Forsaken

There are no words soft enough to touch my point without breaking it.  There are no words sharp enough to touch my point without missing it.

They're all so vulgar, these words.  Lips, kiss. Breath, skin. Lust, love. Those are not what I wanted of you.  I want your intent, I want desire, I want what lies beneath all of these nouns: What the juvenile calls the spirit and what the learned man has no words for at all.

They're all so euphemistic, these words. Forever, eternity. Want, need. Longing, despair.  Those are not the words I wanted of me.  They do not encapsulate my intent, nor describe the my pain.  What I feel, as I have felt, is at the core of all of these concepts: What the juvenile lives to avoid and what the artist never feels satisfied in having captured.

Words, what have you for me now? What hearts do you pulse, what feet do you fleet?  When will you bring about the change?  I am doing my part - you have forsaken me.

Art and Life

If the current age of art was to wear a badge it would be that of realism. So much so that I think we might actuallycreate a badge. The beauty of our art is in how real our animation looks - computer graphics - how real our music sounds - adlibs, natural soundbites. But in this realism are we losing touch with the very purpose of Art? Is our striving for realism fueled not by progress but with our suffering through pride and shame?

Do we admire the amazingly true-to-form graphics and endure dauntint images from depressing voyeurism because it makes us feel proud? Proud that we live in an age of such technological advancement that we could animate a real person? Proud that we live in an age where our documentaries strip away the mystery of the past and present, leaving no rock unturned nor polished? Has pride become the sin of art? Rather than making the effort to make gods of men and angels of women, now we put words only towards their dark humanities and animate only their every wrinkle? Is this what we wish for our art, a world created in our own image rather than His?

Realism has its beauty as well above the skill it takes to produce a great work of realism:  Each image rendering, each investigative report, is sort of a celebration of the world as we perceive it. But for myself I wonder if I prefer to investige things as they are as much as I wish to investigate things as they could be.  A philosopher disposition as opposed to a scientist, a writer disposition as opposed to an author. There is a certain skill in being able to put into words our many motions of abstract thought and even more skill in being abke to reconjure an image - building a bridge between your eye and your mind's eye with letters and punctuation. But I would wish to use my own beams and cables to build a bridge forward, not backward, and rather suspend man into the world.not yet seen than the world already lived.

Off into the distance from my gorgeous hotel room balcony here in Arenal there is a massive active Volcano. A creation of the earth of such magnitude fury and legend, it would be worth at least a thousand of my words if I cared to write about the past.  Instead, a hummingbird paid me a visit, flapping through the foliage with his own fury, searching for his beloved nectar.  As my eyes pass from left to right following him across my body I begin to ask: What is it that a hummingbird thinks?  Does he have any time to? Does his mind move as rapidly as his fantastic wings? If so, could it be that this simple creature in his own way lives through hundreds of moments in a single hour; thousands of experiences in the time that most of us work slavishly towards one? Perhaps in his constant movement from idea to action to idea back to action, this hummingbird outlives us all. Perhaps the easiest way to eternity is through a life of hard work.

If I could tell you anything about my vacation it would have been this, in hopes that it moves you forward as well.

Sincerely,

It's 4am. 3:38 to be exact but I know I'll still be here in twenty minutes. Wondering sometimes why everyone won't leave me alone and wondering other times why everyone does. Right now, the cab driver that sees fit to blast Beyonce's Beautiful Nightmare has me pegged on the former. I appreciate as always the irony of that song being the soundtrack to this post.

I was exhausted, so I flew away. Here I am in another country and all of my problems are simply in another language. They haven't left me despite all of my efforts. I wonder when it was that we took our vows, was it more than a year ago? I believe so. I think I married my woes some many years back. This is my way of saying I am well passed an anullment, if I am going to free myself of this wretched ego the separation will not be pretty. All I want is full costody of my health and wits. My ego can keep the rest, which thinking it through is a bit selfish of me to say - what else is there that we had? Maybe that is why she fights me day in and day out for one or the other. The only 50/50 split for her is right down the middle through the heart brain and genitals.

So here I am with half my wits, half the caring, and half the drive. I kept the left side because I just figured soccer and writing would set me free. It has. It brings me closer to you each day. There was a me who only knew laughter because he was in touch with only the eternal. But he did not understand the temporary, particularly not concepts like yesterday. Now I know I exist in the past, yours. I exist in the present, mine. I exist in the future, ours. Has it ever been any different? I can only work on today myself but tomorrow I will need your help. Again and again I know tomorrow needs 2 signatures and a stamp. The man upstairs only seems to stamp tomorrows when we have both signed, otherwise we're stuck withdrawing from the present and past, haven't you noticed?

It's just after 4, and in the naked light of yesterday I'm looking forward only. I want only tomorrow. I'll sign first.

Finding Life

Where life is simple there is more of it.  Where life is complex there is less of it. 

Normally I would prefer not to believe this.  I like to think that there is depth to life, that there are raging undercurrents that appear to us as simple happenings.  That within a mere apple there are galaxies of atomic clusters.  Depth is my tool of choice towards appreciating how special life is.  But this hasn't been working for me, depth has not been my friend.  I'm in too deep - within these wordly affairs and within my head - and I don't see life in this depth.  All I can see is the bottom, as I sink closer and closer to it. I used to sink because I had faith that there were mystical creatures that inhabit the seabed but I feel as though I have no home in the benthic zone.

So what if I were to revolutionize my way of thinking and find life in the sky instead of on the floor?  What if I found life in the world's simplicity instead of its complexity? Where life is simple, we see more of it.  When we think that life is in the fallen leaf and his family of grass blades, our walk in the park is never alone.  Each leaf was a story, one that continued on as the young child picked him up to trace for her class' colouring project.  After a hard day's work the sun finally sets, which instructs the Evening Stock to let off his wonderful aroma, ensuring he won't be bitten by mosquitos but reminding the local Raccoons that the buffet line has been opened.  Nature is an orchestra playing harmoniously to the candence of the unseen Conductor.  But we don't search for the music, we search for the notes.  We want to know every little note to try and appreciate the music - but the notes were only to be used as cues.  Like poor seamstresses we care more about the thread than the fabric, we care more about how we put it together than what it is becoming.  Lost in the complexity of this modern world, we forgot what it is our father's father hoped for us, that our advancements would finally make life more simple.  Lost behind a vail of complexity, we trudge through mystical forests filled with life and see only chaos, only separation from where it is we want to be, separation from life.  We have become fat with complexity, complacent to concede that the map is too complicated and that we might as well forget about our treks to happiness. If we could recognize the simplicty of life in nature we would see happiness everywhere - even here.

There has to be more to life than this, there has to be more life here than this.  Pardon me if I only make time for simplicity.

Rhetorical or rhetoric?

If he loves you then why isn't he by your side? If he cares about you then why won't he get over himself and.ask you how you're doing? If this is his idea of grace then why do you still feel so bad? What would you have even done with him in a relationship? Can't he just leave you alone and realize you've already moved on? What does he even bring to the table except pretty words about ugly feelings? Is he ever positive? Didn't he hear you when you said you never wanted this? Can't he see it now, or is he blind and deaf? Can you even deal with someone so emotional? He can't even watch his weight or move out of his house, what kind of man is this?

Let the Child Play

It isn't in his homework
It isn't in her chores
It isn't in his promises
Aint in her forever mores

Can't find it in his tool shed
Can't find it in her books
Can't find it in his boss' desk
Can't find it in her husband's looks

Chorus:
In the sky, both night and day
That heap of leaves, that bale of hay
You can't take that love away
So listen, let the child play

Never saw it in no shooting star
Never saw it in no 5 year plan
Never saw it in no book o' rules
Never saw it in no single man

Won't turn up in those things you buy
Won't turn up in those words, Guru
Won't turn up behind those closed eyes
So here's what I say to you

In the sky, both night and day
That heap of leaves, that bale of hay
You can't take that love away
So let the child play, HEY

In the sky, both night and day
That heap of leaves, that bale of hay
You can't take that love away
So let the child play