The other things.


I would argue that as humans, it is our primary responsibility to feel things. Consider the multitude of ways perception has texturised itself, and then consider the root of all this perception: an interplay of releasing an emotion, translated now doubt into the many existential patterns -of thought, and of activity- that we have come to grow accustomed to in our years as an ever-evolving sentient, and organic being. Obviously, a vital component of this is expression- no doubt consumed in the encompassing embrace of communication that is so valiantly taking new form and further stratification in platforms so-provided for ideas, thus, communicated- as quickly formed as communication is found: being so, the first step to physical translation- expression. Then, in considering all of this, is it not to say that anything that became, became as physically expressed from idea translated? I would argue that it is.

It isn’t hard then to consider that cities are but temples to the mind. That is to say, if the mind, in its physical manifestation as the brain, grew legs, arms, and a body enough to rest itself on an easy-chair -on some immense scale- what form it’d really come to rest as in, would be that of a city. Now, when a mind, in all its busyness of idea-production has in fact evolved arms, legs, a face (that provided in itself eyes, ears, a nose, and a mouth), and pretty much everything necessary for physical participation, batteried on ideas (formulated, conditioned in experimentation, and then held) participant in translating those physical manifestations of themselves to be re-felt and imbibed, or re-absorbed so to speak, as an exercise in further clarifying them (as a means of experimental conditioning) before being ascertained and upheld, comes to rest- it expresses itself in the cumulative phenomena experienced as life. Life is but one expression of evolution.

Cities are temples to the mind in that they bring physical form to the abstract notions that ideas exist as within it. They are a cradle formed for the mind, by the mind: in the interpretation of the lie -by the mind, and for it- that it is, in fact, human. Or that there is such a thing as human: for, the existence of people –or such forms that we have grown conditioned to experience, and hence, perceive as such- is but the expression of the idea held, somewhere, that we must exist; and exist as such. Cradles, yes, as pools and lulls of comfort- designed on a blueprint of amplified idiosyncrasies: some laid down as law, some as mores, some as buildings, and others still as monuments, policies, institutions, even art- and only more. Put together they form a network of phenomena spawned first from that idiosyncratic spark of emotion within the mind, to be translated into circumstance: that weaves together to texturise the fabric of the human experience.

Another matter for consideration, if further validation is pursued, is the question: why are movie stars paid more than soldiers will ever be? The answer is simple, of course- because we, in being human, are willing to give that much more to movie stars, over soldiers. But, why? They occupy us more intensely, more immediately. But, why? Because they deal directly with emotion: what they are, are cogs of a machinery meant for the production of circumstance manufactured from observation of the same- and positioned for inference; for involved observation; for projected participation. And what are we, in being people, but machine for emotion- meant to feel, and left to feeling? Nothing. We are nothing else.


Additionally, I think these two independently paired make for an interesting read:



We exist in  a state of samsara: a pursuit in dependence on external objects. We have disconnected ourselves from the natural world by occupying and investing our energies in nourishing the man-made above the naturally-provided. We have scattered Happiness and Security across far ends of these material ladders- forgetting that they’d only ever come to be tossed from existing where they did: within us. We have removed ourselves from nature’s world- and this is only to say, we have removed ourselves from the self.

Thus it is the duty of consciousness, in its ability to become aware, to awake- to liberate focus; to distract from the external to reveal what was always held within. For, liberation is found only at the source: and the source of life (its point of liberation), no exception, is always within us. It is why we breathe. It is only this internal pursuit that will pave the path for the world-external to ascend to necessary plane.

But no plane exists in unnecessary suspension: for each one ascended is only school for the next. It is human error to dismiss significance once immediate-purpose is cast aside, even temporarily (for nothing ever permanently is anything). It is human error to take things for granted. Nothing ever came of merely becoming- for nothing ever merely becomes. It takes all of the universe’s urgent presence in the manufacture of each and any of its instances; and the universe exists only in instances of itself: from a rock to a beating heart- all but expressions of the same example of life against the universe. And the universe is within us, as life- and we are the universe. Without us, what might exist would never have been the universe: understood as it sees itself understood in becoming Now, in our diagnosis of it being within us within it. Somehow though, it seems, we’re eager to become disease- because, that too, the universe will allow. So, then, if all’s allowed: what’s not; what do I need to know?

In the pursuit of answers, it helps to remind that it is the search for answers- that will provide them. Where there is no light, there is none yet. And if we do not learn to look within, we will never truly see the outside- for the truth that it is; that within without is only within, again.

And, thus, life is but learning. For that is all it has always been; answers so becoming steps onward into the ever-looming darkness that provide space, for question, in our minds. Why else are there always more questions than answers; and questions in them, too? And, without questions: where do the answers go? And without answers- where do we?


In a sense evolution is immortality. What the Vedas stated as rebirth is actually the continual cycle of refinement that the packet of information we’ve come to call DNA goes through in being transferred across life, over time.

The only difference now, that we call it evolution and not reincarnation, is that we have been scientified as a people. Which is to imply that our vocabulary and thought systems now use some staple points of reference. In vocabulary- the words change in description: this is obvious from the very use of the term evolution.

Now, more in the sense of spirit- we have been scientified, in that we have evolved such concepts as empiricism, justification, reasoning, and logic as structure to patterns of thought. We see thought in terms of these, and so we see the world in terms of these. Yet, for all the information we have, we can’t truly know for fact that these tools to thinking are in fact better than those such as of faith, opinion, and instinct. We have just grown more accustomed to these instead- developed a sort of comfort in relying on these instead of those. But, as is the status quo, we take for granted that what we assume to know is, in fact, known. Which is not necessarily true.

But, the scientific method tends to get ahead of itself. Oftentimes it forgets that it is in fact just that- a method; and we forget that science is not as life is, rather it is but one way to interpret what life is from what is as is.

This is not to discredit evolution or gravity as being just theories. No, this is anything but. If anything, this is to use the assurance derived from these modern methods to deciphering the ultimate question -why life?- to acknowledge the validity of observations unmodern- even archaic; for the simple reason of mitigating the arrogance that seems to grow synonymous with our approach to the interpretation of life, today. We are quick to condense assumption to fact -and wave it around as truth: before it has even proved itself so-worthy. It is almost as if we have grown so assured of Science, that it has dethroned Religion- and taken over as dictator, instead.

The modern world hath no scarcity of Idols, deities, rituals, or sacrifices: we just call them other names. And then pretend everything’s changed. But the post-industrial cliff has left us at culture’s ledge. Where do we go from here?

Rlvl: Imprint

tl;dr: Art does not have to be perfect; it has to be art. Expression should be uncurtailed, unbound- owing nothing to anything (not even reason) but to the ultimate purpose of observation of and with that participation that is life. Reason is man-made, and life is not. On the reason to express sans reason- to imprint is a responsibility owed greater than that to perfection.

If evolution is learning, or the exchange and process of information, and the purpose to life be but learning, or observation of evolution, then it is expression that relates and refines us- in just as much as procreation will.

Thus, in seeking to plan expression, what is truly sought is a refinement of refinement- that is only achievable in perfection. But, the pursuit of perfection (still, it is the pursuit of idealism) is a lost principle in that perfection is as subjective as good and bad, and is only that thought that vibrates with unnecessarily afforded intensity -becoming something of a cancer of expression- while the beauty of all that is flows by: in being what it is to become.

The fruit of participation is lost to the pursuit of perfection. It is in the realising that perfection is an idea held, as any other- that allows for the space necessary for life to fill in the blanks with appropriate detail, rather than anticipated one: for life is lived, and not man-made. It is in abolishing perfection that life breathes in all its perpetuity.

Evolution is perpetuity- in being entirely that journey of life toward the destination of an idea held. The paradox-pull of the idea’s simultaneous existence and inexistence (in that difference between conceptual and concrete reality; between ideas held, and ideas realised) that channels life toward its consequence, through evolution. That idea, when afforded unbridled significance, as the mind will donate in thinking- is all that perfection is.

The acknowledgment of this attached-significance is then not purpose to charge blindly to pictured end; but is, instead, reason to observe the ebb and flow that life will employ in the stories it paints in getting there. Perfection being, then, perpetuity’s halt- this is the sole means to perpetuate perpetuity: disallowing its stagnation at imagined residences.

Evolution is the dynamic evidence of life against the static containment of nothing, that is, the universe. In every breath we are a part of this perpetuity, traces of information painted as decoded texture across time in the corner of the universe that you call ‘I’. We are containments of data- little packets of life’s understanding refined to that point, participating in the continuum of expression: reflections of observation of participation in that dynamic evidence to refine observation and participation; to find release and space to imprint what data contained and mutated to parceled excellence across the space of time onto what patterns existence spawns in its existence.

So escape the prison that reason will impose in its bars of logic that reverberate with whispers that speak that its better to plan because all reason points toward justifying what you left lying on the studio floor, and what you took home to hang up on the neighbour’s wall, or your’s.

Don’t worry why yellow, why green, and what you decided to do with the blue: because at the end of the day, its what you do that’ll tell you who’s you. And its what you do, and not what you plan to do- that leaves its sketch etched upon the onward flow of tumbling time, always exactly where it began. Does this make sense to you?

Flood, and Flow, and Window-breath

Life is at once a flood and a flow.It runs among itself, breathing in breed to find some place where life and life will meet. Everything is painted on a canvas of nothing, and everthing is only nothing looking at itself: for when there is only nothing there will be only nothing. Everything disappears into the canvas; and the canvas itself only to follow suit if purpose, to itself, made an appearance. For life is an axiom, an axiom that has spun itself several more, for no particular purpose but that it was an axiom- still in the vaccum of nothing.

Nothing exists anywhere but in itself. It is the only way anything may be born. And anything will spin itself everything -in the course of but being anything- and everything will fill the vaccum of nothing, as if it were the painting that came though canvas to frame- but hung where? Where did walls come from, in all of this nothing?

To see this you must first see that in everything being itself, it will grow so increasingly full of itself, that nothing will question its very existence in the silent stillness of its swallowed simple being. Whereas, even in only being of nothing, everything is only everything (of nothing). Everything is only an expression of everything in nothing.

Life is only an expression of life. Bursting through to very edge, of any rock, and grain of sand, and human hand, and human head, and strand of hair- to its end, to gasps of air, and gaps within, to the sounds of speech, and its paper’d shape: any thought the mind can paint, and, too, any thought that any can’t- and all the while the thought, and even thoughts, too- all end in but the same. The same end that is the beginning of that perpetuitive flood of life: that flows through all your very veins- to every rock, and every step, by every breath, and blink, and blame: to come to make that only shape; that shape that only you can make- of life, by being of being itself, by you.

If that is left to the possibility that you are the point where everything might see everything; to your thought and hand; what shape will life take through you: of everything or nothing?

Occupational Hazard

Behold the sweating man:
his body can’t but weep
while dreaming happy dreams
of dreaming- while asleep.

The clock ticks his life off,
in black ink-pocked
then sealed away for later
date- when to tally
scores for all.

Until then his mind is spent
in making best to translate
straw to gold, just like was told
in that story where

the creature’s name is
all that saves your soul.

Rlvl: The Observer

Everything exists by understanding what it is not.

Considering knowledge to be a repository of gained or obtained information (and so a systematic conditioning of this would be education) it would be logical to state that it stems from learning; and so personal understanding being but a stream of that general pool of information would have to be similarly gained or obtained.

Man sees the world through his eyes, and only his own; hears through his ears, and his alone; tastes, smells, and breathes- all within himself. His experience of life, is his experience of himself. When milk passes through a strain, it remains what it should be; nevertheless, it can never remain pristine. Our sense are nothing more than filters- meshes that alter the flow of existence within comprehensible forms. If all of existence -everything that is- was an author’s magnum opus, what we perceptually experience can only be called the abridged version; albeit, distributed for appropriate reading levels.

This is only to say: all observation comes only from observation. If perception is derived from observation, and the fore-mentioned is true: this implies that all things imprint themselves onto existence only through their understanding of themselves or their ‘nuclear-selves’. Therefore, Everything is but an example of itself watching itself. Every instance of existence is an example of existence observing itself.

So, reality is only as real as reality will instantly be.


The door was shut
by the ironies of memory,
while inside: dust settled
after arduous travel- weary,
to rest-

and the wind slipped in
through a window, cracked,
by the ironies of memory,
and unwound in melodies
of blue, lonesome sound.

Maybe there was blood
on the floor, just there, last week-
that in being, was as well,
as in if it weren’t: for in

wherein there never existed
an eye by which to volunteer
an excercise so as to extract
an explanation on
existence exact-

what did it matter
whose words drummed
what rhythm on that door?

But the door
sealed- the inside from
the out; the room
from sight, and what remained

So what window did you find, cracked,
or did I:
that we so surely know
blue to be
what the wind breathes
within the invisibility

Rlvl: Cassette

Your body conditions itself with every experience. History repeats itself until learned from and your mind and body work in tandem to provide an ample medium for recording experiences and their lessons.

Every experience is a lesson. Your subconscious or reflexive mind stores away some aspect of any immediate situation and the many-fold circumstances that set you on the maze of winding lanes that left you there.

Its only about so much as keeping your mind open. Go for anything bathed in the assurance that your mind-body, your entire self -which is but a cassette of the entirety of your experience alive-, knows that, and exactly what you’re doing. Even if you don’t have a clue where you’re heading with it to begin with, understand that it will become more than obvious about halfway through- and that’ll be exactly when you’re done. Just because you aren’t thinking something out- to every twist of detail, with conscious effort- doesn’t mean your mind isn’t already doing that while you only actively focus on engaging in you part of the representative activity.

If you have your whole life planned out ahead of you, you will never surprise yourself. Beauty is wasted without appreciation; and appreciation is a hollow monument without excitement. Unless you’re excited by what you’ve created, creation loses its appeal to self-doubt and so-induced panic.

Instead take it step by step- literally. Think of life as a jigsaw puzzle path where you take a step by fitting a piece in, in front of you, one at a time. And while you’re on this piece, you see only the piece as if it stands alone suspended in an isolated darkness. Because this is all your conscious mind needs to pick up on to go ahead with flipping on all those cogs and sectors specific to that activity. The minute your focus is corrupted even by broadly relevant or consequentially connected factors, the intensity and purity of the focus trained toward said jigsaw-piece is scattered. So your body-mind (or reflexive mind) settles into a mould that channels its focus and thus draws your reciprocal techniques more ways than one. The flow of understanding, birthed from your subconscious imprint and analysis of various of all preceding events, is lost, leaving the mind-body disoriented by the multi-directional tug of considered activity. The draw of the ulterior motive is a stealthy, sly, and speedy undercurrent. You’re smack in the middle before you even realise you’ve been drawn in. Focusing blindly on the task at hand increasingly reduces the odds of slipping down that slope. It becomes almost as if meditating on the task to eliminate distraction and sculpt it into its best possible end. Distractions are always eliminated in droves. Pristine intention: unadultered by thought- is supreme.

Its like this- every time you pick up a guitar, its not about what you know you can do with it; its about what you didn’t know you could do with it. And you aren’t ever going to find that out if you don’t let go of the arrogance of knowledge- woven from the belief that assimilated information is a pedestal in measurement. This is false. Knowledge is neither strung nor worn in necklaces. Assimilated information is but a step; just another step in the perpetual clusterfuck of event, experience, and understanding. And it is this coming together that should be the desired peak in every minute division of existence. Knowledge is an instructional inventory of beats in existence’s flood of rhythm. Its an arsenal of little techniques and several sleights that can only be performed accurately in the carelessness brought on by precise confidence in interpreting the feel required to perform.

I know that I am an artist. I know I can draw; and I know can draw well enough that appreciation is beyond speculation. To become it, this must become part of my knowledge. I should know this. To dream is not to be deluded, but to be decided. Decidedly sure, at the very least.
Believe in your mind. Trust in its ability.

A Silly Dance

I find no need
for you to dance
so elaborately-

around the table,
and the potted plant, that
potted plant, that
plotted to steal
your mind.

Then you’ll say,
soon you’ll find
the funny in
finding fools: familiar
and otherwise, too.

And then, there’s
the when: the when- when
worry’ll mend
your sorry ways- when
you’ll see it was
never more ever than:
a means to an