Story goes that the 'Isle of Wight Festival' was supposed to be an English music fest in 1970 for 100000 paying concert goers. Instead 600000 people attended, 500000 of'em crashers --- so, rather quickly, the scene turned chaotic. On the last night of the tumultuous festival, after Jimmie Hendrix performed and a part of the stage was burned down. A dowdy looking Cohen took the stage at 2:00am wearing an overcoat and some dirty jeans over his pj's. The video above is an excerpt from the concert.
Even though, I must admit, his voice and performance aren't really the strongest here and the transition from mayhem to peace isn't obvious, I like to imagine that the kindness of his artistry; the essential genius of Cohen, radiated outward towards the audience and doused their flames, drew them in, captured them entirely... Really Love this guy.
(Nude, Edward Weston, 1936--- surely one of the most beautiful photographs I've ever seen --- denoting innocence and sensuality at once)
Perhaps the only acceptable indulgence is the indulge that is tempered by abstraction. When indulgences are expressed through specifics (willful ignorance, drink, lust, materialism, etc...) the avaricious nature only strengthens the concepts of self and separateness, which lie in these hollow victories that reinforce the ego; which in turn leads to degradation and shame.
Whereas Art, a form of abstract indulgence ---whether it's realism, expressionism, or literal 'abstract art'... it doesn't matter--- expresses and exposes that which never seems to define and promote separation but rather is initiates and fulfills a sort of personal connectivity to something larger than 'the self'. And when our concern is not with selfishness and self-aggrandizement (which innately comes at the expense of everything or anyone else), we can finally come to know and appreciate more virtuous concepts like sharing, sincerity, grace, compassion and connection.
True Art is indulgence expressing the essential quality of reality: it's abstract and paradoxical but summing it up would look something like this: we (plural) are one (singular).
Me, I went to see the Dalai Lama in Calgary yesterday. J and I. I was extremely impressed. Much more so than I expected I would be. He had four bruises on his arms, maybe from the firm-gripped entourage ensuring that “his eminence” never takes a tumble. Anyway, he emanated three of the greatest attributes I can think of: sincerity, confidence and innocence.
A sweet and almost child-like humour also found it's way into his dialogue. He was telling the kids in front of him how some people think he's a “healer” but that the greatest proof he could offer to counter such a ridiculous claim is that he recently had his gall-bladder removed and well...the pain, so think about it--- only he said it much better than that. Apologies to all.. On a related note but semi-non-sequiturishly, I kinda wanted to hug him at this point, everyone was laughing and he looked very pleased, he put us all at ease early on--- a fabulous strategy, and I sorta felt like I was gonna cry. Can't be sure why. Something like Greatness.
So through yellow-tinted, rectangular shaped lenses he talked about smiling at people, really smiling at them, the necessity of seeing faces, looking into eyes, connection and recognition, regardless of personal history or status. He endearingly, almost shyly, related how sometimes he might see girls in nearby cars while being chauffeured about in different cities and their eyes would meet, he told how his first response, a smile, is sometimes greeted with a frown, the girls come to see his smile as a symbol of, as he playfully put it, his “desire to exploit them”, so uncomfortably he quickly smiles again at the humour in the situation and perhaps, a little red-faced, abruptly looks away, to deny any further misunderstanding.
Another surprise was just how rational he seemed to be; denying the existence of miracle-workers, evil, and the relative rarity of malice.
Pausing from time to time, mid-sentence, he would blurt out a Tibetan word to a translator on his right, and wait eagerly as his translator satisfied his duty and the Dalai Lama would repeat, usually in a mangled, yet charismatic sort of way, the offered english version, and quickly move on. He talked about the differing levels of ignorance and how these levels, in their varying degrees cause dependent degrees of bad karma and dukkha, usually translated as “suffering.” Whether known or unknown (the more ignorant you are, apparently the less likely you are to suffer, 'ignorance is bliss' kind of thing, but eventually your karmic signature will catch up to you and unfortunately, those around you. As one Buddhist truism states: “Human actions vectored in ignorant desire tend to yield only more of the same. Conversely, however, actions vectored towards progression yield their kin.”)
Moving his hand over his heart with his clenching and unclenching fist he passionately spoke about motive as being a very important distinguishing feature of 'acceptable violence' or 'unacceptable violence'. He gave the example of 'acceptable violence' being the standard parental kind, where spanking a child might seem harsh but if it's done out of love and concern it should rather be seen in a loving light (obviously, within reason--- although, the be clear, he never said within reason, but one can only assume he meant within reason, uh?) The more impressive example he gave highlighted how motive is also crucial in recognizing that that which seems loving can sometimes be just the opposite; a sort of unseen violence or wronging, if you will. He told how unscrupulous people will often act exclusively in their own best interests, perhaps even purposely fooling others with smarm, effluent praise, their empty charms, all the while the compliments and seemingly beneficent behaviours are actually negatively charged (aka: bad karma) by the motivation's impurity and self-seeking nature.
He talked about feeling the same towards every human he meets; how at the same level, the first level of being: Human, we are nearly identical, and how this sameness will, through pertinacious compassion, result in mutual care and respect for one another. With intensity he talked of later levels too, levels devoted to distinguishing labels, whether they're based on race, education level, wealth, political beliefs, etc... as being hindrances if we see these contrasting features before our shared, common humanity. Our shrinking world with it's ever increasing interconnectedness is one in which our progress and very survival depends on recognizing the sameness of us all and how the level of compassion and concern that we usually reserve for ourselves or for our close inner-circle needs to be expanded to include all of humanity. Reiterating the basic Buddhist belief that we need to be “as concerned that no one go hungry as that our own family be fed... as concerned that the standard of living for the entire world rise as that our own salary be raised.”
Anyway, I feel like this is becoming one of those fucking grade 7 essays I've been poppin' our with too much regularity these days.
I guess the gist is this: the man was enchanting. He was wise, wise, wise. And I feel very fortunate to have been in the presence of one such as he--- about as Holy a man can get, I mean, well, as Holy as my rationality will allow. Bless him--- I'll allow that too, sans-sneeze.
If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, walk alone. If you see a wise person who steers you away from the wrong path, follow him. The company of the wise is joyful, like reunion with one's family. Therefore, live among the wise, who are understanding, patient, responsible and noble. Keep their company like the moon moving among the stars. -Buddha
"The unexamined life is not worth living."-Socrates
A most profound and obvious truth, no doubt, yet many, in their ignorance--- their 'willful ignorance,' no less--- fail to recognize it. That so many can live their lives so loosely, without meaningful contemplation is really disappointing. Worse still, because of it, I feel ostracized--- I simply cannot relate to those who live a life of short-sighted hedonism.
Often any reference of you when I sleep is horrible, tortuous,--- but just once you were made faithful, if only momentarily. Against the white wall your splendour infused my dream. An assured beauty unique to you; so pure and pretty. Urging me forward, naked with sweat, in the webbing of your fingers, thinly painted between your breasts. You spoke to me with your eyes, the shape of your body, the grace of your movement; Your meaning was heroic: Confession and Love. Slowly, you held your hand out to me and I touched your fingers to my face. I truly felt your love again. But then, as in reality, after your confession of love, you kept walking slowly into the darkness, away from me, in search of something 'better', with no explanation beyond the distance you forced between us. And I awoke, moved again by both your love and hate.
The Remorse of Orestes (1862)
by William Adolphe Bourguereau
"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
- Aeschylus
--- (disclaimer: written in anger, sorrow, jealousy and frustration after one of the worst night's of my life...still, I stand by what is said, even if the spirit in which it is said is uglier than I should allow--- venter's venting venting... no one reads this shit anyway...bah!) Truly, I feel haunted by the estrangement of my former love. Grim moments when I am jilted awake from my slumber; tormented by, dare I say, an almost psychic-connection made real through my years of loyalty (twinning). And in those dark hours when I try to sleep peacefully after an honest day of reflection and right effort; after exerting myself during the waking hours to maintain my mindful existence--at night I am repeatedly victimized. I am left helpless--- accosted in my dreams in repeated rejection, but there has been two such times where I might be so compelled as to reason that the actual dread that stirred me from nightmares of her engaging in loveless carnality--- what on my end manifests itself as physical pain and suffering, really is, in actual fact, something that solely occurs in unison with the empty, physical ecstasy she now partakes of so easily, with such undear confidence, blindness and nonchalance. Still, I'll take it. I take it all. It's 'positive' in the sense that I am always receiving information, I absorb each blow and each disappointing message. For each stab my heart receives it helps me realize the power I have, the integrity I retain by my own emotional might in feeling grief; my understanding of true beauty, of tragedy and respectfully appreciating loss. I mourn because I can, because I amcapable of mourning, I see it as a virtue. The inability to mourn, well, I see it as beyond shameful, but it's an ugly truth I'm getting used to. Such discourteous rejection paired and so mercilessly synchronized with the aforementioned "sex/stab" unison is but one more tool I plan to utilize. And so again, the truth, by 'psychic-connection' or 'dreadful anecdote', painstakingly removes the saintly beauty I created about her; that same self-sabotaging illusion that so wildly deceived me, well, she is weakening, indeed 'by the awful grace of God.'
It's true that all the men you knew were dealers
who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man
It's hard to hold the hand of anyone
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.
And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
you find he did not leave you very much not even laughter
Like any dealer he was watching for the card
that is so high and wild
he'll never need to deal another
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger.
And then leaning on your window sill
he'll say one day you caused his will
to weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
an old schedule of trains, he'll say
I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger.
But now another stranger seems
to want you to ignore his dreams
as though they were the burden of some other
O you've seen that man before
his golden arm dispatching cards
but now it's rusted from the elbows to the finger
And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter
Yes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter.
Ah you hate to watch another tired man
lay down his hand
like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
you notice there's a highway
that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
and suddenly you feel a littlt older
You tell him to come in sit down
but something makes you turn around
The door is open you can't close your shelter
You try the handle of the road
It opens do not be afraid
It's you my love, you who are the stranger
It's you my love, you who are the stranger.
Well, I've been waiting, I was sure
we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for
I think it's time to board another
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after
When he speaks like this,
you don't know what he's after.
Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say ok the bridge or someplace later.
And leaning on your window sill ...
I told you when I came I was a stranger.
"An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast; a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind." - Buddha
Always looking for attention
Always needs to be mentioned
Who does she
Think she should be ?
The shrill cry through darkening air
Doesn't she know he's
Had such a busy day ?
Tell her ... sshhh
Somebody tell her ... sshhh
Oh, no way, no way, there's no movement
Oh, oh, hooray
Slowest ...
It was only a test
But she swam too far
Against the tide
She deserves all she gets
The sky became marked with stars
As an out-stretched arm slowly
Disappears
Hooray
Oh hooray
No, oh, oh, woh, there's no movement
No, oh, hooray
Oh, hooray
Please don't worry
There'll be no fuss
She was ... nobody's nothing
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
When he awoke
The sea was calm
And another day passes like a dream
There's no ... no way
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
(What's your name ?)
Thursday, July 30, 2009
consumption
The Sun is building then shadows wide, immediately falling, August city nearing sunset, looking up, the highest half still holds the light gazing down, the other force; cold reversal, geometry and movement, the shift and the chase, feeling the constant air, as weight, as degree, as silence, disruption. Recognizing the precision, the cobalt pressure It is inhaling me and with each hungry moment it grows, it takes back, it steals, breathing in every inch as it consumes, it consumes.
Traveling with friends to see old friends is always inspiring but especially when you see how well things are going in their lives. Goos' current situation, while possibly seeming more sentimentally satisfying due to my own personal turmoil, is undeniably sweet, and I mean that in the sappiest way possible, but I say it proudly and romantically and without any negative connotations. He has a beautiful daughter, a beautiful, thoughtful girlfriend and a glorious little house nestled away in a sunny mountain community. I am envious indeed. I told Goos how fortunate he is to have so many meaningful things in his life--- he wisely admitted that he felt incredibly rich.
I'm rich as well in certain ways, I mean, I have my health, I have passion and I have honest friends--- hopefully one day I can be so lucky as to find an ounce of the loyalty and the remarkable beauty that surrounds my good friend Goos.
(Wow! reads like a grade 7 paper...still, I mean every word, even if I shoulda put more time and effort into it.)
"Love is union with somebody, or something, outside oneself, under the condition of retaining the separateness and integrity of one's own self." -Erich Fromm
rjb: Most recently, I lost myself-- lost my own identity and longer still, my integrity. I was foolishly focusing all I had towards one who demonstratively renounced my love. Though, I don't really blame her, I'm sure she renounced me precisely because I lost myself, perhaps she renounced me because she lost herself as well. I don't think sacrificing the self (I mean, in an uncool, non-Ahimsa way) is the rule but it certainly is the norm in most relationships. It needn't be--- and I won't allow it to be again.
--- "One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often. " -Erich Fromm rjb: I'm convinced that the more sorrow one experiences in one's lifetime the more "thoughtful" (not to be confused with "intelligent") they become---if one allows oneself to appreciate the power of "legitimate suffering", without distractions and willful ignorance.
--- "To hope means to be ready at every moment for that which is not yet born, and yet not become desperate if there is no birth in our lifetime. " -Erich Fromm rjb: I feel hopeful for many things, mostly for sustaining self-improvement and I'm not willing to concede to the still-birth or non-acquisition of a more positive lifestyle and empowering attributes; I do however have many hopes that are beyond my own control, and I think these are the main ones Fromm is referring to. By his suggestion I am trying hard to feel a calmness (and surprisingly, succeeding) amidst all this chaos which allows me to fathom and very nearly expect greater loss and disappointment (with little fear). Losing faith is stinging but it needn't be defeating.
--- "What most people in our culture mean by being lovable is essentially a mixture between being popular and having sex appeal. " -Erich Fromm rjb: ...and I imagine all men will come to be repeatedly undone by sexual selection --- and perhaps too hopefully/cruelly I expect women also have the potential to be undone by their own "selections."
Yes, I have place; a strangely configured bachelor suite. Not much beyond a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom (no living room). But it’s enough for me. It’s in a really nice neighborhood and close to my work, which is important, since there’s a trade-off ---its small size.
Riverdale is the name of the community. The view of the river valley in the back is spectacular. Peace like a River. My landlord told me that someone is moving out of a one bedroom soon and that I could switch to that one, should I choose to. Besides the fact that the apt is about $150-$200 cheaper than most apartments in Edmonton, the best part about it is I feel stronger just by acquiring my own place. I almost forgot what it feels like to accomplish something, even something as small as successfully getting a place--- it adds a little bit to my long-time battered ego. Working out on ten of the last twelve days obviously helps out a lot too. Small steps all, but essential I think.
My life is, on certain fronts, still a mess, but I feel like I can handle anything. I’ve already mentally prepared myself for all possible outcomes; short of death--- my mantra, Thomas Hardy’s: “If way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst” has helped me out immensely. If I could, I’d thank him for the supplied adage and for his unabashed recognition of the harmony in the dichotomy of Romance and Realism—and I hope he wouldn’t be offended if I purposely, for the time being, avoided rereading his masterpiece, 'Neutral Tones' ---at least until autumn.
-sever family trauma (can't specify) -lost my girlfriend of 7 years, a girl I was convinced would one day be my wife -lost my sweet dog, Newton -lost my home
now I'm living as a transient between some friend's places and my mom's until I get a place for July. For most of my waking hours I feel as though I've been repeatedly kicked in the stomach. Yes, yes, familiar heartache.
...then today, on my way to work-out I realize I lost my gym shoes. I can't work out. I need to for my own sanity! After I accepted the fact that I couldn't exercise, I decided to drive to work. I got into my truck and alas, it wouldn't start. I have to get it towed, again. I have to spend money that I don't have getting to a garage and then getting fleeced by the garage. (again--- I went through all of this less than 5 months ago, the truck part I mean)
Some solemnly categorize me as ‘conservative’ or ‘antisocial.’ Fuck, if one is going to insult at least let the abuse be so accurate as to be meaningful; have the courtesy to understand, or at the very least thoughtfully recognize, my flaws and ugliness. “Antisocial” is a cheap label, hollow, lost in its vagueness.
I enjoy friendship as much as anyone I know and I love my friends--- I see nothing wrong in being comfortable with the friends I have, they’re established, proven, time-worn; I see no need to recruit strangers to my cause; I feel no longing to affiliate myself with people whose sole value resides in the sheer quantity of pollution they can withstand.
My inner-circle is nearly sacred, not completely private, nor completely harmonious, but it is authentic, which is important. Popularity, on the other hand, when sought as the lone goal, is perhaps the vainest and most ignoble of conquests. Others must appreciate your sincere characteristics, your gifts and your conversation. Even if you’re not enjoyed, as trite as it sounds, you must somewhat enjoy the other. I feel better refusing such cheap glories; I’d rather not, so frequently, reduce my effect on others. I feel no need to distract my intentions and distort my attributes through regular bouts of deliriousness, scheduled mindlessness. It’s better to be brave enough to let honesty, frankness and admiration determine friendship --- and then, if it happens, in whichever direction, subsequent levels of popularity.
Having said all that, I don’t mean to suggest that new friends are worthless; of course any true friendship is a positive addition. I’m simply an advocate of earning friends and fostering friendship, well, mostly by the exchanging of ideas and the sharing of authentic experiences. I think that too often we mask our real value by lazily clinging to the routine of weekly loutishness and other time-honoured forms of personality distortion.
(fer P.D.H.--- making me think)
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I do not want her surrender, I need her eager, ambitious. Yet, effortlessly, mistakenly, I invoke her resignation; our defeat.
“Old Testament character Abraham, who represents the man who dares to risk individuation. Abraham becomes a hero because he heeds God’s words to him: “Leave thy country and leave thy Father’s house and go to a country which I shall show to you.” [Gen. 2.1] This is the symbol of the hero who dares to stake his existence on independence by leaving certainty and risking uncertainty. This is one of his alternatives. The other possibility is to refuse to risk individuation and become enmeshed in the confines of Mother, home, blood, soil--- never really gaining independence from these forces, never becoming an independent person.” -Erich Fromm
This one really stings me --- on a daily basis even. It’s probably pretty natural to worry about taking the safe route in life too often. I realize that the dichotomy isn’t so ‘black and white’ but I also feel that the basic truth which Fromm presents here is authentic. ---
“Freud saw history as a tragic alternative between having no culture and no neuroses or having civilization with the repression and neuroses it entailed.” -Erich Fromm
After reading Steven Pinker, part of me would like to dismiss this interpretation as an overly Romantic take on the damning effects of civilization which is often stressed by those who purport the validity of the ‘noble savage’ theory. But I think that it’s talking more about the societal strains put upon a person whose evolutionary history simply can’t keep pace with their cultural ones--- which obviously creates more friction, at least psychologically, than I would imagine our ancient ancestors ever felt. Pinker and Fromm’s psychological insights needn’t be contrary to one another. ---
“It is often the case that psychologists searching for validity and rigorous proof prefer to deal with problems which are insignificant but can be proved, rather than with problems which are significant but which cannot be proved so rigorously” -Erich Fromm
I think this was probably Fromm reacting to some of the hard science being celebrated as the ultimate tool for psychic insight. There always seems to be some sort of ‘either or’ scenario recurring throughout Fromm’s work but I think that these distinctions, while perhaps overarching, are most likely the natural way one comes to conclusions, which on the more gradual path of reality, seem to be too difficult to decipher without the help of such illuminating exaggeration. ---
Anyway, I love the insights from this guy whether they’re polarizing or not.
Aly took her turn on the computer. I walked out of the room, through the hallway and into the kitchen. Entering the kitchen I saw the bright, white ‘Kitchen Aid’ squarely in front of me, I had never used it before but I became suddenly excited. I ran back into the computer room shouting boastfully along the way, “I’m going to make homemade mayonnaise!” Aly, half-laughed and looked at me with widening, inquisitive eyes. She was hunched forward her chin on her palm, her nose a foot from the monitor, the screen was covered with Google search results from her most recent query, “homemade mayonnaise”.
In the early morning hours a wild-eyed man travelled toward me, he came from the North. Unprovoked, he told me about my future lives and his voice was hard and sure. “In the next life, you’ll be down here,” he said, raising his flat hand up and down near his ankle. He thought harder, “you’ll be my waitress--- only you won’t serve me anything; you’ll just stand there, waiting---waiting.” His eyes were like liquid. “You’ll, you’ll…” he debated, breathing heavily --- “you’ll not be wearing any coat, and you’ll know what the cold is!”
In 2008 the drugs had different expressions. MDMA was new to me but I had known ecstasy before as it made me cry… Previous experiences on ‘e’ anyway led to blathering sorrows as I walked down Whyte avenue bawling, longing for an ex-lover, then, more newly made ruthless in a strange and daring role-reversal. Previously yes, incoherent on ‘e’, 2002 maybe, four in the morning after the bad rave and worn music, full of sweaty, suburban boys in white, sleeveless undershirts and dark, baggy, blue jeans, having dance-offs with the blue light strobes and the grinding polyrhythms manifesting in their jaws; me too, all but the white shirt, yes our jaw-gnawing required hard walking, as we headed outside the sunlight shone on an abandoned parking lot, we strolled up the bleak, cubic spiral to the top floor and amongst the debris a ray directed me to a cement conglomerate---picking up the chunk, God asked me to throw it. Far away there was a target / lady, three stories down and impossible to hit, a different block, impossible! ---She was probably on her way to Church since it was Sunday. The ray dared me to get as close to her as I could with the rock. Asshole, unforgivable asshole threw the rock and really hit her at an absurd distance. Not a huge rock or a hard hit but the age and the purity and the atrocity still demanded insatiable amounts of guilt to be digested at a later hour and still now, at this, a much later year. After the turmoil, frenetic remorse and truly satanic jazz which my brother mercilessly tried to sooth me with, I headed south. Yes, embarking on the trendy avenue without sleep, no longer high, but concerned, especially about the nostalgic and the tragic. I walked past frightened girls, red-faced, with tears streaming hot and joining under my chin. Unhappy, I’d say. My brother of the acid-jazz eventually came to my rescue, this time around unable to accost me with Charles Mingus’ "z-zeete- beee-boooop-wip ah-doo-ip-bop-weeeg-beee" period.
But more recently, in this newest experience, I had sworn off even attempting psychedelics and its friends such as ‘e’ and ‘MDMA’ from the 24th of August onward, until recanting only moments before ingestion on the 30th, due in part to a week of high winds, a day of lunging up on airborne alkaline and progressively swilling an “all you got, it’s in here” drink, treacherously poured from a sticky, Culligan water jug, my mind was irreparably made up. For the MDMA I dipped my grimy finger in the bag which resembled a miniaturized pack of big-league chew, that sort of foil-thing going on, and like another certain candy analogy that momentarily eludes me, I dipped my wet finger into the powder and licked the first attempt ---later, sans-candy analogy, I snorted the second---just in case the first method of ingestion was wrong, I mean, I know one was incorrect but I still couldn’t tell you which. The white MDMA powder felt like dried vinegar and trickled down my nasal cavities into my throat tasting both sour and bitter. We kept drinking. Later after a genuine human pyramid and cat-calls to the Burning Man himself, my dearest human-cannon ball and current lover, asked a well-timed and well-armed stranger for some ecstasy. The request was surprisingly yet expectantly fulfilled amid the floral bursts of fiery pulses. We arrived at Nexus, following the crooked and much loved path set by my brother. I waited in line cleaning the dust and syrup out of my cup in want of a maintaining drink. Aly asked, “How are you feeling?” and at that precise moment I turned to her and felt the tip of my nose buzzing. Instantly, I felt fear and walked a few steps slo-motion in direction of the barer desert, Aly cut-in front of me and with cat’s eye glasses she handled me, persuading me to handle my anxious glow. Luckily, I conceded but understood that such heavy feelings could only be properly dealt with with my back firmly on the ground. As the place filled up and my oasis became ‘entry-way’ many innocent soles pounded my body, first stepping hard then almost tumbling with polite correction. I loved it, each impact sent waves of giddiness and delight down my spine and into my hips. I danced, planted on the ground as Bassnectar’s bass filtered through the bodies and rolled over my swaying, horizontally pleased body. Concerned road-warriors held me up from time to time, nourishing me with ripe fruit and camel-packs; reassuring me that the polyethylene-teet rehydrates. The music was perpetually and rhythmically stunning. Eventually the tired, familiar crew came to rest on my high-stepping hips and gut; multiplicitously warming me up.
---
video at NEXUS on the night of the Burn --so you might hear me getting stepped on, anyway,I don't know who filmed this---I'm glad they posted it though, I esp. like(d) the music in the last third of the vid, if anyone cares (Echo?)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Rocks
Beg my eyes to look away from all the energy that beckons me, By day, the skin bright, sparkles, resiliency and later by night, swollen lips, the eroticism, sick and fancy. I am perpendicular to all temptation.
The fear of stolen glances must be met with strict, learned aversion, purposive tactics, shame. And through the streets, in the crowds, or as a solitary member of unbeknownst potential partnerships, muted duologues, hot games, the withdrawal steadies, it heaves, and multiplies.
A blue sky, cloudless, cool and swallowing, born without edges, worn without creasing, shines too brightly for these my eyes, so I avert my attention to stare at the familiar ground, its dirt, its stones, innocuous, admired close-up and instantly inspected, known without fear.
These rocks, unique and alternative to each and every other rock; their blindness that binds me. Never expressive but only experiencing my affection silent still, forever receptive.
The day you decide on anything you are hit by a random passage that literally reads “mistaken identity” and while the Emersonian concept of ‘Universal conspiracy’ still sway’s your heart, your mind which now leads, starts blinking--- you seize up. Too many false-positives initiate your hysterics. You don’t even attempt to do what you want because you’re afraid that after a while you might find out that what you want,---well, really isn’t---
I had a bone from a skull my brother snapped up from the Parisian catacombs. He stole it in good faith. I had it in a little silver container from India, that and a bit of cotton on which the fragment of skull sat. I’m not sure what part of the head the bone came from, but it was shaped a little bit like Bulgaria or somewhere like that. The skull was sort of a light brown meets clay meets tinge of orange and purple, depending on what mood I was in, oh, and depending on what angle and light source I viewed it with/under/in. I should have taken a picture of it. It was about 1 and a half inches long, which is American, and 3.81 cm using the current metric unit of measurement--- most Canadians my age brag about metric measurements yet rarely use it, or even know how to. The skull piece was pretty thin, relative to what I conceive of contrasting ‘not-thinednesses’, so to speak.
I began to think about the human attached to the skull and about his brains, in particular the ideas in his brains, created by the time and lives that surrounded him. I thought it was probably not in his then best interests to have a missing chunk of his skull way over in the New Country, held as a memento of a trip never travelled by the bearer. I figured even in his death, his living wishes could probably be surmised in some degree to a more fitting end, that is to say, closer to what he would have wanted done with his skull. From that I concluded his head must return to the Earth as soon as I could. I leashed up Newton and went to Millcreek on a particularly calm, summer day and walked to a bed of rocks exposed on the ever-changing creek bed. I found a rock I liked, which is very easy for me to do, and placed the skull fragment into the emptiness of which the now uprooted rock created. The rock, it went into the silver tin atop the cotton. I closed the tin, and bent over the skull on the creek bed.
Momentarily, I felt pleased at the notion of doing a man from a different time and place a favour. Then my mind wandered and I imagined I did him a greater disservice because he probably believed in the Rapture and a big chunk of his head would be lost somewhere in Alberta come that glorious, sickening day in a place that never existed in his time and he wouldn’t get it back. “Whose got my Golden Arm,” ghost-stories would be replaced by sad Christian French men on a holy mission to be once again anatomically whole. Again another thought entered my mind, what if some kid finds a chunk of this skull and somehow, no matter how preposterous the notion is, he takes it to his dad who is an anthropologist-type and he instantly recognizes it as being human, well surely this scholar would bring it to the police and the police would start a full-blown investigation into what they would believe to be a murder, and they would keep the skull locked up in the stations evidence room even further removed from the cadaver’s once living wishes. Finally I decided to stop all further conjecture and continue my walk. Hopefully I did right in the scheme of burial rights and personal requests, even if the time separating the completion is massive and the fulfillment details only shoddily assumed. R.I.P. bone, yep, R.I.P., man.
A guy who lives fairly close to Edmonton was recently infected with the Rabies virus, and it's past the point of no return. So, he'll die a fairly nasty death. It would certainly be a frightening way to go. The picture on the right is of an unknown man with a bad case of full blown rabies, which is always lethal when the initial symptoms shown up. For more on the disease check this wikipedia link
Here's the sad story from the CAN west news wire:
EDMONTON - A man from east central Alberta is gravely ill with rabies after failing to seek treatment after a bat bit him last summer.
The man was sleeping in his rural home last August when a bat entered the house and bit him on the shoulder. The man, whom health officials have not identified, apparently realized he had been bitten but did not immediately seek medical help.
In January, he experienced pain in his shoulder where the bite occurred. He has since developed symptoms of rabies, including paralysis, difficulty swallowing and convulsions. He is in serious condition in hospital, but there is little doctors can do for him now.
"There's no specific treatment once the neurological symptoms occur," said Dr. Karen Grimsrud, deputy provincial health officer.
"We want to emphasize that if someone is exposed to a wild animal, they should seek medical treatment," she said. "That's the important message from this unfortunate case."
The treatment for people bitten by a potentially rabid animal consists of a series of shots given over a month. The injections, called post-exposure prophylaxis, are "close to 100percent effective if they are given close to the time of the bite," Grimsrud said.
The last time an Albertan died of rabies was in 1985 when a bat bit a 25-year-old Calgary man while he was working near Smith, 220 kilometres north of Edmonton. He died in Vancouver about five months after being infected.
In 2005, almost 130 people across Alberta received the post-exposure treatment. Most of those people had been bitten by dogs or cats that could not be located and observed for rabies symptoms, said Grimsrud.
While there is no known case of rabies being transmitted between humans, health officials are investigating whether anyone had direct contact with the bodily fluids or saliva of the man after he was infected with the disease. The general public is not at risk, Grimsrud said.
All games are governed by rules. I think of games in relationships and cringe. But I guess that games must exist like anything that's generally known to exist. Like any law of nature, gravity or instinct, or reflex; like snow piles in parking lots resembling mountains for the same forces that shape mountains shape them; or the blood-cell shape of new, moving, river-ice, pouring past the banks and bridges, pushed and pulled. Big horn sheep butting heads-- Whyte Avenue yob culture. The forces on everything are the same, and somewhere we're all shaped by these forces, and are, well, forced to act accordingly.
Patience is finite. Love is often interrupted and dissuaded by the lack of practical, relational progress. The same punched-in-the-gut feeling is known by all jilted lovers, across lovers.
Prophesy is real, but it''s by no means supernatural, nor is it a proclamation of genuine inevitability, it's merely a case of perceiving the slight, met with innate anticipation of outcome. You can feel the end, and by each acknowledgment, and each contemplation thereof, the end slides closer. Feeling the end is natural for most; if you focus on it too much though it cheats you and becomes a self-mutilating/self-fulfilling prophesy. You can see too much, you're perception becomes skewed and your motives jealous. Select insecurities further provide a basis for more gamesmanship, which in turn creates the reaction of increasing suspicions, and decreasing acceptance. Unconditional love is at last very conditional. If romantic, the truth stings you, and yet again you ponder the inconsequential, the fantastical, the very fountain of youth: a world without responsibility, a world without end.
In moments like these you falsely praise the possibility of such loss and like a fool you prematurely congratulate yourself for future conquests not yet attempted. But the pain you've known twice before will actually floor you, even killing you a little bit. And then, as before, you will stand up and walk away--- hopefully more prepared for your next endeavour, but hopefully not too acclimatized by the trauma of relationships, for that is pure bitterness.
If psychic life consisted only of self-evident matters of fact – which on a primitive level is still the case – we could content ourselves with a sturdy empiricism. The psychic life of civilized man, however, is full of problems; we cannot even think of it except in terms of problems. Our psychic processes are made up to a large extent of reflections, doubts, experiments, all of which are almost completely foreign to the unconscious, instinctive mind of primitive man. It is the growth of consciousness which we must thank for the existence of problems; they are the Danaan gift of civilization. It is just man’s turning away from instinct – his opposing himself to instinct – that creates consciousness. Instinct is nature and seeks to perpetuate nature, whereas consciousness can only seek culture or its denial. Even when we turn back to nature, inspired by a Rousseauesque longing, we “cultivate” nature. As long as we are still submerged in nature we are unconscious, and we live in the security of instinct which knows no problems. Everything in us that still belongs to nature shrinks away from a problem, for its name is doubt, and wherever doubt holds sway there is uncertainty and the possibility of divergent ways. And where several ways seem possible, there we have turned away from the certain guidance of instinct and are handed over to fear. For consciousness is now called upon to do that which nature has always done for her children – namely, to give a certain, unquestionable, and unequivocal decision. And here we are beset by an all-too-human fear that consciousness – our Promethean conquest – may in the end not be able to serve us as well as nature.
Problems thus draw us into an orphaned and isolated state where we are abandoned by nature and are driven to consciousness. There is no other way to open us; we are forced to resort to conscious decisions and solutions where formerly we trusted ourselves to natural happenings. Every problem, therefore, brings the possibility of a widening of consciousness, but also the necessity of saying goodbye to childlike unconsciousness and trust in nature. This necessity is a psychic fact of such importance that it constitutes one of the most essential symbolic teachings of the Christian religion. It is the sacrifice of the merely natural man, of the unconscious, ingenious being whose tragic career began with the eating of the apple in Paradise. The biblical fall of man presents the dawn of consciousness as a curse. And as a matter if fact it is in this light that we first look upon every problem that forces us to greater consciousness and separates us even further from the paradise of unconscious childhood. Every one of us gladly turns away from his problems; if possible, they must not be mentioned, or, better still, their existence is denied. We wish to make our lives simple, certain, and smooth, and for that reason problems are taboo. We want to have certainties and no doubts—results and no experiments—without even seeing that certainties can arise only through experiment. The artful denial of a problem will not produce conviction; on the contrary, a wider and higher consciousness is required to give us the certainty and clarity we need.
-Carl Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, The Stages of Life
This is a story my Dad used to tell us often when we were young and he was alive. I don't really know much about it or where he heard it. It's not overly-clever or overly important to me, but it's a partial memory of mine about my Dad, one of maybe 1000, so--- I used to think he said rubber-band, and that image of self-materialization would confuse me. I'm not 100% sure I have the story right, perhaps the captain arose and said,
It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," etc...
He'd say it all very theatrically with proper pauses and dynamics, and not because he was theatrical, I assume he just recited it as closely as he could to the original. Whose to say. He'd go on for about a minute or so, or until we whined, "shut-up", "okay", "enough"
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