tinkering

education and cynicism and life experience haven’t turned me into an atheist or an agnostic just yet. questioning my beliefs is something i do everyday all day, including my religious beliefs. i try, and often without success, to operate on a level that is integrated, all actions stemming from beliefs, all beliefs stemming from convictions and faith, all assessments of actions rooted in a self-contained matrix of learning. i don’t like catholicism. point blank, it’s been too corrupted over time and has lost its purity. but i still identify myself as catholic.

epic – one more entry left unfinished.

aelita 1 Tied and Tickled Trio

he came to an ocean, his soul in his hand

alone and turned in, to make his last stand

he stood on a rock and yelled to the wind

i don’t know how to live, i only do what i can

the wind screeched in kind, its protest of will

he threw back his head and heaved dry and shrill

the paean carried off on the crests of the waves

and he dove for the rocks and braced for the chill

falling through mist and the damp of the sea

he opened his arms to sound his decree

to a diving gull plunging down for a kill

this is my will and as i will, it will be

passage was offered, but he chose to swim

sodden with guilt, the sage rushes in

again as before, ventured off filled with fear

glistening wet with the thickness of sin

soaked through with blame self-imposed and contained

a great hole in his hand, his innocence stained

murky clay eyes; fragile, torn paper skin

weary with all his past joys abstained

the surface drew near, both clear and dark

a peace filled his chest and he aimed for his mark

there below waits his truth and his reason

guised as a game, an adventure, a lark

the waters of timeless appeal splashed all around

fruition, delight, and rapture profound

he consumed, voracious infant at breast

chaos ensued but he heard just one sound

calliope’s aria, streaming through hadal and brine

his Nemesis, his antithesis, exoneration divine

inverse, though perverse, extends her pale hand

this fruit, suspended from the tip of an ill-fated line

utz

i’m such a sissy girl.  i don’t think anyone really knows how soft i am. i’m about as tough as soft butter. sometimes i’m just minding my own business and a piano melody from my pandora station will make me just melt into a puddle of oxytocin.

i think i listen to emotive music to make myself feel. i’m usually over-analytical and cold in my approach to matters of heart, but there was probably a subconscious need to ignore my cerebrum when i created my favorite pandora station, so aptly titled ‘Mcluv-Sick’. it’s comprised of almost every song that has given me the utz to cuddle up under someone’s arm and fall asleep. songs from childhood up until this year. AND OF COURSE SOME OF THEM ARE CHEESY AND PLAYED OUT. yet the object of longing has changed over time and concenters on my heartstrings like the pressure of a dagger on its point of entry.

i daydream and skip merrily along those trails of sentiment that i usually keep suppressed, arm in arm with my own silliness. if you ever catch me with a goofy smile on my face when there seems to be no external cause for amusement, i’m probably being sentimental. it’s a good time to ask for a loan.

echo boom this

sometimes i am speechless with disgust at my generation, the generation that preceded mine, and the one that follows. we are pampered, so sated and pacified by our material comforts that we fester in our own lush shells. domesticated pigs greedily feeding on our own crap.

our flight from our given places on simmer. what are our obligations when the social contract is no longer honored in spirit?

what i see disappoints me. i include myself in my assessment. i am fortunate to possess comforts that my predecessors did not and my contemporaries in other countries do not. yes. i am fat, lazy, and apathetic. the zeitgeist hovers just above the surface of our awareness, but never quite settles. it’s difficult to sense and synchronicity is stunted.

we all seem to be suffering from something like synaptal fatigue, psychic numbing. i call it sissified bullshit. i call it whiny baby learned helplessness. i call it spoiled-ass generation XYZmyfoot-the-grownups-willdealwithit crap. even a whipped dog or beaten child will eventually lash out. people condition themselves to ignore. cleave it out, wuss.

all this disgust in me for inaction but i recognize we possess a potential as yet untapped…quiet militancy. respectfully belligerent. weapons of the weak. willfully suppressed, but it’s there.

your fat, lazy, apathetic ass has too many rainbows and ice cream cones to focus on. i don’t mean to say that each doesn’t have his own sorrows. but the truly downtrodden have a greater capacity for joy and a less cynical sense of the sacred. they are not so padded by the comforts of the flesh as to reject the the eternal. your doubt and over-analysis of the meaning of life mean precisely dick.

the oppressed are women. the oppressed are men. the oppressed are children. the oppressed are the elderly. the oppressed are the white. the oppressed are the non-white. the oppressed are those aware of their opression and those who are oblivious. they are the starving and the overfed.

raise your sons as you raise your daughters. to feel and fear and love. raise your daughters as you raise your sons. to fight and move and shout.

i sporadically bring up these topics with peers. i rarely have the opportunity to breech the topic of the big picture and how one’s thread fits into the tapestry. i’m sick of talking about my job and my money. i don’t know where to start. where the fuck is everyone else? i feel like i showed up at a meeting in the wrong office.

ground to transcend

live in a time and place that is simple. care for children and family. find the apex of honor and happiness. contentment in service. to children, partner, self, family. actively oppress the ignoble poison of pride.  the work of people is prime. breaks down to no more than itself and the other. speed and urgency negligible in the heated pursuit of all.  love is simple. intrinsically so. without the preconceptions and maladies of analysis and awkwardly dispersing fission.  love is not to analyze. observe only.

complications stem from the branches we affix and the leaves we attach to a solid sphere out of a need for aesthetic gratification. for romantic consideration. for philosophical blathering. triangles, squares, cones, cylinders.

integration and fusion. aligns with the shifting paradigm into solidarity.

little brown cat

little brown fuzzy cat

went to her chair and sat

there she hissed and she spat

because she’s pissed at a brat

someone’s scruffed her fur

makes her want to yell ‘GRR’

it ruins the end of her day

and she has plenty to say

she’ll rant and she’ll chide

and she’ll scratch out your eye

if you leave her hanging with no ride home and she’s hungry.

yeah.