Ekayana

‘Practice turning the negative thoughts you have into positive ones until this becomes a habit’ I read while I hear about stabbed sexual offenders.

The proximity is no more than half a metre; the feeling, stone deep cold inside.

I wish to turn off, but in an empathetic line of study, my hypocrisy sees light; my double standards rear their ghastly head. Have I really conquered this?

Of late I have pondered over my relationship with other people; there is a fine line between my ineffable love, and my burgeoning, sometimes suffocating, impatience breaking forth.

Perhaps Marley’s words of decolonisation speak loudest of this crux; ‘emancipate yourselves from slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind’. This moment; it is in the mindset. I subconsciously create my double standards....

Some words of wisdom perpetrated this thinking yesterday, when I was told that impatience perhaps rises out of our rational selves. Perhaps our need for survival goes too far, implying our pride is crushed when our ego is silenced. But if in such times we stepped back and empathised with the talked of situation our heart, as cheesy as that sounds, would feed compassion into our struggling selves?

Perhaps altruistically we could gain so much imparted knowledge, if only we had the fore-sight? If only this crushed pride, and silenced ego sang out ‘at once I knew I was not magnificent’, rather than resisting, and then whimpering in the corner.

If only the asceticism I have come to know in the last few days so keenly, cradled, swaddled and put away the jealousy, pride and ever burdening ego?

What then of my ineffable love for humanity on the unbalanced equilibrium?

Why then do I fall so poly-amorously for people I can have socially, but not personally?

This was challenged when, surrounded by candle light and darkness, I knew that to be loved and to love was everything! To possess, to gain territory was to terrorise the equilibrium of sharing, this toxicity inherent in our reservations and assumed inhibitions.

I come out richer; I love, and with this love I guide through the vascular channels of aortas broad and inviting. The love of the brain, for now, is to be cradled, swaddled and put away with the jealousy, pride and ever burdening ego.

Because, at once I knew I was not magnificent!

Heracles' lament?

U2 could be no more apt on this day with their

‘The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground’

As the global faces of the global patriotism sail past

The pseudopanax, the succulent, the condensation drippy windows

In this glorious new day of Aro Valley.

I rise to the occasion with the exhaustion,

But a strange sense of akin with my younger self

The 10 year old, who after witnessing her father’s first angiogram,

Sat comfortably on the floor of her home with her safe and secure parents

Watching the Sydney Olympic Opening Ceremony.

It is more than that;

I have been reminded of the reclusive self I used to be,

Happy in her own world, but so unconscious of the joy other people could bring of late.

On this day I understand that feeling,

Today I hibernate, ironically,

But, other days bring revelry in other’s company from wakening till the soft voices of musical instruments that bring golden slumbers.

The ache bears so heavily on my tired, un-experienced shoulders at times

As did last night

When while I was reading a menu

I realized I was out of focus consciously;

My week slowly erased from my vision,

My burdenous body to be laid to rest

I was tired.

I digress.

Being told to make an ‘indelible mark on history’ I nod submissively,

To the indelible mark the Olympics may make makes me ruminate.

The colonial power that Britain was and is,

Every time reminded in every moment where ‘billions’ look Britain-ward.

Can the mass be so gullible to believe that colonisation no longer sees breath?

From the moment the French translation precedes the global language English (a result of colonisation to be sure in itself);

To the moment of union jacks sailing high on just so many flags,

To the fragile moment when I am in turmoil as to whether I should continue reading

‘Healing Our History’

which tells tales of, perhaps,

An un-transformable human anger?

How can genocide be so concurrent with our present lives?

How can £10 billion be justified with such annihilating disparity?

It is no surprise, perhaps, given our blindness.

How can the £10 billion be so thinly veiled by the powered members of Poverty, courage, peace, integrity, harmony, champion of the earth, spiritual strength all carrying the Olympic flag?

The naive 10 year old cannot delve deep enough,

But now, the heart is a bloom, having shot through the stony ground.

Meat-2 veg-Potatoes

Unclasping my hands,

I realise I am praying reverently to Guyamos Sonora.

Yesterday my affiliation with Radiohead was revealed;

Their melancholy is perhaps at the heart of all of us?

Perhaps our mortality is dialectically referred to in their music?

Not unlike Diego Reviera crying with his wife’s 2 dimensional crushed body in his hands, while she paints her shattered still born child.

Lupe later looks wisely at Frida with the mono-brow and savagely shortened hair,

And tells her her paintings strike a chord within us all;

Frida shares the torture of loss, love and physical pain;

We are not alone after all.

Her third eye consoles.

Not ‘the one eyed shrews that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom’ of Allen Ginsberg;

Although, our pain might cause us to do such a thing?

While reading about death practices in Japan

I was asked how I deal with death.

The second time in 24 hours.

My only answer, in articulately expressed, is

Death is spiritual;

A bridge from this cosmos to the next.

Like Pontifix

Whether one can say this or the next is better means nothing to me,

All I know is that I am guided by an ancestral voice,

And I too, in time, will become that voice for others.

The horrors of facing the self have been denied thus far,

Maybe in moments of the self Mortality will become like Moloch?

The shadow that kidnaps.

But for now, I fear not death, but pain

And it is for this reason Radiohead and Frido Kahlo

Are mine for the taking.

Lovelorn

Abbey:


within me, it speaks
the wairua
the voice of my ancestors
wavering and teetering on the edge

the periphery of my logic, my action
until the juncture
of euphoria.

the abbey of thought.

Badinage:


crossed off,
digressed from the nonsensical
banter of responsibility.

reminded of
'much as I enjoy typing non sense banter, 
we better cease and desist such carry on via official site'


i resist such temptations,
ephemerally.


return.


Cistern:

the reservoir never abates
the overflow inundating
the tired landscape
of fought battles never won.

the hope within pain,

the resilience inherent in aching bones

the motivated feet edging forward beyond

the limits of the tiring mind.

the reservoir of hope never abated.

Despondent:

how i sought to wash away your lack of spirit;

how i empathised with your apathy.

to fix your head in the cup of my hand

then to wipe away the despondent dirt in your eyes and mouth

placing saffron stamens in its place.

to hear the last breath escape 

while sailing you down a temperate river

juggernaut with the rocks of life.

Emphatic:

unknowingly drawn

alluringly led

to dogma thinly disguised

in trust, faith and inspiration.

the lower, the upper

the Divine, the saintly, the human

the mere animal.

the emphatic urgency of belief.

Farcical:

not again,

should it really be that draining

the inverted commas, the late notice:

the fascism ensuing.

the dropping of hats

at late notice,

still with inverted commas.

the text returned with five calls,

none of them sincere in their entirety

every one a desperate leap

across social attitudes

into social time slotting.

i bow down, i bow out;

officially this time.

Grimace:

the abject tongue,

done out of its exploration

grimaces 

at the nylon thread where

softness once reigned.

it wants to wander back

explore this incongruous grievance,

hope that it is a mis-understanding;

a trick of the mind.

but alas, it is not.

x

Flare

Sitting indulgently in bed

Ravaging (I like that word too much to omit it)

Semolina porridge as I haven't eaten

And, I haven't; 

12 hours have lapsed since my last meal.

I break the fast, sacredly,

Gingerly perhaps, well aware that Pi is still starving

Covered in salt blisters,

Living in fear of his survival.

I feel I am at the bottom of a hologram;

Surrounded with tantalizing fractured information

Fragmented; not yet coherent in my mind.

I might even say stress is gleefully impinging on my life

And I love it for once!

I have refrained from blogging lately,

My tiredness has brought out the most pessimistic of me's

And that aint reader friendly!

Nevertheless, I am drowning with inspiration and motivation!

Firstly, the night sky has been crystal clear these last few nights;

An Islamic blue bowl upturned, scattered with worlds.

I take no credit for this picture of Matariki rising in the early morning sky.

But the (mouldy) blue and ochre evoke everything that is within me right now.

The rising happiness, the wholesome belief that I am going somewhere

Somewhere I want to be.

The frail lacy trees are these shoots of new learning, new inspiration

Fragile at first, but later  strong and foundational in my life;

Their roots grounded so to speak.

Yesterday I went through a whole wheel of emotions:

Hope, love, compassion, distraction, empathy, and utter, profound love.

I realized I was being possessive, I needed to step back

To uncover the gentler love ensuing below the tormented wave crests.

The easily judged guy sitting next to me

Sings under his breath that he shot the sherriff, but not the deputy.

I work out he is 49, has no biological children and is 

Walking the path of faith,

Which he, no doubtedly, wants of me.

I am certain, unfailingly so, that the reason I love 'The life of Pi'

Is the mixed questions, the searching always for something

That is never fixed.

Bon Iver's 'Calgary' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KrmxavLIRM)

I could never walk a singular path, towards a singular goal.

Organized religion does to me.

Whether it be the suffering turtle I need to eat, 

Or the assuaged tiger inside

One can only know what path, when walked.

Along the way, people's lives vicariously beckon,

Adding to the perplexity of the human race.

A race in itself.

R fails to give me eye contact,

Something exists I cannot deduce.

True love, true faith; true loss?

Guilty for my accusatory thoughts,

Pi's fighting off a shark breaks even.

M is driving me crazy;

She is the orb in everything

In everything.

Deprecatingly I associate her with my 

13 year old self who cried on demand,

Sulked ruthlessly:

Talked whenever possible or impossible.

Just wanted attention.

I dig into my now rubbery semolina

While watching the fairies of the pre-school

Free of bias, as of yet,

How they are to be marred.

I give them 3 years till the action be complete.

Sufjan Steven's 'Chicago'  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azGIf74ICmw)

While on the bus,

My head in the midst of a monsoon storm at sea,

I look out the window momentarily to have my faith restored.

A woman, with no more than a smile, handed over a bought meal

To an emaciated, lonely man sitting on Manners Street seeking love.

The smile reciprocated, the bag of food curiously explored, then hidden momentarily,

Then dispatched hungrily down the widening channel of love.

Oh, the overwhelming love in that moment!

My eyes were moist, my lower lip quivered.

Oh the love in the world!

'On the church stairs

The wind in my hair

A flood through my tear'*

While I write my mind coherently rearranges itself;

The flustering, sub-atomical range of emotions in this world

Engulfs me; smothering me with the entirety of its magnificence!

At home literal paper work awaited me.

Setting it aside I ate canned pineapple

With cocktail samosas,

Watching 'The Fall' 

Adding to my hyper inter-momentary-life-orgasm.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwsYyRc9j4g)

The colour, the form, the music; the betrayal of survival.

What resonance this had, while I walked down the stairs.

I could have tripped to make my life more plot-like

How I could have sought pain, to make this happiness all the more eternal.

Beirut's 'La Banlieue' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bonzZowYre0) and 

*(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yM0qS6xb-G4)

But, alas, I didn't trip,

Instead my stomach tripped when a 4.2 earthquake shook

The house forcefully with two hands,

Ever so briefly.

With my mortality in check,

I apologised for believing in everything was plausible.

The pentecostal flare above these divine beings;

The flame of hope that burned quietly in the Pacific Ocean;

The flame of hope that rages within me, bursting out orgasmically.

The timetable still incomplete,

The musicians still asleep,

The flier beckoning, I must close with a quote:

'We can cure physical diseases with medicine

But the only cure for loneliness, despair and hopelessness is love.

There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread

But there are so many more dying for a little love.'

                                --Mother Theresa

Must listen to this; this truly instills hope in me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WN1suTtwfDs&feature=related

Abaya

Running my dry, static charged fingers over
The dry static charged back of my hand;
There is a coldness, a mass exodus of atomic cells,
Then the tracing of the deep brick spring bud of a drawing.

Breathe in. Breathe out.
The musty smell of weed is an after-breath-taste
My throat is numbly achy
And my eye sockets heavy.

Jon Hopkins keeps me from sleeping;
The fact that he is the moment for now.

What a night! One can only exclaim.

Labels. Radical feminism.
Eco feminism. Anarcho-feminism.
My lip curls skeptically.
Sub groups dividing into smaller, powerless groups
All seeking the same in the end.

Survival.

With abated breath I excitedly
Embrace children from my other mother,
My Arab counterparts.
So smiling, so incredible; so sisterly.

The talk propaganda.
Culture. Politics. Religion. Oil
And infinite wealth secured in three
Growing metropolises that deal 45% of the world's oil
That could tempt this civilisation into doom if toyed with.

And yet these smiling, eye-bright beauties are naive;
They are packaged from Saudi with flags
Sent to en-trance the world.

I could so easily fall for any of them.
In their weakness I see my own.

In their weakness I see A's vulnerability
Brought torrentially forth after my 5 years of excruciating curiosity.

I was just not prepared for it now.

Stunned into silence I could only look into her sad eyes,
And see the resilience so bright now, the survival so strong
Was ever more admirable now.
She escaped, when others couldn't.

The exorcist musings in an old bike shed shattered my empathy,
It dug deeper; it let the dragon free.
For a while I could fix my eyes on the placated, now demonic drummer,
And consume him; for then he was mine.

The evil escaped, and in its place a fresh lava flow of fresh agape flowed.
It was primal; I was howling with people I had shared beds with,
Shared hot ideas with, rants and so much more.

In this time I wish I could have shared so much more with the drummer!

The wild self excorcised, lacking inhibitions I released myself to the night wind and stars
And smoked, surrounded with primal strangers whom in that moment I could have dismissed
And instead ravaged somebody else.

Felt the all seeing hand light on my scalp, then heavier, then evidently intentional
Purposeful in its desire; its lustful want.
The tracing of the lips, the biting of the finger,
The stillness in such play.

Then the ravaging, gouging, tessellation of the bodies into one
One self so urgent in its fertile want.
The lingering, the tantalizing pauses, then the gouging, feeling returned.


The abaya lifted.

Dowry

Its 1am. I am potbellied in bed with a bowl of chips.

I feel blissful to Sufjan Steven's 'Concerning the UFO Sighting' 

Succeeded (erratically) by Cat Stevens' 'Rubylove'.

I am sighing with pleasure; I feel just so good.

Cat Stevens' Greek reminds me of my mother's.

The maid who observed a potential husband from afar

The potential, unsuspecting.

The matriarchy in such decisions; the courtship that followed.

This morning's conversation bares little resemblance.

The gold and silver given to compensate a woman's mere worth.

The 'selling' of a much loved daughter to an unutterably, isolating stranger.

Oh, the detachment ensuing.

Encounter with this subject matter, for the third time was in a film. 

'The Royal Affair' no different in such beleaguerment.

This time mutually so.

The 'crazy' king trapped surrounded by unfair expectations,

The charming queen unloved and destitute in contact

Till King Lancelot saved both;

Slept with one, empowered the other.

On happier notes,

We are saving Wellington one email at a time;

One smile handed out on a silver plate;

Boxed in tissue paper, and exposed on arrival!

The English language is to be exhibited from henceforth,

With a cheap promise of word games in definition, specifics and context.

Chomsky would chomp with vigour.

I want words to be visceral henceforth,

Almost skeletal and bearing all truth,

Resembling no cliche.

I want the word 'love' to have more effect on me;

To precipitate the overwhelming joy rising,

Like new breath, from the pit of your stomach

Arresting your heart beat momentarily

And exiting excitedly from your mouth.

Not before making your eyes water with epiphanic in-control;

Your mouth curve into a sincere smile of love.

Right now there is something so detestable about the four letters,

It lacks evocation of the majesty of such a feeling.

But eros, filia, and agape all make sense now!

Love is no longer a timeline of love.

But is love ever free of  shackles, and skeletal brides and grooms of this century?

Whit

A flash of red. Maroon red.

Once again perching,

With saucepan in hand,

I perch on the kitchen table

(touching wood) I smile at the day.

It is 8am.

The red against royal blue, 

Mustard yellow, and fluorine green.

The mood is set;

Frolicsome and hyper!

At 8.30am I shower.

Neurotically the same order,

Brush teeth,

While the baking soda sings

The shower mat.

Aevitas calls;

I am relieved.

No phantom pregnancy this time.

In the night it drains the blood from my head

Hollows out my eyes

As with everything, there is a system.

In the studio, adeptly, I dust glass cubes;

Disturbing nothing.

I am reminded of Griet and her curious gaze.

Vermeer the extraordinaire.

Frolicsome and hyper was my day.

Surreal in retrospect.

Dinner with wise folk

Who deliberate on aliens.

'on the importance of being alien'

A quantum wave smashing through

Collapsing at the  averted gaze,

Combining there after.

What is this?

What an unearthly miracle

Of which we know infinitely nothing about.

We are but a whit on the grand timeline.

Our language is different from them,

These 26 letters will not suffice this time;

They can only initiate what is to be

And fail me when I explain that perhaps I am atheist?

What is this instinctual feeling that speaks and guides at the best of times,

And murmurs consolations otherwise?

What is the speed of light,

When it is slower than the fastest

Smaller than the biggest,

Nothing more than the almost insignificant 

Language that we begin with.

The sapio language that should be no less, no more

Than the abundant dialects of the universe.

Postprandial Somnolence

Music:

'Amen' by Leonard Cohen

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

'Tusk' by Fleetwood Mac

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MT7W8xJFl_g

I am slightly strung;

The violin strings courting the cello

Make for a relaxed tension.

Not the first time I have heard this.

Last night, amidst the beer and the cider

Words in great discourses were had:

Smalls towns, National-ism

Recycling, Conservatism,

Exclusivism, and inaction

Giving and taking,

Telepathy

The perfect chemistry skill required 

To remove oats from margerine.

Throat singing and the 'relaxed tensions' that makes it perfect.

This equilibrium sought in China and Mongolia itself

Then following his nose

Ended up in England for two years

To 'sit on it' and let the voice mellow.

It worked.

He projects. His bloodshot bald head becomes demonic.

The vocal chords show such control and such melody.

But there is unnerving mellowness in this transfixing alloy.

Then the other,

Who remembers me as being 'nice'

Did Clementine not take the edge off that word in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"?

(I, for the record, didn't remember him,

Blissfully awkward my reaction)

Same journey 

Eastward, then to England to 'mellow'.

'you must surrender to India before it surrenders to you'

I nod thinking

Once surrendered, warriors of sentiment march in

You are then forever lost to Her.

Anarchy reigns; chaos ordered.

Anarchy reigns; chaos un-ordered.

The glass pane pulsated against my insulated back,

This, I think, is rheumatoid arthritis in a 130 year house.

If not, the nature's got a cold?

The pulsations turn into a resonance,

A low grumble, then snappy shaking.

I figure. 

This is what I have been prepared for.

So what do I do?

Wake up Slumber?

Peeling the bed covers non-chalantly.

I watch the night, maroon shadows move exigently;

The bookcase is protesting the books.

Peering into the cavernous darkness

The cold frightens me more than the earthquake.

I return to bed replete with the knowledge 

I cannot suffer alone;

Pi's impasse is now too intrinsic!

My classical ego overtakes;

How do I fair (fear?) against this unnerving pane (pain?) shaking:

3732830. 03/07/2012. 22.36. 7. 230 

(North West).

Not satisfied, I go for the Romantic ego.

Firsthand encounters.

Chimney pots. Cowering. Lintels. Macbook Airs.

Strength. Excitement. Magnitude. Fortune. Power. 

Horror. Interest. No danger. Casual.

Textbook panic.

Facebook can be the most effectual tome on human nature:

So stimulated are we, we resort to greater stimulation in times of over stimulation.

The adrenaline rush of knowing other encounters, the survival;

The living to tell the chivalric tale.

Sated, I rest back,

If I die it is meant to be.

No chivalry there.

Resilient

Music:

http://grooveshark.com/#!/user/Deepa+Rose+Sealy/9239379/music/favorites

Something on Sunday night

I assimilated;

And it fails to stray.

Protecting it with my ardour,

The ever burgeoning 

Anima of my ego bursts forth;

Frolicsome,

Blithe,

Unassailable,

Gratuitous. 

Sunday night;

The anima swells,

Its has had 3 human hours to distend

Unlocking inhibition

It flitters, upsurging into 

Unbridled, unhampered laughing.

In volunteered seclusion,

This anima became my 

Kindred spirit

Once again.

Step one checked. 

I smile.

Monday morning.

Floating listlessly in an empty 1880's house,

Annexed with an Autumnal garden

Abandoned by its 1 and half caretakers.

(I'm the half).

I'm not listless.

With carpe diem surging onwards

I embark on step 2.

Physical health.

The tusks need a tuskin'.

The Venus call needs castigation.

The legs; lengthening.

The sun shone down on the Theosophical, palatial eyesore of Aro St.

If anything reminds me of  de-colonialism every morning

It is this building.

Set into a hill

Its Classical,

Its churlish.

Ungracefully dominates

The smoky figures of Aro Valley.

It is the only solid thought in this whole area;

It penetrates  smokiness

Into un-organic-ness.

Mess.

That is its physical self.

Beyond its Classical dominance

A haven of 100 years of innovation speaks.

If anything, if I can go so far, this building might have been the embedder

Of new thought in Aro Valley?

Its almost like Boo Ridley's home in 'To Kill a Mockingbird';

Scapegoated, because it is unknown territory.

But who would know,

When they must sacrifice themselves to the stairs that lead upwards...?

Mid-Monday:

Surveying Wellington's domain,

A wan French fairy with dominating eye contact,

Sails in on my periphery.

She is cautious,

Not sure where things are at,

After I said one sided things;

Pure deflection I thought;

I was wrong.

She heard

Amidst the shagman's frothy soy chocolate,

Wellington's finest weather,

And the waterfront lapping hungrily at the shore;

Never content in reclamation.

Mid-afternoon-Monday

I indulged

In the sentiment eating within,

The acid streaking the bowel

Filling towards what I understand to be a pit,

And yet satisfaction reigned

In a post-modernist way

A way that has questions as answers.

The nouveau riche interior that 

Disseminates history with a dash of 

Postmodernism mishmash.

The food was alkaline to my acid;

Pacifism to my post structuralism.

Anima released all its goodness;

I got off the island and sailed onward

Into cultural happiness hand in hand with 

Espiritus afines.

Olivia, the pacifist intentionally;

The flare in matters of the heart.

We walk the same road in this lexicon

The same questions ensue us onwards.

In another dominion she would be mine.

But for now I am still taken;

Or I think so?

Monday eve.

Anima, my friend, returned

From long saunters in the offering.

Anima channeled the cachinnates

From the shallow reservoir.

Perhaps I was relieved 

That my reservoir soon was soon replenished with salt water?

The extremity of swinging gauged an unsuspecting me, however.

Words were extinguished.

One could only quell such vexation

With silence, and an embrace.

It is there that the consoling wisdom rises.

To feel the shaking 

Perturbed me.

To know that one family could lose just so much.

But something accelerates;

It gets the better of all of us;

It facilitates survival.

Resilience. 

Causal

Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m66gWbBRXKE&feature=related

Inundated by philosophy,
Intangibility,
And an optimistic view of light
I shall continue.

A sharpness shrouded in dullness
Surges through my lower jaw
Penetrating the core of two teeth;
One to be wisdom,
The other, a de-robed molar.

Where do I start? Palpitating muscle form whispered
To condemn this demon I feed on this page,
But
Am I loved by my reconciliation to concentrism?
Or do I move on, possessions in hand, to better copses?

For now I shall just reflect.
Just, merely ponder.

Having had a much needed walk
Down by the waterfront I was
Transiently able to release the demons;
The Spanish one, the Indian one; the 'occupied' one.

A smoky moon watched
Rubbed out by translucent cumulus;
All transient; all scaled intangibly to me.

Walking was the fruit of the four seasons;
Of which the third was frolicking, flirting outrageously
With checkered May's humour.
With never more than 'kind of'
The seriousness expelled,
The humour deluging the unsuspecting kitchen.

Transiently had, transiently consumed; transiently lost.

The Autumn was had
Ginko palamate leaves
Showered on the cold grit;
An aesthetic indulgence in such
Moist, un-inviting, livid
Environments.

Summer was the sunshine swept blue skies
The conversation
The surging inspiration
The security
The niche I slotted into voluntarily.

The light ever more eternal than transient,
Eternally more lost than the release of fear
Fear lost transiently.

In Summer I was but a shower of rain
Eroding the pure, naive form of nature
Consuming hungrily the sap;
Washing onward evermore.