples, hammered by your treasured voice,
No longer seem to note the piercing feeling they there underwent -
For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst.
Aye, and then you called;
And senses shifted and blurred across my bosom,
My heart there raced and cantered like a rabid dog,
Turned loose upon the world in some muddy mire,
Dark as night and hot with flames that burn and burn the flesh away!
Aye, you called and ended life;
You smiled (for I sensed it in your voice) and folly flied;
You spoke! (And I could still hear it) and clove the heart right out of me.

"Hello?"

Dark Fire

Your golden hair now flecked with white
Shining eerie in the pale moonlight;
Come sit beside me, my dark fire
Let us sing and tell tales to befit this mire.
Your cauldron is so hot tonight
Steam rising to fill us fright,
Scents of honey spiced with wine
Peppered to perfection ere we dine,
Hollow shadows dance around
Driving light out of our grounds
For tonight, my dark, we feast
Upon the offerings of men and beasts!
Your icy touch so burneth me
That I relentlessly agree
To walk with you in your own path
So shaded, so doomed, so full of wrath.
O, dim sun, shall I compare thee to a rose?
Nay; a flowering fragrant black Lilly is thy pose!
Cowled with your beauty you walk
Gliding along the fireplace without balk
Mirrored in the gilded stand lamp
Your reflection flares in my eyes vamped
And so I can finally make flesh my plan
To spend my undying nights behind the sun
Here, with you, in mists we'll drift
Our swirling stygian cores to lift.

Crossing the Byway

Skewed, I list across the sideways
Lilting through the courtyard,
Hanging by a thread
Of a rose's bloody thorn.

She is gone.

I float again in the grieving wonder
An empty flame in thy midst,
Hovering and winking in the husk
Of what's left.

She is gone.

My troubled eyes see the image
As an omen for the crucified;
I lean against my Mary Magdalene
But she is gone.

I whisper to my self.

Failing to grasp,
I construe the light without the dark and thus I'm blinded;
I hear nothing but my old broken self
And she is gone.

I cross the courtyard once again,
Attempting to complete the journey for the last time.
Her enmity fills me
And I am gone.

Staring Blankly Across the Ages

I
Waiting on the arrow's uncouth edge,
The tinker lays her hopes unto the dead man's weight,
Stalling, in the corner,
While across the yard the smith wipes his brow,
His apron brawned by white hot flickers of fire.

Thus was our village, long ago.

II
The harlot wails for the stranger,
But I can find no peace there;
The church bells toll for evening succor
But my bed is empty like my mind.

III
Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.

IV
Brother, come with us!
We march tonight against the dark foe,
Liberty and Reich, emperor and redemption;
We face our own mirrors, O vanity!

V
Daughter, don't go outside today;
The acid flows freely out there, as it does here,
Nimbling across the attercop's creation,
Devouring foundations and fermenting the grander stage,
Set willfully, desperately, on the isle's fancy.

Writer's Block IV

Constructed, constricted,
The hand lies down unannounced at the side of the curb.
Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
It all connects upon this finely honed dot,
So light that a mountain would waver before it,
So small that the ocean forbade it,
So inexcusable that I cannot sleep;
Not anymore.

Obstructed, obliterated,
My mind takes in the surroundings in a long flaying motion,
Now undertaking a dodgy worthy task,
Now burying its outcomes deep in the upheavals of the past.
The foggy moors call out loud,
But if a man hangs to dry at the city,
Who will hear the call?

Petrified, pitied,
I sulk again at the now closer images that threaten to run down
Pillars of ribbons and scaffolds of grey,
Towering within my empty self,
Single, unique, lost.

Sun Beam

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
The bee asked the dark spider.
"I do not know, small prey", he answered
"But it is most unnatural to me".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Squeaked to herself the honey bird.
"I do not know, rose petal", she chirped
"But it is clear as clouds of rain".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the lover of her mate."
I do not know, beloved", he replied
"But it is all over in your hair".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the goddess of the stars.
"We do not know, our queen", they whispered
"But the deep wine flows freely in our midst".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked himself the ailing poet.
"I do not know, bloody lips",he moaned
"But at last I see it in full bloom".

A begining (a story in the making)

His knee ached again. It always bothered him this time of year, of course, but that wasn't what troubled him, he thought. His skin was slightly irritated, especially where it used to touch hers, but that wasn't it either. It was a sunny day, as most were in these parts. Well, mostly sunny, he thought. He was sitting sprawled in the shade of Symbol's Street's Excelsior Cathedral, trying to take in a rare quiet moment. The grass here was certainly greener than his old home. In fact, almost greener, which was pretty good given the fairly steep water prices. That wasn't what bothered him either though. No, he sighed inwardly. If it were only as simple as that.
"Your grace", a voice said.
"Yes. Is it time then?" he asked.
"Yes, your grace".
"Very well. Here, help me up, would you?"
"Of course, your grace".
Damned mannered bastards, he thought. Sighing again, this time not as inwardly as he would have preferred, he allowed himself onto his feet. Grasping hold of his staff, he began his march, starting to surround the familiar water pond.
"Not today, your grace", said the voice.
"Oh? Why not?"
"After yesterday I'm afraid we've had little choice, your grace".
"Indeed. How unfortunate". He'd rather longed to stroll by that pond a bit, finding it quite soothing. An uncommon calming effect on him, he mused. The bile was only mild this morning, thank the goddess. That wasn't what troubled him either, of course. That feeling was a matter of fact by now, a constant battle to be fought without giving it too much thought, or at least to appear as such, he smiled bitterly to himself.
"Well then... lead on", he said.
The Cathedral's side gate was looming to their far right, beckoning occasionally as the sun hit the decorative signs and notes. The gate was actually leading to a separate hall linked to the cathedral, he now noticed. You can say whatever you want about the guy, he thought, but his remains have secured a rather splendid mausoleum for themselves, unlike so many others. He paused for a moment, examining the wood carvings on the door, then, swallowing a sigh, clicked the intercom button. The first few bars of "When Doves Cry" chimed, surrounding the opening entrance. "Here we go", he thought.

It Is

It is life, coming to a screeching halt.

It is a growing sensation of numbness
That stills and readies me for what's next.

It is only deep within the nebula
That the words are liberated
And once again receive their lost meaning.

It is only my side-tracked mind,
Seizing at the opportunity to speak
That draws me near here,
Every now and anon.

It is by this pain that I feel
That I am able to navigate
These starless surroundings,
Desperate feelers ahead
Catching the void in the act.

Echoes

There are echoes between the songs
Marking my way along the causeway,
Now dusty with rustling leaves,
Now swimming in bright ecstasy
Nourishing the anemones below.

These echoes do not remind me of the past,
Like the rest of their kin;
Nay, they come from the present itself,
Hiding in the plainest sight
Of the self blind,
Marked by eerie colors that spin
Only when you wish it.
And you wish it.

They, like the consciousness within,
Hallow the wild distances of the soul,
Now clear of obstacles and remnants forsaken
And yet unforgotten in their course of familiarity
With the distant and disdained.

The echoes are melodious in more than
Any single way I can relate;
They resound the sweet hollow of the walls
Of my existence as easily as the bitterest
Freedom bell of a lost libertine.
They signify the long road's narration
And equate it with its meaning,
Spelling both desire and remorse
In their fading and their longing.

I wish I could hear it all,
The music of the echoes,
And between.

At Lunch

Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,
Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
Like an evil trip, spiraling in all directions, howling, howling
For the dark moon;
I freeze, unable to think except in numbers, adding, adding just
To keep it there while it lasts.

The table grows far and the salad turns unto the happy isles next to your hand, your face.
I cannot swallow, cannot dream, cannot feel, cannot...

I am paralyzed here in this shabby light,
Crucified by your imagined glare, the steak stares back butNo,
I cannot think just yet. Adding is safe, yes. Safe.

My white shroud dissipates and I, a neonate Wight in lunch,
Descend upon my wooden throne to swallow last supper's remnants; a little stale, I sigh.

On an on I wait it out,
Not knowing where or who and when, I endure my tears and music,
Consuming myself in order to live out another day, yet I do not live in a single hour.

I crawl out of the wreckage, smiling at my lovely strange world,
Clinging to distant hopes of past deeds, once resembling the semblance of normalcy.
There I am one of the ignored. Here, there is only the void.
So who is staring back at me?

These Days

These days I am constantly angry,
My fury flows and splashes around,
Heaving its red and green tentacles
Around and around,
Amassing in great celerity
At the borders of my sanity.

My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun,
Forever spinning and dancing
Aloft the grass-not-greener,
Copious with yellow wasps.

Prodded by the doubled edge fork
The bile in my mouth builds
A thorny tower of disease
Not easily averted,
Nor lightly illuminated
By my moonless spurn.

These days the darkness claims me
And I cannot escape;
My chaos is making good
On its premise to deliver;
My anger flows back to its source,
That crumpled shell of me.

Undulating Field

This is a work in progress as I feel something is still missing with it, though I'm not sure what or how...

Desertion has its virtues
Upon the golden corn field
As the scarecrow backs away
Into the get away car.

Lone guardsman on the pole
Observing the yeast go down
And up and down again,
Pretending to be free.

The mindless wheat
Fulfills that which it sows
On the hard brownish land,
A stool to rest the splinter soles.

The crucified has vacated
The post no longer there;
Rot and decay dawdle
At the tall pillars of hay.

On the seasons press
And the agony recedes,
Tumbling down with the weed
Of a forsaken effigy.

On the Bridge

I saw the future once
Walking the bridge
Above the train station,
Phased onto an alternate
Anime world of steam
And electronics.

But the future merges
With an unforgiving past
Only to give birth to an
Apathic present,
Its presence lucid in my
Vision but for its reality;
The present, I deem, is
A conjunction moving
Between us by being us,
Separating and uniting
The undivided, calling
Our names when all we
Seek is the forgetfulness
Of olden days or
The ever illusive promise
Of aftertime.

Aftermaths replenish themselves
On our lost hopes in this future,
Feeding on repercussions we
Dare not avoid and nightmares
We close our eyes against,
All in vain.

The future, you see, is
Already here, lounging
At its pleasure, sometimes
Cuddling, sometimes stinging
Our expectant souls.

What will I see when I get to the other side of the bridge?
How many full circles are there in the void?

Let's Talk

Ok. This one is titled "Let's Talk", though I'm not too sure about the title.

To save my self
And that's not half
The matron must be told
Ere the going gets tough.

I must tell her what is known,
What is long lost and long ignored;
That which I readily fear
Yet here so anxious to reveal.

That which will save me
Will be ignored;
Of that I am sure, mostly,
If truth be told.

I must reveal it all and hide none,
Forever being the obedient son;
Alas, this deed cannot be undone
As I yet favor moon to sun.

The City and I

I wrote this one thnkinh I may enter it into the "In the end" contest on deviantArt. The point is you have to use the given closing lines, in this case written by John Burnside.

I have been to the White City
Though it is cowled in grey;
I have strolled through its peaceful side-walks
Along no cherry lane.

Memories of serenity fill me
Though now I only long
To lose myself in Sufjan's notes;
I remember it just the same:
Young ones riding their bikes
Shouting enthusiastically
What they'll rue in an hour,
A pair of elderly women
Heatedly discussing yesterday's remorse
Telling-tolling today's gossip
And prophesying tomorrow's.

No, I don't have a cigarette,
And neither should you.

I come back,
The city lingering at the doorway
Pausing shyly at the out of place
Refrigerator in the hallway. Finally,
It entered, bringing some grey
And sand and smog and life
Into my room.

Our time together now spent,
Now passing onto new heights
And lows I cannot fathom;
The city still speaks to me
Her voice half heard as something overhead
-- A splash of white against the wavering sky --
Drones through the clouds, mechanical, bereft.

Wondering during Atonement Day or Writer's Block III

So I walked softly
Through the sinful city,
Now silent for the
Agreed upon duration;
Hoping to find inspiration at its mer
I could only find there myself.

The sand is soft and white;
It graters at my skin
Trying desperately to find
A more suitable position.
That salty smell of froth and starfish
Evokes a longing I cannot accurately recall.
Instead, I’m filled with the usual trepidations
Of being.

The sea does not seem a worthy cure for my woes,
Or, perhaps, I am not worthy of the sea.
In here I feel like a second grain, or perhaps a fourth,
Just like in real life.
The sea cannot save me;
Perhaps the rain can.

Afterimage -
The roll of the waves
And its vast thunder
Shall remain with me
Even ere I am torn asunder.

General Update

So, I've noticed it's been quite a while since I've last written something here (that isn't a poem) and I think it's time for an update. Besides, I'm sort of experiencing a creative crisis, among other things, so I'm not sure when the next poem will find its way into this world.

Why a crisis? In a way I think it's also a symbol for what's going on with my life right now, namely nothing. No that that's new or anything, it's just bugs me more than usual, I guess. Take work for example (if this was a movie you'd have a fade and a cross to my work area :-) ). Work is much more chaotic in some ways than I thought it would be. Despite my lack of experience in this field, I cannot ignore my own sensations, instincts and past memories (mostly from my time at the Navy, something I may have under-appreciated at the time).

In short, there are no ordered, coherent, announced and generally accepted work flows and habits that I'm aware of (and more importantly, it seems my immediate boss is also in the dark). As for this guy, while a really nice man and a technical genius, I can't help but feel his managerial skills needs improvement. Of course, his recent confession to me (in a rather awkward conversation on my part and heated on his) that he wishes to quit, did not improve my general mood or desire to stay. I do feel anxious about the future of the company and even started to skim through some wanted ads but I think it's premature.

These events and feelings, which I barely hinted on these past paragraphs, do not improve my mood and motivation at work, and in general. I do have friends there though, and that make a world of difference for me.

I know my writing here isn't all that clear and organized but I do feel rather tired now. I do hope to write something soon; a poem, a story, anything. I really need to. I feel large parts of me are already dying and some have died through recent years. But I must try, while I can.

Writer's Block II

Working long hours has its toll... :-)

I try to write;
I am numb and my mind
Is filled with empty metaphors
Unable to withstand their own
Weight, exploding and
Imploding interchangeably
By the bubbles of void.

Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.

The blinking lights
Seem to form a pattern
Hiding unknown mysteries,
No doubt. And yet,
I cannot wonder why
I felt this way before.

At least I have Wes here,
Live. The jazz fills the air,
Healing the stubborn bugs
Plaguing my soul, if only
For a little while. Play!

Writer's Block I

Just scribbled it. Very tired now. Had an awful night and I can't get rid of this smell of cigarettes. Vile things :-( Anyway, here it is...

So I looked at it amazed,
Wondering at what had just
Passed down before my eyes,
Trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes.

The music is loud
But even that cannot deafen my silence.
I look at it amazed and quiet.

The empty spaces between the lines
Are filled with poetic grains of sand
I longer know will come or bring
Or... I don't know anymore.

I am scared. Saying that
Will surely make it go away? Silence!
I am confused, my head hurts
At the broken lines, bleeding
Uneven sentences and paragraphs
That wish they knew better days, better languages,
Better dirty computer screens to be displayed upon helplessly
Like unwanted slaves in a roman market buried just over there,
The other neighborhood; yes, past those tracks.

I am amazed, somehow, still. My head hurts. No.

Silence.

I am afraid.
Help.

Rest; yes.
Rest.

The Watcher

The tower hovering outside my window
Is not a reflection of my soul;
I must accept that.
Neither are the leafy shards
On the pavement across the street.

Instead, I reflect upon song
And psalm;
The rich and the richer,
The poor and the poorer,
Each man to himself.

But my soul is not there.
My dove does not dwell on
Such things;
It hovers, crossing barriers
Existing and non-existing alike
That divide us and penetrate us.

My soul is hidden; yet it is
Right there. I often
Wonder about such things,
Watching, reflecting on that
Tower over there, its windows
Mirroring my scant humanity.

At the Mall

Formless winds are rushing towards my death;
I fly upwards effortlessly on the conduits
Lost in regions and depths of minuscule importance
The chasm is deep within this one

The sights confuse me;
I lie baffled on the floor of my mind
Clad in second rate loin cloth
That had to be mine

The mannequins stare at me all too keenly;
The stage is set but I no longer occupy it.
Instead, I yearn to kneel and pray
At the chapel of the moving staircase.

The exit hole is well marked;
It's right next to the bubble gum stands
And lottery tickets and news magazines
And friendly odd salespersons and brown bags.

I fumble for keys deep in my pockets;
The cart crashes past me and the neon flares
As darkness consumes me and I remember
I forgot to buy my chocolate bar.

Cold July

My echoes reminisce on distant droplets seas,
Spies return from yet a mission;
Cowled in albatross and grey,
The emissaries find their target.

Fleeting shadows mark their position,
Hastening, halting, calculating;
Muscles flow and following through
Like an endless Zeno's paradox.

The blood fills my gaps,
Falling, falling, losing warmth;
Low now, pain is but a memory
Of a surprise neither warranted, nor guaranteed.

They walk away now, briskly;
I slump against the marble crimson notch.
Shadows pass before my eyes
And all for ye, Brutus;
Veni, Vidi, Vici, Abeo.

Day at the office

A steely gaze
Of deep cobalt blue
Reflected far
Across the window
Next building
Or next door.

I stare,
Somewhat teary-eyed
At the dust
Covering the silent monitor
Lounging next to me
Atop this table.

This does not go well,
I think;
I enter the ever falling
Ever flowing state
My mind is so akin to,
So reluctant.

Another song, my player,
Another line of code;
Another minute squandered
Under the Legionella covered air vent
I pray will open and resuscitate us
And then we go home.

Something

Something about the here and now
That aches and screams
In melodious silence;
Something that tears at your heart
Like the daily chicken liver.

Something you've missed,
Something you long for;
Something untold in less
Than perfect tact on the
Soccer field.

You try.
You fail.

There's something else,
You realize.
Something beyond,
Something within;
Something left out.

You finally answer
The uncalled for question
That looms all around:
Yes, it is I.

New poem

Hi, here's something I wrote today (slow day at work so far... :-) )

The Golden Dragon

The golden dragon laid an egg
then left it unafraid.
a warm nest in which to keep
the baby giant there to sleep.

the golden dragon broke the skin
the egg was shattered, broken at the hinge.
a child play born,
bouquet of golden flowers was adorned.

the golden dragon drew its breath
the world he sought high from its cleft.
young and dashing and ablaze
to smite all evil was the phrase.

the golden dragon counts its days
counts and mourns while she's away.
bringing food to the nurslings
atop the ever familiar landscapes.

the golden dragon turneth sage
its youngling gone and he's with age.
its treasure he values beyond count
she is there with him under the mount.

the golden dragon has its horde
in gold and jewels and goddess know
let us slay the wanting monster
crack it open like a lobster.
we, men, know best
and to hell with all the rest.

A golden dragon was there once
the legends say and prance
but now the glory lies aground
beneath our charcoaled town.

I could not resist and nod sadly
hovering above the chasm.

New Piece

Hi, wrote this ditzy one today...

Ho, little talons,
How you rapture my soul.
You purr on my bed,
Cry at my pillow.
We share our lunch
And our supper,
Eating in our newly
Painted kitchen.

O, whisky talons,
How you capture me whole.
Without you I'm dead,
And the curtains will billow.
How can I threaten to punch
The Persian flapper?
Mewing oh so fully
Yet barely reaching.

Lo, tiny talons,
I bleed again and I'm sore.
You make me so mad,
Deflecting my mirror.
My iPod and such
Will not compare to your dapper.
Just trying to pet you, truly!
I remain alone and itching.

Not so amusing anymore

Ok, well, I certainly didn't expect this on my weekend... Another siren and this we could actually hear the rockets falling not so far from us. Still trying to take it easy, as much as I can.

War Sucks

Well, I've just experienced my first siren of this little war... I went to my parents up north for the weekend and though they are fairly far from the front lines, there it was... We're ok and it doesn't look like any of the rockets fell near but it's still a most disturbing sensation...
We'll be alright :-)

The In Between

And so, things are a bit slow at work right now and I'm continuing my recovery from the whole war minor stress thing (recognizing, once again, that there some people who are way worse off than men). In fact, it's so slow I've had time to discover and enjoy some comics! So here it is, my recommendation of the day: The Order of the Stick. Although it will probably be more understood by role playing games people (such as AD&D), I'm sure a lot more people can enjoy the smart and funny plot and characters. I've added a link in the links area so check it out.

So here, in between wailing sirens and falling rockets, is another musical recommendation: I Am Kloot. Check them out, especially "The Same Deep Water As Me", one of the most beautiful and haunting songs I've heard in recent years. Here's their song, "Proof".

War

So it's war again, is it? "All that running around, shooting at each other". What do I feel about it? What do I think about it? There's definitely anxiety, but that's nothing special. It is perhaps a bit more directed, more concrete, more real somehow,
even though we're more than enough miles away. I guess it's not just the distance factor that weighs in. It's also concern for others well-being and safety. Strange that it should come after the initial anxiety, though I suspect it's all mixed together.
There's also a great desire to be somewhere far away from here. This feeling isn't rooted in fear; its origin is in disdain, frustration and getting sick and tired of the situation. There's also anger, multiplied and enhanced, again, by frustration and fear against the enemy. This enemy has a face, unlike many others, and it also seem most deserving of our hate.
When does terror become war? Where do you draw the line? Who draws the line for you? I loath every aspect of this conflict. War is hell, even when it is necessary.

Not too sure about this one

where as to live
quiet in the moonlight
walking under trees
gasping for air
joyous in the grass
forsaken in the sun
creeping silently
moving to the edge
consciousness a blur
disco king inferno
quietly, quietly
dragonfly on the lily
water and pond.
reflection.
echo.
no.

Something New

It's been a long while, too long a while and I've gotten a bit rusty, but I wrote something yesterday and it's dedicated to you, H. :

and there was this girl,
you see,
with a light green sweather
and deep grey eyes
and a smile.
a smile.

I remember the chocolate
bitter in our mouths
next to an unsung kiss.
her hand waving on the bus.
on the bus.

and eons gone by
the forests recede;
with the love that had died
came all I had feared.

consequences flee;
my reason is shattered
by the deep grey
of her eyes.
of her eyes.

Quick Update

Hi, this is basically just a quick update to keep this place alive. Sorry about this...
My new job gets me very busy for long hours and it promises to gets even busier over the next few months. I am still learning a lot everyday, both on the professional-technical side as well as on the more social-'how to act in a high tech company' side. I am tired most of the time but at least I don't have that horrible feeling I've had during my temp job days of "how am I going to make it this month". It's sad to say but financial security (and I'm not paid millions if that's what you think and it's Not just the money thing) has a lot of bearing on my mood. I can't say I'm happy; in fact, I suspect this period of adjustments is causing quite a bit of stress and tension which I definitely feel (see next paragraph for details) but I hope that will diminish in time.

As long promised, I have a sort of a musical review. I went last week to an acoustic concert of Amit Erez in the Roots pub and it was sensational. I told you I'm not much of a music critic but I definitely loved it. This is the second time I went to one of his concerts and this one was very intimate as it was a very small pub and Amit played and sang just 3 feet from us. It's amazing to see how far he's come from his CD in 2003 ("Wish I Could Make it a Story", which was good) to this performance and onwards. The only thing clouding it was how I felt, which was not all that well, and I suspect it had quite a lot to do with stress (some work related, not all). So anyway, Amit, if you happen to read this, I'm sorry if I had a sour face on, it was all me. In fact, the music helped me feel better. So there you go, a recommendation.

Anyway, that's really all for now.

Third Picture

A Ground Squirrel in Canada. Taken on June/July 2005 by Sam.

First Week, sort of

Yes, well... That was my first week at the new job. What do I mean by 'sort of'? So far I've only just began to study the systems and applications I'm supposed to work with and it seems it's going to take a while. Having no actual background at this (and trust me, a mostly theoretical course doesn't qualify as a worthy background) it's hard to actually begin the work. So I sit and study and explore around when I can. I ask questions when it's seems pertinent and try not to harass my co-workers too much (cause they're gonna have to tolerate me from here on). I do have hopes but until I get some sort of a basic understanding of things and systems, my confidence and my actual activity seems to me painfully limited. I know I should be patient and I try to be. I do.

On the upside of things, I love the feeling of studying and trying to figure out stuff, even on my own (perhaps especially on my own? Another challenge?) It feels like my brain is waking up from some long slumber. I get headaches sometimes, but they're sort of 'good' headaches. Know what I mean?

Also on the new job subject, I had to give someone at work some basic and interesting details on me and my life for the company newsletter (as one of the new employees). What fun. Anyway, my point is that it didn't seem like I had all that much to say and that's kinda sad I think. There were things I didn't want to divulge of course (no need to un-shroud my mystery on day one...) but still - self improvement, self realization or however you want to call it is very much needed.

Another change this week, today in fact, was that I've put my picture on my new MySpace page. I have ahem... Issues what my pictures and without getting too much into it (unless someone asks me) let's just say it was an important milestone for me. Yay.

A Second Picture

Another picture from my trip to Canada: Lake McLeese in early June 2005.

A New Beginning

It is time. Well, almost time. My new job starts this Sunday and I'm quite excited about it. I can't help but wonder if I'm ready for it, if I'm as prepared as I can be. Probably not, but you can't be prepared for everything, I suppose. I've been trying to review some of the course material in hope it might jog something in my memory so my first day won't be a complete embarrassment but I've also had some trouble concentrating so the result aren't perfects (that's old news; would you like to listen to my voice, splintered with emotion... err. Got carried away there for a moment).

Anyway, I hope to get into a new (and improved) routine as soon as possible and get on with my life. On a side note, I would also like to find my passport which has gone missing somehow and although I'm not planning any trip in the foreseeable future, I do want to know where it is. Any ideas where to look?

I've recently opened a page on MySpace which seems like a really nice place with lots of interesting people. It could turn interesting...

Oh, and there was also saying goodbye this week as I've finally left my old job. The people there are great, warm and kind people and saying goodbye was a hard and emotional moment. I know there are nice people in the new place but I don't think it will be quite the same.
It's going to take a while to adjust, on many levels it would seem.

First of many

As promised long ago and as a paraphrase on Jon Stewart's "The Daily Show", here it is, your moment of happiness (around midnight in June 2005, near Dawson City, Canada).

Guess Who's Back?

Yes. I know it has been an incredibly long time since my last update. I also know, however, that no one has really bothered to read the damn blog, so really, no real harm. :-)

I do have some updates at last, some of them could actually be significant. First of all, I've finally got a new job I'm expected to begin later this month. It's in the QA field so I'm actually supposed to work in my new vocation for the first time. The pay isn't great but it's better than what I have now. The important thing is that if I actually like the job and do well in it, I can begin receiving some very much needed experience, which would improve my salary and lead the way to further advancement (that's in about two years time or so).

Saying goodbye to the people in my current job would be sad, as they are my friends. It is the right thing for me to do though, at least in principal (I mean the moving on step). Making friends and finding myself in the new job will not be very easy for me either, as I come from a place of disadvantage (no real experience at the job). In theory this can be turned into an advantage and used as a way to make friends (and the people there do seem nice), but I have my doubts. I always do.

Of course, what I didn't mention about the job was that it wasn't my first choice. At the time I had two job offers and this one wasn't the favorite. However, since this one pressured me into giving them an answer and while the other one lingers (still!) and doesn't give me their final answer, I had to place my bet and go with what's real and what's there over what might be. Thus far, before I even started to work, I think I've made the right decision. The more time passes and the more the other company lingers in its response I have a feeling their answer will be a "No" (even though I've passed their work-related interview). It has come to that that I'm in a place where I must move on, quit my job and move to the next one. The situation isn't optimal. It rarely is. But it is Real. Real life. Why do I keep on looking for real life situations?

Anyway, that's enough for now.

P.S - I feel the main theme of the post is about "real" and "actual". While this could suggest a sense of compromise and coming to terms with the choice I've made, I can't help but wonder at the price of this choice or how happy and at peace I 'actually' am with it...