Camping at Malekahana

Camping at Malekahana 12/24/05 Day after Maya left for India on a month long vacation In that- By the Pacific ocean on a beach In the pacific ocean the land replies back Much has been said by men and women much like and unlike me , the Freudian tripartite self On surf and Sand Can I ask the damned owl of minerva Of what remains in that unreflectively dogmatic dialectic Did things change at all ? When in other times in these adjunct spaces of the sand were literal footprints or those metaphorical natives and non natives Is it the facts that are mutable? Is it our way of doing things that changes perceptions. raises or lowers consciousness The world making of the peoples & pebbles on these multitude of reality based beaches Who are we to talk about? Maya & Me Were we humans as the other sense of we refers to ever nappy in the unrestricted realms of it's platonic form Did we always wonder about the same awe in awfully adequate profoundly ponderous but ultimately unsonorous big questions of telos & causes & significances Caught up in a spiral vacuum of comprehensible or commendable purpose Maybe we mistake the abstract circular logics of our experiential existence Constantly seeking the transcendence into the sublime & the subtle Like the waves seek the perches of parrots in the old barks of long tall Banyan trees in the short distances across the shore under the false premise of quenching the thirst of the rainbow necked and Sun decked Poly's presumed quest for Water Resultant of an hermeneutics of dear darling's flight Validated by it's ordered regular presence Over the waves The tides end up in froth & foam Break up the rocks & make the sand wash the shores & watch it over Bleach the footprints or the beasts of burden Yet they continue to seek the holy perches in those unholy dark barks of now old oaks Serenely secure in their sole purpose they carry the ships and hardships of a specialized species homo sapiens But when the land gives a way When physics uncaringly dawns that destiny's day when the plates break like these innocent yet ignorant waves when these waves take their watery wares to the rooftop barks perches of Parrots dozing after tiring on their own sublime pears & peaches Unaware & unawake When the waves bring their watery wares to worship the holy sanctums ot those sunlit but yet darkly dim homes They submerge the Sublime and the Subtle in their wetness They themselves witness the marking or the many graves in their watery wares When their ecstasy subsides and they retreat Like many before and many after on paradises lost and Polly parrots dead In the wake of their motion inward The waves can only reflect the hazing blooming Sun In their newfound salience of resplendent brightness They augur augmented realities of salvations and end prophets } The waves then question the refusal or the parrots to fly away to safety & conclude that they witnessed scores of sublime suicides Dead parrots don't tell tall tales death doesn't permit the privilege of expression For death is the void of representation for death is the infinite capacity for communication limited by the l ability for comprehension By my poetic license let me speak on behalf of the by gone Polly & Molly Molly was a very young Polly Polly isn't cultured enough to carry Molly the rest as they say is dialectical history I don't know if they suffered for in death none do know nor do they care From the watery wares into the nowhere 1he Sublime then and there is serene p secure .

Politics of Pictures

There are politics of pictures even before the aesthetics of images
What are the 1001 things that one can be taught in "Analysis 101" about this picture of mine?
What does it represnt besides the usual ad homenium vanity par excellence? I will return to this as a wannabe academic in line with the pandemic that is indexed by the much diabused textual reading

Success and Failure

Between failure and success in social terms lie my REM sleep dreams

The dangers of not being the type, the kind nor the degree of the collective evaluation

A loser lost in the pretentious art, deluded visions of grandiose reclaiming of essence

Illusory missions to achieve states of sublime justices to groupings of the different

What price does this this prize cone come with? Health and wealth of the beloved

The one that is the purpose of living in this septic skeptic cesspool of pessimistic intellect

As a falling teeth , spitting blood, Roman in prison believed in the optimistic will

What could be is not given from what is and what will inevitably continue to be the case

Within this pragmatic morass I dwell in worlds of my making

Taking joy in the infinitesimal perks of being a non-producer of malise

Door infector

Background: A poem written in Telugu in Microsoft OneNote 2007 Beta 2 was copied into Microsoft Word 2007 Beta 2 file and the blog post was created its using the "Blog this" feature. The original poem is here.

"Ninda Stuthi" is my favorite devotional genre (If it is not a Genre, I fully intend to make it one) It translates as "heresy hymn". It is that inherent right of the righteous devotee to question God's apparent injustice. To take the Lord's name in vain as well as in glory by calling into account the contradictions of God's deeds and words. In " Ninda Stuthi" it is strictly personal between the God and the Other. It is a dialog within the Divine.

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To be in love

What does it mean to be in love?
How would you know? What can you have? When can you care? Where does it end?
These are simple questions that can be answered
For if you ever picked the many things littered by the other on the well-kept floor
And smiled a soothing half-smile to yourself
Then and there you had it all
In that unfleeting moment, the movement of all the questions have been answeres
In blaring whispers that break onto your being like waves on a full moon day
Glaring at your imagined darling in soft focussed cliched light
The best of being when knwoing , having and caring converge
Converge for a moment on an other that is not your enduring self
In that transcendental moment, the material gets its matter
Thoughts full of the other yet mindful of the thinker
Love is love when it fills and empties in equal measures
Only that it deals with souls and soles
Naive and naughty at once
Clever and devious at once
It devises and revises
If it lingers in awareness
Then it becomes a being's bliss
Rapturous in tumultous times of being not born and being not breathing
Lovely love is as simple as that well noted dimple
Of wimps, pimps and chimps
All the same except in expecting the self in other

Diabolical Dialogism

It is the nature of the internal dialectic
It is the culture of the external development
Progress ascribed to both the realms
The stimulus response entanglement in collapsing wave forms
There is a name for this aspect, a concept to capture its spilling over surplus senses
Diabolical Dialogism, that which is the term which terminates the being's gaze
In internal thoughts, external acts and intentional actions
That which says something instead of nothing
That which lets contemplation break out into the public forum
Like out of the womb comes the reproduced self-other monad
Comes from the twin lips the vocalized and thereby realized
A representational gesture ostensively selfish but referencing the other
In a dialog of conscious beings, in cryptic openness , in comfortable contradictions,
In coy joyness of being in the world, the word becomes of the world
About the past, in the present, on the future
Within the here and now, between the then and there
Abridged multiple realities in a duree
Enduring legacies of leneint deviance from normal order
Pungent sulphurous odor of the mentalese
metamorphses into sweet sounds in dark marks on light vessels
Vassals of the vaccum that once engulfed the voids within
Now trasposed onto the liminal spaces in between
I am me
You and me
Forever acquaintances and never strangers
Neither are we friends, we are the utterers of claim and the carriers of nuance
We are a (non)being contradiction
Our habitus is the diabolical dialogism
As an integration over the ranges of countersigned infinites
On that fateful final line of working solution, summing up to zero
Like epoweripieplusone=o
We carry this world on our shoulders, while strangling its entropied neck

Tell me why...

Tell me why ...
The book titles screamed at me when I was young (I too was a child once)
For once, it seemed that the knowing of the facts would be the same as having of the facts
This sameness was at the root of my rational saneness
No longer the case, said those tomes written by academic beings
Bitten by the reading bug, I lugged those weighty bounded volumes home
As a wannabe, as a cocconned caterpillar waiting to be the inevitable butterfly
Residing in edifices built of endangered tusks
Tasking themselves with the untiring critical analysis of power
Resulting in a paralysis of rhetorical irrelevance
Confusing the suffering for courage, mistaking texts for interventions
They constantly suffer in their own egomaniacal shadows
Working from the cold comforts of their tenured ergonomic activist armchairs
Thinking and writing and pleading and frothing and fuming
All in vain as the ears don't need that kind of education
The years pass by and the fears remain in place
The sole solace being the lack of intentional malaise
Time ticks on in decades and the cascade into the oblivion of consciousness is on full sway
Swinging in and out of awakeness, aesthetic awareness is all that is left and all that is also right.
It is too much trite to write in easy rhyming whining prose, of red roses and coy poses
The muse, in the last analysis, is nothing more than a ruse
To amuse the Self and to dazzle the Other in turns of phrase
Textual embraces and Secular erections
Words, the linguistic beasts that need to be tamed and turned into empty signs
So empty as to overflow with surplus meanings under exploited labor
Curious surplus that is theorized and valorized
By water carrying intellectual masters serving their political slaves
The dark dialectic that goes unnoticed in recitations of reality
So what? What ever, the dude needs to chill and stay cool! Peace Out!

For I had to blog...

Enough have I waited on the sidelines
On those fault lines of facts
Respecting reality much so much as not to intervene
Action silent on the outside but contemplation constant within
Existence in between liminal spaces is sublime to a certain extent
Then one day, the moment arrives and you find yourself not on the sidelines of normative thought
You realize that you are done waiting, bloody well done waiting
Its time for that expressive streak, to leak from within into the in-between
To clamor for attention, not from others but from the Other that alternates
Within I and me
Between you and me
Silence is always better than the sonorous pretension
But apprehension rarely is an excuse for the well-known inadequacy
It's not the lack of skill but that sinking feeling at the back of the illusory will
that which negates the action in its cynical forecasting of events yet to be in wavering moments
The problem of consumption is now one of ethics
Better than cognition and lesser than absolution
Searching for a long lost self in ecological realms
Yearning to get off that couch that has served the rear end well
Rambling and mumbling, devising and scheming,
All for that witty aphorism
which somehow will wow and woe be gone the world will be once again like
Once up on a time, and happily they lived ever after...

What serendipity brought here, I know not
But since you are here in the ether, lets make a pact.
Like a pack of hungry pack of male wolves
It's time to be domesticated as dogs
Turn on the cute factor and become a loyal actor
Of mice and men
Who played with loaded dice in that goddamn Eden