Roses are red
Violets are purple
i love you
how are you?
go outside and breathe the morning in
and maybe appreciate the sun for me
as i appreciated you, too
for the Earth would have been a cataclysm
of earthquakes and fire
had I never seen you looking at me
so you know
this is for all of you
even the suave police officer
who smashed my face into bulletproof glass once
because i know there was pain
like an arrow through a heart
so lets get over that, yeah?
but i should say with a whistle and a tongue click
that my favorite people
were and are the mad ones
since they know how to inflect in musics that are surprising and Good
and Alive and Lovely
so go out and sing to someone with a small note of music and thrill
they probably do love you too
and the ones that left
they probably still love you still
maybe we will find Tomorrow
in our conceptions of Hatred as mere annoyance
instead of not enough Love
but I'll tell you tomorrow
if you let me put a sticker on your back bumper
that says "Smile, your parents loved each other and you
and it was the same with the rest of us
so go out and love somebody too
let them drive you insane
so that we all wake up singing, yeah?
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Lethe
Black drips on black
in the Romanesque rain that seethed down through cracked pavement
at nightfall of the end of Light
and so we followed shadows
since they were indicative
of where one could find a lantern or a torch to hold for glow and warmth
and all we had
were scraps of some foreign shipped tobacco
half a deck of playing cards
maybe an old musty bottle of wine
and some sort of wit about us
that refused to accept stupidity
because in the tunnels under the dead city
there were still signs of where moss had been,
promising pale green lichen above the sewer grates
and away from a corpse that had been fowled up
on fabric shreds at a cruel gate.
Oh lore of forgetfulness
should I cram my mouth with dark grapes
and let the juice drip down the edges of my mouth
when I don't know whether to laugh or scream or cry out in victory
echoing the revelry of the end of Grendal
that creature and his family
that followed murderers through viking halls
and tracked their armored foot steps
to the edge of oblivion.
To place a diamond needle
on the thin pink vinyl of an old 33
and listen to the mellow static
before the chimes of guitar resound like brief bells
in a gold room lit by old official linoleum
would be enough
to know that this murder is done with
the stain that plagued the hallowed books
with the depravity of men and women
hunting after gold and flesh.
I should have taken a few photographs
by Canoga Park, to show the grimy portraiture
of the freeway exit
as it lent to a hurtling violence
for groups of gnarled families patterning speech
after famous monsters for a rush of speed
but the jokes of cruelty and schadenfruede
were lost on me
when I found old sacraments
such as glistening stars in fragments of triangular pieces of white glass
leaning next to discarded motes of famous pieces of electronic transistors
which I would place a green penny on
as some sort of small alter to Order
in a way that the hurtling semi trucks
couldn't handle as their metals shrieked in old groans of death stress
when it seemed that the edge of the city
could be caving into some boiling center
where other people went mining for insanity.
Old stories, cannibals, ya know
mechanical dolls eating mechanical doll flesh
and wooden strangers painted with sickly shades of make up
to mask old surgical scars that tried to tighten their faces into permanant masks
in apartment towers as dirty as the unmentionable and unforgotten.
And so I ask you plainly
if it is not apparent
do you bathe in the Lethe
it's torrents of dried black effluvia mixed with gore and vomit
or was your only sin amid murderers
being clean with hands aglow from white colored magic
when old voodoos plied at the dead meadow
where the graves had been placed out back
well we should have planted orange flames of flower petals
not this gnarled dead shrub
to stick in bare feet and ankles
and do you look into other people's closets
to find out how they do not dress
or do you accept thin stews on the premise
that cabbage is a treat with its lack of color
and promise of demise
when you could have smelled parsnips
flowing from the high towers of Purgatory
which guarded heaven
but only with banners that were sewn in scarlet, pink, red, and white?
in the Romanesque rain that seethed down through cracked pavement
at nightfall of the end of Light
and so we followed shadows
since they were indicative
of where one could find a lantern or a torch to hold for glow and warmth
and all we had
were scraps of some foreign shipped tobacco
half a deck of playing cards
maybe an old musty bottle of wine
and some sort of wit about us
that refused to accept stupidity
because in the tunnels under the dead city
there were still signs of where moss had been,
promising pale green lichen above the sewer grates
and away from a corpse that had been fowled up
on fabric shreds at a cruel gate.
Oh lore of forgetfulness
should I cram my mouth with dark grapes
and let the juice drip down the edges of my mouth
when I don't know whether to laugh or scream or cry out in victory
echoing the revelry of the end of Grendal
that creature and his family
that followed murderers through viking halls
and tracked their armored foot steps
to the edge of oblivion.
To place a diamond needle
on the thin pink vinyl of an old 33
and listen to the mellow static
before the chimes of guitar resound like brief bells
in a gold room lit by old official linoleum
would be enough
to know that this murder is done with
the stain that plagued the hallowed books
with the depravity of men and women
hunting after gold and flesh.
I should have taken a few photographs
by Canoga Park, to show the grimy portraiture
of the freeway exit
as it lent to a hurtling violence
for groups of gnarled families patterning speech
after famous monsters for a rush of speed
but the jokes of cruelty and schadenfruede
were lost on me
when I found old sacraments
such as glistening stars in fragments of triangular pieces of white glass
leaning next to discarded motes of famous pieces of electronic transistors
which I would place a green penny on
as some sort of small alter to Order
in a way that the hurtling semi trucks
couldn't handle as their metals shrieked in old groans of death stress
when it seemed that the edge of the city
could be caving into some boiling center
where other people went mining for insanity.
Old stories, cannibals, ya know
mechanical dolls eating mechanical doll flesh
and wooden strangers painted with sickly shades of make up
to mask old surgical scars that tried to tighten their faces into permanant masks
in apartment towers as dirty as the unmentionable and unforgotten.
And so I ask you plainly
if it is not apparent
do you bathe in the Lethe
it's torrents of dried black effluvia mixed with gore and vomit
or was your only sin amid murderers
being clean with hands aglow from white colored magic
when old voodoos plied at the dead meadow
where the graves had been placed out back
well we should have planted orange flames of flower petals
not this gnarled dead shrub
to stick in bare feet and ankles
and do you look into other people's closets
to find out how they do not dress
or do you accept thin stews on the premise
that cabbage is a treat with its lack of color
and promise of demise
when you could have smelled parsnips
flowing from the high towers of Purgatory
which guarded heaven
but only with banners that were sewn in scarlet, pink, red, and white?
Dreams
I was a teenager again
in college
in a crush
with some girl
who drove me to an ice cream parlor
and wouldn't pick up the next phone call
because she was crying
over what some gang members did
to a young murderer
who had thrown a baby into powerlines under an overpass,
and she knew
she was crying over that too
but the torture with the septic tank
was too much for her to handle conceptually
along with all the defacing posters made
of his family
but she wanted to remember
the lucent bright halls
where surfers and skaters laughed by the beach
and played exotic video games
bright with color
and how the human race
used to awake in each others arms
in nature, in burgundy beds made of rose petals
in warmth and electric humidity
which would compliment a gentle kind of love without trespass
but when I saw her in the ice cream parlor again
we couldn't forgive the cruel members of the species
and all she told me
is that she didn't feel
that she had a right to talk to children anymore
even though she was just seventeen and sweet.
her name was unpronouncable except in dream speak
and unlike you perhaps
i think and feel that these people live and exist under a breath of willow
kept in beauties and tragedies that kept their lore seperate
from our waking concrete sometimes-banalities
and i could tell you something exotic
about how i miss the girls and women from my dreams
but that i feel that our time in rest
is and was somehow justice
for we end up moving through travels without chitonous attitudes of forsakeness
and figure maybe in the back of our beings
that if we shared a sedintary colorful breath again
it would be at the end of loud or quiet warfare and atrocity,
we would just sit on green iron benches
when the world realized that Christmas began on the 25th of December
and ends only on the 24th of the next year
like Valentines Day should be expressed
and Thanksgiving
and all the good ones
except perhaps Halloween
and I want to say
to myself before sleep
not to get too depressed
since both dreams and nightmares
seem like evidence of the afterlife
that is secreted away in an exotic commonality of routine and wonder
forgotten by the practice of mechanism
in a waking world lost in a collage of materiality
but don't fret
we don't suffocate even in nightmares
our breath is soft unnoticed quick and long
so share with me a small measure of song
that would lay claim to love through hells and heavens
outside of that painful power of the trigger finger
and the violence of the right hand that grips a knife handle
for we were made for measured weightlessness
outside the gravity of this poorer ambulation
where records find us at our poorest
and amnesias find us at our wealthiest
when we lay down our tired heads
in unknowing communion at nightfall
and travel through territories and characters
too mythic to escape ensconcing us in our sleep
with how we should perhaps live
in the face of pain and ecstasy
as though preparing us
for a moment during Alive Day
where we will have to choose between ice cream or justice,
love or pity, or perhaps even darkness or magic.
in college
in a crush
with some girl
who drove me to an ice cream parlor
and wouldn't pick up the next phone call
because she was crying
over what some gang members did
to a young murderer
who had thrown a baby into powerlines under an overpass,
and she knew
she was crying over that too
but the torture with the septic tank
was too much for her to handle conceptually
along with all the defacing posters made
of his family
but she wanted to remember
the lucent bright halls
where surfers and skaters laughed by the beach
and played exotic video games
bright with color
and how the human race
used to awake in each others arms
in nature, in burgundy beds made of rose petals
in warmth and electric humidity
which would compliment a gentle kind of love without trespass
but when I saw her in the ice cream parlor again
we couldn't forgive the cruel members of the species
and all she told me
is that she didn't feel
that she had a right to talk to children anymore
even though she was just seventeen and sweet.
her name was unpronouncable except in dream speak
and unlike you perhaps
i think and feel that these people live and exist under a breath of willow
kept in beauties and tragedies that kept their lore seperate
from our waking concrete sometimes-banalities
and i could tell you something exotic
about how i miss the girls and women from my dreams
but that i feel that our time in rest
is and was somehow justice
for we end up moving through travels without chitonous attitudes of forsakeness
and figure maybe in the back of our beings
that if we shared a sedintary colorful breath again
it would be at the end of loud or quiet warfare and atrocity,
we would just sit on green iron benches
when the world realized that Christmas began on the 25th of December
and ends only on the 24th of the next year
like Valentines Day should be expressed
and Thanksgiving
and all the good ones
except perhaps Halloween
and I want to say
to myself before sleep
not to get too depressed
since both dreams and nightmares
seem like evidence of the afterlife
that is secreted away in an exotic commonality of routine and wonder
forgotten by the practice of mechanism
in a waking world lost in a collage of materiality
but don't fret
we don't suffocate even in nightmares
our breath is soft unnoticed quick and long
so share with me a small measure of song
that would lay claim to love through hells and heavens
outside of that painful power of the trigger finger
and the violence of the right hand that grips a knife handle
for we were made for measured weightlessness
outside the gravity of this poorer ambulation
where records find us at our poorest
and amnesias find us at our wealthiest
when we lay down our tired heads
in unknowing communion at nightfall
and travel through territories and characters
too mythic to escape ensconcing us in our sleep
with how we should perhaps live
in the face of pain and ecstasy
as though preparing us
for a moment during Alive Day
where we will have to choose between ice cream or justice,
love or pity, or perhaps even darkness or magic.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Astral Lore
Well
this brain splatter could be colorful
upon the spin art crests of a more daft poetry
but yet I still wonder
what it is that yearns in the firmament of my remaining nerves
for a modicum of transitive velocity
within the sea sick canvas of outer space,
filling up spacecraft with water based engines
and shooting crooked strands of electricity
in small measures in the veldt of twilit perdition.
I could write about designs that could be in future textbooks
like a graviton machine that functions on a large circular orbit
with a smaller one inside performing hydrostatus
for a perpetual energy machine
but these may be laughed at
since they began with a pen,
and well, neither you nor I
are as simple as a silent machine
that came running with clean thoughts through my inordinate dreams.
A spaceship, yes
one that could be manufactured out of wood or tree branches
which would perfume the cabins with oxygen from the natural mechanism of leaves
functioning on the other end only on CO2 in a person's breath,
or a suit knitted out of sealed rubber composites
that could fly an individual to the brink of outer space's vast sea
or some kind of gizmo
that would bend light with mirrors and an electric whip
to flail gently out into the purple dark
to provide a pale illumination.
But for the children I attended school with,
these may be possible,
the ones who poured sea salt on snails
to watch the saline mess bubble in pops and cruel crackles
as they cawed in malicious laughter like ravens,
maybe something wrong there
with their brains and bloodlines
like the switches for interspecies empathy had burned out
on the metaphorical circuit boards of their minds,
failing them in science lessons
that proved other creatures possessed nerves to feel.
I could ransack old magazines and notebooks
for cautionary tales
of taking cruel captains into the backdrop of space,
like the story of poor Nevel
who they locked in space prison for a million and a half years
without cryosleep
for simply professing that a pencil with an eraser
could be a better tool than a billion dollar robotic pen
which could write upside down in no gravity,
when all he said after that
was well, the pencil performs that trick too.
Wondering if a black rosebud
or an artichoke plant
or some kind of humane symbolic flower
like an orchid
could float out into the layers of the upper atmosphere
and seed the external orbits of our fledgling planet
with scenery and beauty
as gifts to all those insane insectile spy satellites
who get used to probing for old Cold War designations
in terms of high definition black and white
across both the screen and politics.
I wonder too
if you would laugh
at a plan to make outer space habitable
without the concepts of submarines and skyhooks
but maybe just with staircases of Light
that we could rummage through with our running styles and laughter
like MC Escher drawings, hiding and surprising each other again
without painful hackles such as explosives attached to lasers and engines
without obtuse senses of disbelief in the sufferings of our longing and lack of belonging
without the cruelty of too much thrust and too much power while trapped by technological rapes
without the ideas that had planted the bodies of our kin beneath earth and bedrock
and without the miseries of hearts broken like porcelein bells at all the senseless murders extracted on soul and spirit.
We could live a nice life up there,
you in your mansion made of Light
with me sitting in a giant glowing cup, drinking water that wouldn't sink
as our feelings and love and notions extended into free form without gravitational predialections
and broke free of even the Beauty of Flight.
Maybe
this Life on Earth
came here to teach us about Pain and Bondage
and our Destiny
lays in the billowing silk of Starlight
as promised to us by even merely the reflection in your eyes
when you promised to be brave even if they decided they didn't love you
before you met those who had accomplished the stories of myth
with common items, such as fending away fear and dread
with rubber bands and a butter knife
or those who had nothing
but meant everything
to the astral navigations of Life's fulfilment
as the robin still tweets and scatters seed through its being
and as the silver flash of a fish
reminds us of sleek movements of belonging in a school
will we one day place our hands
not on each other
but where our hearts had desired up there on celestial objects
that would want to become symbols
for the times when our species finally discovered True Love.
this brain splatter could be colorful
upon the spin art crests of a more daft poetry
but yet I still wonder
what it is that yearns in the firmament of my remaining nerves
for a modicum of transitive velocity
within the sea sick canvas of outer space,
filling up spacecraft with water based engines
and shooting crooked strands of electricity
in small measures in the veldt of twilit perdition.
I could write about designs that could be in future textbooks
like a graviton machine that functions on a large circular orbit
with a smaller one inside performing hydrostatus
for a perpetual energy machine
but these may be laughed at
since they began with a pen,
and well, neither you nor I
are as simple as a silent machine
that came running with clean thoughts through my inordinate dreams.
A spaceship, yes
one that could be manufactured out of wood or tree branches
which would perfume the cabins with oxygen from the natural mechanism of leaves
functioning on the other end only on CO2 in a person's breath,
or a suit knitted out of sealed rubber composites
that could fly an individual to the brink of outer space's vast sea
or some kind of gizmo
that would bend light with mirrors and an electric whip
to flail gently out into the purple dark
to provide a pale illumination.
But for the children I attended school with,
these may be possible,
the ones who poured sea salt on snails
to watch the saline mess bubble in pops and cruel crackles
as they cawed in malicious laughter like ravens,
maybe something wrong there
with their brains and bloodlines
like the switches for interspecies empathy had burned out
on the metaphorical circuit boards of their minds,
failing them in science lessons
that proved other creatures possessed nerves to feel.
I could ransack old magazines and notebooks
for cautionary tales
of taking cruel captains into the backdrop of space,
like the story of poor Nevel
who they locked in space prison for a million and a half years
without cryosleep
for simply professing that a pencil with an eraser
could be a better tool than a billion dollar robotic pen
which could write upside down in no gravity,
when all he said after that
was well, the pencil performs that trick too.
Wondering if a black rosebud
or an artichoke plant
or some kind of humane symbolic flower
like an orchid
could float out into the layers of the upper atmosphere
and seed the external orbits of our fledgling planet
with scenery and beauty
as gifts to all those insane insectile spy satellites
who get used to probing for old Cold War designations
in terms of high definition black and white
across both the screen and politics.
I wonder too
if you would laugh
at a plan to make outer space habitable
without the concepts of submarines and skyhooks
but maybe just with staircases of Light
that we could rummage through with our running styles and laughter
like MC Escher drawings, hiding and surprising each other again
without painful hackles such as explosives attached to lasers and engines
without obtuse senses of disbelief in the sufferings of our longing and lack of belonging
without the cruelty of too much thrust and too much power while trapped by technological rapes
without the ideas that had planted the bodies of our kin beneath earth and bedrock
and without the miseries of hearts broken like porcelein bells at all the senseless murders extracted on soul and spirit.
We could live a nice life up there,
you in your mansion made of Light
with me sitting in a giant glowing cup, drinking water that wouldn't sink
as our feelings and love and notions extended into free form without gravitational predialections
and broke free of even the Beauty of Flight.
Maybe
this Life on Earth
came here to teach us about Pain and Bondage
and our Destiny
lays in the billowing silk of Starlight
as promised to us by even merely the reflection in your eyes
when you promised to be brave even if they decided they didn't love you
before you met those who had accomplished the stories of myth
with common items, such as fending away fear and dread
with rubber bands and a butter knife
or those who had nothing
but meant everything
to the astral navigations of Life's fulfilment
as the robin still tweets and scatters seed through its being
and as the silver flash of a fish
reminds us of sleek movements of belonging in a school
will we one day place our hands
not on each other
but where our hearts had desired up there on celestial objects
that would want to become symbols
for the times when our species finally discovered True Love.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Theories of the Unknown
I have been wading through experiential morass, attempting to connect and make contact with outside variables that seem to constitute realities if not certain aspects of sane or insane. Dreaming, for instance, is a magical comic book that opens up past delineations of dream geographies that held through my various mental states, code word for clinical or just clinically drunk. Despite beer saturation, certain dream cities have remained in effect whole, have burgeoned in their maps, have become fuller instead of destitute. If I had drawn these cities without my knowledge with my own mental parameters, then their maps exist hidden and somewhat permanant without my knowledge. There are and were street names that have reappeared during sleep, which are now washed over with the haze of wakefulness, the kind that manifests when you try to recall a long diminished dream. But the maps are there, scorched in thin tree bark, and the results of examining them while awake are sometimes cryptic. For instance, why am I buying groceries daliently in a North Canadian/European city washed over by warm fog, usually in the company of a certain Frenchman that I knew in real life? The store is an archetype for a small island supermarket, was fascinating in its aisles and cubbies, exuded magic but somehow lacked the properties of a realer fascination, the kind that can flummox you into spending three thousand dollars on a golf cart in real life for no apparent reason.
Apparently, I am mad. Diagnosed as insane, yes, but the properties of insanity have shown me today that apparently you cannot punish a sane person into filling the brackets of insanity, not with words or violence. The person will just ape insanity. Finding myself is a different story. There are funny retributions when I gaze into a mirror, thinking about a factor called chirality, which is how the mirror functions instead of being reflective. The word "chirality" means basically that your left hand resembles your right hand without being your right hand, there is that symmetry of likeness but in effect there is the reflection of asymptomatic assymetry. What it all boils down to is the discovery that flat square mirrors reflect and refract in an X pattern, with the center of the X being the focal point of the reflective chirality. What it signifies is that it will reflect the assymetrical parts of a person's face in reverse, the way that written letters appear opposite when held up to the same mirror, showing us that our reflections are in some way the opposing images of how we look, which we should be instructed to understand at a young age instead of being forced to simply mime the not so concrete fact that the person in the mirror is me or you. How this ties into marginality in terms of mental diagnoses is that when the phenomenon was observed by myself at different incursions, the significations immediately had me taken aback. Do I, in fact, look like a woman in reality as opposed to a man? Is the stubble of my beard in the mirror in fact just natural down on my face meant to keep my face warm as opposed to the stylings of a male's facial hair? Do I resemble a celebrity woman instead of what the mirror and my photographs (upside down reverse images of ourselves) profess? These questions came up with chirality and mirror investigations. I wonder still, leaning to an impartial yes and no now, if the image in the mirror of myself is actually the complete opposite, and I, as a woman, am stuck with the ramifications of having some ghostly husband made of light who follows me around and appears in reflective instances. I do not feel male anymore, and not very slightly female. The discoveries with a laptop camera and the bathroom mirror and display monitor which switched images was somewhat mind blowing, but only in the questions that the experiments raised. How does the mirror through the camera lens portray my mouth as open when it is in fact closed? Why did the technology of the camera switch its definitions of reflection, placing what should have been an image from the right on the left after the mirror experiments? Who can explain this to me besides some sort of master optician? The reason I am more than concerned and more than interested is due to the existence of real time cloaking devices based in only lens and optic work, which can make an object invisible when seen from a certain perspective. You can find that work here: Rochester Cloak, the information of which was based also in an article from the web publication version of Wired. I bring up my mental state again because I do not feel that I am crazy, but that instances of secretive cloaking devices based off of lens work when evidenced by me in the past probably did not do justice to what were often labeled "hallucinations" when objects or vehicles would appear or disappear based off of perspective. In terms of me taking the blame for a technology that I do not possess nor have at my disposal, I would tell the dishonest crowd of invisibilifying yahoos to not get carried away with mirage camoflauge at my expense any longer. That and the thoughts that if you invisibilified yourself with lenses and drove around for a time, that you were probably at the most causing bizarre car accidents on occasion and at the least playing the role of the coward.
Regardless, mirror and optic perplexity figure into dreams. Are we only seeing the "reflections" of reality's substrate when our eyes are closed, bounced into our sleeping visions from chiral properties that exist in the vicinities of our resting places? Is this a natural facility? For a brief amount of time, it bore evidence upon examiation that some of the myths of the unknown such as ghosts, telepathy, and misconstrued vortexes of reality could be based on mirror properties that have gone unexamined in reality, whether the mirages or distortions were caused by water vapor, cold and warm air, or more complex properties that often lack description. The properties have been witnessed for sound, as well as light obviously, and the indications for other spectra involving other human senses could be astounding, including theories of human/reality radio wave resonances. The theories could explain any sort of experiences that have been classified as paranormal (outside maybe, say alien life) based in the properties and aptitude for illusive or real creation of reflections and refractions that exist inherently in reality. To sum it up, are we living honestly in a literal hall of mirrors, and if so, which side of the metaphorical glass are we on? One could point to paranoid theories such as that we are living in a maze designed for study by a "higher" or at least more distinct set of beings, but perhaps we are imprisoned by our own. Thoughtful examination places the possibility of down right abusive chicanery within this idea either at an all time high or all time low. Regardless, it's worth the thoughts as opposed to the nightmares I had cocurrently with the research that sometimes suggested that I was only made of Light and was somehow slipping into traps or non-existance, which I mention because these happened during my examinations and experiences with the chirality of mirrors (and perhaps my environment). Some of the nightmares came as dreams, some of the dreams came as nightmares. The most prominant experience of one was the notion that we are all made of some kind of Light that exists seperately from the Material Universe, and somehow we only move away or towards each other, and that factor within any sort of Metaphysical system based on such an admonition would end up explaining pain, love, loss, friendship, joy, and perhaps even Beauty. However I am not one to definitevely say, not wanting to be cast in the role of Metaphysical Dictator or Idealogue.
It is, if the survival of our people is any indication, perhaps time to return again to investigations of what is classified as the unknown or paranormal, not so that we may become Masters but so that we may work with forces and processes in reality that have lacked further classification besides unexplainable phenomenon, if only because a benevolent embracing of their complexities and values could portend new awakenings and a larger kinship between ourselves and life.
Apparently, I am mad. Diagnosed as insane, yes, but the properties of insanity have shown me today that apparently you cannot punish a sane person into filling the brackets of insanity, not with words or violence. The person will just ape insanity. Finding myself is a different story. There are funny retributions when I gaze into a mirror, thinking about a factor called chirality, which is how the mirror functions instead of being reflective. The word "chirality" means basically that your left hand resembles your right hand without being your right hand, there is that symmetry of likeness but in effect there is the reflection of asymptomatic assymetry. What it all boils down to is the discovery that flat square mirrors reflect and refract in an X pattern, with the center of the X being the focal point of the reflective chirality. What it signifies is that it will reflect the assymetrical parts of a person's face in reverse, the way that written letters appear opposite when held up to the same mirror, showing us that our reflections are in some way the opposing images of how we look, which we should be instructed to understand at a young age instead of being forced to simply mime the not so concrete fact that the person in the mirror is me or you. How this ties into marginality in terms of mental diagnoses is that when the phenomenon was observed by myself at different incursions, the significations immediately had me taken aback. Do I, in fact, look like a woman in reality as opposed to a man? Is the stubble of my beard in the mirror in fact just natural down on my face meant to keep my face warm as opposed to the stylings of a male's facial hair? Do I resemble a celebrity woman instead of what the mirror and my photographs (upside down reverse images of ourselves) profess? These questions came up with chirality and mirror investigations. I wonder still, leaning to an impartial yes and no now, if the image in the mirror of myself is actually the complete opposite, and I, as a woman, am stuck with the ramifications of having some ghostly husband made of light who follows me around and appears in reflective instances. I do not feel male anymore, and not very slightly female. The discoveries with a laptop camera and the bathroom mirror and display monitor which switched images was somewhat mind blowing, but only in the questions that the experiments raised. How does the mirror through the camera lens portray my mouth as open when it is in fact closed? Why did the technology of the camera switch its definitions of reflection, placing what should have been an image from the right on the left after the mirror experiments? Who can explain this to me besides some sort of master optician? The reason I am more than concerned and more than interested is due to the existence of real time cloaking devices based in only lens and optic work, which can make an object invisible when seen from a certain perspective. You can find that work here: Rochester Cloak, the information of which was based also in an article from the web publication version of Wired. I bring up my mental state again because I do not feel that I am crazy, but that instances of secretive cloaking devices based off of lens work when evidenced by me in the past probably did not do justice to what were often labeled "hallucinations" when objects or vehicles would appear or disappear based off of perspective. In terms of me taking the blame for a technology that I do not possess nor have at my disposal, I would tell the dishonest crowd of invisibilifying yahoos to not get carried away with mirage camoflauge at my expense any longer. That and the thoughts that if you invisibilified yourself with lenses and drove around for a time, that you were probably at the most causing bizarre car accidents on occasion and at the least playing the role of the coward.
Regardless, mirror and optic perplexity figure into dreams. Are we only seeing the "reflections" of reality's substrate when our eyes are closed, bounced into our sleeping visions from chiral properties that exist in the vicinities of our resting places? Is this a natural facility? For a brief amount of time, it bore evidence upon examiation that some of the myths of the unknown such as ghosts, telepathy, and misconstrued vortexes of reality could be based on mirror properties that have gone unexamined in reality, whether the mirages or distortions were caused by water vapor, cold and warm air, or more complex properties that often lack description. The properties have been witnessed for sound, as well as light obviously, and the indications for other spectra involving other human senses could be astounding, including theories of human/reality radio wave resonances. The theories could explain any sort of experiences that have been classified as paranormal (outside maybe, say alien life) based in the properties and aptitude for illusive or real creation of reflections and refractions that exist inherently in reality. To sum it up, are we living honestly in a literal hall of mirrors, and if so, which side of the metaphorical glass are we on? One could point to paranoid theories such as that we are living in a maze designed for study by a "higher" or at least more distinct set of beings, but perhaps we are imprisoned by our own. Thoughtful examination places the possibility of down right abusive chicanery within this idea either at an all time high or all time low. Regardless, it's worth the thoughts as opposed to the nightmares I had cocurrently with the research that sometimes suggested that I was only made of Light and was somehow slipping into traps or non-existance, which I mention because these happened during my examinations and experiences with the chirality of mirrors (and perhaps my environment). Some of the nightmares came as dreams, some of the dreams came as nightmares. The most prominant experience of one was the notion that we are all made of some kind of Light that exists seperately from the Material Universe, and somehow we only move away or towards each other, and that factor within any sort of Metaphysical system based on such an admonition would end up explaining pain, love, loss, friendship, joy, and perhaps even Beauty. However I am not one to definitevely say, not wanting to be cast in the role of Metaphysical Dictator or Idealogue.
It is, if the survival of our people is any indication, perhaps time to return again to investigations of what is classified as the unknown or paranormal, not so that we may become Masters but so that we may work with forces and processes in reality that have lacked further classification besides unexplainable phenomenon, if only because a benevolent embracing of their complexities and values could portend new awakenings and a larger kinship between ourselves and life.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Rummaging through Archival Impressions, Document 1
These scripted ruminations. I want to profess about incredible things and people, how spinning the Sleater Kinney record "Dig Me Out" laid airwaves across transient dimensions to crowds of people who had to keep their real names hidden since they turned out to be the military coordinates of foreign cities stacked up for bombing and war. But I won't. I will delve, archive like, into the baleful subsistence of life on this hard won planet, which thankfully, to my knowledge, hasn't attempted to throw itself into the Sun since I was twelve. I met a woman thankfully. She is my wife, I am her husband. We do not resort to narcotics or GMO dope usage. We think this has placed a level head on our shoulders, out conniving the movers and shakers from time to time, often in grotesque pitched battles or worse, traps lain in a vessel on the sea, things we've had to escape and think about with no preparation time. Well, life has been like making omlettes while roller skating. No time to think about the transistions sometimes, Life breaks up helter skelter into images of people doing things for drugs while we are knowingly trying to stop the sun from exploding before it gets shot at with another ray of anti matter from the West Coast. This I believe. That Beauty is possible with Truth involved, and that together they make a stable cradle for the benefits of Brilliant Love. But yet, these destructive propensities of "Ego" exist that insidiously worm their way from the manufactured consent of media hoopla into the connoitered brain cells of a sold and used populace, sucking at pills and drugs and booze like the candied glass fragments of a dangerous gingerbread house. Well, I'm stacked. Should I post this for the public? Or will I have office papers thrown at me again along with accusations of my personal insanity that arrive as frequently as molestations?
A equals A should be graffiti on the side of some subway station some day, slashed out in red paint while the trains hustle by in their dingy affairs. It is both the philosophy and the equation of truth, it is how you find it when you are alone, as it was placed in Aristotle and Atlas Shrugged. No accolades for those two, to tell you the truth. For all I care to tell you, Aristotle ingested less lead and mercury powder than the less famous goons he was talking to in Ancient Greece. Ancient Greece, would that beat Prehistoric Greece in a contest for vibrant minds? Somehow, we think so but we also think not. Thank the gods there is persistence somedays if not intelligence.
Drunken dreams of coastal cities that have far more meticulous arrangements in infrastructure portend a de facto thesis that these places exist, not far, and not only in "dreams." It could be made an argument that dream stuff is actually the gates of transit for where a person arrives after their body has been declared deceased. I wonder if that is a sane or insane admonition. Is any admonition, that has been inspected and cleared in full by a maddened socius truly sane, or are the ones that haven't been cleared for commerce the ornate and honest ones, winding their way through the substrates of the universe like strands of emerald twine? We do not know fully, and perhaps a Plan against Ignorance should be instituted in terms of national and international programs. There are other planets that we know of, that our eyes may resemble on certain days in hue, but what we gathered is that the universe's beings could have been the result of some supple experimentation within the flows and excursions of a notion different from Matter. We are not Matter, we are Beings. For all its worth, if you are alive, subsist with the lack of the Matter Hook, where it took its everloving bewitching formulation, but respect materials as well.
My formulation of schizophrenia is a different one then society's label. It appears to me to be a point of intelligence that only very gigantically surpasses the IQ level of the junkie, who is forced by matter and materials towards certain forgone conclusions. Schizophrenics are only diagnosed and subjected to forced druggings by doctors whose false idea of a perfect cure subsists in using the very chemicals they had turned to at parties. Doctors are indeed drug addicts, otherwise they would not act as the gatekeepers for drugs. Go watch a porno. How many of those people were selling themselves only for money? Probably a few, but more were on the path towards King Dope as opposed to relying on sexual perversion as a constant business plan. Dope is killing America, and the processes underlying addiction that we have witnessed are gruesome and involve malicious sexual practices, graft, subjugation, violence, war, cannibalism, and rape. If you're not a user and you get the substrate of heroin or cocaine on you, know that you could become the center of an insidious violence that does not work with the harmonies of a finer nature. Regardless.
A equals A should be graffiti on the side of some subway station some day, slashed out in red paint while the trains hustle by in their dingy affairs. It is both the philosophy and the equation of truth, it is how you find it when you are alone, as it was placed in Aristotle and Atlas Shrugged. No accolades for those two, to tell you the truth. For all I care to tell you, Aristotle ingested less lead and mercury powder than the less famous goons he was talking to in Ancient Greece. Ancient Greece, would that beat Prehistoric Greece in a contest for vibrant minds? Somehow, we think so but we also think not. Thank the gods there is persistence somedays if not intelligence.
Drunken dreams of coastal cities that have far more meticulous arrangements in infrastructure portend a de facto thesis that these places exist, not far, and not only in "dreams." It could be made an argument that dream stuff is actually the gates of transit for where a person arrives after their body has been declared deceased. I wonder if that is a sane or insane admonition. Is any admonition, that has been inspected and cleared in full by a maddened socius truly sane, or are the ones that haven't been cleared for commerce the ornate and honest ones, winding their way through the substrates of the universe like strands of emerald twine? We do not know fully, and perhaps a Plan against Ignorance should be instituted in terms of national and international programs. There are other planets that we know of, that our eyes may resemble on certain days in hue, but what we gathered is that the universe's beings could have been the result of some supple experimentation within the flows and excursions of a notion different from Matter. We are not Matter, we are Beings. For all its worth, if you are alive, subsist with the lack of the Matter Hook, where it took its everloving bewitching formulation, but respect materials as well.
My formulation of schizophrenia is a different one then society's label. It appears to me to be a point of intelligence that only very gigantically surpasses the IQ level of the junkie, who is forced by matter and materials towards certain forgone conclusions. Schizophrenics are only diagnosed and subjected to forced druggings by doctors whose false idea of a perfect cure subsists in using the very chemicals they had turned to at parties. Doctors are indeed drug addicts, otherwise they would not act as the gatekeepers for drugs. Go watch a porno. How many of those people were selling themselves only for money? Probably a few, but more were on the path towards King Dope as opposed to relying on sexual perversion as a constant business plan. Dope is killing America, and the processes underlying addiction that we have witnessed are gruesome and involve malicious sexual practices, graft, subjugation, violence, war, cannibalism, and rape. If you're not a user and you get the substrate of heroin or cocaine on you, know that you could become the center of an insidious violence that does not work with the harmonies of a finer nature. Regardless.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
out back
Infirm dilemma
while the neighbors have their overheard phone conversations
about skullduggery
as the heat begins to press like a sharp finger
at the back of our breath
and the camera man have pictured their spyland
like the black insectile rape of staring at a victim
I wonder
did they used to know old paintings of violets
from a cherub's thriftstore
as the pink tables diffused rainwater
out back in the native damp grassland bordering
a burgeoning forest splattered with damp wood
and igneous green moss,
did they know love too
or was it lost in patterns of a quick needlepoint
wrought by frayed threading
the colors pink and pea green?
Somedays with the forest pressing against the cabins
I know enough to be nauseous
and I can't forget
until certain things are themselves forgotten
by the veldt of firma and Time
so let me ask you, curious bird
if the seed of Beauty had been in your dark beak
when the refrains of golden dawns
sang
and you responded in chirps
back to that new ancient song,
did you imagine the spyglass
the errant invitation to another's hatred
on an obsedian telephone,
or the complete aural stab
of witchcraft's gossip
carried through a wind of frost
as we leaned towards the pale encompassing heats
of a whiter star and astral designation
than our sun's golden keep?
I would like to interview you
but we will keep it at a lack of hello for now
since you were running all over the property
and I think I can forgive you
for dressing like a GMO robot
if you keep your kids away from knives
that belong in a hunter's boot
for now
and let them watch the rainbow splatteres
of LSD TV
until their minds are made up about color
like how your hair winds matronly when tied by a ribbon
representing motherhood
and not these other monsters
who played with sharp instruments
upon the anatomies of our fates.
Did you cry
when you saw the abandoned wagon
in the road
wondering where the children
were disappearing to?
Because a lot of them
ended up in cruel and defaced factories
as riveted as nightmares
so you should be kinder
because we were blessed today
by the taste of rainwater from the sink
and the ruminations that fell upon
a hidden cisteren
that could be the spiritual vault
of the human race.
while the neighbors have their overheard phone conversations
about skullduggery
as the heat begins to press like a sharp finger
at the back of our breath
and the camera man have pictured their spyland
like the black insectile rape of staring at a victim
I wonder
did they used to know old paintings of violets
from a cherub's thriftstore
as the pink tables diffused rainwater
out back in the native damp grassland bordering
a burgeoning forest splattered with damp wood
and igneous green moss,
did they know love too
or was it lost in patterns of a quick needlepoint
wrought by frayed threading
the colors pink and pea green?
Somedays with the forest pressing against the cabins
I know enough to be nauseous
and I can't forget
until certain things are themselves forgotten
by the veldt of firma and Time
so let me ask you, curious bird
if the seed of Beauty had been in your dark beak
when the refrains of golden dawns
sang
and you responded in chirps
back to that new ancient song,
did you imagine the spyglass
the errant invitation to another's hatred
on an obsedian telephone,
or the complete aural stab
of witchcraft's gossip
carried through a wind of frost
as we leaned towards the pale encompassing heats
of a whiter star and astral designation
than our sun's golden keep?
I would like to interview you
but we will keep it at a lack of hello for now
since you were running all over the property
and I think I can forgive you
for dressing like a GMO robot
if you keep your kids away from knives
that belong in a hunter's boot
for now
and let them watch the rainbow splatteres
of LSD TV
until their minds are made up about color
like how your hair winds matronly when tied by a ribbon
representing motherhood
and not these other monsters
who played with sharp instruments
upon the anatomies of our fates.
Did you cry
when you saw the abandoned wagon
in the road
wondering where the children
were disappearing to?
Because a lot of them
ended up in cruel and defaced factories
as riveted as nightmares
so you should be kinder
because we were blessed today
by the taste of rainwater from the sink
and the ruminations that fell upon
a hidden cisteren
that could be the spiritual vault
of the human race.
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