| Title: | controversies in subjective psychosis a.k.a: philosophy |
| Posted On: | 2006-11-07 09:41:09 |
Forgeting, I am released from a pain I was sure would endure… sometimes hoped it would… a reassuring reminder of my faith. In this line of reasoning martyrs are cowards, they are dependant on the constant validation of their belief which they achieve through self-mutilation; unnecessary violence. I let go. There are so many voices in my head; one for the moon, one for the muse, one for the boy living in a shoe… and all of You, and I have peace. Could it be, with a hundred voices all whispering the same truth; each with their own soothing voice and each with their own subtle metaphor, that a sacred vocal rhythm is produced (Kundalini?), and delivers us? I am found where all the sounds connect and I marvel at the geometry of life, it’s kaleidoscopic symmetry. Silly spirituality keeps me ranting into daybreak. Sometimes I disbelieve... that writing is also martyrdom; self-glorified, inconsequential, counter-productive gibberish. And in my most awesome moments of denial I pretend that writing is a mortal sin; any hand and head believing it can write the beauty of this world, capture it systematically with dry, motionless script, is a liar and a thief of creation… a karmic energy capitalist. And at other times I realize that this is simply what I do… When I step back I see that every place is chosen, even when fleeting and arbitrary; perhaps in one instant the clouds are chosen by their silvery reflection on the still and quiet surface of a forgotten part of the ocean at dawn, and perhaps in the next instant the softly undulating silver sea is chosen by the wind, hisses and destroys the clarity of it’s cumulous tableau, clouds now chosen by the invisible heaviness of humidity, the damp and the loneliness, but all in it’s place and chosen, everything chosen by Another every instant. When I step back I can embrace this cheap-pseudo-fiction-autobiographical-polymetagraphical-wholy-book. When I believe there are no more questions, just ideas. Questions are closed, regardless of whether they are open ended when asked (which ultimately still translates into an answer coming somewhere from all the potential communicatory possibilities of a human actor), because a question requires an answer it presupposes there is one; the suggestion is creation, all is one, the question is the answer. And if all questions are answers then they’ve all been asked and answered. I am writing, I am trying to find the place where I am chosen, to someday capture that instant and bear my authenticity- finally a gift fit for Gaia- I won’t scribble a survey of statistical knowledge, I will banish knowledge forever from my page. Denied the rich absurdity of my magical kingdom, knowledge will forever be in search of me (for dreams, motivations…) Knowledge will forever find me and wither by my sensitivity, (it's inorganity renders it horribly immutable, the slightest breath of space and time can turn stone to dust, although knowledge can be painted...), this predictable outcome ensures that knowledge and I will always meet again (symbiosis); and always a tension to create (metamorphosis), and a challenge for sovereignty (hypnosis), and my conquering idiocy (genesis).
Listening To: Dylan
