The familiar, stern voice echoed across the hills, "Akakios, come back here right now!" A command, certainly; but their father never yelled unless in battle of training.
Akakios turned around on top of the neighboring hill, eyes wide with fear and face sweaty. What he saw must have calmed him slightly; or the voice of his father had broken the grip of flight that came over him. As his breath slowed, Akakios slowly came down the hill and over to his father.
"There is no need to fear, my son," he tried to sooth.
Akakios' mind sharpened again, and his body tensed to fight, to erupt, to argue. "That was the voice of Death. How can you say I shouldn't fear!"
"That was not the voice of Death." He placed a firm hand upon Akakios' shoulder and knelt to look him in the eye. "That was our Mother Earth, the Ground beneath our feet which holds our sweat. She calls herself Gaia."
His eyes widened even more. "Then she is a Titan and should be disregarded in favor of the Gods! We will be punished for speaking with her!"
"I have been speaking with her for years, my son. Have I been punished?" He waited and watched as Akakios looked anywhere but at his father's eyes. "Has your brother been punished?"
This brought eye contact instantaneously. Then Akakios turned his face to look at Diodoros, who sat a few paces off while he watched his younger brother learn. Akakios' eyes were hurt; betrayed by family on what seemed like multiple fronts. Not even his brother could be trusted now; that was the look that pierced the air between them. "You knew about Her?" he aksed with a slight malicious tone. His face had become a mask of controlled emotions. Diodoros knew it well.
"He was trained as I am training you. And the first thing you must know is Gaia." Their father stood and turned Akakios away from his older brother and made him walk along the crest of the hill. "The stories you are told about the Gods are grand and fantastic, but have very few physical manifestations."
"But... If Gaia is real then everything is true!"
"To a degree you are correct. One piece of a puzzle doesn't prove the entire picture does it? This tree," he pointed to an olive tree just ahead, "doesn't prove that all trees grow ontop of hills, even though you don't see any other trees right now." Their father let the thought resonate for a few moments. "Do you understand, my son?"
"Yes.. and... No. I don't know..." he shrugged, accepting without full comprehension as he did with most things. Then, Akakios had a sudden thought. "So how many Gods are there?"
Their father smiled. "I don't know exactly how many 'Gods' there are..." He stopped walking and turned to his youngest son; love blazing in his eyes. "Let me explain another thing," he said as he knelt down again. "It's alright to call them 'Gods', for in a sense they do rule over an aspect of reality and their dominion is whole because of them. I prefer to call them spirits."
"Why?"
"Because that's what they are. The spirit of the Earth is Gaia. The spirit of the sun is Helios. The spirit of lightening is Zeus."
"But he's a God!"
"So are they all," he said with complete happiness.
"Oh, right."
Akakios stood their thinking for a moment, his eyes looking everywhere as if trying to see these invisible spirits his father spoke of. Eventually he caught sight of the tree again and stood transfixed.
His father sat down all the way and crossed his legs. "Are you ready to go back and speak with Gaia?"
Akakios nodded as he sat down and closed his eyes, slowly turning his head to face his father once more. A gentle breeze came over the hill as Diodoros walked up silently to the meditating pair. Sitting a respectful distance off, he watched patiently; leaving this mystery to be unveiled by their father for Akakios. He already sensed a small rift between himself and his brother, one that he feared would never heal completely.
Hopefully you will understand soon, my brother, Diodoros thought. He watched Akakios' face, noticing the expressions that flashed through the relaxed muscles.
After a while, the sun moving past its noon, the shocked look faded away. Wind started to blow a little harder, rustling the branches of the olive tree and creating waves in the tall grasses. A warmth in the air arose sharply. Diodoros touched his face and felt sweat starting to appear as the heat continued to rise.
He quickly created a wind of cold northern air to sweep over the hilltop; and it came with strong gusts, swirling around the solitary figures in the quiet afternoon. The heat, however, did not dissipate. Diodoros looked at his father, worried something might be going wrong in their trance.
Something certainly was. His calm, chiseled face was contorted into a scowl of concentration; the sweat dripping from his temples onto his tunic. Akakios, on the other hand, was smiling nearly gleefully.
Diodoros didn't wait. He was in the trance, searching for his father and brother in the infinite expanse of the mindscape. It wasn't hard to find blood-relatives in the mindscape, and with that ease already present the added stress in energy flow from Gaia made it almost impossible to miss the two of them.
Akakios and their father were not bodies floating in darkness; they were symbols representing the energies and thoughts being used. Diodoros knew his father as the green and blues, colors of the earth, which swam around a pillar of fire stretching throughout the heavens. The pillar had a central focus, large and round as the sun, and the flames which twisted outward were violent and explosive, lashing out with feral energy.
It had to be Akakios at the center, Diodoros knew this. But he couldn't understand what Helios was doing with his brother, who had no idea how to use or manipulate the energies of any spirit yet, least of all Gaia's, whose was the easiest. Diodoros pulled forth the energies of the earth, brown and strong and thrust himself towards the central focus of the flames. Barreling through epicenter of fire, Diodoros caught his brother and pulled his energies out of the focus. Instantly the flames died down.
Healing white energy flew all around Diodoros and Akakios. Diodoros felt his brother's presence fade from the mindscape, and he released himself as well.
The sky had turned an ominous grey, clouds rolling in from the west as a storm threatened on the horizon. The air was tepid. The wind was calm though the storm approached quickly. Diodoros looked over to where his father and brother were, to find his father stooping over Akakios with hands placed against his chest. Akakios had fallen backwards to lay on the ground face up.
"What happened," he asked.
There was no response from his father, whose face was still focused as he spread healing energy over his son. Diodoros knew his father couldn't hear because he was entranced still, so he waited.
It took another hour or so before Akakios woke up again and his father sat back, exhausted. Even through his tiredness riddling his face, their father seemed slightly impressed and happy. "It looks like Helios may grace you as none before!" he said to Akakios.
Diodoros didn't understand and stared at them, perplexed. If this was suppose to be such a joyful occasion, why was there so much danger in the circumstance that had just transpired?
Ethan opened his eyes from his reverie, trying to place the event into context in regards to Nick. Though nothing so dramatic had occurred, there was still the presence of Helios in Nick's essence; and Gaia had blessed him with hope he would use the energies of the sun. Ethan hoped his younger brother was simply a lesson learned and now the steps being taken were more cautious. Since he started training Nick, Ethan had not searched for Gaia's voice, had not payed attention to her presence on the island.
A blue butterfly flapped its wings in front of Ethan's face, adding the vibrant blue to the greenery he saw in the sanctuary. "It's time I speak with you again..."
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Why do I like Haiku?
I've just come to a realization that I LOVE writing Haiku. I think it's strange, but I've been told by a few people that I am a poet as well. I've never EVER considered myself a poet, but I enjoy writing poetry because it's so free and so VERY symbolic. I love symbolism if you haven't noticed already. Symbolism allows me to shape a piece of art for the reader so s/he can individualize the reading for him/herself. Yes there is my reading of it; but I cannot speak entirely for how an individual interprets it. I love this about writing; more so than any other art form...
But that freedom to create and inspire thinking and depth is why I love poetry as well. Well, why I enjoy writing poetry, because I don't want just one reading of it. I want at least two different readings or interpretations of my poems. I want two different readings of my work in general. Which then brings me to Haiku.
I love Haiku because it forces me to be extremely symbolic. The forced structure and the minimal form stretch my mind into 'thesaurus mode' in order to find the PERFECT fit for the emotion or meaning I'm searching for in one word. And often times that one word has several different interpretations. Then when I'm re-reading what I wrote I see something different. It's fascinating; what I end up accomplishing with Haiku. Thus... I hope you enjoy Haiku too, because I have a feeling it's going to become quite prevalent on my blog.
But that freedom to create and inspire thinking and depth is why I love poetry as well. Well, why I enjoy writing poetry, because I don't want just one reading of it. I want at least two different readings or interpretations of my poems. I want two different readings of my work in general. Which then brings me to Haiku.
I love Haiku because it forces me to be extremely symbolic. The forced structure and the minimal form stretch my mind into 'thesaurus mode' in order to find the PERFECT fit for the emotion or meaning I'm searching for in one word. And often times that one word has several different interpretations. Then when I'm re-reading what I wrote I see something different. It's fascinating; what I end up accomplishing with Haiku. Thus... I hope you enjoy Haiku too, because I have a feeling it's going to become quite prevalent on my blog.
The Changed Earth (Part 8)
"Quiet your thoughts, Nick."
Ethan sat across from his new pupil, staring at the youth's peaceful face. Behind closed lids, Nick's eyes were frantically moving from side to side as if following some imaginary floating light seen in that lonely darkness. They had been sitting on the beach for almost four hours now, Nick with his legs crossed and back straight, facing Ethan who watched patiently. Having tutored more than two hundred pupils over the years, Ethan was well versed at what his students were doing.
"Feel the lapping of the waves as they near the shore. Feel the wind caressing your cheek as it speaks to us. Feel the sun gently warming your head as you sit alone with yourself. Quiet your mind, clear it of everything you might desire or feel or know. Just be with yourself and the Earth." Something clicked in Nick's mind. His eyes were still, his breath had stopped, and his shoulders relaxed; which Ethan had neglected to notice as he watched Nick's face.
It was time for Ethan to join in the new meditative state. He closed his eyes finally, and settled himself into that same serenity. His mind stretched to all places and no places, entering the darkened landscape of the mind at peace. The wind brushed against him and he felt its gentle touch sooth his nerves ever so slightly, changing the stress of doubt and fear into a moment of knowledge. Ethan pushed his thoughts away so completely he felt suddenly naked in his own brain.
And then the eternal whisper of Gaia came.
Her voice was so faint it nearly sounded like the constant hush of the ear in a perfectly quiet room. Its cadence matched the swaying of the sea, and the focused words strengthened with the gusts of the breeze. Gaia's language was of the Earth itself; all sounds connected together to create its own meaning and understanding in phrases only the patient and sublime could know.
Ethan knew what she was saying: an event was on the horizon which Charles was precipitating. His plans were moving faster than Ethan's and Alexis'. However, Gaia wasn't ready to allow certain aspects to come to fruition; and her absoluteness was supreme upon the Earth. Ethan thanked her subtly and kept a portion of his thoughts with Gaia.
A blue butterfly appeared in his black mindscape.
Using his personal energy Ethan reached out to Nick and slowly crept into his mind. Nick didn't even notice the intrusion into his thoughts because, though his sat at peace and finally came into the meditative state, the world was playing with his senses more than he realized. He still heard the ocean's call and the wind's screaming; the crickets buzzing in the bushes and the birds singing as they flew overhead.
Ever so gently, like the touch of a feather brushing skin through a sheet, Ethan called out to Nick.
The pupil's attention was instantaneously grabbed and focused on Ethan's presence. The affect actually set Ethan on guard. What he felt was Nick's fear which responded as defense and aggression. Good tactics in the real world; devastating in the mindscape.
A picture of Ethan's face smiling with pride appeared for Nick to see. In return, Ethan felt the tension loosen and start to flow away like the ebbing tide. As the image of the ocean receded from Nick's mind, Ethan forced the image of the Earth to take its place. Not the Earth as it was to them at present, but the Earth as it should be: green and blue with white and grey clouds drifting on gentle winds unfettered with poison.
Ethan felt Nick sadden as he ventured through the image like a child picking up a broken toy. His heart was not ready to fight; the healing process was taking longer than Ethan desired but he had no choice. Nick was the only one who could sustain the rigorous training Ethan demanded. The other pupils were being trained by the gentler council members. Nick, however, possessed a special trait Ethan wanted to harness. He knew the power of Helios without even realizing it.
Once Nick had finished exploring, his eyes became clearly visible to Ethan. The passion was unmistakable: a fervent desire to restore what was lost, a fire which consumed ever other need he had was suddenly focused on the goal of restoration. Ethan cooled his passion with the lulling waves of the sea once more. He wasn't there to start that project just yet.
The image of the Earth shifted slightly; though its change was almost imperceptible. The feeling of it did change immensely. Permeating the mindscape came the touch of power, of sublime energy, of anger and love, of regret, of pride, and of a woman. And with that touch came the voice.
Shassha hiyaeeshhsha halahh Tastste la sssahyssha lanaahssha BUlassha nasshalakas
Whispers of air and water cresting over harsh earth and gentle meadows all rolled into the voice of Gaia.
Nick was stunned. His curiosity held him still; his fear made him want to flee. Compassion for the beauty of Gaia's voice made him dive into it and the lack of comprehension made him recoil. The warmth of Gaia's touch, of her creation and love and beauty, relaxed Nick's mind. The creative destruction of Gaia's balance made him tense.
As Nick went through the realization of Gaia's presence, Ethan knew it would never leave him. Soon, her voice would become unlocked and Nick would understand her as if she spoke in English. Soon, her wisdom would pass on to him and the ability to sustain his life would be made possible. And her power would be his to use as long as she saw it fit.
Ethan asked Gaia to allow Nick to return to his mind and back onto the physical plain for which they lived. Gaia acquiesced and retreated and yet remained.
As Ethan came to his body once more, he noticed a shadow panting over him.
"What... Was that Her?" a shaky voice pleaded as Ethan opened his eyes. Nick was already standing; eyes wide with awe, hands open and vibrating at his side.
"That is Gaia." Ethan stood gingerly. "She has always been with you, always right there," he said as he pointed his finger at Nick's forehead, "but we always forget to listen."
Nick shook his head. "I can't hear her now. I don't feel her now." He was starting to close off his mind again, starting to reject what he experienced as magic or trickery.
"Calm your heart," Ethan soothed with a smile. This happened every time. "Sit down." Nick sat abruptly. "Close your eyes."
Nick didn't. A suspicion crept into the whites.
"I'm not going to join you this time. And you don't have to go into such a deep meditation this time either. You'll see."
With a slight hesitation, Nick closed his eyes again. His breathing was still faster than normal, but that slowed after a minute or so.
"Listen to the sea. Can you hear its peace? And there's the wind, whispering its song to you. The grass is speaking her song, and the tree's branches are filtering the words. Can you hear Her now?"
And it happened. Nick's body relaxed and his head tilted to the right, lifting his ear to the air. His mouth opened and a smile came across his cheeks as he shivered. The song of Gaia strengthened and Ethan started to hear her voice again.
Welcome, my child. To the sky your energies will thrive; of Helios you will remain, and with my love you will become the one for yourself.
Ethan smiled as he looked at Nick's curly blond hair rustling in the wind around his oval face. It suddenly struck him how angelic Nick actually looked; and here Gaia blessed this angel of the sky to use the powers of the Sun in order to do battle and renew the Earth.
And then the thought hit him.
Did She do this for Charles as well?
Ethan sat across from his new pupil, staring at the youth's peaceful face. Behind closed lids, Nick's eyes were frantically moving from side to side as if following some imaginary floating light seen in that lonely darkness. They had been sitting on the beach for almost four hours now, Nick with his legs crossed and back straight, facing Ethan who watched patiently. Having tutored more than two hundred pupils over the years, Ethan was well versed at what his students were doing.
"Feel the lapping of the waves as they near the shore. Feel the wind caressing your cheek as it speaks to us. Feel the sun gently warming your head as you sit alone with yourself. Quiet your mind, clear it of everything you might desire or feel or know. Just be with yourself and the Earth." Something clicked in Nick's mind. His eyes were still, his breath had stopped, and his shoulders relaxed; which Ethan had neglected to notice as he watched Nick's face.
It was time for Ethan to join in the new meditative state. He closed his eyes finally, and settled himself into that same serenity. His mind stretched to all places and no places, entering the darkened landscape of the mind at peace. The wind brushed against him and he felt its gentle touch sooth his nerves ever so slightly, changing the stress of doubt and fear into a moment of knowledge. Ethan pushed his thoughts away so completely he felt suddenly naked in his own brain.
And then the eternal whisper of Gaia came.
Her voice was so faint it nearly sounded like the constant hush of the ear in a perfectly quiet room. Its cadence matched the swaying of the sea, and the focused words strengthened with the gusts of the breeze. Gaia's language was of the Earth itself; all sounds connected together to create its own meaning and understanding in phrases only the patient and sublime could know.
Ethan knew what she was saying: an event was on the horizon which Charles was precipitating. His plans were moving faster than Ethan's and Alexis'. However, Gaia wasn't ready to allow certain aspects to come to fruition; and her absoluteness was supreme upon the Earth. Ethan thanked her subtly and kept a portion of his thoughts with Gaia.
A blue butterfly appeared in his black mindscape.
Using his personal energy Ethan reached out to Nick and slowly crept into his mind. Nick didn't even notice the intrusion into his thoughts because, though his sat at peace and finally came into the meditative state, the world was playing with his senses more than he realized. He still heard the ocean's call and the wind's screaming; the crickets buzzing in the bushes and the birds singing as they flew overhead.
Ever so gently, like the touch of a feather brushing skin through a sheet, Ethan called out to Nick.
The pupil's attention was instantaneously grabbed and focused on Ethan's presence. The affect actually set Ethan on guard. What he felt was Nick's fear which responded as defense and aggression. Good tactics in the real world; devastating in the mindscape.
A picture of Ethan's face smiling with pride appeared for Nick to see. In return, Ethan felt the tension loosen and start to flow away like the ebbing tide. As the image of the ocean receded from Nick's mind, Ethan forced the image of the Earth to take its place. Not the Earth as it was to them at present, but the Earth as it should be: green and blue with white and grey clouds drifting on gentle winds unfettered with poison.
Ethan felt Nick sadden as he ventured through the image like a child picking up a broken toy. His heart was not ready to fight; the healing process was taking longer than Ethan desired but he had no choice. Nick was the only one who could sustain the rigorous training Ethan demanded. The other pupils were being trained by the gentler council members. Nick, however, possessed a special trait Ethan wanted to harness. He knew the power of Helios without even realizing it.
Once Nick had finished exploring, his eyes became clearly visible to Ethan. The passion was unmistakable: a fervent desire to restore what was lost, a fire which consumed ever other need he had was suddenly focused on the goal of restoration. Ethan cooled his passion with the lulling waves of the sea once more. He wasn't there to start that project just yet.
The image of the Earth shifted slightly; though its change was almost imperceptible. The feeling of it did change immensely. Permeating the mindscape came the touch of power, of sublime energy, of anger and love, of regret, of pride, and of a woman. And with that touch came the voice.
Shassha hiyaeeshhsha halahh Tastste la sssahyssha lanaahssha BUlassha nasshalakas
Whispers of air and water cresting over harsh earth and gentle meadows all rolled into the voice of Gaia.
Nick was stunned. His curiosity held him still; his fear made him want to flee. Compassion for the beauty of Gaia's voice made him dive into it and the lack of comprehension made him recoil. The warmth of Gaia's touch, of her creation and love and beauty, relaxed Nick's mind. The creative destruction of Gaia's balance made him tense.
As Nick went through the realization of Gaia's presence, Ethan knew it would never leave him. Soon, her voice would become unlocked and Nick would understand her as if she spoke in English. Soon, her wisdom would pass on to him and the ability to sustain his life would be made possible. And her power would be his to use as long as she saw it fit.
Ethan asked Gaia to allow Nick to return to his mind and back onto the physical plain for which they lived. Gaia acquiesced and retreated and yet remained.
As Ethan came to his body once more, he noticed a shadow panting over him.
"What... Was that Her?" a shaky voice pleaded as Ethan opened his eyes. Nick was already standing; eyes wide with awe, hands open and vibrating at his side.
"That is Gaia." Ethan stood gingerly. "She has always been with you, always right there," he said as he pointed his finger at Nick's forehead, "but we always forget to listen."
Nick shook his head. "I can't hear her now. I don't feel her now." He was starting to close off his mind again, starting to reject what he experienced as magic or trickery.
"Calm your heart," Ethan soothed with a smile. This happened every time. "Sit down." Nick sat abruptly. "Close your eyes."
Nick didn't. A suspicion crept into the whites.
"I'm not going to join you this time. And you don't have to go into such a deep meditation this time either. You'll see."
With a slight hesitation, Nick closed his eyes again. His breathing was still faster than normal, but that slowed after a minute or so.
"Listen to the sea. Can you hear its peace? And there's the wind, whispering its song to you. The grass is speaking her song, and the tree's branches are filtering the words. Can you hear Her now?"
And it happened. Nick's body relaxed and his head tilted to the right, lifting his ear to the air. His mouth opened and a smile came across his cheeks as he shivered. The song of Gaia strengthened and Ethan started to hear her voice again.
Welcome, my child. To the sky your energies will thrive; of Helios you will remain, and with my love you will become the one for yourself.
Ethan smiled as he looked at Nick's curly blond hair rustling in the wind around his oval face. It suddenly struck him how angelic Nick actually looked; and here Gaia blessed this angel of the sky to use the powers of the Sun in order to do battle and renew the Earth.
And then the thought hit him.
Did She do this for Charles as well?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Critique of Money
Money is truly an amazing thing. Unerringly, it strives to control, though inanimateness is the foundation of its being. Paper, cloth, shell, metal or some other mode by which we assign value is merely creation of imaginary truths to measure a system built on collective assumptions. Is it safe to say the first form of currency was word? Not even written, but oral? Bartering services and goods may have been the primal roots for economy. Perhaps I am wrong about this because every example of early civilization I can think of used some sort of physical currency as their main source for trade. This is not my point though...
Humans are 'meaning making machines,' as I heard from someone a long time ago. We love to have the aspects of our lives have meaning; wherefore we assign emotional triggers to meaningless events or objects or even our own thoughts and actions. Furthermore, we forget we make these meanings and suddenly believe in their existence as fact. This belief is so fundamental and strong that even the simplest thought of its signifier suddenly brings forth the associated output (emotional reaction of created definition). Think about that for a second. And think about your own reaction to the word or symbol of money.
What is money? What does it do? What does it mean? Symbolize? Do you need it? Does it sustain or destroy? Where or when did you learn about money? This is where my thoughts go every time a troublesome time revolves this enigma that we hold substantially vital to our primal existence in contemporary society.
According to a Financial Dictionary, money is defined in 2 ways.
1) a commodity or asset, such as gold, an officially issued currency, coin, or paper note, that can be legally exchanged for something equivalent, such as goods or services.
2) as defined by common law: a medium of exchange authorized or adopted by a domestic or foreign government and includes a monetary unit of account established by an intergovernmental organization or by agreement between two or more nations.
Is this really what money is? I don't think so, because if this where all that money was humanity, as a whole, would not hold it in such high regards. Maybe 'high regards' isn't the proper terminology for it, because not every group of individuals treasure money as the western civilization does (as a whole). Lets restart from the foundation of money; the actual word, stripped of meaning and emotion.
Audibly say 'Money.' In this instance it is nothing more than vibrations evoked from your vocal cords and controlled into a pattern (by throat, mouth, nose, teeth, lips, etc.) into a verbal cue translated as the word 'money.' Write down the word 'Money.' This is simply a collection of symbols representing certain letters in the English/Western/Romantic alphabet: M -- O -- N -- E -- Y. Put together and it spells out 'money.' This is when we get into definitions. Money, as children may view it, is something parents fight over; something needed in order to get the happy things in life; something that is made of many different things. To a child, money is a toy.
Over time, this definition changes drastically. Money becomes absolute; it is the lifeblood of society to our minds. No one in the western civilizations can say that you do not need money in order to live; unless they are crazy or actively attempting to live outside society on the land (in which they may have purchased or someone in their past may have purchased and left to them...). Therefore, seeing money as necessity, it starts to take on different aspects. Money somehow affects our moods, even though it has to physical manifestation of action without our influence. A lot of people, if not most people, give money power. They think money makes them happy, even through methods of purchasing what will cause happiness (a video game, a book, a television, a car, a bed, a house, food, etc.). Thus money is attributed with the power of emotion. If one doesn't have enough money they worry, get depressed, stress out, become a different attitude of character. And why does this happen? Because we allow it to; because we made the meaning of money to have such power over ourselves. We allowed money to have power.
Can something without mind, spirit, or voice actually have power over an entire society? I suppose it can, because that's what has happened to a vast majority of people. Poverty, if not enlightened, is seen as a degradation of the human spirit; and how often is poverty enlightened enough to have the stricken individual happy with their life? When we look to the future, a majority of western minds hope to have loads of money in order to escape the life they live in; something they think is impossible without money.
MONEY MONEY MONEY!!!
I allow it to drive me crazy, to make me angry, to supply my comfort, to build the foundation of my dreams. I really wish I wouldn't, but I feel programmed to think of money as the lifeblood of society, of my world. If I could live without money, I might be happier.
But that's just another meaning I've made up in order to create yet another dream full of emotions that have meanings created by myself. It's a vicious circle that I despise because I allow myself to and I want to. Oh well...
Humans are 'meaning making machines,' as I heard from someone a long time ago. We love to have the aspects of our lives have meaning; wherefore we assign emotional triggers to meaningless events or objects or even our own thoughts and actions. Furthermore, we forget we make these meanings and suddenly believe in their existence as fact. This belief is so fundamental and strong that even the simplest thought of its signifier suddenly brings forth the associated output (emotional reaction of created definition). Think about that for a second. And think about your own reaction to the word or symbol of money.
What is money? What does it do? What does it mean? Symbolize? Do you need it? Does it sustain or destroy? Where or when did you learn about money? This is where my thoughts go every time a troublesome time revolves this enigma that we hold substantially vital to our primal existence in contemporary society.
According to a Financial Dictionary, money is defined in 2 ways.
1) a commodity or asset, such as gold, an officially issued currency, coin, or paper note, that can be legally exchanged for something equivalent, such as goods or services.
2) as defined by common law: a medium of exchange authorized or adopted by a domestic or foreign government and includes a monetary unit of account established by an intergovernmental organization or by agreement between two or more nations.
Is this really what money is? I don't think so, because if this where all that money was humanity, as a whole, would not hold it in such high regards. Maybe 'high regards' isn't the proper terminology for it, because not every group of individuals treasure money as the western civilization does (as a whole). Lets restart from the foundation of money; the actual word, stripped of meaning and emotion.
Audibly say 'Money.' In this instance it is nothing more than vibrations evoked from your vocal cords and controlled into a pattern (by throat, mouth, nose, teeth, lips, etc.) into a verbal cue translated as the word 'money.' Write down the word 'Money.' This is simply a collection of symbols representing certain letters in the English/Western/Romantic alphabet: M -- O -- N -- E -- Y. Put together and it spells out 'money.' This is when we get into definitions. Money, as children may view it, is something parents fight over; something needed in order to get the happy things in life; something that is made of many different things. To a child, money is a toy.
Over time, this definition changes drastically. Money becomes absolute; it is the lifeblood of society to our minds. No one in the western civilizations can say that you do not need money in order to live; unless they are crazy or actively attempting to live outside society on the land (in which they may have purchased or someone in their past may have purchased and left to them...). Therefore, seeing money as necessity, it starts to take on different aspects. Money somehow affects our moods, even though it has to physical manifestation of action without our influence. A lot of people, if not most people, give money power. They think money makes them happy, even through methods of purchasing what will cause happiness (a video game, a book, a television, a car, a bed, a house, food, etc.). Thus money is attributed with the power of emotion. If one doesn't have enough money they worry, get depressed, stress out, become a different attitude of character. And why does this happen? Because we allow it to; because we made the meaning of money to have such power over ourselves. We allowed money to have power.
Can something without mind, spirit, or voice actually have power over an entire society? I suppose it can, because that's what has happened to a vast majority of people. Poverty, if not enlightened, is seen as a degradation of the human spirit; and how often is poverty enlightened enough to have the stricken individual happy with their life? When we look to the future, a majority of western minds hope to have loads of money in order to escape the life they live in; something they think is impossible without money.
MONEY MONEY MONEY!!!
I allow it to drive me crazy, to make me angry, to supply my comfort, to build the foundation of my dreams. I really wish I wouldn't, but I feel programmed to think of money as the lifeblood of society, of my world. If I could live without money, I might be happier.
But that's just another meaning I've made up in order to create yet another dream full of emotions that have meanings created by myself. It's a vicious circle that I despise because I allow myself to and I want to. Oh well...
Sunday, April 11, 2010
A Few More Haiku to Spark My Creativity!!!
A troubled goodbye,
when my heart cannot speak it;
Betrayed, time flies.
-------------------------------------------
Shadowed heart remain
Beyond delicate thoughts of
Ones going away.
-------------------------------------------
Juxtapose the Sun
Moon white clouds drift by on Blue
Tears cleanse shattered hope.
-------------------------------------------
Cathartic ink spills
Emotions buried in air;
Color on Mirrors.
-------------------------------------------
You judge my eyes now?
Minute thoughts pass on unscathed.
I judge reflections.
when my heart cannot speak it;
Betrayed, time flies.
-------------------------------------------
Shadowed heart remain
Beyond delicate thoughts of
Ones going away.
-------------------------------------------
Juxtapose the Sun
Moon white clouds drift by on Blue
Tears cleanse shattered hope.
-------------------------------------------
Cathartic ink spills
Emotions buried in air;
Color on Mirrors.
-------------------------------------------
You judge my eyes now?
Minute thoughts pass on unscathed.
I judge reflections.
The Broken Boy
An armless chair holds his skinny frame; contorted to maximize comfort. Slouching thoroughly, head resting to the left, he stares off into the other world of his mind.
The Eye that sees
however it feeds
to bring a cherished world.
however it feeds
to bring a cherished world.
One leg straightened to his left, the shorts ending above his pale knee; the other bent as his foot rests on the edge of the seat. His black shoes only make his legs look whiter while the khaki succeeds in making them look dead.
The sorrowed smile
beckons the wile
of time lost trudging through work
beckons the wile
of time lost trudging through work
Wearing his green apron to attempt a protection for his clothes, he moves his limp arms carefully to ensure his black, collared shirt is still tucked in. Sleeves rolled up and the collar pressed neatly, he looks sleepless from shoulders up. The angular jaw relaxed in the slightly oval frame; smile turned downward as he stares into space; time lost in his darkened eyes as his hair falls slightly around his face.
The ticking of time
closes his rhyme
when bearing compresses his chest.
closes his rhyme
when bearing compresses his chest.
Standing slowly, he shuffles back to his glee-filled work. As the corner is turned, the face relaxes back to its facade of content to be serving those who desire the need.
Springtime sunshine
Bright behind windows
Contrived essence of a beautiful day.
Bright behind windows
Contrived essence of a beautiful day.
Letter to a Love Unknown
Dearest Adieu;
Though its thought troubles my heart deeper than a will of restraint might withhold my fears; there is no other respectable form to place my words. Insufferable as cliches can determine this love unfathomable, there is a sense more prideful than a simple caring of my visage or the presence of ambition. My love for you has scarcely been told, but the evidence of which now grasps intently upon my eyes and smothers the breath of my heart. To know of peril beyond recovery; to be born to the end of twilight holding no moon for guidance after the words, what expectations exist that mar only the circumstance without accusations holding to the past?
You would have us look to the East again, the rain elegantly releasing the snare of the boa around our motivation. If not for your prowess in spirit through all, that sun would set and rest beyond time for the benefit of naught. Your eyes coerce our drives: the never-ending expectation for the wind to blow again, the petals to open and reign in beauty, the prowl of the panther to continue its hunt.
Though my sorrow touches deep into my soul, I know yours hides behind your loving protection. The standard set before ever such times were born reside with us, there living your spirit evermore. Find nirvana in your serenity; the sway of willow leaves beckon on the horizon. Let its call be yours.
Blessed Be.
Though its thought troubles my heart deeper than a will of restraint might withhold my fears; there is no other respectable form to place my words. Insufferable as cliches can determine this love unfathomable, there is a sense more prideful than a simple caring of my visage or the presence of ambition. My love for you has scarcely been told, but the evidence of which now grasps intently upon my eyes and smothers the breath of my heart. To know of peril beyond recovery; to be born to the end of twilight holding no moon for guidance after the words, what expectations exist that mar only the circumstance without accusations holding to the past?
You would have us look to the East again, the rain elegantly releasing the snare of the boa around our motivation. If not for your prowess in spirit through all, that sun would set and rest beyond time for the benefit of naught. Your eyes coerce our drives: the never-ending expectation for the wind to blow again, the petals to open and reign in beauty, the prowl of the panther to continue its hunt.
Though my sorrow touches deep into my soul, I know yours hides behind your loving protection. The standard set before ever such times were born reside with us, there living your spirit evermore. Find nirvana in your serenity; the sway of willow leaves beckon on the horizon. Let its call be yours.
Blessed Be.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Critique on "Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"
Want a novel that will make you think? Than Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach, (C) 1977, is the one to pick up. It's basically already summarized for you in the title: this story is about the adventures of a reluctant messiah.
However, this doesn't explain the wondrous implications of the intriguing thought processes this novel will inspire. Questioning reality as fact is a central theme; but not in a negative or evil way. Illusions hopes you'll allow yourself to affect the way you view reality and therefore how its effect is permitted to interact with your perception and emotions about life. It's inspiring, to say the least.
Having an open mind is critical while reading this book. If you have strong religious beliefs (especially about the Messiah), Illusions probably isn't the book for you. In this story, there are two men who come across each other in a field. They fly airplanes for a living. What we discover (on the first page actually) is that one of them is a knowing Messiah who is reluctant to leave this world (or rather plain of existence) until he has learned what he came to learn. However, the man he comes across is also a Messiah, one who has forgotten the way to ascension, as it were. He is even more reluctant to understand that he is a Messiah, whereby creating a larger theme that everyman is the Messiah.
I feel there are larger social implications written in the subtext of Illusions that speak to our materialistic desires of mankind. There is also a very prominent homosexual theme which doesn't take too much digging to understand. Near the conclusion of the book, we are permitted to witness the message without any covering or protection. It is blatantly explained to us about our reality and our beliefs being a matter of choice, which is the central theme. The book explains how choice has truly affected our world, and that we have lost the ability to see this.
The writing style is wonderful as well. Little poems appear through the book, teaching the main character (and ourselves) important life lessons about how to become the Messiah. It's final lesson is truly inspirational (and I'm sorry, but I won't ruin that lesson for you...). I do recommend this book for everyone. It's an easy read, short and simple without complex sentences and ideas (unless you feel your faith is being questioned of course).
'Paris', a film by Cedric Klapisch: a Very French Movie!
To start, this is a wonderful movie. Very French indeed, which I believe needs a little explanation. First, I shall give you the brief synopsis of Paris, a film by Cedric Klapisch (who is now considered a very good director in my eyes).
Paris is the story about a dancer (Pierre) who is struggling with some sort of heart disease, killing him slowly (it appears). Pierre's sudden appreciation for life, since his is being cut tragically short, is the foundation for the movie. He is able to see the Parisian outlook on life and we are then taken on sub-plots which exaggerate this point without being completely up-front and in your face about it. We are able to draw the conclusion that Pierre has seen by viewing these side stories of the people who live around him. What we see is a Paris which most might suspect already exists: the seemingly standard experience of metropolitan dwellers and their blindness to how good their life might be because of the little dramas that play out so well.
Now, what I mean by saying "Very French" is the movie itself. Like most French films, the plot is sometimes confusing until the very end when the audience is allowed to see the meaning of the work as a whole. Pierre is dieing and the movie is based between the appointment where he discovers he is dieing and the appointment where he's going into surgery (which we never see, but assume is going to happen). The sub-plots have no direct relationship to this main plot which drives the story. The only one which really has any consequence is the story of Elise, Pierre's sister. Elise visits the market once a day, and at the market interacts with the sales people therein. The audience then follows these people on their journeys, interspersed with Pierre's plight every so often. Then there's the completely out of the blue interaction with a Professor who has no relation to Pierre other than the fact that he's having sex with a 'neighbor' of Pierre's. Add on top of this the sub-plot of a North African man who is attempting to illegally enter France and make his way to Paris. Lots of sub-plots which help put into perspective the message of Pierre's sudden realization about life in Paris. Another aspect of this movie being "Very French" is that the ending is left open to interpretation; much like how our world never ends, Paris concludes with the next action in life taking its course. We don't know the outcome of Pierre's surgery; but that's not the point.
Overall, this is a beautifully done movie. It's comedy is tangible in the drama for which it is set. The emotions are easily related to our lives even through the translations in the subtitles. Paris presents many social issues striking France during this world wide economic downturn and almost portrays a deeper understanding of the 'single life' in Paris. It's not a glamorous portrayal of the city of romance and love. It is, however, a realistic view stripped of fantasy. It is a wonderful movie.
If you don't have any issues reading while you're watching a movie, go rent Paris. It is a wonderful story about appreciating the life you're able to live!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Dougy Fresh
Driving away from my house, John says sarcastically, "Beat me with your meat! Eww -- It's all over me!!!" imitating the reaction of meat oozing out of a package onto his face... much like something else.
We laugh, remembering the 5 pound roll of ground beef stuffed into a tight plastic package... you fill in the naughty joke... We laugh for a few minutes as I drive towards Taco Bell. "Alright, alright. Lets go get some cheap meat shoved into a meat wallet," I say while trying to stop laughing. He giggles in return.
The windows are down, allowing the warm spring air to fly through my car, refreshing our enthusiasm for the upcoming summer. Remembrance of the cold from the previous day's morning was lost to the future, and the sexual jests came alive again with the rebirth of youth.
Our comfort with these vagaries wasn't infallible to every outside influence, which quickly became apparent. The irony wasn't lost to me.
John is one to always share jokes, regarding every topic regardless the consequences at times. People's boundaries are pushed, their minds can be stretched, and the shock value is always there. As Kelly once said, "When he said that, my mouth dropped and I couldn't help but laugh! He'll joke about anything, won't he? Just like Chad." And it's true.
Well, as we make our way up Kohl Street, named after the elementary school which was only four blocks away, I saw a familiar face. Dougy Fresh was walking up the sidewalk coming toward us. Since my windows were down and no one was behind me, I pulled over and yelled, "DOUGY FRESH!"
It took a second to recognize me, obviously seeing John in the passenger seat. "Hey boys! How's it going?" he said as he came over to my car. Leaning against the door, Dougy Fresh asked, "Where are you guys headed?"
"Home. What are you doing?"
"Looking for some pussy."
John's head jerked around, shoulders tensing slightly as he leaned away from Dougy Fresh.
I laughed. "Oh Dougy! Are you finding any?"
"Well, you know, road kill is kinda gamy. But you are what you eat!"
John moved away ever so slightly again. I saw more of his irises than normal as he stared with shock at Dougy Fresh.
Dougy started moving away from the car, obviously pleased with his ability to jest with the youngsters. "Well, Good Luck with your hunt, Dougy!" I laugh along with him.
Finally letting a bit of a chuckle out, John said goodbye to Dougy as he started walking away. I drove off, bringing back the winds of the spring afternoon into my car, still laughing at how wonderful Dougy Fresh was for being able to shock John into silence. His phone practically leaped out of his pocket so he could text the only person who would understand his plight: Gracie-Loo Freebush.
We laugh, remembering the 5 pound roll of ground beef stuffed into a tight plastic package... you fill in the naughty joke... We laugh for a few minutes as I drive towards Taco Bell. "Alright, alright. Lets go get some cheap meat shoved into a meat wallet," I say while trying to stop laughing. He giggles in return.
The windows are down, allowing the warm spring air to fly through my car, refreshing our enthusiasm for the upcoming summer. Remembrance of the cold from the previous day's morning was lost to the future, and the sexual jests came alive again with the rebirth of youth.
Our comfort with these vagaries wasn't infallible to every outside influence, which quickly became apparent. The irony wasn't lost to me.
John is one to always share jokes, regarding every topic regardless the consequences at times. People's boundaries are pushed, their minds can be stretched, and the shock value is always there. As Kelly once said, "When he said that, my mouth dropped and I couldn't help but laugh! He'll joke about anything, won't he? Just like Chad." And it's true.
Well, as we make our way up Kohl Street, named after the elementary school which was only four blocks away, I saw a familiar face. Dougy Fresh was walking up the sidewalk coming toward us. Since my windows were down and no one was behind me, I pulled over and yelled, "DOUGY FRESH!"
It took a second to recognize me, obviously seeing John in the passenger seat. "Hey boys! How's it going?" he said as he came over to my car. Leaning against the door, Dougy Fresh asked, "Where are you guys headed?"
"Home. What are you doing?"
"Looking for some pussy."
John's head jerked around, shoulders tensing slightly as he leaned away from Dougy Fresh.
I laughed. "Oh Dougy! Are you finding any?"
"Well, you know, road kill is kinda gamy. But you are what you eat!"
John moved away ever so slightly again. I saw more of his irises than normal as he stared with shock at Dougy Fresh.
Dougy started moving away from the car, obviously pleased with his ability to jest with the youngsters. "Well, Good Luck with your hunt, Dougy!" I laugh along with him.
Finally letting a bit of a chuckle out, John said goodbye to Dougy as he started walking away. I drove off, bringing back the winds of the spring afternoon into my car, still laughing at how wonderful Dougy Fresh was for being able to shock John into silence. His phone practically leaped out of his pocket so he could text the only person who would understand his plight: Gracie-Loo Freebush.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Oh, My Neighbor...
It's Easter, and I understand a lot of people are celebrating and enjoying this special day, especially in America (I LOVE CANDY!!!!). However, I don't think any Sunday is meant to be presented as my neighbor wishes to make it.
I live in a neighborhood with a wide variety of ages, vast political viewpoints, interspersed income amounts, and a grand diversity of family units. My household is a three generation household (I live with my mom and grandmother while I'm in school), we are extremely liberal, possibly at the lower end of the middle class income; there's a Christian, a Buddhist, an Agnostic (maybe?), and a Wiccan (me). Down the street from me is a Hispanic family with four kids and possibly an uncle living with the parents (and they live in a smaller house than mine) and they're definitely making less than my family. Up the street that circles my portion of the street is a very wealthy household who use to own the land that most of the commercial industry is built on many many years ago. I've never seen them, but I think it's two people living in a large country-style house.
And right across the street from me are two retired, old Republicans... We'll call them John and Jane to keep some anonymity to their life.
Well...Today my mom and brother were building a bed for our vegetable garden that we started last year. John, with all his infinite wisdom of farming (I say this with as straight of a face as I can possibly muster given his distinct lack of knowledge about... well, possibly anything in his senile brain...), came over and started instructing and telling stories about his life and how they related to gardening. Their garden consists of perennials and a large tree which shelters the plants from the sun in the summer and keeps moisture close to the ground. So... minimal gardening to say the least. At one point, during the last drought we experienced, John decided to complain about how the farmers were taking away all the water the city needed so they could take baths when we couldn't... I wanted to hit him...
So... after a few hours of construction, my mom decided to come inside, muttering, "You can only take so much of John," while shaking her head. Jane apparently decided to stay inside today. I could only imagine how his deodorant-free, sweaty armpits permeated the air as he stood pointing and flailing as his tired, ragged voice tried to compensate for his failing, pear-shaped body and permanently gray hair quickly receding off his scalp. The nonsensical anecdotes his life donates to our world are beyond our comprehension. That's to say, we don't understand why he brings up the things he brings up; other than to have an opinion about anything.
Now that you have the basis for my appreciation for John's existence... I'll get to my tale.
I walked out to my car, laptop bag hanging heavily from my left shoulder as I began thinking about the trigonometry homework I was about to attempt. I heard this odd sort of buzzing, muffled and dim, but would grow in frequency and strength every so often at odd intervals. Thinking it was just a car about to drive by, coming up the street, or starting somewhere off in the distance, I didn't think much of it at first.
Then I looked up to see if there were any neighbors sitting outside... you know, to say 'Hi' and not be rude. We feign interest in a community sense to ensure protection and security with our neighbors...
Well, across the street was John in his now off-white tank-top covered in a faded blue and gray plaid, button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up; faded blue jeans and moccasins. In his mouth was an electronic toothbrush, vibrating away right on the side of the street.
Aimlessly walking down his driveway, he nodded to me as I tried to not look surprised. I'm not entirely sure how successful I was... I waved with my free hand, the one not holding my bag to my side. He turned right and started shuffling down the sidewalk under his tree as a few cars drove by. Once I sat down in the driver's seat of my car, Phineas, I couldn't help but laugh...
Who brushes their teeth outside in a busy neighborhood just off a major highway in broad daylight? I hope I never get that senile; unless I live somewhere remote and it doesn't matter. Then I might throw out some of the other social norms as well and live free as a bird.
I live in a neighborhood with a wide variety of ages, vast political viewpoints, interspersed income amounts, and a grand diversity of family units. My household is a three generation household (I live with my mom and grandmother while I'm in school), we are extremely liberal, possibly at the lower end of the middle class income; there's a Christian, a Buddhist, an Agnostic (maybe?), and a Wiccan (me). Down the street from me is a Hispanic family with four kids and possibly an uncle living with the parents (and they live in a smaller house than mine) and they're definitely making less than my family. Up the street that circles my portion of the street is a very wealthy household who use to own the land that most of the commercial industry is built on many many years ago. I've never seen them, but I think it's two people living in a large country-style house.
And right across the street from me are two retired, old Republicans... We'll call them John and Jane to keep some anonymity to their life.
Well...Today my mom and brother were building a bed for our vegetable garden that we started last year. John, with all his infinite wisdom of farming (I say this with as straight of a face as I can possibly muster given his distinct lack of knowledge about... well, possibly anything in his senile brain...), came over and started instructing and telling stories about his life and how they related to gardening. Their garden consists of perennials and a large tree which shelters the plants from the sun in the summer and keeps moisture close to the ground. So... minimal gardening to say the least. At one point, during the last drought we experienced, John decided to complain about how the farmers were taking away all the water the city needed so they could take baths when we couldn't... I wanted to hit him...
So... after a few hours of construction, my mom decided to come inside, muttering, "You can only take so much of John," while shaking her head. Jane apparently decided to stay inside today. I could only imagine how his deodorant-free, sweaty armpits permeated the air as he stood pointing and flailing as his tired, ragged voice tried to compensate for his failing, pear-shaped body and permanently gray hair quickly receding off his scalp. The nonsensical anecdotes his life donates to our world are beyond our comprehension. That's to say, we don't understand why he brings up the things he brings up; other than to have an opinion about anything.
Now that you have the basis for my appreciation for John's existence... I'll get to my tale.
I walked out to my car, laptop bag hanging heavily from my left shoulder as I began thinking about the trigonometry homework I was about to attempt. I heard this odd sort of buzzing, muffled and dim, but would grow in frequency and strength every so often at odd intervals. Thinking it was just a car about to drive by, coming up the street, or starting somewhere off in the distance, I didn't think much of it at first.
Then I looked up to see if there were any neighbors sitting outside... you know, to say 'Hi' and not be rude. We feign interest in a community sense to ensure protection and security with our neighbors...
Well, across the street was John in his now off-white tank-top covered in a faded blue and gray plaid, button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up; faded blue jeans and moccasins. In his mouth was an electronic toothbrush, vibrating away right on the side of the street.
Aimlessly walking down his driveway, he nodded to me as I tried to not look surprised. I'm not entirely sure how successful I was... I waved with my free hand, the one not holding my bag to my side. He turned right and started shuffling down the sidewalk under his tree as a few cars drove by. Once I sat down in the driver's seat of my car, Phineas, I couldn't help but laugh...
Who brushes their teeth outside in a busy neighborhood just off a major highway in broad daylight? I hope I never get that senile; unless I live somewhere remote and it doesn't matter. Then I might throw out some of the other social norms as well and live free as a bird.
Take Away the Choiceless Thought
Chariot with wheels of fire, Draw
the light of flickering shadows away,
suspending darkness; knowing its
only place as moratorium till further
days.
As you crest, warm God of day,
bring forth a heart for those to hold,
in shadows they stand looking deep
and unable,
though attempts strive for that
knowing which flickers in the
shadows.
Illuminate the world we see,
no shades drawn over your source;
if thus compromised only lingered
unjustly
by the selves who walk;
restrained by circumstances alone.
Singularity pulsing upon that Earth,
whose whispers are gone from their ears, to
strive in fallacy,
only they can look outside the cave;
can walk past flames nurtured by
hands and
doused the same.
Oh sun, great father of our sky!
Guide our sight as
mother guides our intuition.
Help dispel the smothering
clouds
which manifest our defense
against what we choose
and who we are;
the lies sought without
truths half earned in our eyes.
Don't cleanse the earth of
deepest oceans;
Don't take away the
structured mounds;
Don't quiet doubt and
reason beyond;
Don't shutter away the
rose and thorn;
Don't demise the utter
belief.
The sun rests above the
western mountains,
rays flying in spears of light
to dance below the darkened
clouds downpouring the
enlivening tears.
An evening arc full of grace
emerges beneath the
dark blue angel; stretching
out for those who See.
A smile of colors glimmering
in light
in the last few breaths
of day.
Eastern skies birth She;
another stage before an
unending existence
balanced quietly in an
unfathomable understanding
of now and never and am.
Her Bowman dancing about the night,
as restful souls speak quiet songs;
reflections of the chariot's flight,
yet more perfect than his strength.
A multitude of seeing sought
in ever clearing, silver-white
moonlight,
the cloudless mind drifts
toward nirvana;
completeness.
The choices of sleep in ever
troubling days when illusions
spark the stressing aches bring
ignorant blissful ignorance;
the choice of lacking in tools,
a choice to choose
nothingness
and strive for ever after joy
destroys that semblance
of fortitude.
Night can only rot
the suspended darkness
and decline the moratorium
of shadows
illuminated in day.
Till finally, the being can be no more
as ever it was.
The traversing trials of trampled
tracks are sought once more
as virtuous and blessed.
And rarely is it seen:
the walk is ever
Our Own,
for ever are we walking.
the light of flickering shadows away,
suspending darkness; knowing its
only place as moratorium till further
days.
As you crest, warm God of day,
bring forth a heart for those to hold,
in shadows they stand looking deep
and unable,
though attempts strive for that
knowing which flickers in the
shadows.
Illuminate the world we see,
no shades drawn over your source;
if thus compromised only lingered
unjustly
by the selves who walk;
restrained by circumstances alone.
Singularity pulsing upon that Earth,
whose whispers are gone from their ears, to
strive in fallacy,
only they can look outside the cave;
can walk past flames nurtured by
hands and
doused the same.
Oh sun, great father of our sky!
Guide our sight as
mother guides our intuition.
Help dispel the smothering
clouds
which manifest our defense
against what we choose
and who we are;
the lies sought without
truths half earned in our eyes.
Don't cleanse the earth of
deepest oceans;
Don't take away the
structured mounds;
Don't quiet doubt and
reason beyond;
Don't shutter away the
rose and thorn;
Don't demise the utter
belief.
The sun rests above the
western mountains,
rays flying in spears of light
to dance below the darkened
clouds downpouring the
enlivening tears.
An evening arc full of grace
emerges beneath the
dark blue angel; stretching
out for those who See.
A smile of colors glimmering
in light
in the last few breaths
of day.
Eastern skies birth She;
another stage before an
unending existence
balanced quietly in an
unfathomable understanding
of now and never and am.
Her Bowman dancing about the night,
as restful souls speak quiet songs;
reflections of the chariot's flight,
yet more perfect than his strength.
A multitude of seeing sought
in ever clearing, silver-white
moonlight,
the cloudless mind drifts
toward nirvana;
completeness.
The choices of sleep in ever
troubling days when illusions
spark the stressing aches bring
ignorant blissful ignorance;
the choice of lacking in tools,
a choice to choose
nothingness
and strive for ever after joy
destroys that semblance
of fortitude.
Night can only rot
the suspended darkness
and decline the moratorium
of shadows
illuminated in day.
Till finally, the being can be no more
as ever it was.
The traversing trials of trampled
tracks are sought once more
as virtuous and blessed.
And rarely is it seen:
the walk is ever
Our Own,
for ever are we walking.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Illusionary Reality
I speak.
The world around me exists on the very wind I breathe. The way of life is only as I desire; no strand out of place, no atom without perfection, no mood unwarranted. The world turns as I believe it, the universe grows as I know it, the societies permit as I acknowledge. The way of justice is ruled by me, acceptance is at my arm, purity is purchased through my eyes.
These things are true. These things are real. These things are --
For I am merely man.
She turned her head slightly, lifting her ear to the wind as its fingers brushed through her hair. Black sprinkled with white lifted listlessly into the air, contrasting the green leaves rustling against the azure sky of high noon. Her hair embodied every color, regardless of the stark juxtaposition of rainbows and night, of waving and quivering, of reality and imagination. This woman was, as she sat cross-legged on the hillside overlooking the forests around her which bordered the metropolitan of the so-called living. With little regard for that maze of steel several miles away, she sat listening to the wind and earth.
To her, all was as it should be. The proximity of civilization was within arms reach, while the barbarism of the contemporary world lay in ruins beyond her sight. Existence remained as she wanted, and solidarity reigned in the completeness of her universe. For that's all it ever was: illusions of perspective given permission to invade the outlook for which she saw. That moment was for the forest: a whole lifetime shared with the trees swaying in the breath of the Sky as the Ground hummed effortlessly below audibility and the streams downhill trickled their crisp giggles. The Sun above left her with warmth enough to live for years.
Peace: the serenity of contemplation and love avowed eminence within the mind entrusted from nature. That sense, which divorces the necessity for accelerated living and acquisition of fictitious anomalies, embraced her willingly with arms of possession. Welcoming the symbiotic embrace, she looked around her to see what her life had become in such short times.
Alive.
Constant movement of the living Earth lived within her self; the growing hands reaching ever upward swaying in the delicate breeze, the rushing of animals fidgeting in the undergrowth as they search for sustenance, the subtle changes of pressure between the below and the above catching her mind... Reality.
A sudden desire to feel that reality shift, ever so slightly, overwhelmed her being. She stretched out her hand so it hovered inches above the ground and closed her eyes. She saw a hand full of seeds resting in her open palm. Weight suddenly pushed her hand down, and she tightened a few muscles slightly to compensate for the new pressure. Within moments, each one bringing new emotions and senses from the immediate world, a small squirrel reached into the offering and took out a small seed to start eating.
The woman opened her eyes and looked down at the brown critter sitting on his haunches holding the elliptical seed in his skinny hands. Soon another cautiously scampered towards her outstretched hand. The two sat there, obligingly ignorant of the other and of her had resting between them. A sense of jubilation crept through her; first slinking up her arm like a gentle tarantula, then cascading like waterfalls from gigantic cliff-sides at the end of a fastest river. All she, all she knew all she comprehended; what she allowed herself to experience seemed nothing less than a miracle. The wonder of the world's interconnectedness with the perspective conceived through immediate perception and lack of understanding. She continued to sit there in awe as she extended her awareness to the surrounding glade and hill for which she sat atop.
She wanted flowers; reds, purples, blues, whites, golds, and pinks. All of them, growing wildly like a carpet swaying in the wind.
And they appeared: roses and lilacs and daisies and irises and lilies and marigolds. The floral scent of the air permeated her skin and made her fell like flowers herself. The beautiful rainbow spread out before her and soon butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees arrived to buzz and hum and tickle her senses even more. The acute laughter of pleasure escaped her lips, matching the delicate picturesque scenery she was creating moment to moment. All thoughts of her life before and what was to come escaped her attention without a thought to the contrary.
Yet, after a while, she felt lonely and wanted her love so dearly. The distances between which were certainly far; as far as the metropolis and its greying existence. But that didn't stop her imagining and seeing and knowing him with her. Knowing the world as but a plain of now; suddenly coherently perceiving a truth substantial and yet insignificant. She heard his soft footsteps walking between the petals, felt his smile break between the air and her eyes, knew his touch on her shoulder.
There he was, sitting beside her and the two squirrels still eating their seeds from her hand.
Throwing away the seeds, making the critters scamper off after their treasures, she pulled her love into a kiss of appreciation, and soon they lay back on the bed of flowers. Looking deep into the sky, she thanked whatever source she might have come in contact with: the God, a Goddess, an Essence beyond knowing. Something responded, something so vast and light and dark and small touched her thoughts. For that moment, that mere instance, she knew what she needed to know, and it stayed with her beyond that unforgettable afternoon in the woods on a hill looking out over the world she thought she knew.
It was all an nothing and her, for her world was only hers and could never be anyone else's. The tiniest spec of reality she fostered was but a resemblance of that greater acknowledgment; and acknowledging its power she accepted its being into her own and could change her life. She knew it would never be this easy again, the mere thought conjuring the reality for which she needed and desired beyond what was given and taken from her. And the Essence told her that the gift would never leave, the God told her she had always owned it, and the Goddess told her with practice and love she would know it again.
The sky opened up and revealed the day with a new light she never saw before: her life. They lay there for hours, soaking up the miracle of knowing life for its illusions and the power of change which could give that special power to anyone who sought it.
The world around me exists on the very wind I breathe. The way of life is only as I desire; no strand out of place, no atom without perfection, no mood unwarranted. The world turns as I believe it, the universe grows as I know it, the societies permit as I acknowledge. The way of justice is ruled by me, acceptance is at my arm, purity is purchased through my eyes.
These things are true. These things are real. These things are --
For I am merely man.
She turned her head slightly, lifting her ear to the wind as its fingers brushed through her hair. Black sprinkled with white lifted listlessly into the air, contrasting the green leaves rustling against the azure sky of high noon. Her hair embodied every color, regardless of the stark juxtaposition of rainbows and night, of waving and quivering, of reality and imagination. This woman was, as she sat cross-legged on the hillside overlooking the forests around her which bordered the metropolitan of the so-called living. With little regard for that maze of steel several miles away, she sat listening to the wind and earth.
To her, all was as it should be. The proximity of civilization was within arms reach, while the barbarism of the contemporary world lay in ruins beyond her sight. Existence remained as she wanted, and solidarity reigned in the completeness of her universe. For that's all it ever was: illusions of perspective given permission to invade the outlook for which she saw. That moment was for the forest: a whole lifetime shared with the trees swaying in the breath of the Sky as the Ground hummed effortlessly below audibility and the streams downhill trickled their crisp giggles. The Sun above left her with warmth enough to live for years.
Peace: the serenity of contemplation and love avowed eminence within the mind entrusted from nature. That sense, which divorces the necessity for accelerated living and acquisition of fictitious anomalies, embraced her willingly with arms of possession. Welcoming the symbiotic embrace, she looked around her to see what her life had become in such short times.
Alive.
Constant movement of the living Earth lived within her self; the growing hands reaching ever upward swaying in the delicate breeze, the rushing of animals fidgeting in the undergrowth as they search for sustenance, the subtle changes of pressure between the below and the above catching her mind... Reality.
A sudden desire to feel that reality shift, ever so slightly, overwhelmed her being. She stretched out her hand so it hovered inches above the ground and closed her eyes. She saw a hand full of seeds resting in her open palm. Weight suddenly pushed her hand down, and she tightened a few muscles slightly to compensate for the new pressure. Within moments, each one bringing new emotions and senses from the immediate world, a small squirrel reached into the offering and took out a small seed to start eating.
The woman opened her eyes and looked down at the brown critter sitting on his haunches holding the elliptical seed in his skinny hands. Soon another cautiously scampered towards her outstretched hand. The two sat there, obligingly ignorant of the other and of her had resting between them. A sense of jubilation crept through her; first slinking up her arm like a gentle tarantula, then cascading like waterfalls from gigantic cliff-sides at the end of a fastest river. All she, all she knew all she comprehended; what she allowed herself to experience seemed nothing less than a miracle. The wonder of the world's interconnectedness with the perspective conceived through immediate perception and lack of understanding. She continued to sit there in awe as she extended her awareness to the surrounding glade and hill for which she sat atop.
She wanted flowers; reds, purples, blues, whites, golds, and pinks. All of them, growing wildly like a carpet swaying in the wind.
And they appeared: roses and lilacs and daisies and irises and lilies and marigolds. The floral scent of the air permeated her skin and made her fell like flowers herself. The beautiful rainbow spread out before her and soon butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees arrived to buzz and hum and tickle her senses even more. The acute laughter of pleasure escaped her lips, matching the delicate picturesque scenery she was creating moment to moment. All thoughts of her life before and what was to come escaped her attention without a thought to the contrary.
Yet, after a while, she felt lonely and wanted her love so dearly. The distances between which were certainly far; as far as the metropolis and its greying existence. But that didn't stop her imagining and seeing and knowing him with her. Knowing the world as but a plain of now; suddenly coherently perceiving a truth substantial and yet insignificant. She heard his soft footsteps walking between the petals, felt his smile break between the air and her eyes, knew his touch on her shoulder.
There he was, sitting beside her and the two squirrels still eating their seeds from her hand.
Throwing away the seeds, making the critters scamper off after their treasures, she pulled her love into a kiss of appreciation, and soon they lay back on the bed of flowers. Looking deep into the sky, she thanked whatever source she might have come in contact with: the God, a Goddess, an Essence beyond knowing. Something responded, something so vast and light and dark and small touched her thoughts. For that moment, that mere instance, she knew what she needed to know, and it stayed with her beyond that unforgettable afternoon in the woods on a hill looking out over the world she thought she knew.
It was all an nothing and her, for her world was only hers and could never be anyone else's. The tiniest spec of reality she fostered was but a resemblance of that greater acknowledgment; and acknowledging its power she accepted its being into her own and could change her life. She knew it would never be this easy again, the mere thought conjuring the reality for which she needed and desired beyond what was given and taken from her. And the Essence told her that the gift would never leave, the God told her she had always owned it, and the Goddess told her with practice and love she would know it again.
The sky opened up and revealed the day with a new light she never saw before: her life. They lay there for hours, soaking up the miracle of knowing life for its illusions and the power of change which could give that special power to anyone who sought it.
Removal: Creation of Appreciation
Alone in a house, staring through a window whose shutters slant against the sharpness of the evening sun, I couldn't help but suddenly feel the internal longing to be out of doors. The warmth of spring permeated the air, white clouds billowed ominously to the north, the rays striking through the underbelly of the storm in lances of gold, and green beginning to peek through the brown hairs of the earth. I despised standing in a winder with such a wonderful view, and suddenly the air started to shift a little stronger. The edges of the northward storm started unsettling the peace of the quiet neighborhood which had already felt the springtime tears dampen the reborn atmosphere. This caught my eye, and I couldn't break the gaze I had adopted.
The branches, bare and budding, waved to me. A spell descended so abruptly; serenity overwhelmed my despair, anxiety, doubts and detestation. Nature controlled me.
And I was gone, swaying with the twigs attempting to grasp the moving air as it continued eastward at higher velocities than normal. The feeling of oneness, security, reason, and direction came over me. I was happy; strangely happy after a day of searing white anger at the unnecessary waste that a certain irrational being committed. Nature embraced me and soothed the stress away.
For a moment; a moment I wish had lasted longer.
But this made me realize something. I have lost sight of nature; the thing that is my tool for regenerating and setting myself back into myself. I'm stuck in a house that allows the sight of the world, and yet removes me from its reality. Not a very happy place for me to be normally; like being happy on the exterior while my inner emotions are trapped behind windows that desire that happiness they see without.
Thus, I've decided I shall sit outside for a while each day and appreciate what I see in order to reconnect with what I've lost. May it be!
The branches, bare and budding, waved to me. A spell descended so abruptly; serenity overwhelmed my despair, anxiety, doubts and detestation. Nature controlled me.
And I was gone, swaying with the twigs attempting to grasp the moving air as it continued eastward at higher velocities than normal. The feeling of oneness, security, reason, and direction came over me. I was happy; strangely happy after a day of searing white anger at the unnecessary waste that a certain irrational being committed. Nature embraced me and soothed the stress away.
For a moment; a moment I wish had lasted longer.
But this made me realize something. I have lost sight of nature; the thing that is my tool for regenerating and setting myself back into myself. I'm stuck in a house that allows the sight of the world, and yet removes me from its reality. Not a very happy place for me to be normally; like being happy on the exterior while my inner emotions are trapped behind windows that desire that happiness they see without.
Thus, I've decided I shall sit outside for a while each day and appreciate what I see in order to reconnect with what I've lost. May it be!
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