Every pearl is a lynx, is a girl.

Intelligere mentis.

The brilliance in us lay within the ability to assess. Yet, beyond the form of reason, beyond the evaluation of composition
lay that independent of syntactical contextualization,
the ever present paradoxical nature in the dissolving of definite lines,
Reflected in thine eyes as a manipulatory assessment of a world
too immensely incomprehensible for these infinitesimal minds.

Coffee House Blues

My heart is a mad and fluttering thing which both contradicts all semblance of rationality and sparks all idea in the form of intuition-imagination. Humans wander and buy, eat and fade and each and every one lives their lives through a sense of narration. Though perhaps I'm simply applying my perspective to man as a whole. How must mine differ from this woman sitting next to me, living vicariously through a mass market paperback mistaking sexual passion for love? Pause as I satiate the senses with food and drink. So soon and I'll be longing again for such things. If I had the choice I'd remove every ounce of desire from my being, I'd never long for temporary satisfaction but would rather find pleasure in each surrounding nuance in this infinite reality. How can one distinguish the emotions?

Dubstep

I've been listening to a good deal of the British music genre, dubstep, as of late. I think that it is capable of being quite intelligent and moving and it appeals to my sensibilities. Moreover, I love dancing to it. You can truly lose yourself within the deep rhythmic drops.

the heavy weight of Being

In this strange phenomenon called life, looking out through these biological eyes I see the world filled with a desperate and disinterested race to associate. This thing, that man, this organization, that ideal. Yet it is all in the hopes of fulfilling a maddening desire to rid the self of suffering. What am I in relation to God and does she share the place of privilege which I feel I've gained? I am built of contrivances and am tired of this sickening game. The recognition of this is what sends the man I love to a world far, far away. He cries to me, that this love is a crime against the existence of all things for to prefer one over another is an attachment to be cleansed. Yet here I am, I've followed him as best as I know how and I've always known that one day he'd flee, not out of a lack of love but for the pursuit of another ideal, enlightened Being.

The Wizard

Here I lie, bound within the darkness of a swiftly ending night, a lightening world unveiled with the sun as my guide, weaving enlightened rays about these tired eyes.

And there he stands, adorned in the coming day, slight frame bent amongst torn battlefields and shattered armaments. The unfolding and writings recalling the most ancient of days etched within the iris of his eyes.

He’s comprised of the prettiest lips and oh, the shapeliest of thighs, forged, I’m sure, in the bursting depths of exploding starlight,
And each moment I set my eyes upon his shifting light, my spirit aligns,
each part takes to the sky, and I know,

That here I lie, forever held within the bindings of a fading world with that wizard as my guide, weaving enchanted dreams about these waking eyes.

Antiqua

Now antiquated times of forsaken gods fade within the blink of discovery. A distant ideology exchanged for a quickness in number and machine. Are these findings within perceiver or reality? We are but drifting contingencies floating about the shattered surface of continued uncertainty. For is there more or less of what seems? (That driving question always calling me). Or are we lost within the threads of our own construct, deceit?

Yup, that's about right.

I torment myself with editing.

If I could collapse into my fragile skin, I would do so willingly, yet despite my greatest attempt to shirk this hollow shell I remain seated upon a chair that’s peeling from age, wear and nervous fingers. This city sleeps restlessly, bombarded by angry children and greedy mobs at every passing turn and there’s a salty scent on the air. It’s unpleasant and it stings my nostrils, poisoning my already rotting mind. Open up. I squint and strain and listen to the pounding of blood in my aching temples as a strong breeze beats branches across my windowpane. Open up. This is truly the sort of place that may seep into every pore against your will. One will do anything to stem the pains of boredom, whether that be resorting to their habitual drink or writing to some unknown that would rather skim along to another clutch of words. That’s always seemed to me the problem with writing and the written. It bares your very soul to an unforgiving audience who seeks only to hear of misery or passion, unspeakables that were once contained only in bedrooms and at failing bedsides. It seems we are a desperate race that will scramble at the first scent of blood that comes our way, eternally yearning to watch a dying man in his final moments, searching for some gem of speech that will amount to quotation x from a book of inspirational prose which will finally unlock the alleged secret of life. Always searching for some exquisite reason to live... however, this isn’t daytime TV and I'm certainly not here to entertain you. I'm simply looking for some piece of soul that doesn’t seem existent beyond the border of a crisp white page and for this, I've already lost all decency. Open up.

This is all just an exercise in learning to live.

Modern love.

(The heart should not rule the head).

yet the body is ruled by the body instead!

Magnetic conversation speaks of times past. Prove your interest with the swaying of hips or the kisses of lips. (The day of the faithful is dead.) A quick fix as plastic as our time in the form of an outlandish gift brandished in the name of resentment. Or, perhaps an apology stained with bottled tears... Take your pick and blame the body, not the self.

We truly aren't animal!

For later laughs...

Hall of the Earth

"Hall of the Earth" Valley of Valchiusella, Italy

Now, that's something to aspire to.

"Poetically Man Dwells..."

What importance does art, thus poetry, play in man's understanding of being and self? Though I will be writing (very... very...) briefly on Heidegger's evaluation of this question, let me begin by establishing what it is that I mean by "being". By being, I simply mean that which occurs when a self-consciousness is, whether the self engages in reflective or non-thetic absorption is irrelevant (I really need to clarify on that at some point, but as of now I am unable to correctly phrase it). Writing whatever comes to mind has always been something that comes quite naturally, and I've found poetry to be one of the more regular venues through which my thoughts pour out. What is it that causes us to question or feel to the point that we must project what is internal into an external sphere through writing (or alternative)? Heidegger feels that the poet is affected by the world such that the lightedness of Being is projected outwardly. Heidegger poses the question in "Poetry, Language, Thought": "what are poets for in a destitute time?". Destitution comes about when history swallows up the lightedness of Being, allowing what Heidegger calls an "abyss" to settle over the whole of humanity. It is in such times that the poet is forced to arise, acting "... like the wine god's holy priests, who fared from land to land in holy night." (Holderlin, IV, 190) Is it in the face of destitution that one writes and if not, what are poets for in times where destitution is either minimal or non-existent? Perhaps the question should be, rather, "what is poetry for for the poet?". Poetry quite obviously acts as a tool, but a tool for what beyond spluttering? Intuitively, I must answer negatively, thus my search for the answer shall remain unfulfilled for now, and perhaps forever. "...and the philosophical light around my window is now my joy; may I be able to keep on as I have thus far!"

For now, I think I must backtrack quite a bit and further ask, "when was it that man became self-conscious to the extent that art arose?". What I've found to be quite intriguing is the crossover that exists between ethics, philosophy of mind (and language) and anthropology, for when man began to recognize the Other, it seems man began to recognize the Self. Through this recognition, perhaps, lies the key... and if so, what thread is it that exists throughout the whole of humanity? (How do these threads build upon one another, etc. etc. etc.)

I'm quite tired and am terrible at biting off more than I am capable of chewing.

I use "quite" too much.

An ode to my younger self.

With far too much time on my hands, I've been sifting through youtube only to rediscover many bands from days past and reminisce. Listening to this music brings to light some of the stranger parts of my personality that I've never been quite able to shake...

(ugh, I still really love this entire Anti-Flag album...)

I don't really drink nowadays (aside from a delectable glass of wine or a good beer) but there was a time that I snuck into bars in order to see bands like The Murder City Devils play. Manyyy memories.

Going to knock out two in one video, for I've been doing this for farrrr too long. Alkaline Trio and The Misfits...

My mind has been flitting in and out of some rather strange states today, bordering on a sort of diluted madness, for I've found memories and sensations weaving casually by my mind's eye which fail to align with any experienced events. Finally, after being pulled away from my reading by this perpetual splinter, I've settled on the probability that they must be recollections of last night's (and nights previous) dreams. It is especially difficult to shake them whilst reading any fiction, for, if you're like me, after reading a gripping novel you find yourself narrating life as if you're trapped within it's pages, searching for those loose ends of life to tie, hunting for some plot or romance running through the threads in your carpet. For this reason it could very well be my mind simply manifesting these "familiar" feelings on the spot due to the prompting of a great read. I think that perhaps too much solitude is dangerous, especially for one such as myself, one prone to searching in the dark of night for stimulation with an overactive imagination as her companion. Yet, despite this nagging longing, for what I cannot be sure, I sit here in this cream colored room with my lights dimmed low and fireworks popping outside in the neighbor's yard. The closest adventure I can hope to find being one bound in a paper spine.

If only my heart could manifest those trees I so desire aside a softly beating fire, and yes, a place in which to sleep, cradled gently between two trees. Now that I've begun to rhyme, I see that now has come the time to stop my silly spluttering!

Ongoing post...

As of this moment I only have 1 follower, and as such much of what I'm posting here will be for myself. Just in case, if you do happen to wander upon my blog, here are some pieces of literature and music that I've recently (re)discovered and highly recommend.

-"The Angel's Game" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

It is whenever I pick up a translation of a novel by a great Spanish author that I dearly regret never having mastered the language. Zafon is a master storyteller, weaving a gothic tale of obsession, literature and reality set within the heart of Barcelona. It documents the life of an author operating under a pseudonym and the way in which reality and fiction blur into an indiscernible whirlwind. A beautiful and intriguing tale for all of those who find the quality of literature to be one containing more than mere fancy.

-"Otherwise than Being: Or Beyond Essence" by Emmanuel Levinas

Prior to reading Levinas, I'd never, ever had such a difficult time attempting to decipher an author's meaning. We barely dented "Otherwise than Being" last semester after completing "Totality and Infinity" in class, so I decided to take this complicated work under my belt. Though I've either misconstrued or failed to catch the jist of what he's attempted to communicate, I must say, I've never had quite as much fun racking my brains in frustration as I did when reading "Otherwise than Being". It builds upon Levinas' idea of the infinite alterity existent between the Self and the Other (as established in "T&I") by emphasizing a state contrary to Heidegger's being, stating that we are "beyond being". I'll let you attempt to figure out the rest ;].

-"Nature" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship."

-The Shins "Oh, Inverted World" and Broken Bells, "Broken Bells"

The Shins are highly underrated in my opinion. Take a moment to listen to their thoughtful lyrics that accurately capture an extremely distinctive feeling that only The Shins can bring accompanied by music that both excites and lulls you into relaxation. Speaking of which, check out James Mercer and Danger Mouse's new project, "Broken Bells". Dark, funky Danger mouse accompanies the effortless voice of Mercer in a thoughtful collaboration that has me singing.

-Fever Ray, "Fever Ray"

Dark, brilliant, captivating.

- Gogol Bordello, "Transcontinental Hustle"

Gogol Bordello is the perfect mix of blaring 90's punk and eastern european gypsy rock. It hits me in all of the right places, appealing simultaneously to my younger self, screaming revolution with her fist in the air and the nomadic gypsy within. "Transcontinental Hustle" speaks of revolution, love and the distance that a life on the road inevitably creates between the self and society.

Lifelong inspiration.

“Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”

—	Edgar Allen Poe (A Dream Within A Dream)

Pt. 1 of ???

The familiar hum of life in the American airport is one that speaks of hurried frenzy and calm repetition. Various destinations lay at the tip of one's fingers, given a working credit card or alternative payment method. Coffee shops lay on every corner in order to tend to the frenzied with a soothing caffeinated beverage that acts as a dependable old friend. Bright screens dot the walks like bright opalescent and available oracles in order to tell each passenger their near future and, much like Apollo's warnings, one may either hear that their flight is ON TIME and running smoothly or are damned to await their fate through the dreaded DELAYED. Seated cross legged in this junction of worlds sits a young girl, no more than 20 years old, ears covered in large black foam. With a look of concentrated awareness, the girl sets her eyes on the barricade of glass that lies between soft fleshy being and great metal beast, brow knit and mouth downturned. With a deep sigh she removes a notebook bound in black from a plain backpack, unwinding an elastic band that binds a smaller book to the larger. She scans it momentarily and closes it again, winding the elastic around both and carefully packs them away in their given place. With a tilt of the head and a glance side to side she quickly gathers her things and takes to the walkway.

A habitually melancholy writing style...

Bitter days of creeping silence and aching solitude brushes by a pair of weeping shoulders. A separation unwarranted, unwanted, transforms silence into distance, settling in the stink of a cold room. Lone occupant lying, dying upon a tattered bed sheet, crying, thrashing. The sting of bitter salt through tear stained lid. Yet outside lies the day, full of bright biting blues flecked with soft marshmallow white and upon a grassy plain convulsive sob shall be removed, the hurt transfigured into still warmth. A small white hand shields fluttering lid from Apollo’s light and a cool breeze blows against once weeping shoulders, singing sweet release.

This video never fails to make me laugh... and silently cry inside (due to how much time and money I've spent playing MMOs). Now... to quest in the realm of WoW.

When night falls and those I love saunter off to their given nests a damp cool loneliness settles upon my stubborn heart. My mind wanders to imaginings of where you might be. Perhaps lying in our hammock, nestled between two trees... or in some far off fantastical village amongst pretty girls dressed in leather rags. I wander about this house, tapping surfaces for comfort or curled in a black beasts arms, hands gripping felled trees, searching for you between the pages and lines I turn with hurried speed. Sleep provides no refuge, only subconscious fear and hope brought to light, secrets I've hidden from my very own eyes. Settling between two cool sheets, eyes wide against a blackened night, searching for a picture of your face. Funny how quickly the details fade or rather, are only conjured individually. A brow, brown eye, dark hair, soft smile. Then, rushing quickly, you in your entirety lay beside me and I sleep, knowing it's all been nothing but a bad dream.

I've returned to San Antonio! As if that's an exciting announcement, for this city lacks much to do aside from drinking yourself silly. I can't say that's something that lies at the top of my list of priorities. Sweet River Farm was definitely a unique experience and I've learned quite a bit about myself and about the earth. I lived in a house with 8 other people, three of which were involved in a polyamorous relationship (which I'd never personally encountered before) that stirred many fights and social tension. Another of the 8 was a multiple PhD. from Botswana named Jelta. Jelta was one of the more interesting characters and Ommar and I spent much time trying to "figure him out". I've never seen one do so much in such short amounts of time, the guy was constantly learning something new via audiobook, online course, article or book. He functioned at a speed of 90 mph! I won't begin to analyze him mentally on this blog though I shall say, it was curious and he'd make an excellent protagonist in a novel. I'll also write more about my farm experience later.

Following our little internship on the farm, Ommar and I hitchhiked for two weeks down the north coast of California. It was a brilliant experience though quite difficult at times, and I've renewed a bit of faith in the goodness of humanity. We met so many who were terribly kind to us, 90% of which were marijuana farmers. (haha) We survived off of bread and peanut butter for the better half of our trip and grew closer in many many ways. Ommar is still in California with Ryan, Devon and Andrew as they hike through the Shasta range for a month. Oh, I miss him terribly and I'm terribly tired of missing him! I'd rather us not part.

My sand worn skin stings in the harsh afternoon light. My chapped lips bleed and the taste of metal fills my dry mouth. We've reached the heart of this place and at it's heart lay it's cruelest intent. The desert harbors a hatred for all living and moist, "How dare you intrude," she threatens me through whispers of whipped air. She understands that in this place I am but a stranger, a fish out of water. Water... water is what I lack, water is what I crave yet water is what is nowhere (in my sight, well, that's not entirely correct) to be found. I find myself stumbling across my words quite often nowadays. Another falsity presents itself to my starving eyes, how my eyes deceive me. At this point the temptation to tear them out nags again at that dark morbid recess in my mind for these illusions are becoming quite difficult to bear. Oasis waters creep up to my feet only to quickly retreat when any hint of joy presents itself to my frail mind. These eyes are a curse. No, it is this desert that curses me in all her bitter wrath. I have reached her heart, the end is nowhere in sight, yet I await the night when stars will glitter above and sweet sagittarius will smile upon me, assuredly cooing, "Darling, you've come so far! The direction which you seek is the path you now tread. Go on, my love, go on! Soon the desert's cruelty will cease and shall give way to kinder days. She hides me in the light, she does, but I am here despite her clever tricks." I cannot help but smile. Dear archer, how you've followed me through bog and plain and mountain alike, I cannot help but love you. I cannot help but reach you, my heart touches the sky. Hope, hope is what I've lacked.

A cool breeze blows across my tired back and I come to my senses. I've sunken to my knees, at which point I am not sure but my skin is red and angry and I curse the ground shells and mountains that lay under my feet.

"We are all reduced to ash, in the end." I breathe. I no longer recognize the voice I hear as my own. Too deep, too cracked, too soft. No, once my voice was small yet bold and girlish, perhaps, though I cannot say. I once spoke with flowered words and had an elegant grace yet that has come to what? I am no longer sure. The past fades behind me much like trailed ribbon in a wind too strong. I once saw a small girl in Central Park carrying a red balloon, a lone red orb that caught the light in the early afternoon through the shade and filtered glitter of trees. She wandered from her mother and I watched, simply watched. Then I could simply watch from a hidden vantage point set among the shady trees and upon a cool bench I sat, yes, I remember now. It was cold and hard and devoid of true comfort for my skin sank at gravity's pull between the metal rods. This image I've conjured only brings to light the vast emptiness in which I now exist, how have I gotten here? How is it that I, like that red balloon, have floated so far from a young girls hands who valued her prize so highly and held on so tightly and found only that her grip was not as tight as she'd been so sure. My grip was not tight enough and I feel my life, the one I was, the one I knew, slipping quickly through my fingers like the sands that now surround me. I have been ground down like a mountain and dried up like a once vast sea and I, whoever I was and now claim to be am now devoid of identity in this place, for no cacti nor any rock will dare to whisper my phantom name. What good is a name when you are left with nothing but yourself, your thoughts, your desperation and frail nature? What good is beauty, what good is charm when you are left to face the sands of time against a cruel sun and ungiving wind?

What good is love?

Love... yes, love I do remember. Love has placed me here, I am now sure of it, and it is for love that I continue on. It is for you. For although time grinds and tears and rips at the face of what we hold to be so dear, love endures for love is a product not of this earth, not of this body nor of this cruel unfaltering desert. I remember love for I remember you.

I feel a small drop fall down my cheek and burn my lips and I taste salt. The cloth that I've wrapped about my head slips down my eyes as my head bows and I laugh. What reason do I have to laugh? Yet I convulse under the feeling and am quite sure I must at last have found death. The utterances tear at my throat yet I do not attempt to abate them. Darkness surrounds my eyes and I slip, into what remains to be seen.

Fawn

Falling into gentle sleep I cannot help but see,
the image of the one I love nestled close to me.
Although I cannot touch you,
I can almost feel you breathe,
sweet heavy words upon my face,
perfumed with salty sea.
Upon your waves I yearn to flow,
in perfect harmony,
forever lost within your soul,
is where I long to be.

Stirring.

Walls

Sitting here, staring off into a vast expanse of nothingness while staring at some ambiguous material object, I realize that most of what consists of my "sense of self" is based on the freeing knowledge that one day I will suck in one last breath. Accepting this allows one to free themselves from any expectations that the world places upon them, for the world is temporary (and terribly ridiculous, in many ways) yet all around us authorities attempt to influence our every action, thought and emotion in order to make us more suitable contributers to society. There is too much to deny in the human condition by following this path, too many emotions to choke and far too many thoughts to drown. Perhaps I am illogical, perhaps humans are a bit too obsessed with their criteria and the fulfillment of such. (after all, whether we measure and identify something or not, it exists independently of us.)The universe contains many illogical things, many paradoxical phenomena and we (as humans) are an expression of such brilliant contradictions. One can spend their entire life on one path's pursuit only to find in an instant that it's all been for naught and uprooted. Why not free ourselves from this choking egoism and instead take a cue from nature and rather allow ourselves to simply be. Allow ourselves self exploration in a kinder sense, a selfless sense, only to fulfill and exercise our greatest gift: the gift of conscious self awareness. Humans squander so very much of their exasperatingly beautiful potential in exchange for terribly contrived and dull roles that bring little to no fulfillment. Why not allow yourself the perception of a child and see the beauty and the wonder in everything that surrounds us? I am consistently surprised by how many people never take the time to stop and admire a beautiful sunset or stare in complete wonder at a full moon that inspires primal desires and wanderlust. The world needs to fall back in love with itself.