Wednesday, March 30, 2011

A Walk Into Whiteness

All the world is dying as I smile and move on…

My legs are strong but only so to the journey for which they could carry me as I walk into the whiteness. The outline of black naked trees; a representation of all the world dying as I walk and appear unseen to ignorant eyes of past and now. The snow falls erratically from the skies and out of this chaotic scenery, there lies only peace and the sounds of nonentity and the entire. Truly beautiful is this landscape and yet justly lifeless. I trek on past meadows and blank pastures and I hear nothing and feel the numbness of nature from which, arrogantly, I am one with.

But I am sick I tell myself. My eyes plunged deep and become dark patches of my face and how they tell the stories of my “reality” so to be symbols of this choice of introvertness. I am weary and weak. I come to a barb wired, wooden fence that seems to have been still and decrepit for a decade more and sit for a while. Each snowflake bites as they touch down on my lips, cheek and chin. My hair wet from the certainty of overlooking the reward of wearing a head garment, and drips of cold yet soothing droplets trickle and run down from my nose. I am dressed inadequately but this day is yieldingly tepid for the month of February. This is seemingly the days of end but as I sit here and contemplate, my heart still resonates with rhythm which gives me an iota of motivation, so I smile and move on.

The evening turns into darkness and I am enchanted by the sparkles of star clusters and the spirits of the night sky. I’ve decided to stop and fall back into a bed of deep snow so to have a panoramic view of the Big Dipper, Orion, and their neighbouring siblings and tune into the silence which is delightfully deafening. And then I dreamed of you.

The Collision of the Stars

She spends her time along the shores watching, dancing, crying.
Her “reality” is punishment for crimes she has never committed.
Her tears become tasteless, dry and hollow.
All these memories, faint and arid, torment her every breath as she dreams.
She feels a sickness that is suicidal as she searches for a cure that doesn’t exist.
Her love was perfect, but dragged and beaten by the gravel floor, and so many scars once hidden, now lay open and sting her as she smiles in rage.
She wants to wake up, wake up, wake up but is shrouded by water and the density of fear.
The constant questions now plague her as she falls deeper and deeper into a senseless, cavernous void.
Her figures loosen; she loses control, and becomes an angel with no purpose.
She paints her face to blend in.
She embeds feathers in her hair.
The empire calls to her but she is no longer coherent and has gone to sit in a forest and smile and become a god.

I spend my time there by the shore, waiting for her to strike so to extract this venom from her veins and relieve her from the madness....

Monday, March 21, 2011

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Splintered Chopsticks and Alpha-Getti

What is it with the present day youth? Since when did everything spiral and funnel into a black and white generation of minnowed depravity? I mean, I don’t consider myself of the elderly and sometimes you could find me lurking in dark corners of bars and lounges appearing lacklustre in the mature department, but I can already see the next gene-pool developmentaries between the likes of childhood and maturity to be quite wearisome. Is it my lack of understanding? Or is it the educational system or media that is responsible for the suspension of the individual thought process thus packing their judgment into jars turning them into time constrained, bipolar, deficient drones?

When did I become so old? So outdated?

The youths of today are seemingly becoming attention deficient changing thoughts and swinging emotions as quickly as they can change their social networking profile picture which, and I empathize, is pretty goddamn fast. I have truly become a relic at my quarter plus age (mid-life crisis has been replaced with quarter-life disambiguation. Post Quarter Life Crisis.) Coincidently, the queens language has now develop into a tedious proto-English idiom geared towards proficiency that is the masqueraded “norm” and is an abomination of everything literary. So what do we do? Keep writing in this archetype-everything-acronymic fashion, mumbling and beating each other until the end of days? Or is there a cure, you know, like the one they have for depression for example. Pop few subscription happy pills and the winter blues become winter FUCK I FEEL GREAT. Viagra for the grey matter. The mental masturbation placebo if you will. What ever happened to the complexities and the originalities of the simple things like casual conversation? Or sharing ones multifaceted opinions whether over the absolute forgiveness of Michelangelos’ “The Drunkenness of Noah” painting or the controversial medicinal values of wild rice? Is tomato a fruit or a vegetable? What on earth is happening in Libya? How is Vladimir Nabakovs’ writing so alluringly wicked yet so filled with texture? It seems that the present vernacular is being broken down and condensing into the menial level of totidem verbis (in so many words) or non-words, or acronyms, or no words to that effect.

“If youth only knew, if age only could.”

Maybe. Christ. Maybe I’m looking at this incorrectly. I mean, when I was in the developing stages of life, I also adopted a certain talk or jargon that only my peers and the surrounding youth would understand. This might possibly be the new-wave or new world of "slanguage" that is systemically resourceful within the current day English and rather then rant about it, I should just accept it. Just be at peace with it and follow the rest of the herd. Incorporate the lmao’s and the ttyl’s into my writing. Or….or should I resist and fight the good fight? I dwell in perpetual confusion…that I obviously invite and loathe but invite nonetheless.

And as the wheels turn late into the night, I lay restless and awake forever drowning in a sea of wordplay and greasy hats. Lots of greasy hats.

“At what age do you tell the highway that it was adopted?” Zach Galifianakis

Soundgarden - "Like Suicide"

Heard it from another room
Eyes were waking up just to fall asleep
Love's like suicide
Dazed out in a garden bed
With a broken neck lays my broken gift
Just like suicide

And my last ditch
Was my last brick
Lent to finish her
Finish her

Bit down on the bullet now
I had a taste so sour
I had to think of something sweet
Love's like suicide
Safe outside my gilded cage
With an ounce of pain
I wield a ton of rage
Just like suicide

With eyes of blood
And bitter blue
How I feel for you
I feel for you

She lived like a murder
How she'd fly so sweetly
She lived like a murder
But she died
Just like suicide

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Beauty In Wasted Time

He has rebuilt his barricade. One that will now stand the test of time however, it now stands bold and strong, and for that, he doesn’t know what to say to nice women anymore…

We were so tired by the day’s end but we’d still conjure up some kind of mystical or impulsive stamina, even when there was seemingly nothing left, to push to the city’s beach front to watch and interactively become one with the fiery purple hues of the sunset. There is always this sense of awkwardness within the first few days but I would let the weariness direct its own path to the intimacy that we both craved from each other as we sat in the sand against an old tree in harmony. I would rest my back against the base of the tree and would benevolently pull her close to my chest for a better view of the eastern horizon as we quietly forgave the world, and as another twilight evening serenely rolled by. This was perfect. This was The Great Gatsby level of any relationship. The part where you’re reminded of how simple a complex emotion could feel and for an instant, for just a flash of a short period, nothing else is important and your primordial adornment washes over you in an awesome wave. It’s when the exchange of energy between two human beings is impenetrable and absolute down to the shear quantum physicality’s of it and right then, right at that very moment, you feel the illumination of all existence. The progressiveness towards love, if you will. I remember the soft and gentle impressions of my nose and cheek against her shy facial skin as she would then close her eyes in complete comfort squeezing my hands ever so affectionately. I felt as if I could just drift off with her in my arms, with this sympathetic sunset, the whole of the present “reality” immortalized and timeless. It was always my favorite time to kiss her and I never wanted to stop. I’ve never felt happier then when I was with her, and I wanted to be with her forever and disassociate from everything; the two of us driving at top speed on some two-lane abandoned super highway into the scorching fireball that we all call the sun, lost, in all of this aspiration of a dream.

Next, he will build an elaborate moat laid out in concentric circles that will shroud his barricade. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out…