Wednesday, June 30, 2010

"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...

Monday, June 28, 2010

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!

Saturday, June 26, 2010

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.


-"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."




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)

Thursday, June 24, 2010

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.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


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.

Friday, June 18, 2010

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.
Creative Commons License
This work by Kimberly Dill is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at bleudaimonia.blogspot.com.