Vacillating?

I am not the writer I once was.

Yet are we ever? While lately I keep scraping out minor compositions, there is a very consequential, compelling piece that is clawing inside me, burning to be composed.

I seem to feel rather listless because of it...It's like trying to pull out an extremely stubborn thorn with oily fingers.

Words, words! Everybody wants words. I can only speak in the equivocal, the convoluted, the coy...so it seems.

What if I've none to give?

At the very least, you may have all the mysteries you desire
from me.

My Latest Fancy

I have taken a rather unexpected fancy to...well, fancy gig posters; namely, those commissioned by bands for designers in order to advertise upcoming events. These compositions usually entail crazy, varying forms of stylistic art, depending on the artist. This love first flourished out of an innocent purchase of an Explosions in the Sky poster I came across on eBay. I unraveled the package in order to be astounded by the incredible beauty of screen printing (not to mention the metallic inks on this baby!). It was completely unexpected, and completely infatuation in an instant. No doubt cultivated by my scholarly endeavors in Graphic Design.

This has led to the purchase of two additional posters (EITS, of course) and I am no where near through this phase yet. I plan to ravage my way through Explosions in the Sky, Eluvium, The Album Leaf, STS9, Mogwai, A Silver MT. Zion, Mono, GYBE, Pelican, God is An Astronaut, Russian Circles, Slowdive, 65DaysofStatic, Tarentel, Set Fire to Flames, Fly Pan Am, Tortoise, This Will Destroy You, Symmetry, Red Sparrows, The Evaptoria Report...etc., etc., whatever I can get my hands on. I have no idea where I am going to display them all when I run out of room space between my bedroom and study...My next house will surely be FULL of these beasts.

This is entry is intended to track my progress, not to mention shamelessly spam for those who might want to buy me a present. (Kidding, kidding....maybe. 30+ bucks a pop is a lot for a kid in college!) Yep. So, here goes! A great resource for past poster art for shows is GigPosters.com.

My first!



Then...



...and!



The pics don't do them justice...so beauteous! I just wish that some of these weren't so hard to find...

Well that's about it. My best,

Philos

Oscillation

The liquid scenery rushes by the

windows of the train.

Remnants of green earth and history

swirling with the laughter around our heads...

Casual card games through

thousand year old lands

echoing the memories we carry

and the ones we forge today

we were travelers

and

pioneers of sunlight

we were

home

Kino no Tabi Quotes Part I

Some of my favorites...



Hermes: "The most important thing for a traveler is decisiveness. That holds true for both rookie and veteran travelers. Am I wrong?"
Kino: "The most important thing for a traveler is what saves the traveler after struggling to the bitter end."
Hermes: "What’s that?"
Kino: "That’s luck"


Kino: "Someone once told me that watching the birds made them want to go on a journey."
Hermes: "Who told you that?"
Kino: "I forget..."

"It snows...and it covers up and hides things "

Kino: "It’s pretty interesting"
Hermes: "What is?"
Kino: "The way that when someone expresses anything, someone’s always there to interpret it."
Kino: "Why can’t the world just be a series of events"
Hermes: "Sure. With the last one being tomorrow."
Kino: "I don’t think there is anyone who know how or when the world is going to end. It would be too easy."
Hermes: "But what would you be doing if the world was really going to end tomorrow"
Kino: "The exact same thing I’m doing right now."

Kino: "While everything out there is changing and progressing, the insects singing to the sky remains constant. The only thing that’s certain. The only thing that’s ceaseless and endures."
Hermes: "What’s wrong Kino?"
Kino: You know Hermes, sometimes a traveler also explores their mind.

"Though I did not know the place,
I set out to find the land of my dreams,
Having arrived at the land of my dreams,
I found that I did not know the place."

The Author: "The difference between reality and illusion is that illusions are which humans have created. Life begins when u make a distinction between yourself and others. From that moment, the world becomes a stage in which you are the main character. Yet all people exist in the illusion that they are the main character. But the world, cruel as it is, denies you that role of the main character. It’s quite a twist and everyone is burdened with this sad bit of irony. But there is one way to escape."
Kino: To not to be a main character, to be a smaller role, or…
The Author: "That’s right, to be an author."
Hermes: "You do know he’s crazy right?"
Kino: "All I know is that normal people would never become authors."

Chief Librarian: "In the hall, there are the critics. We try to keep them away from everyone else, because all they do is expound their store of knowledge. They excite themselves with their ranting, the disapproval fills them with the feeling of importance and sick victory, they thrive on spoiling the pleasure and thrashing the creativity of others."

"The world is not beautiful; and that, in a way, lends it a sort of beauty."

Traveler's Song

...From Kino no Tabi

"Let my desires fly along on a wing
along with my dreams, alone so it seems

Thoughts from the heart on a pure spring day
my mind floats away, on a dream so they say

Deep in your smile I see the world seeing me
I'm free to be free, to be what I be

When my heart's aching and it's shallow on love
I gaze to the doves, and find it above."

It's such a nice little song.

Give and take...remember?

That's what it's about. It's okay though, I think, sometimes we all need a reminder. But enough is enough...illusions and dreams are pretty but in the end that's all they are... intangeble...eluding...and sometimes....taunting.



And therefore, I wish to be absolved of them...for awhile, if I can. I want to live with my eyes a little more uncovered. A little more...free to see other things.



For all i could see was atrocity, and farce.



I want to see more good things.



Things that are real...



without the strings of deceit.



to see things as they are...





even though the world is not beautiful,
that, in a way,
lends it a sort of beauty.

the Chase of Reconciliation

Flying, fleeting, the road overhead
scars through lunging, winding grass that
offers daisies to a jubilant sun
cloaked by proud and royal storm clouds

the atmosphere wavers to a
riotous wind, challenging every
color of life to show itself in thef
ace of a traveler's perception.

and somehow the pistons mutter on
carving invisible threads of where and when
through summer soaked asphalt and a
migrant's heart to venture on

such star guided aimlessness..
grants the whole world to an
otherwise destitute individual
with nothing in her hands but restlessness

the toxic noise of origins
bubble from the cracks
it pursues as the hound
disdainfully relentless in it's wake.

and there is no mainstay from this living scorn.

only the road
offers the slightest fragrance of salvation
through the smoldering ash upon it.

A day in my mind

The memories...
are rather heavy today.
It is simply one of those days.

I can still shield my eyes against the vivid sun; and the waves gently dance.
Hand in hand the memories run.
The laughter is there, yet drowned by the violins...
as we run.

I can still see your smiles. I can still feel the sun. I can still taste the ocean, and sand as we run.
Hand in hand the shore lay ahead, eternally spinning under our soles
I recall how the breeze would toss your hair,
how we'd stumble o'er the foam...

as we run.

It feels so long ago.
yet so heavily near

in this moment
that day,
...and nevermore.

Observation of the Day

Love sells.

...Just try not to end up broke, my friend.

The Affairs of Vicissitude

Fallen are the leaves of contemplation
as unstoppable as the sun.
The familiar tastes never leave,
ever lingering as wine.

Music soothes and completes
when there is no solace to be found
from ones' own

ceaseless

stream

of

consciousness.

Relentless is the knowledge
of things preferred forgotten

Yet once the tastes were known

I could not choose to be ignorant of it again.

This I know.
and this I will always know.

Thrums of the sound waves
expand across the page
ripples ever growing
until nothingness is gained.

and I laugh.
How familiar...
how very familiar.


Fallen are the leaves of contemplation.
I catch them in my fingertips,
and never let them go.
And the tastes of wine
still linger
despite a specter's dream.

Cogitation

"I have thought..."

Oh the things I have thought.



That is all I can muster up today...




That is all.

Metamorphosis

Ah, how the preludes come in waves, so ironically overlooked, yet more blatant than the very sun. Ever shifting is the land, moons of drought or prosperity, peace, and conflict. Even though surroundings are stripped away, and vulnerability stirs, I find comfort in these transitions- that roads are being traversed, progressions transpire, and destinations come ever closer. (If destination indeed exists in the journey of a life)

These occurances are not only happenings, but sparks, catalysts. No event is isolated from another; nothing happens without a reason, great or small. The otiose only lies in the beholding spirit that selects stagnance over embrace. I find excitement in the tumultuous, the uprooting of the status quo.

Because it just might mean metamorphosis for those who engage it.

Anamnesis Revived

Sometimes, when I look back, even to the not-so-distant past, I wince at the person(/people) I used to be. Don’t we all? I wonder if there is a valid excuse, though, to shun the parts in our lives that we are ashamed of. I mean, aren’t the contemptible moments we experienced still just as valuable as those in which we are proud of? Subjectively, probably not, but pertaining to the individual we each happen to be, as a whole, those segments still make up a part of us whether we like it or not.

Yes, we can come to terms with those phases, yes, we can find resolution. But the fact that we were such a person in that particular chapter of our lives cannot change, and therefore there is no excuse to turn one’s back upon certain fragments of the past that are in fact, precious treasures...that is, people.

I have realized this now, and even though the page has turned, many times in fact, I know that it would make me even more so regretful to forget the people I cared about, than it does to remember them.

The Fashion of Living

The atmosphere is changing, not unlike a human being..

These days of late seem to ease into a sigh; as if the summer is dying, gently fading, into a slumber never to be seen again. Autumn is waiting for its rebirth, and stirring subtly in its cool undertones in the heat of the sun.

Today I rise to another time-line, yet another frame of time struggling with my frame of mind that articulates antitheses to the rest of other things to concern itself with.

Words form upon the lips strange to myself, yet familiar, as living has turned into simply breathing for the moment; grasping upon truth as we all do, and like the rest of us, deceit as well...

The encompassing silence always lay intact, except at the thrums of a sonata… or when my own clumsiness should break it; when the record stops the shattered pieces waste no time reforming themselves into the immaculate void once again; Its sovereignty is maintained.

A glass of wine, the stillness resounds…the beautiful mysteries are never fathomed and therefore that is why they are beautiful. Awaking everyday to a grayness sparked by color on the canvas, the canvas that is life, we paint only what we want to see. And what the eyes color are indeed lovely to oneself and one alone, and no one else.

The scent of lavender and sage comes in waves, diving perception into the reflective pools of what I used to know. I don’t remember now, but the ripples bring remnants at times of those moments tasted: interrupting the present’s flow for a few seconds of brief interruption, brief darkness and brief sanctuary.

But sanctuary is relative; perhaps the paradise is simply feign?


It seems that these observations can only work themselves out in dreams, anymore.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder…

and glance o'er the things I've known all along.

Proximity

Latent are the stars in the blink of an eye- sleeping, ever sleeping, in a vessel of dust and dust alone as the world will only know. Ripples form into once and forever, silent remnants of the secrets of truth. The universe weeps for that which it shall never fathom, O weaver of the rain, yet worshiped for the calm... it is an enigma in itself and no man can stand up and fathom it, no matter how lofty his words or perceptive his mind, for in the end, he is only mere man and can only do what mere men do... and the universe is beyond all of them.

Dynasty of Vagabonds

Lightning is organic. Here the rolling ashen skies are vast, yet ephemeral, I know; fading into darker storms fringed on the horizon...always with the never-ceasing anticipation of dawn still lurking somewhere in the soul.

Tomorrow screams in mystery while restless yesterdays lie buried swiftly in the sand- the same soil in which the roots of antipathy are sown. I know no destination, only provocative sojourns- brief mainstays to witness the fleeting ballads of my brothers. I grasp upon their lifesongs as precious jewels in this faltering vessel, though mournfully inept.

Viatic thoughts rage, maraud, and devour. Merciless in nature... I find I can claim nothing of the world. [Yet thinking everything of it] Flocks of crows come to follow now and then at my back.

So many voices; Senses fade to the sounds of my less-inquired melodies. Are there no ears to hear them by? From my lips fall hymns to metamorphosis' pulse. Can I bear what has become? What once was? What will be? Can eluvium once buried come to surface once again?

...Remaining just a seed, deprivation in a nutshell, simply awaiting for that vital sign; Wondering if there is a space in the fabric of time with my dimensions to fit.

I'm unraveled in the rain because the sky so reflects my soul.

And in this cryptic forest, the raw shadows speak.

"Lo, the longings you run away from! I am the embodiment of your stigma; My lips detest the wretched unseeing. You seek and hide from futile promise, yet avert from human whim- the very whims that burn you."

From their dark existence- one can only notice- such blazing eyes, flickering.

"You are a ghost in a great sea, a sea composed of your profound deceit, a sea conjured from your very core: evanescent in nature. Your isolation alone is thy paradise and thy end."

Who says the night is baneful? because it is the time in which our facades are undone, letting our hearts beat in the open? Despite the shadows' dismal resonance, I find a smile in my persistent steps:

The road is an enigma...

...and it is mine.

Virtuality and the Dirge

I am rather torn today, in the overwhelming flood of the expressions to be transpired. It seems that writing doesn't come to me so easily anymore; at least in this point of time. And yet at another turn it matters nothing because of the reasons I write in the first place... they have been stripped away from me.

You see, when you percieve something to be real within your mind, is it not real indeed to you? However, if in actuality this 'perception' is infact false then sooner or later the effects of its falsitude will be made known. The very reasons for which I wrote were after all, illusions, reverie, dream. fantasy. This very work in progress is harrowingly empty. Vague and worthless. Haha, perhaps as all of them have been? Except this time I feel nothing, this is inept "thing" is only badgering at void.

The entire, never-ending stream of consciousness that envelopes my life today and yesterday, and even tomorrow if i be so bold to proclaim...reeks of irrelevance in written form, just as it does upon the tongue.

It seems that the tracks have ceased. And thus, I shall turn away, and perhaps find some other road that will take me to the same familiar place as I have always been, though haven't acknowleged up until now.

After all, destination is a state of mind.


Until Then.

Gestalt

So I'm here in my invioble, syllogistic realm, chewing over the hows and whys of daily eccentricity (and especially normality) that captures my mental attention. Instead of my typical confounding of the audience in a dazzling display of rhetoric, I suppose I will toe the line to near-comprehension of my meditations; For those that would concern themselves over it. (On that note, some responding speculation or feedback would be pleasant...)

Considering that life is much of an experiment, I've happened to notice that the "science" to which I hold myself throughout daily endeavors is very much more Aristotelian rather than Galilean. That is, I am much more of a describer and observer than an actual experimenter. Yes, I have conjured some subtle investigations out of amusement, but, for some reason I can't seem to recall, I really haven't put my speculation to action.

One proposal is to simply ask more questions, and be involved...perhaps no matter how invading. It's easy to take quite a liking to this, actually. When encountering moments of thoughtful silence with some, try asking what currently arrests their attention. I've taken a few off guard by it, at least the more profound types, and usually the result invokes a small bit of insight into his or her character...that is, if their answer is honest. I suppose asking about a person's innermost thougths would only appeal to those who are genuinely interested by this sort of thing though- People seeking to challenge paradigms, objectively learn and discover about ourselves...

I would like to bring up an annoyance of mine. Narrow-mindedness accompanied by the sheer apathy to discovery. Especially stereotypic claims and arrogance, of those who learn not on their own but simply digest what has been fed to them since birth, without the slightest consideration. This creates what we would call sheep. Ad hominem reigns their logical capacities, and ignorance is the maintanence man.

I most certainly do not claim infallibility (infact, most of the time I hope my speculations are wrong!) because being corrected means you have got one less viscinity of error of speculation to step within. (Not to mention that I tend to be a cynic, and a cynic being mistaken is a good thing! :D) Though, I will add, that the plains of contemplation certainly are vast and far wider than my perception.

So much so that it is easy to feel that one's mind is so often mired in fog.

Speaking of intellectual peripheries, Why are you reading this? I'm not seeking any sort of flattery; only curiosity permits me to inquire.

I would very much like to know deeply of the workings human mind, heart, soul, (and where God comes in) as well as the eyes: ah yes, perception. One thing that fascinates me exceedingly is circumstancial association. Take for example, an apple. When I say "apple," what do you envsion? Feel? What do you recall? The crisp taste? The vivid red? Delight, or perhaps a fond memory where it was involved? ...or maybe a subconscious aversion to its color? Yes, I am quite aware that many probably do not overthink or even speculate upon the concept and existance of an apple. But that is just it; various objects, colors, place, conditions etc. relatively mean something different to each of us, yet not everything means something at all, yet to some much of it does. Just one thing evokes all sorts of associations, of memory, of conditions. Its incredible, the potentials, the capacities, of the human persona.

I've come to suspect...could this conceptual association be the staple of poetry?

Even in art...especially in art, for me at least. Simply a swoosh of a line here or a particular color there; ah the capacity of design! Evoking withing us inspiration, emotion, a spark of meditation, perhaps. Likewise can be said about music, to be sure.

Lets discuss for a moment the anatomy and physiology of the motor/sensory systems in the human brain. When you decide to move, say, your foot, there is a particular chain of events leading to its movement that occurs in the frontal lobes of the brain.

As my favorite neurologist writes, "Experiments show that the primary motor cortex is concerned mainly with simple movements like wiggling your finger or smacking your lips. An area immediately in front of it, called the supplementary motor area, appears to be in charge of more complex skills such as waving good-bye and grabbing a banister. The supplementary motor acts like a master of ceremonies, passing specific instructions about the proper sequence of movements to the motor cortex. Nerve impulses that will then direct these movements travel from the motor cortex down the spinal cord to the muscles on the opposite side of the body, allowing you to wave good-bye or put on lipstick." Remember learning in grade school that the left side of brain handles the right side of the body and vice-versa?

Anyway, what I wish to know is where art is concerned. What is it that (or perhaps, "how does it?") translate our inspiration, emotion or whim into the action of expressing it upon say, a piece of paper with a paintbrush or the strings of a guitar? Where/How do my feelings come in behind that single stroke? That inclination to a line or shape? How does emotion translate into physical movement? I wonder if it can't be limited to just artistic endeavors either; perhaps a hug, a slap, a kiss. Though I can guess that such processes are probably more primitive; rooting from less complex emotions.

At any rate, I would like to finish off with a quote, and a question. Something in me yearns quietly everyday for some sort of sign of human enlightenment, though I've come to discover is found consistently on a personal basis upon scrutinization; essentially, what I mean to say is to give people a chance. Get to know them. Break paradigms. Yes, I've been dissappointed much- but the diamonds in the rough far, far outweigh the grime. The rough is simply vast terrain just waiting to be explored.

"The world shall perish not for lack of wonders, but for lack of wonder."

So I'd like to know; what's on your mind?

To Run, Walk, Dance, or Be Still

As I wander around in and throughout mindful tangents, I've come to establish that the very attitudes and protocols in which I carry myself aren't things I would push onto other people. For example, my ideas on love. Or my honor. Or the things I strive for and the way I choose to do so.

My existance manifests all that I am composed of; woven, of thought and experience and imagination and importantly, ideals that are meaningful to me soley because of one thing: I am me.

The way I savor life, the perspective in which I view it and others. I couldn't possibly claim that my ways are right and the only way to do things. Haha, no where near it actually. I am farfetched in certain things, but I like it. Things that might be overlooked or deemed trivial...tiny intimacies and intricasies about me that no one will ever know nor ever care to know. That is me. And I know there are other things I can hold no judgement upon because I haven't even tasted them, though I make the mistake of doing so regardless.

That is why I refrain.

I couldn't possibly push my paradigms upon others, because they are only the product of speculation and experience combined with the yearning for truth. We are all looking at the same thing from different views. It is still the same thing, only often our opinions and experiences get in the way of seeing things clearly. I say, if you are interested enough to hear my view points, then don't hesitate to ask. I welcome it. Then maybe we can put our views together and make sense of those somethings that elude our comprehension.

There is also a price in this. We risk being victims of other's speculation, as well as our own, and it is prevalent everyday as long as people prefer ignorance and deny objectivity. No, it is prevalent as long as we are human...which isn't a bad thing. I am totally imperfect and make mistakes with every breath. Another reason I know that mere "I" am no source for what is right.

People are always trying to 'correct' me with their viewpoints. Though, its not a form of correction at all but rather a form of stating the perspective-in-question differently. I know their own inhibitions get in the way of finding understanding just as my own do.

There is so much one can learn from the fewest of words, even the smallest of gestures. Language, no, living is laced with endless meanings...and subtleties. Sometimes I laugh and wonder how any of us understand each other at all. [Of course, it goes much deeper than that. Some of us prefer this- for endless reasons, to choose decepetion. And the human race makes it so very easy to decieve and be decieived. I won't hide the fact that I have taken advantage of it.] I think and observe superflously, because humans fascinate me. Often, when listening, I watch and consider not only meaning but feeling and the source from which it originates. I wish to retain and utilize awareness as best one can, one of many reasons being the desire to simply know.

To know. What a delight. To get a little further along these journeys to find the things we are meant to discover.

Yes, this is me. I don't want to tell people how to see things (that's impossible anyway. Oh the art of influence. The artisan is actually the artwork.) and I certainly am in no position to tell people how they should feel about things. That is a jouney in which we are all in progress, an individualized maturity yet to be attained.

I laugh.

After all, it is simply speculation. I dance in it.

And you are free to move however you wish, as long as you continue onward.

Who knows what contemplations there are to be made tomorrow. They vary from day to day so much that often I feel like a different person at the break of each dawn.

And sometimes, I wonder amusingly, how people really know each other at all... if our perspectives are so fickle. But that must be a good thing, I think. It is evidence of growth.

Until the next horizon, my friends.

UpRooted

I feel as though I have grown much, yet in an instant a child. There is this subtle awareness...an awareness I am afraid to face, about the way I feel towards certain things. Ha ha, that is almost unbearably generic. I suppose the point is that I'm recognizing how little integrity I have towards myself; a cheat to my own.

I am an artist. I cope with the destruction through creation. It feels there are entire worlds I have to speak, incredible emotions and thoughts to express... I'm living in this byzantine brain, in worlds of metaphors. Everything encountered everyday is a mental trigger. I can't seem to get this brain to shut up at night because its running at mach speed for the sake of interpretation. Oh if I could articulate these insane deviations...

At any rate, I suppose that humans seem to fascinate me more and more everyday. They really do. "Expression" itself certainly is something...I think I've alienated myself from it for the sake of observation. I can't tell you how many moments I would love to express the profound beauty I witness day to day- the majority of it being in people's souls- It is nearly devastating. Counterbalances are everywhere, I've come to learn.

The visions of our world are free to be shaped as we see fit. Interesting how perspective affects each of us, specifically pertaining to the flow of time. I can hold an eternity in a single moment, or I can simply have a moment.

Hmm. Truth. Or shall I say words? Now there is something. Our perspectives become our truths, and these "truths" are manipulated into words. It isn't necessarily "true" in the actual sense of the word, but oh how all our varying perceptions can see the same thing differently and state it so. This, my friends, is the very whim of my existance. I laugh at such when perhaps no laughter seems fit to be deserved. I manipulate this entire concept to advantage, as my mendacious side prefers. This involves clamping my ears to unsightly verdicts, denying my being in its entirety, fact. I recognize verdict. I simply overlook these diseases.

And in the long run, perhaps that is the most destructive. To overlook worldly sickness rather than seeking out a cure. Sounds humorously familiar. In the mean time I create, to ease these lies.

I know one thing, however, as I traverse these abstract sentiments. I am waiting for something; though it is difficult to render. I am waiting to be startled.