Maturity

Music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQ4qXMzpH-Y

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJYAsuVQry0

Words manifest in lucidity.

Thoughts as transient as afternoon shadows.

Energy as charged as smoke's winnowing path.

Solidity; as framed as wrought.

Eyes as cloudy as morning fog rising in the winter sunshine

Weak, misty risen from the crops of mustard

Emanating the winter morning coolth;

The moist, freshly cut green scent of the pastoral life.

If only this was the grace of all;

To be shared, to be ruminated over; to be the truth!

And yet, this obscurity re-defined eloquently by the 

Queen of Words

Arundhati Roy.

My intelligent-lover.

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.” 

― Arundhati Roy

I can say no more; this can not be outdone.

Fated

Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmnYqKl1LzE&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmHkDZe7_48&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uy6bry6W54&feature=related

Coursing (cursing?) civilisation on the Petone motorway 

As an anti matter experiment at CZERN. 

Consuming hungrily enthralling cloud visions;

The blinding gold Sauli-fying.

Soul-ly-fying.

Bon Iver surging; nurturing the epiphanic spirit.

Electricism ignited.

Pinkfloyd's 'forever and ever' dis-enthralling, 

Breaking, uplifting, torturing, 

Vulnerable.

Sunrise over winter-lings of nothingness

Turner's painting elicits this; 

The slaves thrown overboard, shackled, drowning

Compensating racial greed.

Yet, rawness compelled, 

Indulgent, romantic, callow, fibrous strokes

Compassionately give the

Guile-less sunset.

The raw terror; the raw divine.

Is it not dis-similar to the depressed man

Sunken below, drugged at large to a stupor

Electrically shocked to 'happiness'

Suicidally clear a few days later.

Only to de-robe himself

The dressing gown belt, 

The neck:

Only 2 inches off the floor.

To hang when the electricity had returned him

That happiness was and is happiness encumbered?

Is there no sublimity in this?

That mankind is defeated?

That nature nurtures?

Returning the rest whence they came,

To the comforts of the womb,

Secure; to be reborn?

Not to tamper; not to change.

Does nature nurture love?

Partnership, and singularity at large?

Is there impended doom for some

Who instead, nurture pain,

And potential non-love?

Do they create?

Do their-impended-doom-on-love genes surge onwards?

Nay, I think nature has other plans for us.

Maybe to live out loss vicariously?

Complicating simple love,

Dragging the last fragmented morsel our way,

Remembering, churning, claiming it for ourselves

Eternally.

The river flowing

Forever and ever.

Vampirish in moonshine, caught by headlights

Sustained by the last vicarious, draining morsel.

Does the satanic dance fall off our agenda?

Does the cosmic dance of Natraj slow?

I have no answer, but I think this song does....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dEgWy7kbew

Skin

Music:

Leonard Cohen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPNkUZCsgOo&feature=related

Indian sentiment

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liYTjQc9lsw&feature=fvwrel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf0dwBDfSbk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anonHtYQFxs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5qhBM3KJY8&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6JmXzFvLlM&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NBcJlwENFs&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJOkkUOU7UQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36NsUgr5Heg&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGuj6oiCEIs&feature=related

Unsettled by the gaze of Bindo Altoviti by Raphael, I feel my soul has been read; that it would be sacrilege to not bare all.

That I am the wisp of twilight cloud dis-enthralling myself in front of the erect, pregnant, belly of the half moon.

The stomach turn and nausea from the box of raw leather for me to uncomfortably ogle at. To ogle at. To materialize the animal that once walked.

The horror of watching a hyena decimate, mouthful by mouthful, an injured, incapable zebra. In a lifeboat lost in the Pacific Ocean. Eaten inside out. The insides eaten before the zebra dies. All against the sublime sunset of the Pacific; an unborn entity on the eve of its nativity. Unborn, raw, yet complete; the zebra reversed.

Sliding, slipping; fetal. Exasperated by the courtship game; any game. The waiting, the calculations; the rejection. The fetal position of half piqued, half childlike mischievous wonder. What is this courtship game? Who ascertains its reality; who draws the full stop?

The fluttery, feather-like butterflies, floaty, confused; concussed. Thinking about India I am on a 6 year rewind to the wink of time. I stand in a garden looking at the electrically charged, tempestuous clouds. I feel the electric charge. I feel the tempest brewing within me. The chowkidar's radio 'maula mere maula mere' wafts over, eddying inward into my tempest of yearning. When was I to ever see this all again?

The next morning I flew away, not to return for four years.

Its been six years since my last monsoon.

Amongst the sin cleansing, the ground swell, the mid-eval carved, wooden doors there was manna. No evaporation, just solid sweet rain. The sin lit fire quenched by the monsoon.

The full circle.

The holographic universe; its millionth dimension transversed by delusional devotees. An exhausting allegory of mind-numbing sub-atomical allusion? Just as is the allusion that we are the universe, the world is round?

As holographic perhaps as the concussing truth on the fledgling of the class, that I had eyes for male and females. But, he insists, Indians can't be gay? He is scarred for life, or so he says.

I assure him I am taken, that it is not a figment of my Indian, playing coy ploy.

But what of the sin-binding dilemma? The singularity I find myself in? The courtship dance? The Himalaya-ward blown fragments of sanity?

What of the skin I live in?

  

Breast

Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kfztw1-D-ZM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_n5LGn1sZ0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVh3WQtx_pw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcFPn0m1I5Y
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFzogfFw-2Q
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EzeW5KoPUI


Boiled cabbage leaves. I turn it over in my masala gravy and think back to the conversations of the class today.
Yes, boiled cabbage leaves kept in hospitals to alleviate pre or post pregnancy itchy breasts.

Having dabbled an elderly-orientated foot in nutrition and alternative healing a few years ago, I had gone full circle. In a class of thesans, my attention turned from mortals to conceptionists.

I am mesmerized by all things pregnant.

Its almost if every  winter tree is fraught with the offspring of post-winter. Every rain drop bursting with new life.

I am reminded of Raphael's frescoes in Villa Farnesina where the cornucopia of fruit are plump with sexual energy. After all they say that Raphael died from too much sex; or possibly that was the (possibly) gay Giorgio Vasari having his comeback?

But who is to say too much sex is a bad thing?
This corpulent sexual energy has served many so well.

I digress.

The thesan who is afraid of labour came in this morning;
a Virgin Mary with a halo of mid-winter, mid-morning refracted sunshine.
But not a virgin.

Today, her breasts were unbearably itchy.
The class fell to; there was fertile wisdom to be imparted.
Boiled cabbage leaves, morning sickness remedies, a fear of deep fried breakfasts;
The failure to give up cigarettes in time for the birth.

I lent a distracted ear;
I had no wisdom to impart
But something teased my mind.

The distraction served well.
The subtle breath, the stroke of a caring hand, the romantic words....
The pent up energy to be spent.
Finally.

The warmth,
Venus calling me.

Suppressing the ease of such thinking
I return home
To find I am not the only one.

Desire is at its zenith
Fecund, fertile, lustful and sumptuous.

Pursuit

Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xow2gnVTUjs
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=scctp8-xYX4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjlPplqMhz0

The wind sweeping the ice; the poignant inserts.
I sit ruminating pensively.  A utopian reality dressed in white ethereality that is, yet, weighted dreadfully.

The street lights turn on and the sky is awash with magenta, but only subtly so.
The perfect setting for my soliloquy on the heart.
Its almost as if mortality waits to grab my ankles; for the juncture when I cleanse myself of this.

I hand it out to Sigur Ros on a silver plate; now, and anytime.
For they make me overflow.

The anticipation.

The conversation was of the insides falling out; the dreadful wait for somebody who never returned.
The silence witnessed sharply, the outpourings un-answered; the gestures never restitute.
The child like excitement; the black ink seeping; the incoming poison-tide.

The excitement dulled, the wit alert, the guard raised; the stomach churn.
The heart's heaviness under the juvenile breast; more echoed,  dragged; more antagonized.
The astute ache.

The pathos evoked. The anguish entailed.

The white elephant of everybody's conversation.
The apathetic smiles; the torment whetted.

The darkness of the soul risen.
The reality bridged by intercourse, so fervently avoided.
Geographical reasoning speaks loudest at this juncture.
The QWERTY keys could unlock the soul, but regress progress too.

She has walked this ache out of her bones, but it lingers.
To pursue or to retreat?
To ebb or to flow?

Nostalgia

Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3UpZydTFb0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gd8QNraWB0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG7I4oniOyA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaSH-0Q4nys
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7N4I5Oi4WI&feature=related
         
Cheeks burning, singed by the starry, open sky cold.
The south easterly that is titillating Aro Street's corners
Creating vacuous channels for the ten fold burn off fire works.

Glancing at Pippa Middleton, I can't help referencing my 11 year old self.
What has changed since that barraging crush on the English Royal Family,
to now, where I only have sympathy for their long gone royal selves.
Things have got out of hand to say the least.

In peeps my 11 year old music tastes.
Paul McCartney's 'Flowers in the Dirt' and Annie Lennox's 'Diva'.
So inflamed by both albums that even now, 11 years on, they melt me.

The crooked, metre long scarves with lost, gained, forgotten stitches.
All made with an awkward tongue position concentration!

The bamboo skewer house made based on a circular courtyard, sky well cooling principle, painted cobalt blue and black. Then thrown away in an unbridled tantrum a few years later.

The easily flown tears triggered by news from Australia;
The great void that lay between my social and 11 year old self.
The loneliness.

The complete satisfaction from being alone.
The utter satisfaction gained from staring at Princess Diana, and the young Princess Elizabeth.

Translated into my embarrassingly, un-beknowest to me  mesmerized looks at Prince William and Princess Kate.
Or just simply Kate and William. If anybody, in the 1000 years since 1066, is changing royalty my faith lies in them.

I believe they have seen the vacuum of silence in life. Not seen, but believed.

On Karepa Tce this morning I experienced this silence. My insides emptied, and I was part of the aether momentarily.
Called back only by the mating sounds of two shimmering, handsome Tuis hopping nervously from branch to branch in sight of me.

Apuka Tce led me back to the civil sounds of urbanity; Helen St gave me my first whiff of self destruction.

On kitchen table hesitantly detailing my un-impressive newfound philosophy; thought through for months, un-impressively debuting on paper last night. Its cyclical, as all things I believe are. Starting and ending with ego. Verdure/physical health, inspiration, adventure, altruism and cosmos the stages between.
My current approach to this uneffable odyssey we call life.

Perception. Personality. Ego.

Closeted nostalgia tumbled out.
Tumbling unceremoniously to the micro-moment 'High Hopes', merged with Alexandre Desplat's  'Motherhood'.
A dream complete. A barraged brain catching up. My whole childhood encapsulated.

Sweet dreams are made of this nostalgia.

Wind

Any concern? None. Blown.
Inspiration stream jetting on full tank.

Music. Check. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgyh-_1csQc
Warmth. Temperature, 14.3 C.  90% humid. Gust, 69 kmh Northerly.
1.2 mm rain in the last hour.


The night when all is resplendent and graceful; yet so fragile and transient.
When collided paths share an ineffably, sublime cosmos.

Hunger; check.
Mexican bean salad, followed by an avocado sandwich; home-made juice.

Happiness shared, is happiness lived.
Or in the words of  Andre Compte Sponville:
Happiness is probably no more than loving who you are, what you have and what you do.

And no more than loving who you are with.

In this juncture, I am a particle in the tempest overlooking the zephyr.

Magenta in amongst blades of grass I see,
The rippling, reeling consort of the undergrowth;
The sepia tapestry inundated by veracity and the in-eludible tide.

The pilgrimage called to tempt mortality to seek the sublime.


Somewhere between gusts, a whirlwind whisking,
New love is found amongst salty fingers.

Arms flailing, necks outstretched, eyes bright in child-like joy.

Under the grey blue, cloud-permeated brandeis blue sky,
They ran, tempting the northern wind with carpe diem fatalism.

With pledges to seek out the Himalayas, and Southern Alps single-handedly
She held (with two hands) the swing driftwood contemplating fear
Amidst a bowing Gum branch, pulsating leaf silhouettes, rain ravaged, clay trodden roots
And a darkening city; inundated by tempestuous gale winds, and searching clouds.


Then in childlike curiosity all was abandoned in search for new adventures.
The vollery of birds fighting the aether; the gregacious stories from the night before.


The outstretched arms lay waiting, again, for the next billow to bellow 
Thrashing against the sea wall
In vengeance. In curiosity of the urban crawl.


The brandeis sky wordlessly merging into a coal grey, ethereal mass
In whose openings stars and planes were sought.


The spots of rain, the whirlwind never abating, giving selflessly
To the 'starry starry night' emanating from my womb of light.


'Starry, starry night

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze 
Swirling clouds in violet haze 
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue 
Colors changing hue 
Morning fields of amber grain 
Weathered faces lined in pain 
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.'

Where too lie scattered daguerreotypes, plights of the human condition,

Fragmented musical notes, pious lament, sandalwood ash 

And me, in complete repose.

Clouds

Words fail me. Not emotions.
Just my plain denial of the English vocabulary.

Clouds percolated into my bloodstream. It injected a tragic bearing on my soul, despite the inspiring, philosophical overtones.Lying on my back absorbing every last sound in a dim room with maroon flavours and a shelf of unread books. I was cheated out of myself in the song; the ideal, and the me separated, seeping into the carpet below.

I haven't been in the same place since; but I have seen clouds on fire.
I have walked many miles and seen many clouds.

Pilgrimages have been made to the wind, then to the Southern Alps.
The Sun has been visited in bloodshot orange evenings sandwiched between a mourning cloud of deep purple, and embracing curvatures of midnight blue.

The trees fiery, glowing orange; four weights, the clouds, bowed to Sun in lofty strata; absorbing sunset spectrum. The ferry winked, the plane gleamed. The sky falling into an Islamic blue bowl, deepend only by the mid-winter stars. God, the stars. 


Matariki.

Smashed. Fragmented. Broken into by hyper, soporose, hypnotic, somnolent, narcotic, soporific, opiate, somniferous bloodshot face throat singing.


Burst. Collided. Fractured. Sideswiped by an explosive mouth covered in blood; bleeding from the mouth that is the heart. Cauterizing my orbit of unsettled love.

But now, incomplete, Pinkfloyd speaks; to high hopes returned.
The clouds serene; the tragic bearing of an un-lived life rooted in the stomach pit.

The juvenile rhythm in simple harmonic motion; the bells tantalizing.
The to and fro had just set sail; 'dragged by the force of some inner tide'.


'Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river

Forever and ever'


The sadness that wreaks havoc in moments of ineffable beauty.


Condemn the playlist.

Such moments of transcendental sound and colour.

And yet such isolation.

'From up and down, and still somehow

It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all'.

Coffin

Winter Solstice. Aevitas.
Not you again.

Violet Clement's birthday.
Pagan angel, and a borrowed grave.

Just like
The woman who invented it doesn't want it
The woman who bought it doesn't need it
The woman who needs it doesn't know it!

My grandmother all the same,
Removed from me by three years in the grave.
Her birthday; her preserverance day.

In mid-February I remembered her in amongst the Poplar, Sal
The German prisoners of war,
The nuns of another kind of captivity,
And the Doonites of yesteryear immortalized in Greek mythology.

On other days, the mid summer dress up that was her birthday.
In other parts; the skywell that was still in the making.

I wonder what she thinks; her memories being trickled down to me, my sister through vantage points?
The pained. The stubborn. The intelligent. The cook, my, the cook!

The racism that she bore the brunt of leading her back to the shadows?

The Indian dairy owner who took stones as money? And yet was he Indian?
The 'Maoris' who continue to run the country ragged and dry.
The Indian 'giver' no doubt?

The malodorous food that lines their stomachs; plastic in entity, plastic in flavour.
The food that shouts the doubt in their lives.


Yann Martel tells me he will be honest:
'It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we.......But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.'

Better said than my personal indulgent philosophy;
Food to eat, food to think is food to chew.

That was the night encapsulated.
Shades of chilli; all Indonesian, all subtle, all vastly aromatic; all perfect.
All dotted like a chilly Wellington sky.
All man made.

Food to think was lustful lovemaking.
An anomaly. An oxymoron, perhaps a paradox too?
But it struck me down.
Happiness is security is pleasure?

And yet, the more my head thinks these things the drier my fingers become.
This is drip dry.

And, yet I wonder what she thinks;
Pagan angel, and borrowed life.
My grandmother that I never met.

Skywell

Woke up in the 3am darkness.
Stomach churn, talking to myself in a raspy, non-me, voice.

Ladysmith Black Mambazo were called upon, singing their Ladysmith morning hymn. Nomathemba. Elated, head upturned, neck stretched watching the clouds search-light across the sky through a crack in the curtains.
The self cradled to South Africa's beneficence.

In that moment, that very moment, a voiceless student wasn't going to inhale koru shaped carbon monoxide; not for herself, not for the the mother who IS.

In that moment the beauty of this morning lay in South Africa.
The allure that everything is a mind set. That I; a mind-setter.

I am not voiceless; instead lingering in a moment of comprehension.

'Still making the skywell' wafts in from my father's fingers in the Northern Hemisphere; a last minute protest to time passing. A denial of time itself. Still. Making. The. Skywell.

Aren't we all?

Consumer and providers. Words to compensate dying people and care givers. Dying people and care givers. Words to explain a degrading spirit, and the givers of care. The givers of care who selflessly give everything. The spirits who are everything but degraded.
The mindset counts.


The late night message so quickly returned. Too quickly? Too honest? 
Impulsive. Merely am; barely am in this.


The crocheted beat. Separated by minims of drum beats. Semi-briefed by something-else; paused by the held breath. Connected by over-arching, floating voices. Then again. 10 hours of it, if you wish.


And I said I was insatiable...


Where did you leave your voice? Feebly: in bed, I think. A thick, cigarette laugh floats back. I should have known; but was relieved. I could eat my banana, coconut and oat pancakes in no hurry. 


I could ogle, uncomfortably, at Katy Perry's Gothic dress, Selena Gomez's orangey lipstick, and Johnny Depp's chiseled face.


I could remember the furtive-dart-glancing-face of yesterday, and feel my heart beat more heavily.


I said that I had a slight embarrassing admission to make....


'A Sunday smile you wore it for a while.
A cemetery mile we paused and sang.*'

The waltz sings from side to side of my stomach, and I remember the anti-matter explosion sky yesterday morning. The clouds of green, blue, grey, yellow and pink framing a clear blue apotheosis. Zach Condon's voice echoing.

The moment when obvious is no longer oblivious. The divine moment when Loudness and Clarity choose to meet you. The moment realized. You succumbed to a utopian feeling; the epitome of life. 

Something you thought you could control to not hurt others. And yourself.

The divine moment when the Gulag Orkester piano meets the chorus. The exaltation. The Amen

Its all in the mindset.

The skywell. The making. The stillness.

*A Sunday Smile by Beirut

Insides

Billy Connolly. 


Three quarter turn; remote keys in hand. The Skoda winks at him, he swivels and walks on.
Standing at the lights, oblivious to all else, are robotic 9-5'vers listening to their versions of Adele love songs. DubFx versions. XX versions. And ofcourse, Adele herself.


A naughty, mesmerized by fame thought winks back. What is Wellington to him? He has seen the world; yet here he is parking his car on Abel Smith Street. 


People. 


The cold, stiff, dead-cell hands of people as they fear of dying. You stroke the hand, give them some warmth, and fight back a swelling watery feeling. You never can just make eye contact; unleash the swelling water.


People who have a 'tosser' while in a public place. Not mortified; quite oblivious.
Your face red hot with embarrassment for them. But why?


People 
Who can't hold eye contact. Instead dart furtive glances from the safety of a fringe.
I felt I could read into the well of disappointment; the loss of opportunity
The starvation she was being put through to be somebody.


Like the mesmerized by fame feeling, I can't quite take my eyes off her.
Something so attractive in her pain and loss.


Her angular chin reflected in her angular nose. Reflected in her angular skeleton.
Broken by the curves of her pre-adult, post-teen breasts arched by a black lacy bra.
Mirrored by the white 'singlet' just below those slight nipples.
Covered by a grey hoodie, and a black pleather jacket.
Continued by 'denim' tights; finished by knee high ug-boots.


The in-complete story.


'She lives with a broken man 
A cracked polystyrene man 
Who just crumbles and burns

It wears her out, it wears her out 
It wears her out, it wears her out '*

The complete story.

The people. The scapegoat of the class eternal. Laughing to be included.

Constantly warding off awkwardness by creating more.

A virgin.

The girl who lives a lie. Who is told to live the lie. Who eats grey circular pills with dashes through the middle, not knowing the name; not knowing suicidal tendencies are the side-effect.

The girl who asks about 'conservative Christchurch'. Is it really that racist? I want to throw my arms around her, kiss her on the lips, and cry. Yes, she would be mis-understood in the South Island.

The lady whose a mother. Who encompasses selfless-ness. The lines under her 20+ old eyes talk of a hard life. But she won't utter a word about it. She apologizes for the orange juice spilt on the desk; I want to throw my arms around her too and thank her for the sanity she brings me.

The toothless woman who IS. She is '57 born, a mother again, to two men. I wonder (want to assume?) that one was a 'tosser'. But she laughs. Even when talking of her patient who consumed clothes through her vagina to feel again what is was like. She laughs. She winks.

But it doesn't feel convincing.

The guy. Who watched his mother suffer innumerable strokes. Who nursed her. And who is now the bible of care-giving knowledge; imparted with a false sense of wisdom.

The girl who vacuums, cleans; never makes eye contact. Her zebra socks add a psychedelic dimension to a historic carpet. Her hair talks of in-security or experimentation? And I wonder whether she is a mother?

The pregnant girl who is afraid of labour.

People.

Just the beginning of the equal and opposite forces. 

The fight within.

The fight dispelled so conveniently by my privileged life

Of music, Warmth; Constant euphoria.

A stone strong, mountain ridge of

Emotional security 

Embalmed by good parents, good family; 

Good friends.

*Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead

Hope

I am tired.

Tired from the blog-addiction-waiting-for-172-photos-to-load.
Tired from the 6 hours sleep. The expected knock at 1am fading into a deeper sleep.

Tired from the phasing-in, oh so gracious alarm at 6.55am.
The alarm to hearken a new, cloudy, winter's day ridged with pink tinged clouds that shake me to pine furthermore.

I reached for my phone; I wanted so badly to do it.
But closeted it into a recess; to pine at it in retrospect later.

I am tired from the sitting at the bus stop. The realization that the last months have been so lit that I have forgotten the anxiety late buses bring. The remnants of black cloud that hang thickly in your nostrils. The feeling that brings one word to my mind; repulsive.

The defeat so early in the day.
The surly shadow of a black kind of hope.


I am tired of the un-creative surrounds of an 'old' postmodernist building; tacked together to be the centre of the Salvation Army. First a worship place, then a classroom; then a shoddy classroom that wreaks coldness in winter, and emanates primary school projects of the circulation system, Alzheimers. And death.


I am tired of my elitism. That when sitting down my bourgeois ideas sank my true appreciation of new people; the smiles, the welcomes. The very reason I was sitting in that hall of better days.


I am tired of talk. The fatal mistake of collapsed cervixes. The pharmaceutical machine that brings more pain, than relief. The talk of everybody around me who had, at one time or another, been on a form of prozac.


The talk of endless pregnancies; endless lovers. Endless abusers.


I was tired of the film that presented procreation as our only incentive to live; that once done, the body inevitably degraded itself. The belief that there is no beauty in life, that once a hard deed was done, no matter what, no matter your food intake, no matter your belief in beauty and hope, no matter the 'better' life you strove for. 


Procreation and death was the crux of life.


I am sad that I meekly rage against a well oiled machine that feeds off in-equality; for every 100 people who are lost, who are 'disappeared, one person gets to grin to the theme song of cash tills opening. The cash till spilling his fortunes at his feet; bowing down to he who stands on a 100 crushed corpses. 


Shattered; hopeless. Tired.


I am tired from the few hours of dance; from the depths of Espana, and Europe; so alive in movement; as ruptured as the lands they descend from. For they too stand on crushed corpses waving the banner of survival.


I am tired.


But here I am. I sit writing, alleviated. Listening to the bird-like cacophony of Mongolian throat singing.
And it is in this moment that I see beauty.


Hope shines through again.


I remember that I am not tired of new birth. For today, as much sadness a tired mind may float, that same mind can remember moments of ever widening pools of colour.


For the documentary of death brought in its own wake the recalling of my family to the humble presence of a new birth. A cousin's first. Little Neive. Esperanza.


As the day comes to a close, and the lonely bird resettles in me, the chiaroscuro, burnt-sienna Himalayas return. The honorable rising above. The hope that love of fascination can bring.


The hope that sharing all, baring all; brings happiness.
The euphoria of knowing one is loved, not by anybody;
but with one who rises, like the lonely bird, to the mountain story.

And that is where we settle for the night.

Prelude

So this is it. Here I stand. This is me to the world. And this is my moment of exposure....
As a little prelude, I wish to explain where I am in life.

Given the blog title, chosen transiently, you may understand that I am open and closed to many things. Also given that I have written a few sentences without any real meaning, I am more experimenting in a style of writing than a style of thinking.

Or that is what I think currently. Because it was only this morning, when I put my best foot forward,  I would take the leap of faith and open up to the 'world' about all these things that trouble me. Ideas, not words.

Yes, ideas not words.

So I begin with my growing concern of the lie we are being led to live in; the lie that is being called the 'life' that we must not question.

The 'shock doctrine'. The disparity that lies within male and female rights. The disparity in what is called homophobia. The part religion, organized religion, may play in this. The growing, and very real concern that capitalism is directly proportionate to ill health, poverty, life expectancy, frustration; riots, violence: suppression.

The disregard to all that is not man. The plundering of animals, the environment; why it almost seems that the cloud weep on this acid flooded land.

The growing realization, that now more than ever before, man is the measure of all things.
But the worse part, the growing realization that some men have become the measure of all things.

Stepping back, getting a grasp back on sanity, I do have hope. Not an idealist's version of hope.

But, hopefully an altruistic hope.