Thursday, December 4, 2008

a benevolent stare

As a bike messenger you can’t help but remain confronted with these obscure incidences in and between the lives of the explicit and that of the norm. It’s the sort of job that feels like you’re filling in the gap aligned with the ‘needs’ and ‘wants’ of such enterprises sparring no expense, as it were. So for the time being, all is good. All is downstream rolling straightforward until your day changes inexcusably. Something explodes in your face blinding your vision, your habitual nature with the thickness of a warm fluid. Blood was my barrier that day. And blood was what I saw.

This was one such an impartial day until I saw her lying there on the concrete sidewalk face down in a pool of her own rich and sinister blood, conscious and watchful, but shocked…


I remember the contrast of her pale white and wrinkled skin and the menacing colour of her blood streaming, pacing around the shoes of the huddled onlookers aiding her. Their questions were simple. But something anomalous occurred next. She then peered up at me with her lone visible eye. As if out of recognition. And for those few seconds of solitaire, I felt nothing. I mean, it was a horrifying unfeigned image, but I felt nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an agent of the bizarre nor do I believe that this image deserves any humanitarian response at all. It’s just that for those few seconds, for that tiny minority of existence, all reality felt clear. The surrounding air smelt crisp. All reflective senses…heightened.

I felt alive and vigilant like a lion would somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa hunting wild boars. Or like the jaguars in the rainforests of Brazil perched atop a plant infested rock precipice studying the forest floor layer attuned to their environment like sonar.

Relief washing over me wave after wave. The image burned, etched in my mind for good. Pure. Intense. Fair.

"The man who busies himself overmuch with the workings of his own soul cannot help being confronted by a common, melancholy, but rather curious phenomenon: namely, he witness the sudden death of an insignificant memory that a chance occasion causes to be brought back from the humble and remote almshouse where it had been completing quietly its obscure existence. It blinks, it is still pulsating and reflecting light—but the next moment, under your very eyes, it breathes one last time and turns up its poor toes, having not withstood the too abrupt transit into the harsh glare of the present." Vladimir Nabokov

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

her ride of other world

Permission to board your ship
Of futile anonymity, of reclusive worship
Awkward and infantile your steps may be
I am here to seek your pleasure, of what?
Of what is challenging, say you…

Permission to stay awhile
To succeed as your pathological joy
Caught in this obvious mouse trap
I am seeking blood that is strenuous to hide
Making my manhood poor
For all eyes that seem incoherent

Permission to speak freely
As I am sure you would listen
And judge every solitary angle of finite possibilities
Within your dull spectrum of compulsiveness
Use this academic stature
As you would a condiment

Permission to be relieved
I do not belong in this time and space
A fulcrum of joyful hatred
From which no reason is now
All backs are turned, you have no clout
And all patience becomes ignorance

Permission to die honourably
To end this insignificant tale
This drug frenzy, has but too much control
For the next generation should have no knowledge
Of what has surmised here
Let me die as lonely dogs could

In shelter, in providence…

Thursday, February 21, 2008

bonjour cafe and burning buildings

I awoke with righteous intentions. I was conceived with similar aspirations as though certain of. And greatly so, if this is now incorrect, I am still alive and will certainly be patient.

But I hear voices…

I imagine myself speaking aloud and coherent in this belief. But the agony reveals that I am wrong. There is so much I don’t understand. There is so much to learn. What will they think if I denied all there expectations?

To all this is just. To white castles weathered by the elements. To intricate ideas complex in there inauguration that now seem all too simple. Where do my hands lay? Of what faction do I belong to? What company? What coalition? I am bound by uncertainty. Bound by the very essence of comfortable lies. Surly you have seen this. Tell me this is all but a dream, a vision of simulacra, the truth within trying to balance itself out. What parabola has brought me to this? And should I question its authority? Maybe so. Or perhaps I will play the silent shrewd on her back praying for death. Like the rest of them. Caged. While analysts probe them with cow prods and questions.

"...'reality' is a word that should always be written in quotations..." Vladimir Nabokov

" was the toilet that had something to say..." HM

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

canine querl - 2nd dream

my legs are nimble and bursting sweat
the moon illuminates this dirt road well
and for the present, I am triumphant, electric
but I can sense that you are near
and all becomes clear, a re-occurrence
you are trotting at full speed
a merging form from darkness
chase my will down, do what you must
amiss to see otherwise
soon fear will wash over me
soon will it end in sudden vigour
and all transposable becomes silent
your assault came so sudden
a climatic symphonic reel
through your anger, I sensed no sensibility
the onslaught a shattered plunder
must I fall to my knees and burn?
this ideal chronicle epitome?
surrender not willingly
i feel the warmth of your chin
as cogent anger turns a mere grin
docile have you become
gripping your coarse fur-lining
releasing all callous animosity, a formidable judge
earning this bleak sense of trust
between enemies of a parallel rival, say you
how this parabol has changed
for better or for worse
in this Whole or the next
As we stare, contempt in a seamless gaze
in hopes of shinning honourably
at the rates of knots

mirror doll/mirror android

Why dolls? Why are humans so fascinated with dolls? What is a doll? Well quite simply, it’s the art of replicating humans. And perhaps the greatest fundamental flaw is accompanied by breathing souls into dolls. Who'd want to do that? The definition of a truly beautiful doll is a living, breathing body devoid of a soul. An unyielding corpse, tiptoeing on the brink of collapse. The human is no match for a doll, in its form, its elegance in motion, its very being. The inadequacies of human awareness become the inadequacies of life's reality. Perfection is possible only for those without consciousness, or perhaps endowed with infinite consciousness. In other words, for dolls and for gods. Actually, there’s one mode of existence commensurate with dolls and deities. Animals. For example, skylarks are suffused with a profound, instinctive joy. A joy we humans driven by self-consciousness, can never know. For those of us who lust after knowledge, it is a condition more elusive than godhood. And this conundrum compelled humans to fabricate dolls that are inanimately dead. And what of this idea of death? Without knowing life, how can we know death? That is what Confucius says. It is a rare human who knows death. Most meet death unprepared, armed only with ignorant familiarity. In other words, people die simply because it is inevitable. But is death not a precondition of life for a doll? If so, would it’s inception address the following:

“The deceased hereby proclaims that on this day of this month, I have attained my own celebrated death.”

Truly disturbing, isn't it? I really understand. The doubt is whether a creature that certainly appears to be alive, really is. Alternatively, the doubt that a lifeless object might actually live. That's why dolls haunt us. They are modeled on humans. They are, in fact, nothing but human. They make us face the terror of being reduced to simple mechanisms and matter. In other words, the fear that, fundamentally, all humans belong to the void.

Further, science, seeking to unlock the secret of life, brought about this terror. The notion that nature is calculable inevitably leads to the conclusion that humans too, are reducible to basic, mechanical parts. The human body is a machine which winds its own springs. It is the living image of perpetual motion. In this age, the twin technologies of robotics and electronic neurology resurrected the 18th century theory of man as machine. And now that computers have enabled externalized memory, humans have pursued self-mechanization aggressively, to expand the limits of their own functions. Determined to leave behind Darwinian natural selection, this human determination to beat evolutionary odds also reveals the desire to transcend the very quest for perfection that gave it birth. The mirage of life equipped with perfect hardware engendered this nightmare. God's everlasting geometry if you will.

"Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it. I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Monday, January 21, 2008

the silent Mary

Whisper silent pleas to your mother Mary’s
My breath is vague, your fragrance artificial
Heads twist while the moon tells us otherwise
Drawing closer for me to drown you.

Bound your hands, pay the penalty of curiosity
Open-minded in this temporary reason
It spreads you wide open and lets the insects in
Like a thousand say, an intergrading spiral
Viral, clear of all independence

Engage in this syphilis
And sigh to these whining cries of discomfort, but
You’ve seen so many places; you’ve had so many faces
Lower your guard and let this grudge shine through
I have been inside you; I know what it feels like

My pleasure is your disease
An Aretino lust sonnet
Down inside, my fear is shameless, naked
Your back is turning and if you were nimble

The warning would have abetted
Sinking deeper into a dream
Of inconsequence and nuisance
We are a function of an illicit exploit
Tied together by curiosity

And this notion of harmony is your emotion, and content
Don’t be so vain...