Insanity's Ledge

Insanity's Ledge

by Odante

"As I approach insanity's ledge, its poised demeanor listens for me to cry. I, sensing its presence, try to calm myself by thinking good thoughts of insensitivity. Peering out beyond the horizon, I see my Doctor, reaching for me as he explains my condition in terms of sanity's kin. How odd, I think to myself, how odd that this educated morsel of humanity cannot deduct from me a simple clue, to measure me with a foreign rule, expecting thus a result, how odd I say, how odd indeed.

To my fellow, I call out, "Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute." Some follow still, and some do lead, but difficult it is, to find one as distant or as close to the ledge as I. There is fear in my voice, as it trembles under the snowy birth of hindsight, "What was I thinking, what was I thinking when I thought those thoughts?" I am a coward. My own mind brutalizes me frequently. I am not a victim. I am in Hell.

Today was bright. I was happy. It did not last. I thought those thoughts again; I thought those thoughts of killing. Damn you, damn you for being in my head. Instead, I will think of nothing. My medications buzz me down to null, and somewhere in between I lose myself; eventually I am there again, standing at the ledge. I step closer, careful not to slip, maybe I can climb in slowly, and maybe say bye to friends; maybe I should quit fooling myself.

I try to remember a time before, when I walked a path less cumbersome; I cannot. My mother used to hold me, when I could not understand. The world seemed afraid. At some point I lost my way, and, hypnotized by the beauty of the setting sun, I heard a fellow call out, "Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute," yet I followed, foolishly thinking myself above others, and therefore, able to lend a hand. As I approach the ledge, I see none. A voice calls out behind me, offering a helping hand, a fool no doubt.

Standing now at the ledge, I see my happiness. Happiness full of misconceptions of reality and unhindered corruptions of thought; such freedom I have reached, as I step into the abyss. "What was I thinking?" I say to myself, as I realize there is no return. To my fellow, I call out, "Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute." It is too late, the fool is at the ledge."

All of this sounds to scarily familiar to my own thoughts. Maybe that psychologist was right back in the day? Maybe not. Maybe sometimes he is. I don't know. All I know is that either way, not a good sign. I'm not a nihilist, its just a temporal condition from time to time- an oscillation. I love the line, "Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute." It is too late, the fool is at the ledge." Reminds me of a Nietzsche quote I also like:

"HE WHO FIGHTS WITH MONSTERS SHOULD LOOK TO IT THAT HE DOES NOT BECOME A MONSTER...WHEN YOU GAZE LONG INTO THE ABYSS THE ABYSS ALSO GAZES INTO YOU..."
-Nietzsche

Yes well, maybe a future topic for elaboration, but not now. Just a thought.

ps. Don't worry though, I don't have thoughts of killing people. Well, metaphorically maybe, not literally.

The lover and The Enemy

"life and death favor and disgrace praise and blame success and failure all of these conditions confuse and dismay us because they are the same ailment" -Lao-Tzu


love
is the easy zephyr dancing on the branches of a Judas tree
careful not to disturb the peace of the resting enemy
moves

hate
is the fire that burns at the feet of the martyr
burning with equal an ardor
as the wind blows

kiss
the lover is an enemy
the enemy is the lover
the sun rises

Stoned

I think the title explains it all, lord knows I can't)

I'm also thinking about sex because that feels sinful.

Someone should wash my eyes out with soap.

Ever since i've closed my bedroom door everything has felt better.

G

i

r

a

n

a

m

o

look out below

somehow the most amazing things are hidden under piles of

nothing

Everyday I am battling the dead for my life.

Thee only thing that can kill darkness is light, anyway.

This is not however, the greatest thing ever believed

despite contrary misconception in perception

I couldn't have said it better myself

I swear by the stars, salmon and bologna are not equivalent.

If you think everything I do is cute you are a s i c k fuck.

This is not cute.

This is a symptom of DISEASE.

Not here

but Bombs are bursting.

G

A

Y

~

!

Our eyes are suddenly awake to the rain

there is no looking glass large enough to oppress our eyes

as the phantasmal justice of america

...

Somewhere, toast is rising

and why is pizza so important to us anyway?

Ive scrubbed myself raw but im too distracted by flames to notice even a difference

I am so disgusted.

My aquatic nature will not let me rest

It is a ferocious matter to be this unforgiving.

To show any emotion is to claim ownership

I am fully aware that I own nothing

even less than that

I will be your counsel

but know that I do not counsel myself

my opinion is everywhere, my practice is nowhere

and there is someone preaching out of the corner of my eye

ive never known any less than anne frank

I can be paranoid too

...afterall.

I told you guys.

As if my cynical laughter drowns out any real warning

this is urgent

you hear but you dont listen

you speak but you dont say anything

well, do it

by all means

who am i to say otherwise, afterall.

Moreso, who am I to approve?

Sorry to ruin the ending

but this will end like all others.

The end.

Letter to my Father

An excerpt from a recent letter to my father. He's a doctor of theology, in case you're wondering why any one would talk to their father about this kind of stuff. I think I brought up some decent points though.

"...Also, I came across this website by a doctor named J. Dominguez. He had notes on Annihilation, which drew my attention since I've been labeled a 'nihilist' by a philosophical friend. This captured my attention and I wondered whether, being of the same profession, you agree or disagree? I think, the application of nihilism is misinterpreted in many cases, such as mine, and the following:

" 1- The first aim of most Oriental religion is salvation from Reincarnation, including Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Taoism...

The greatest fear for them is not to die, but to reincarnate... all the ascetic sacrifices, all the hard yoga and puja practices, is to avoid reincarnation... to live nude or without food of a Jainist is to avoid the next reincarnation... the great sacrifices of a Buddhist in a monastery for life, is to obtain enlightenment, thus avoiding reincarnation...

2- Nihilism is the final aim of these religions with "moska", the final union of their soul with Brahman, with no more reincarnations.

And the main problem of these Eastern religions, what makes me cry, is that after so many sacrifices and yoga, this final union with Brahman, this "moska" is like a drop of water falling into the ocean, there is no more identity of any individual, there is no more "person", it is the nihilism, personal annihilation, to become nothingness, unrecognizable by anybody, not even by himself, because there is no more "self", no more consciousness of being... not heaven, not paradise... "nothingness", "to disappear as a person", like a speck in the universe... "

I find the Westerner's perception of Eastern philosophy to be very strange, or any other religion for that matter. I had also been in the car recently listening to the Christian talk radio station my grandma had on. I find a lot of their topics interesting and applicable no matter what religion a person may be. But again their perception of other religions boggles my mind. I think the one that caught my attention last was a discussion about Wicca. There seemed to be so many times during the program where I kept saying to my grandma, "That's not true!" For some reason, the speaker kept attempting to categorize paganism as Satanism, when really they are vastly different. In fact, I find them to be nearly opposites. The satanists are truly nihilistic, finding no meaning in anything, and therefore glorifying only the self, and annihilating the Self. Whereas the Wiccans, or naturalists, apply meaning into all aspects of life. So I suppose, what I'm wondering, is that in your education what were you taught about other religions? Were you taught just the basics, and left open to your own interpretation? Did they discuss the correlations, the differences? I guess that it just confuses me when I see so many correlations between things and yet people still will fight to the death for an ideology whose foundation is essentially the same as the presumed 'enemy'. There is a verse I like from the Fall of Lucifer, though taken out of context, I would like to think that its meaning could be applied to all denominations and religions of similar belief: Isaiah 14:18 "All the kings of the nations, All of them, sleep in glory, Everyone in his own house."

Also, what's interesting, is that this preacher thought of Wicca as a threat to Christianity. Some of what he said was right, but I think that where he failed is in truly asking himself why it is a threat. Psychologically speaking, it is said that when a girl reaches a certain age she has a tendency to reject her father. As you can imagine, this age lies within the early teen years. It is also said, that when a girl rejects her father she tends not to only reject her worldly father, but also her idea of God. Perhaps it comes from some sort of feeling of oppression. I can admit that the preacher was right in claiming Wicca to be a threat when it comes to young girls, because when I was younger, and when I first grew frustrated with Christianity and began to explore other religions, Wicca was the first that I embraced. And this preacher was right, Wicca embraces the idea of femininity more than the patriarchal teachings of the Bible. It demonstrates a duality, but also a peaceful co-existence between all things, just as eastern philosophy does. The idea of the God and the Goddess is only a representation of the embodiment of both genders within the vastness of God. I personally find there to be nothing 'evil' about this, and therefore the preachers relations of Wicca and Paganism to Satanic origin to be ignorant. But more importantly, rather than just being angry about this, I thought it might be beneficial to relay the ideas to someone who can make good use of it. As a preacher yourself, I suggest that you pay close attention to the younger girls in your congregation. I remember even around the age of 8, I had all ready such a firm grasp on all the Biblical stories that I was ahead of my Sunday school group, so instead I got to help teach. I became wearisome of teaching David and Solomon and all the great kings to young girls. I think it may be kind of hard to be a feminist at such a young age, but I was definitely strong willed and prideful. My grandma gave me a book when I was younger entitled, "The Women of the Bible." But I found them to be rarely discussed in church. Everyone knows of Elijah, Jeremiah, Abraham, et cetera. But what about Anna, Miriam, Deborah- were they not prophets as well? And my favorite book, Esther, I read on my own, but rarely heard it spoken of in church. And Hagar, a single mother, did she also not bare a son who became a leader of a great nation? It seems the only time women are really regarded in the Bible is through the miracle of childbirth- Mary, Elizabeth, Sarah. But what else is there? A lot of people seem to recognize names like Delilah, "Samson loved Delilah, she betrayed him, and, what is worse, she did it for money." Or Jezebel, or Eve. I find the view of Eve to be most unfortunate, because in previous arguments with idiotic men over the nature and roles of men and women, on more than one occasion I've heard them argue based on the idea of original sin. It seems to me, through my own upbringing in the Christian church, that the only women frequently heard of are those who are miraculously impregnated, or those who deceived great men. Though the pregnancies of Mary, Elizabeth, and Sarah could surely be regarded as miracles, what does it really prove about their virtue? What about also the dedication, strength, and loyalty of Ruth? "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me."

I just find it unfortunate that I seemed to learn so little about these women in church. And that is why I think its necessary to let you know this. I can assure you that the youth are skeptical. In order to keep them faithful, particularly the females, I think its important to acknowledge their relevance. Some are bound to feel lost, and ask questions such as: Who can we relate to? Is there a place for us to make a difference? What role do we play in this religion? Certainly young boys can easily fantasize playing the roles of great men such as David, or Elijah. But who can we relate to?"

hide and seek

Music moves through our bodies as we dance together on stars
High above silver clouds
soaked
with hundreds of thousands of meaningless
I love yous raining down forming restless flowing rivers
DREAMS
can run far faster than we can lie
through miles and miles and miles of because
through countless seconds of dizzy existence
through lackluster hope, dull smiles, black holes
Oops-
someone somewhere is lost sometimes and
theres a silhouette painted on the shy ground
Down here snowcapped poetics cannot compare to the brightness of blue
left now only to swim through apologies forever-
Here I am
stopping only to be hypnotized by the eyes of the most innocent child

that I have ever seen

Electra Complex

When I was younger I read the story, The Whipping Boy and I can remember how sad it made me feel. I think that any person who reads the story is inclined to feel sympathetic. However I don't think that sympathy was quite the feeling that I felt, but more so, a feeling of empathy. I could relate not literally, but more so metaphorically. If you were to take the concept of The Whipping Boy and translate it to psychological terms, you would interpret it as projection. If you're unfamiliar with the meaning of projection, the definition is, "A defense mechanism in which one attributes to others one’s own unacceptable or unwanted thoughts or/and emotions. Projection reduces anxiety by allowing the expression of the unwanted subconscious impulses/desires without letting the ego recognize them." People do this often, and it is a pet peeve of mine because it is something that I can recognize instantly, and if pointed out, it is often denied.

My journal from my younger years is filled with angry writing that mirrored my perception of my father. I believe that a large part of my anxiety and manic depression stemmed from these childhood relations. I lived in a house where I felt that I was walking on glass. Where I learned to be quiet, to have finesse, and more often than not, just to hide. I never knew how my father was going to react, he was like a time bomb. There have been times when I was pouring something to drink, and in spilling a little he would go into a fit of blind rage. It was for this reason that I had developed anxiety, and maybe it could be possible that my inability to maintain any definite emotion was because of the instability of emotion in my household. Either way, as you can imagine, I far from liked my father and only respected him when I was a child out of fear. We never got along. Luckily, I was intelligent enough to understand that his verbal abuse had little to do with me. The result of years of being referred to as a stupid or selfish bitch, or a freeloader, or any other irrelevant insult, was far better of one than most could claim. It never actually hurt my feelings. Instead I only gained more pride and more respect for myself.

I've heard it said that women are subconsciously attracted to men who are like their fathers, and that men are likewise to their mothers. I never would have believed this to be true in my case, for obvious reasons. But to my surprise, I have been proven wrong. With the exception of my father no man has ever had the audacity to refer to be as a bitch, or a cunt, or any other generic insult. This was true until recently anyway. I made a friend who was rather abrasive, to say the least. Not only was he a friend, but he had become a very close friend. His tendency to use more abrasive language rubbed me the wrong way at first, but with time I had grown to be insensitive to this. Also, I think that it would be fair to say that I was more fond of him than any other man I had previously met. I don't consider us friends anymore. I had realized recently that attempting to maintain a friendship was futile. I had realized this because we have the same opinion of each other. He has deemed me as resentful, as sensitive and someone who needs to take responsibility. He is annoyed by me, and I him. It wasn't until the last fight when I sat on the phone listening to him scream at me, unable to even understand what it was he was trying to say. And I suppose that it was after be referred to as a stupid bitch again, and this time out of anger that the little girl inside of me said, "Why are you doing this again?"

There is a fine line between being authentic and being disrespectful. It comes with tone, and with genuine emotion. Calling me a stupid bitch in anger, and meaning it, really meaning it- is something that I will not stand for. Why? Well honestly, it's as simple as the fact that I'm not a stupid bitch, and I'm definitely not ignorant enough to let someone attempt to make me believe so. Even when it is clear that others have no respect for me, I still have respect for myself. This isn't being self righteous, this is recognizing error, and a repeat of a pattern that once caused much damage to me.

Let me clarify though, that its not about language that I realized I had come to like someone just like my father. I think that perhaps there is a larger comparison. The difference was my father was a jackass who was resentful of his own childhood. But it wasn't this resentment that made him a jackass, I'm not that unkind. It was in his failure to realize that this was the reason for the problems in his own family. His inability to stop projecting his resentment on to everyone else and take responsibility for it. I have been accused of being resentful lately, and I don't deny it. We all have minor resentment everyday, but these resentments are worn on our sleeve. But there is a greater resentment, in which people often around- this deep rooted resentment, which they attempt to bury within themselves. Resentment of this nature is often justified. But that doesn't mean it shouldn't be acknowledged. And it should, because resentment is like a seed, and no matter how deep you attempt to bury it it will grow, branching out and manifesting itself through your own actions and behaviors. It's these people who fail to acknowledge it, who unwillingly become everything that they hate. Just as my father became his, the very father he resented.

Me and my father get along fine now. He has changed a lot, he has realized the error of his behavior. What is still unfortunate though, is that my whole life I had separated myself from him, because any attempt to get closer meant I would only subject myself further more to being his whipping boy. I was never resentful of him because I actually understood. I was only annoyed that in his 40 odd years he still had failed to take responsibility for it. What was truly unfortunate in this situation is that because of his resentment he was never actually able to know me.

As for the comparison, it is equally as unfortunate for me to realize that I cannot maintain a friendship with someone I greatly appreciate and respect. And I am annoyed only by the irony. The irony of someone saying that I am resentful, and that I need to take responsibility for my emotions. But yet when I look at him all I see is mounting insecurity and sensitivity, which I feel has recently been put off on me. I would have been patient. But I refuse to sit and let someone else again project their feelings on to me while they pin me for everything that they are, instead of solving the problems within themselves. I'm not going to be anyones scapegoat.

You take responsibility.

The Disease

All of the lights have gone out: The lights in their eyes, their smile, their touch, every flicker of passion, spark of integrity, the entire luminescence of their being, all of them- extinguished at once.

They have become transparent, slowly dissolving in their own existence- an apparition of what they once were. What had shown so brightly, each had faded until all that was left is a lonely heart beating in space. A heart like all the rest- powerful, awesome, grotesque. But still a heart alone, a heart with no body to act through, no mind to think through, no awareness to love through, and no soul to affirm its value. A heart waning of meaning, and full of madness. Comparable not even to nothing, but the predecessor of all of human error.

It was no external plague- though a vast disease, terrible and contagious.
What was once a healthy doubt, had become a paralyzing anguish.
The manifestation of despair- The fatal sickness of the mind, heart, and spirit.
Large in themselves, they were small in the world-
they became sick, disembodied.
Hope had dispossessed them.

The sublime nature of the world; the beauty, the horror-
faded away into the abstract.
Fascination and awe, absolved into nothingness.

A waking sleep, a surreal dream, a romanticized premature death.
Lost in their own isolation,
the fruits of life became bitter, tasteless.
Refusing to see they became unseen.
Refusing to hear they became unheard.
Trapped forever in their loneliness-
as a memory, a phantom, a ghost.

This was the real fear-
Being beyond definition, being beyond terms.
The final fortress of solutide.
A self inflicted exile,
Confined forever in their freedom-

The eternal surrender.

Article

Male peacocks fan their tail feathers. Fireflies illuminate themselves. Male grasshoppers sing alluring songs. Women wear makeup and high heels and men buy drinks. Whatever the method, we all have our mating rituals. Courtship or “game” as it may more modernly be referred to has become a primary objective in American, and well, any culture for that matter. By nature we are all instilled with basic techniques to attract others, but the art of human attraction is far more complex. Why is this? Well, we can communicate with each other through more intricate systems of language. The beautiful thing about language is that we can more effectively relay our wants and desires as well as express ourselves. But on the other hand, we are also capable of deception, lies, and manipulation.
However, these acts are not always necessarily bad. A certain level of etiquette and propriety is almost always essential to a person's success. But how does this apply in the dating world? Whether we realize it or not, we naturally grasp the concept of social grace when we are young. We learn to smile, look cute, and ask politely to get what we want. We get what we want by giving others what we think that they want. Manipulation and charm are two powerful tools we use to lure the opposite sex. Just like peacocks, fireflies, and other animals, when our goal is to attract another person, we often put on a show.
When I was younger my mother (a human resources director) told me that when in an interview for a job, to mimic the personality of the interviewer. This is just an example of how people have learned to become “social chameleons,” adapting to the individual they are aiming to please. The same applies to dating, how refreshing is it when us ladies come across a guy who is a perfect gentleman? He calls when he says he will, he opens doors, he pulls the car around, et cetera. And how excited do you men get when a woman seems to be interesting in everything you say, she just so happens to love sports, love cars, love raw meat, et cetera. I can guarantee that these people will have some great dates. Unfortunately, reality must shine through at some point, and the reality is that he usually forgets to open doors, and she is a vegetarian who despises sports.
The actual process of 'picking up' chicks/guys is certainly fun, its like a game in itself. But, if you are looking for something serious, its possible you could be using the wrong approach. The truth is, the majority of people you will meet on any given night out are false advertisements. Try putting yourself out there, don't hesitate to disagree, a friendly argument can be a great way to start a conversation. If a person fails to present themselves honestly from the start, this self monitoring can lead to communication issues later on. Lack of communication means a slew of other issues; trust issues, paranoia, jealousy, et cetera.
It comes down to this; if you're looking for something with a genuine spark, learn to value authenticity over social graces. Present yourself as you are, disagree when you disagree, and don't pretend to be interested in something you are not. And when interacting with others, don't instantly disregard those who may come off as a little more abrasive. I've been here before, and someone who rubbed me the wrong way initially, eventually became my closest friend. Some people found his honesty to be offensive, but I have come to respect it. The fact is, you don't need to appeal to everyone. If you want a one night stand, you're doing the right thing, don't get me wrong. But as I said, if you're at that point where you're looking for something to last more than the weekend, consider changing up your game. You know the cliche 'fish in the sea' metaphor? Well stop trying to appeal to everyone. Put down the net and use a more intimate approach. There are a lot of fish in the sea, but a lot of them are also bottom feeders. You want the right fish, use the right bait. Quit with the generics.

Rent to Own

Oh say can you see
the land of the brave-home of the free?
Where through decaying eyes of liberty justice peers?
Where blinding irrelevance
has left us all jaded,
sitting in a 4 star rated hotel-
sedated with alcohol and pills and chemical laced thrills?

persuaded to "Just Sign & Drive"
we're gonna party like its three easy payments of $19.95

Reality at a fraction of the cost.
And everyday out of the debris we pull out new celebrities
who go on to lead a makeshift revolution

All hail the great American profits!
Together, we can Free the Market!
We will not be hindered by statutes of limitations
We will not be replaced by foreign imitations
We cannot be bought out with cash, credit, or checks
We cannot be bought out by architects who rebuild cities
with all flash and no meaning
smells and sights, stars and stripes and flashing lights-
Forever.

There's a price tag on that grand old flag
A tooth for a tooth, and an eye for an eye
Make no mistake.
We sold out-
When the price of freedom got to high.

Hyperopia

November 4th, 2006

I had written a journal about the severe anxiety I had been having, and an incident at Meijer that was the turning point of it-

"...As I'm going to pay with my purse of change I scrounged up, the guy behind me is right there. I can feel his breath in my hair, he is that close. I'm all ready a nervous wreck as it is and I'm shaking as I put money in the machine because this man is watching me...every move I make, and he's making me frightningly anxious. By now you think this is all in my head, I'm out of my mind. I'm reading into things way to much. I'm creating problems that aren't there. But no. Because as I'm still shaking and struggling to put my money in the slot with the guy lurking over me, he whispers to me, "We are all fighting for our lives." I paused for a second and looked back at him. He was staring blankly at the magazine rack but was looking right through them. The he looked up at me and said it again, "We are all fighting for our lives"....
All night I've been hearing that guys voice saying, "We are fighting for our lives," and this is true. But why?"

I ended that journal with, "We are digging our own graves."

I think of everyday as a struggle, a battle for ourselves. Everyday I have to prove to myself and the world that I am who I am. I re-read this journal from a little over a year ago because I had been feeling that way again lately. For the past few weeks I've felt like everything has been a constant fight. It's tiring. After that fit of anxiety last year I had become very peaceful. Now in the midst of all my discontent I hear that guy whispering, "We are all fighting for our lives," and it calms me down. It calms me because its true, and because once I acknowledge that, I can make a choice. I don't have to fight.

There was a long stretch of time last year when I remained unspoken. I chose to be an observer than a participant. It did me a lot of justice. I remained indifferent to the events happening around me. Though indifference has a negative connotation, it wasn't the apathy I've been feeling lately. In fact, I was far more empathetic then than I am now. I'm only apathetic now because the events are effecting me. Back then, I had distanced myself, and was able to see what was happening clearly, and it was easy to be sympatheic. There is a line from the Tao I've always loved and always have tried to keep in mind, "The sound traveller stays two steps back and remains awake to all that is possible." At some point around the end of this past summer that mind frame has begun to slip away from me. I had started to feel anxious again, nervous tendencies began to return, and I found myself losing grip on my emotions. I've tried to bury it but it has become overwhelming. Someone led me to believe that my perspective was wrong, and eventually I had begun to believe them.

Now I see, that it was them who was wrong. Constant anxiety is no way to live. I have a right to believe this, I've lived with anxiety for my entire life. The only point in my life when I've ever felt any peace is when I've distanced myself. These past few weeks I've been trying to reclaim that mindframe. I've found that the problem lies in the lack of distance. We all enjoy being close to one another, we all enjoy the intamcy of it, we all enjoy being involved. The title of this journal is a name for an eye condition. Hyperopia is farsightedness, the ability to see far, but the inability to focus on the things right in front of you. When we get caught up in people, situations, events, and ideas we begin to lose focus. Our perspective begins to become blurred. This is exactly what causes me anxiety.

There is something about Western culture that is very indulgent, dramatic, and decadent. We long to feel closer to people. We spend years in therapy because our parents, our husbands and wives, our friends, and even ourselves, did not love us enough. But you know what? Irrelvant. Love does not matter nearly as much as we think that it does. Empathy matters, humanity matters, we should feel as we are all one. But attachment? Attachment is not the answer. When studying some Eastern religions such as Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism, I belive it was the Hindus that had such a seemingly complex attitude towards the self and the Self. They see it as two seperate entities, the worldly self, and the eternal Self. I agree with this. However, I think that the problem with western culture, and particularly any culture in general really, is that the worldly self seems to be the closest to us. We chose indulgences because they satisfy the sensory needs. We choose aesthetics, to touch, hear, feel, smell, taste, love and hate. We chose to do this because we think that it is all that there is. There is another quote from the Tao, "When there is no desire, all things are at peace." Ha, no desire. What do we know about no desire? We spend our entire lives wanting. This believe that the elimination of desire brings peace, stems from a Buddhist view, and that is that to desire means to suffer. And the only way to attain peace is to eliminate suffering. Again, in Hinduism I had learned that this elimination of desire means the elimination of attachment. This includes to people, to family, children, husbands and wives, and even the worldly self. I found this concept to be the most strange. We are to raise our children and then let them live. We can love each other but must not become dependent, we must let them live. This seems so unfathomable in my culture. But I believe it to be true. The closer we get to others, the closer we get to dramatics, the more out of focus we become.

It's the people who forget to close the doors of perception and be content within themselves in the world that lose focus. It is these people who live like this everyday who are digging their own graves.

We are all fighting for our lives. Focus has nothing to do with vision, it has to do with internal perspective, and I'm fighting to reclaim that focus. I'm fighting to reclaim a peaceful existence.

Monos del Libertad

I wanted to practice writing objectively, about inanimate objects. I choose these three little monkeys i bought in Mexico. And I guess that made me think this poem was most appropriate in Spanish....

Nacido fuera de marfil-
hecho por manos oscuras.
Ellos se sientan inestablemente, oscilar, oscilar
los pies juntos.
Pequeño, tosco, delgado, huesudo,
los ojos y las orejas y la boca son cerrado-
con gusto.
No luz no color
no sonido no música
no palabras no cantando.
Cierre las puertas de la percepción
Los sentidos son una ilusión
No más vanidad,
no más confusión,
no más mentiras.
Llegue en nada, en silencio, en tranquilidad.
Creamos la atrocidad.
No vea mal,
no habla mal,
no oye mal-
Tres monos pequeños del libertad.


(Born out of ivory by dark hands
sitting unsteadily, teetering, swaying
feet together
small coarse thin bony
eyes and ears and mouth closed
Willingly.
no light no color
no sound no music
no words no singing
close the doors of perception
the senses are an illusion
no more vanity
no more confusion
no more lies
arrive at nothing, at silence, at stillness
we create atrocity
see no evil
speak no evil
hear no evil
Three little monkeys of freedom.)

Un Amour Futile

Death is apparently French.

Un Amour Futile (A Futile Love)

LIFE (Vie)
Life, a fire, stutters tripping over stars and moons,
born of echoes of the laughters of light.
She dances on prolific afternoons and sings-
with flutters of breath in the chill of night.
In the stirring of blackbirds elle cherche raison. (she looks for reason)
At twilight she walks quietly next to death
and together they paint the last of the horizon
using only the colors of her final breath.
Hand in hand the flame becomes fainted,
in the flicker of an instance they were smiling-
They were well acquainted.

DEATH (Mort)
In the silhouette of day
A polite breeze still and stiff
carries Death- a rain soaked plié,
and he whispers,"N'être pas craintif" (do not be timid)
cooling
calm
cold
conviction.
Wildly, he gathers life with a futile embrace and
breathes a gentle melody, apologetic in his afflictions
He kills with the finest grace.
Theres a sunrise in the opaque dawning,
La nuit est la mort du jour (the night is the death of day)
In the morning the blackbirds will be yawning
La nuit- il mourra accoucher (the night- it will die to deliver)
The morning, the morning!

His chilly hand gently whispers, "Have no fear,
Sans l'obscurité il ne peut pas y avoir de lumière"
(without the dark there can be no light)

Any Given Man/ Any Given Time

A random poem about the collection of men I've had in my life. Father figures, boyfriends, friends, enemies, et cetera...

I sold myself to him-
perfectly packaged and yet he continued to return me
just like the one before and the one before that.
I thought that second hand was never enough,
I thought that hand me downs were never enough.
I knew that if he wanted reality than he would dig through the garbage and lift up the floor and recycle whats left of all the broken pieces of the women he has shattered before.
I would not be swept under the rug.
So I've been composed and kind, smiling, laughing, and understanding, strong, articulate, peaceful and protecting- indifferent to every other man in this world but him.
I've kept my mouth shut, my eyes closed, my hands tied but my ears open to the same song he sings day in and day out-
I've watched him bleed himself to death through a song fallen on deaf ears,
I've watched people nod their heads though no one really hears.
I had faith in him.
Maybe that makes me ignorant.
Or maybe it makes me angry.
And he thinks that I have this view of him, this glorified view of him this naive and exaggerated view of him-
but its all I can do to not take him and shake him and scream that all I have ever seen was his potential.
I watched him displace his passion on the wrong ears the wrong faces the wrong times the wrong places-
And time and time again I've watched him justify his own misuse of people and himself,
I've watched him take just enough and put back on the shelf whats left of anyone who has ever made the mistake of loving him-
In one way or another.
There is no greater abuse of power.
I tried to nurture him and he stripped me.
I tried to reach out but pride hit me again and again and again with the truth.
The truth is: I've never hung him out to dry.
(The truth is easy to deny)
The truth is: Hes every man to me- another disease that paralyzes the heart of every woman
and again
The truth is: It's all ready been said before, "I've given you all and now I'm nothing."

What am I fighting for?