I Am There

I Am There

I come from there and remember,
I was born like everyone is born, I have a mother
and a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends and a prison.
I have a wave that sea-gulls snatched away.
I have a view of my own and an extra blade of grass.
I have a moon past the peak of words.
I have the godsent food of birds and an olive tree beyond the kent of time.
I have traversed the land before swords turned bodies into banquets.
I come from there, I return the sky to its mother when for its mother the
sky cries, and I weep for a returning cloud to know me.
I have learned the words of blood-stained courts in order to break the rules.
I have learned and dismantled all the words to construct a single one:
Home

By Mahmoud Darwish

From the water, far off I am.

I am so far from home. Surrounded by dirt, drama queens, and ass hats. I failed myself and traded momentum for alliance with liars. I failed myself and lost track of my one true objective. Now I'm paid by the toil of the evil. Entangled with the tendrils of the foundation-less. Stuck in a humid sea of dirt and baking. Working in the zombie core of a dead body draped in man made covering, long ago stained and spotted.

You liars, having no hindsight, lack foresight, and judge from a place of ignorance!

These local hills thick with the stench of proud gainsayers.

Now, my only fight is me. And an angry one it is, questioning my search for just one set of arms. Just one. And just time to time. For missing something has a way of seeking out things which aren't always needed. Embrace without entanglement. Care without commitment. Intimacy without the promise of tomorrow. All the other moments of my late summer strafing the corners of quest and objective, flavored liberally with pleasant sonic disturbance, air time, and velocity.

But even in that is the beginning of the end. The potential of leaving controllled flight. For NOBODY is honest, even in something requiring so little. And no sensitive heart is capable of giving love without wanting to give more love.

I think it's about time...

...that I be moving on. :-)

Revelation

"The oppressor is himself goverend
The killer directed from elsewhere
And the appendages of empire are linked not to thier own volition."

Bel Dan

Noise and Regulation

And so it is that most everything is just noise. Endless reverberating seas of racket from the deep parts of individuals crying out for some sort of notice. For the fulfilling of some need. From the confused and fragmented cores upon which is built the individual in modernity, rife with variance and bingo on self reflection.

From emotion comes motion, which itself is based in the emotive, which we hold in balance with both a bios level birth given set of instructions and a civilizing code of operation (teaching). Or so it should be, for the one variable in the aforementioned equation is our teaching. That same variable that is increasingly broken, as we as a whole work our way back towards the brutish. That same variable that is increasingly tweaked with a core of variance. Teachings based on foundations of sand, that through the allowance of variance, lock out the absolutes of love, which with it's ever present companion called honest consideration, makes of it's teachings the only and eventual end of absolute and correct objectives.

The objecitve of choosing actions in line with love and consideration.

But what do I know? This is my own observation. If it's flawed, then I'll find it out. But as to being flawed, I suspect not, for the obejctive of love and it's wonderful and demanding side effects were not first reasoned or observed by I or any other man or woman. It is of divine utterance through the mouth of a tamed ass ridden by a king. The beginnings of civilized society lay in it's regulating effects.

After this age...

...what are you going to do? 

As much as you talk of prayer and scripture, when are you going to release yourself to it? When are going to let go? Whatever it is you think you are now, this is it's first and last age. 

There is nothing in speaking it or passing along the writings as such if your heart isn't given to it. The more you try to shape it or mold it, the more it escapes you, and the more that strong delusion sets in. The more that manna is changed to something of ill-effect, having lost it's goodness.  

The truth is beyond you. It's not what you think! It's not what your logic dictates. It's not the resemblance of your desires or learned suspicions, which are of men. There is no divinity in you. There is no light in you. You of singular walk. You (and I) are not Christ! You (and I) are an earthen vessel. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

So let go! Let it all go! Accept for a moment that all those words spoken on an eternity of sabbaths really do mean something, but your teachers understood not. Accept that perhaps the right way really is narrow and few there be. Accept for a moment that perhaps you really aren't standing. And accept for a moment that all your foundation is formed on sand. 

There are no ascended masters my dear. Those are demons. And your tearchers? They are liars, robbed and scented, dwelling now or soon, in sheol, having followed blavatsky into the ditch. Their cruel directors whispering to them from groves and high places. 

There is no denying the word with what you think! 

The word, perfectly lovely, bringing joy and song to the chambers of my heart. It permeates all things of manifold frequencies. It's field, powerful and kind, working ever so lightly. In it, I've always believed. And in spite of my failings, I'll die believing. 

Under it's influence, I can say of a truth that I love you. I always will!

He knows I'm speaking of him. And he knows I'm sorry.  

Liars gotta lie!

Once a liar, always a liar? 

No path to vulnerability via consistent fabrication. 

Wonderful!

One of Bjorks most under rated songs. I've loved this for a long while now and still believe in the lyrics. 

This is the logical end of honest consideration. 

Morning in Valladolid

I saw that seed bed today. 

Swollen. 

I still remember it's smell. 

The amazing aroma of a mother with child in mid-miracle. 

But what loving and kindness remains is broadcast from the earth

for this is my body talking.

This is the voice of my members.

Longing to embrace one with multiple leaders
who were washed away in a previous age
or blinded by esoteric knowledge.

But what happens is what must.
I turn and run
and hope to keep running from that split tongue.
That one that said she would run with me, but now remains motionless.
That one that said she would be with me, when in secret ran with others.
That shameful thing, protecting a core of incongruence,
and tossed to and fro,
squawking amidst an angry aviary,
who would protect their own rather then protect the truth.

So I run
for in this morning in Valladolid
we are nigh on the eventime of Guernica,
and everywhere the eyes are filled with the spirit of Azazel.

Margarita Gallo

You are a friend and I miss you!

I hope to hear from you again Maggie.

Holy Crap! This is awesome!

Having said all that, it does seem that, in a sense, what can't not be known has been forgotten. How could this be? "There is nothing wrong with the basic programming of conscience; the problem is in the interface, the human will." It is true that deep conscience cannot err, but in working out the remote implications, we can err, and worse we can lie to ourselves so that we create problems at the level of surface conscience. We rationalize our deeds, trying to make it appear that what we have done was actually right. When we do this we truly are set on a downward road, going from evil to evil. 

But it seems I suffer from a psychosis of sorts. I can't possibly understand the validity and significance of the above quoted.

BTW, this is from a review of the book, "What We Can't Not Know: A Guide " by J. Budziszewski. The review is at http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/195053146. 

Present considerations

Blindness is a choice!

No title needed

The pedestals we set our mates upon are made of flesh and deep connection, bejeweled with the amazing and strange internal workings of love. It's a fool that thinks lightly of this and acts accordingly.

The Richness of love..

...has a sound.

http://f.cl.ly/items/332W143f1q0P0a182B1P/Mc_Sultan_Amina_Josiane.mp3

It has a feeling. It has a heavy quality. Like rich cool blue air replete with shimmering light and lazy slow timelessness.

Good shit this is! Immense and encompassing in it's euphoria. Serious stuff this is, to be treated with ultimate respect, for the wreckage of disrespect is pain and end.

Round IV

That fucker is out there, lurking boldly and invisibly in the day light. Old flow he is, slow, wet, and thick, pulling you down to a torpid pace. Weekends of Dolor and slumber. Cortisol and haze. He had me before, knocking me low before I knew I was low. Pinning me on my back, before I knew I was there. Impregnating me with inaction. Long days motionless and trapped in fog. I was Felled for an aeon at least.

But defeat is the prequel of victory in the long history of life. And the perusal of personal revolutions illuminates sensors that always existed. Sensors that bristle at the slightest flux and fire at the first true read unleashing anger, distance, velocity, and dream. Motion! Endeavor!

It's with this anger, I extend my arms and blade my feet keeping dangerous seed beds outside the kill zone. The S.A.D.S net active and deadly. All desires to extend love blunted! I am not to be lied too. I am not to be lain down as the waves of history roll over. I am not to remain the victim of inadequacy, floundering in the long slow waves of depression and missing the warm wonderful days of waxing seasons.

P1553D!!!!!!

Now I'm pissed!

And asleepers sleep until they rise up high and strong from deep and profound dreams. Shockwaves and bright flashes heralding their ascent as they realize the fruit of long dark aeons alone in unfettered effort.

Change

I feel gripped by something. Something deep within. Dark, dull, and bland framed in variants of grey. Something at a core level that's hungering but sounding continually like low intensity
warfare. Everyday a signal. Everyday a pang of hunger. A wave of nausea or ripple of emptiness. Somewhere it's there in the dark ocean of experience sounding deep. A psychological current
of injury: torn halves broadcasting in painful alarm. And that something at the core asking over and over again in a voice nearly silent and a language I don't understand.

So out of a faux winter I'm supposed to be emerging, but my head feels heavy and my shoulders weak. I've vented the energies of anger and injury and left myself to trundle and blunder.
I've said OK to love and allowed the full spectrum of damage. Voices from far off and inaudible, sounding attacks even still. Duplicitous monsters spanning multiple generations.

It's time I watch me change. It's time I watch me re-attach wings and stand upright. You see, I was right all along, and wrong to doubt it.

And for that reason alone, I'm angry.

Ever the fool....

...I believe in Love. And to speak and impart Love with honesty is everything.

Arwen spoke it with conviction and never wavered! Does anyone like this exist in the real?

Owned

Back and down I lay, voyaging into the eve, near a kernel of soft glow tinged incarnadine, longing for Saya. I am gripped by the rememberance of her taking and empty with longing. With tears my eyes for the possesor of my heart, who silently approaches from victories far off, but for the sound of swift arrows.

My owner, desiring me in the deep pitch, and in pastures of dark green aliance, sensing my anticipation and surrender.

My owner, slight, wrapped in silk, with eyes dark as oblivion cased in brilliant xanthic shimmer.

My owner, for whom my loins cry.

Backward and downward I lay, my cherished, at the bottom of night, imagining your taking once again. Pinned by you, my powerful killer. Helpless and mastered, sliding over a shelf of self control into a deep trench of experience. Pulsed further with each wave. Rythmic and all powerful. In that soft light, I see the outline of your head, beautiful and purposeful. And the outline of your hips, inbound and stronger then the last. Crushing me. Controlling me.

The sweet scent of candles hang about. The soothing hush of wind through the leaves. My head pressed deep into warm pillows.

And at the hollow of my neck you puncture. And from the flow of my heart, you feed, dearest Saya. My wonderful wife. My killer in the dark hours. My lover from the dark realms, vibrating with satisfaction. I, captured and drunk with sensation, tingling to my now numb hands, quaking through my core, and sounding out instinctually, I slide off into the deepest dream to always wake at your breast. Fed and cradled.

Venture far not, my cherished, beautiful, kind, and wonderful killer. Silent and invisible in the afternoon bright. Return swiftly, Saya, my love, for my battles end at sunset and my longings rest with you.