Taijitu

But, when it comes down to it, the truth will always reveal itself to those that seek it. Though frayed by history the truth can’t ever really be erased. The truth, like the heart, is stubborn. It refuses to be stilled. And this is important because it is the truth, like the heart, that keeps us alive. It remains coded in drum beats, kicks, snares and hi hats. It remains coded in sighs, shrugs, eyerolls, absences and inflections. It remains coded in gaps, sanitations, assasinations, allegations and coincidences. It remains coded in moments, desires, motivations, results, responses.

To the discerning eye, the truth will always be a place that can be arrived at.

Perhaps it is this knowledge that destroys those who seek.

Perhaps it is this knowledge that fuels those who seek.

Perhaps it is naivete about how deep the frays of history can cut.

And that it is not for lack of power that history fails to conquer truth. It is not for lack of will. It is not for lack of effort – and deliberate effort.

*

But, when it comes down to it, the truth will always be outside the reach of those who seek it. The truth is stumbled upon, like a man off the edge of a cliff – and an endless fall. The truth is a vortex that appears and disappears at will. And truth and time are fruits of the same tree and it continues to grow taller. Those who seek shelter increasingly risk serious injury come harvest. The tide of truth cannot  be avoided. The tide of truth cannot be found.

Perhaps it is this knowledge that destroys those who suppress

Perhaps it is this knowledge that fuels those who suppress.

Perhaps it is the tide, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing.

And all there is, is swimming.

And all there is, is drowning.

 

Husago

It is the people we hold onto that hold onto us. As we shake people off, we too are shaken off. Maybe it is through this process of simultaneous release that we find ourselves alone. Like the layers of a snakes’ skin we shed each other, find others to hang on to, find others to hang on to us. Slowly and evenly picking the weight that keeps us closer to whatever form of balance we need to tell ourselves that we are growing. That progress is happening. Or even that we are at peace with whatever form of stagnation we have chosen.

Maybe this is why they say you are alone in the end. Having lost all energy to hold on to anything, the things you hold on to begin to let go of you. It is in this isolation that we are to find peace. To be still and within ourselves, but even this peace is something that we hold on to. And in losing our grip we lose that too.

How does one take care of needy concepts?

Do you wait until they find themselves disproven? Or do we bury them in the past. Find a little corner somewhere in the maze of our mind and shove them there. Do we recognize when we come up against them? Do we see the pieces of ourselves that we have violently shoved aside as we violently shove them aside?

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

  • Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Is it then that we constant lay and unlay traps for ourselves? Circling around the same spot, trying to gain enough momentum to throw us of tangent at such a high velocity that by the time we finally discover ourselves we are unlike ourselves. Then maybe this distance daunts us. As if we somehow knew we were going in circles (despite talking about progress). As if we have been betrayed by this false truth that we encounter. As if the mirror we left to hold to ourselves refuses to show us the image we want to see. And so forward we go, to go back.

There you are.

Again.

Again.

Aain

Ain

Ain’t

Ain’t,

Ain’t th

Ain’t that s

Ain’t that so

Ain’t that some shit.

 

Swing Low

The heart is an amazing organ. From the day we are born to the day we die it never stops working. Over an 80 year lifespan the heart will beat over 3 billion times pumping over a million barrels of blood through your body.

That’s a lot of labour.

Perhaps this is why the heart demands reason. Why it is the heart that asks why. Everyday it asks, firmly, quietly. Give me a reason today. Tell me why I should keep this blood in circulation. I have been doing this for a very long time and, honestly, I have very little to show for it. Why?

The mind is easier to convince. All the mind needs is a path to follow. As long as the mind can tread along a path, it can ignore the labour of the heart. As long as the mind can see something to work towards, it will demand the work of the heart. Perhaps this is why they say ‘there is only so much the heart can take’ when they talk about death. The heart, dragged along by the mind, stops. This, the heart says, this is not working. This is slow destruction, the unravelling.

The slow unbecoming.

There is less. Everyday there is less to give and more to take on. Everyday there is more to be done and less being done.

Perhaps it is the slow burn of the unraveling that destroys one. How every step seems like a step that can be controlled. How hope slowly slips away. You don’t wake up one day and think it is over. You look up and realise it has been over for a long time, and recognize how long you have been running against brick walls. Perhaps it is in this looking back that the heart gives in. It’s not just in the crushing from the weight, but in seeing the emptiness in it all. For the heart has only asked for one thing through everything.

Reason.

Every beat, over 3 billion times, it has asked for reason.

Perhaps it is the absence of this that does it in.

And to continue seems like an odd reason.

In many ways then the mind preempts the heart, keeping the heart from destroying itself . And the heart keeps the mind tethered, ensuring that there is meaning to whichever brand of madness the mind choses.

And so we oscillate.

And so we oscillate.

For Science

What is the chemical composition of an emotion?

Once you have separated memory (of the individual and of history – is there a difference? Where does one start and another begin?) from the hormonal response and drained the context all that’s left is latent energy. A burning sensation somewhere in the corner of your…. where?

Where does emotion sit?

Where does it hurt?

Where does it joy?

Where does it excite?

Where does it fear?

 

What is the anatomy of an emotional body? Does the emotional body tire? Does it grow weary from being pushed too hard? Does it get stronger? Does it thrive on a diet of regular exercise? Is this metaphor too direct? Does the emotional composition even have a physical form? Perhaps it is a gas. Perhaps it lies outside the laws of physics, subject to a whole different set of laws yet to be discovered.

Have you found some apple trees to take naps under lately?

 

Patience

When you have looked far enough into the future to see your own birth you know that you have been staring for long enough. You will know this because the fixed point you began with revealed the secrets of eternity. You know they are secrets because they came in fleeting whispers, barely louder than a muffled heartbeat. You only heard them because you were fixated and trying not to be distracted.

Which made you aware of everything that could possibly be a distraction.

If anything, you almost destroyed the first sound you heard. It was only after it revealed itself as a secret that you relaxed. But even then you weren’t sure. And you said the same, then kept staring.
But the secrets kept coming. At first they trickled in. After a while though the steady stream of things we are yet to understand increased till the flood almost blocked your point of view.

You kept staring though. You have seen your nebula collapse, your feet are tired, your skin pruned from the flood of secrets. But you stand, looking, unwavering. You know you will know it when you see it. You don’t know what it looks like, but you know you will know.
So you stay fixed on eternity, waiting to be born.

Your Wolves

You wish it was as simple as saying that you’ve been feeding the wrong wolf. That somehow there was some revelation that showed an error – multiple preferably. It isn’t. Which does not mean that you think that you are without error, but that perspective is a dangerous thing. Perhaps that was what was being communicated by the mad hatter – but no one was listening.

No one was listening.

Mainly because they were too busy focusing on alice – whoever the hell she had claimed to be.

But it isn’t that simple. For if you weren’t feeding the wolf you were feeding, you wouldn’t have found yourself chasing the rabbit. And if you had not chased the rabbit you wouldn’t have been present when alice (was that really her name?) went into the rabbit hole. And it is in the rabbit hole that you realized you had been feeding the wrong wolf.

Or perhaps just underfeeding the right one. Not allowing it to thrive – it slowed you down, and you needed to move faster. You needed to move much faster because the space you were in was not sustainable. So you kept feeding the wolf that would get you elsewhere – wherever that meant.

Which is at the table of the mad hatter – with the finest company. If the tea party had thought of branding themselves in this way perhaps all the vile they did would be swept under the rug… or perhaps not.

So how can you blame the thing that brought you here for getting you lost?

So it can’t be that simple.

You watch your wolves,

always circling,

always dancing,

always battling.

Face Down

It became ‘take as little as possible from the other” and because the other before you had learned this lesson they overcompensated, giving you more than you deserved.

The product of two unhealthy situations is not a healthy situation.

Rather it is a balance of two violences. Steady ground so fragile that the touch of your feet can break it. So you learn to walk lightly. you learn to make it so that your footsteps are barely noticeable. Learn to erase every trace of your presence.

So it makes sense that being seen is new to you.

a dance, how did it go,
it takes, two to tango?

guilty feet have got no rhythm 

Again.

I always walk staring at the ground,
face down face down

little  known poet

You put one foot gingerly forward.

Fertilizer

Mood: You’re always working, they said. Come out with us – let’s have some fun.

Rain drop.

I am just a moment that has been suspended in freefall for so long that I have lost all concept of time, motion and circumstance. All that I know is I was, is and currently am – as I always have been.

Now.

Is god euphoria? Her shrieks can be heard by those who would listen, said the preacher. Her diaper is wet, said the teacher. Her fury is pure, said the mother. She doesn’t exist, said the searcher. I kept dancing to the music.

Growing the collective concious is harder than it looks. The ground rarely takes to the seed properly and a great deal of the crop is often lost. Many have blamed it on parched land – since the invasion the land has been void of affect. A vital mineral for the growth of consciousness. The diapers, a particular part on the leaf, get wet. This is the first sign of a degrading crop. Other signs are harder to tell. The shrieks of a dying concious can only be heard by a keen ear.

This has been so hard to do that many have begun to say that it is impossible to grow – that pure fury demands too much from the unyielding ground. For many years, this was impossible to solve – until a small team of scientists decided to dig deep – increase the nutrients in the ground.

I stumbled accross their hole and I fell.

I am still falling.

Drop top.

X Marked the Spot

Mood: You have an old dvd somewhere  – you’re sure you do. So you spend the entire day cleaning your dvd collection to find it (it was in the wrong case) (you have a large dvd collection). It’s a movie you loved back in the day, but you loved the DVD most because it had the director’s cut and deleted scenes and everything. You make yourself a good meal and pop it into the player. It plays the first three seconds of the movie and freezes. You take it out wipe it and play it again. Still doesn’t work. So now you have all this evening left.

 

Any fool who knows that killing a dream is a delicate affair – and horribly violent. So there are two options:

  1. Don’t kill your dream.
  2. If you must kill your dream, make sure it dies.

Burying dreams under the fence behind the shop has never been a good idea. Once you’ve waited for the neighbour’s children discovering that their privates can actually be semi public, you’ll have to deal with simba. Still, even if you wait out teen lust and a barkless bite, you still won’t be done with the dream forever.

You might try and forget about it, but as long as the dream remains buried you will have a path out of the omelas. And as long as you have a way out you will never be able to settle in – because you never wanted to be there in the first place.

And you know this.

You know this because you buried your fucking dream. Now, like a hearbeat in quantam entanglement with your own, it beats.

*******

Do teenage dreams rebel?

(I write dreams but I am actually asking about dreams)

Does a dream, on achieving a loose grasp of the mechanisms that affect its survival, decide that it can navigate on its own?

Have you seen dreams wandering the streets, culture shocked and hungry? What does a fully grown dream look like?

 

*****

 

Perhaps, she said, the problem is not that there is a problem but there’s the lingering persistence of a problem that once was. You were not okay, but now you are but because you are used to not being okay you navigate the world like you’re not okay but you are – but because of how you navigate it confirms your truth which is that you are not okay. Which is okay, except it’s not.

 

That’s how she said it too – and with as little punctuation.

By the time you were piecing it together you had already taken advice from every fool.

And there’s very little ways to be okay (or not) when two wounded hearts are pounding blood through your ears.

 

*****

You remember when their parents started complaining. They had heard whispers of an alley in the neighbourhood where the teens went when they wanted to understand each other better. It was not going to last that long anyway. It’s hard for an ambiguous group of teens to keep a secret. And besides, everyone could smell what they were smoking – so it was silly both ways.

“You’ve not been hanging out behind that shop have you?”

Some questions are like riddles with their answers not being in the answer themselves but in how one formulates their answer. You answered wrong – but you only knew about it because you had researched extensively before you buried your dream. Not that you had no interest in the other activities but there were more discreet ways to find out. Or that’s what you told yourself.

But it did make for an excellent hiding point. Two points of entry, so options if cornered. A lot of undergrowth, which meant healthy enough ground. And a sewer right round the bend. This was important because adults are a lot less likely to be found around dirt than children. And, if one must bury a dream, it is best to do so away from an adult.

But you only remember them as complaining.

So you’re not necessarily shocked that they took down the shop – but it does bother you. Especially now as you stand there looking at the shiny new house that stands where the shop once stood. Off to its left a beautiful garden blocks of what use to be the entrance to the alley.

Only a child could think a shop can last forever – even landscapes are transient.

 

*****

Years later a child finds a strange object buried in the garden.

They feel a heartbeat linger.  

For my Next Trick

Mood: We all know that magic is not real. The Rambo bamboo boom boom guy on KBC had us convinced for a while, but as soon as we figured out you can tie handkerchiefs together, we were done. Still we kept watching. Not because we thought it was true – because we know it isn’t. But because the things we don’t know manifest in unexpected ways. And that’s exciting. Because we just want to chant Rambo, bambo boom and watch the impossible possible.

Take a sample group. Any group will do. The group I happened to find involved three geese, a professor of marine botany, two pencils, a bucket of water and oil extract of the milky way (125 ml, I hear it’s really cheap if you know where to look). Gather them around the idle wounds of history. Watch as they stew around where they are placed in the larger scheme of things. As the scars open their own scars. As the coal burns fires into their soul, further into themselves. Watch as they react differently to the same stimuli. Watch where they look, what they look for, how they find it and where they find it.

This, you think, means knowing more than the sample group. Perhaps a warning, as I came to learn, you will not be the least knowledgeable – but you won’t be the most either. But, being the gatherer, you will have spent more time around fire. As science has shown, one cannot observe without changing the experiment in certain ways. And even as we gather around the embers, we stoke them. And even as we gather around the embers we stoke them.

(who wins in the game of depth? The Marriana trench is 10,994 metres deep – many still call it home.)

After an adequate amount of time send the sample into the world. Watch as the excesses of their open histories burn those around them. Watch this burning stabilize the flame.

(brightest wicks burn fastest they always say – but surely everyone is just trying to make it to the end)

Watch as those they burn open their own wounds.

Watch as they wander in search of a good gathering.

Take a sample group.