Le Grand Mauvais Soi

It is a beautiful day but I am sitting and working in my room when I could be outside enjoying the sun! The older I get the more impatient I grow. School is boring, yes, I am wondering what made me go back to it? Our society of course! It has a beautiful habit of rejecting the rejects who don’t conform. So getting back in school was a way to not conform in a scholastic garb. However my scholastic garb seems to be loosening its hold and slipping off of my shoulders, I must need a new one?! I am not sure. I know I function best when I am able to help people, but this has taken a negative turn and I find it impossible to engage in tasks that are meant solely for myself. I hate how people always babble, ‘Me’ ‘I’ “Moi’? These words and the likes of them I’d press delete on my life’s keyboard if I could, however c’est impossible no matter how generous one’s spirit. Yes, not the soul. Soul is something else. Your spirit can be infectious and fill up a room with subtle laughter and fun, but Soul is the heaviness you drag in that shell of a body (it is like a casket actually) quite heavy but you have to drag its weight through out your mortality.

Overcoming the self. The self that is always overcoming itself. And itself is that menace which haunts our sleep, and lately my dreams, resulting in nightmares. I am not sure why I have been experiencing weird disconnected dreams; early childhood, grade school friends, and such. Amassing knowledge can be quite threatening to your already built system of thought and belief. The more information and knowledge one acquires the greater the inner-rearranging required! Oh, the forever disheveled house, always invaded and taken apart. I would not even associate sand castles to this process of dismantling. So my intent of writing this random (I have taken a fancy to this word lately) post is to get something triggered in my subconscious that I may take a plunge in my homework with a better perspective. We have a had a lot of wise men in our world, most are dead, the ones alive are hiding (as usual) I mean who can deal with being wise and social? They just don’t mix (e.g. water and oil). Well anyway, lately my theme has been a personal reorganization of my identity, I am trying to come to terms with who I am, how I can project that self, (or as one of my professors had put, “putting your best self out there”). It’s not easy because somehow what seems to be isn’t and what never seemed to be, is. Which reaffirms my belief that most philosophers don’t know what they’re doing (including the dead ones) and those alive and kicking in this generation go by the thickets, not beating around the bush, but in front of it, very loud and very incoherent. And we eventually come to call them philosophical people who are defined by their incoherences and general ineptitude to grasp the infinite complexity of the self, the I , and the Me.

I hope nothing that I have said above made sense. I am planning to retire within three years of my graduation into a world that is not technical or mechanical, and is not governed by text books, computers and brains. I plan to retire into my heart and close the doors to the big bad wolves*!

(Wolves aka: ego, self)

poets are like cement mechanics

they try to break the mold.

the deplorable ying yang of life

The price of freedom is bought by poverty,
while security entails slavery.

coffee anyone?

I think I am ready to start school again, but maybe….after I have some more shit cleared out of the way. Then I shall serve my purpose of being on this earth.

sometimes writing is difficult :{

Main Entry: nos·tal·gia
Pronunciation: \nä-ˈstal-jə, nə- also nȯ-, nō-; nə-ˈstäl-\
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, from Greek nostos return home + New Latin -algia; akin to Greek neisthai to return, Old English genesan to survive, Sanskrit nasate he approaches
Date: 1729

1: the state of being homesick : homesickness
2: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition ; also : something that evokes nostalgia

family and relatives

sometimes people like me, need a nice grandmother or grandfather, instead of shallow siblings and parents who are too concerned with the present, like a bunch of narcissist good-for nothings, who cannot see anything beyond their every-day superficial needs. who are like rats running nowhere and feeding off the cheese of stupidity that this world defecates.

the elders are dead. those remaining, too intimidated by the modernisitic approach of my siblings and parents, stay away. i was pleasantly surprised to receive a phone call from my uncle, who i haven’t seen in about four years now, and talking to him felt like coming home.

this country is going down the drain, and i am happy it is, it is time people learn what to actually value. the best lessons are learned in times of desperation. cheers to a contemporary age of incessant failures!

Why wander about between two hedges made of stair-rails while the ladders become soft as new-born babes, as zouaves who lose their homeland with their shoes*

ah finally, I have the right title, idea and desire, to write.

i am not sure whether to celebrate or mourn the emotional slogging that lies ahead of me.

–
*(Making Feet and Hands by Benjamin Peret)

Mending Walls

For some impenetrable reason, when I awakened today morning, and was in the process of making myself some hot cocoa, the begining verses of Robert Frost’s Mending Walls, began playing through my head. It’s been ages since I read that poet, neverthless to honor his work in this cold winter that chills the marrow of my bones, it would do him justice to share that poem here as well. So dear readers bear with me as I navigate once more through ‘Mending Walls; metaphorical and literal.

@#!& enjoy this music from my favorite movie ^-^

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen ground swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair,
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
Stay where you are until our backs have turned!”
We wear our fingers rough handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before  I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down. I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But its not elves exactly and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Binging a stone firmly grasped by the top
In each hand, like an old stone-savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me
Not of woods only the shade of trees,
He will not go behind his father’s saying
And he likes having thought of it so well,
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

The Rainbow

It is funny when I see teenagers act like they know the shit. Times have changed. Or must I say we have. Since my antipathy towards this entity that requires clocks and hands, or the crutch of the sun’s shadow to measure its effluence upon our progress or decline, has been an arbitrary ass-wipe concept in which I have refused to believe in. I simply do not understand why we function the way we do. Where must we go to that we aren’t in that place already? Adults ride their children’s assess as soon as the poor innocent creatures begin to develop their comprehension abilities, to be someone, go somewhere, whereas I who lack the necessary spatial skills for figuring out my way through these geographical nuisances see no point in the stupid discussion. I am going to sit here, (maybe under a tree in my backyard) and stay there until the next tsunami arrives. Will that satisfy our stupid mortal dilemma of existence?

 

Our world has been crippled by some menacing disease that has spread its malignant influence from the mere physicality of life into the deepest recesses of our essence flushing out any hopes of reiterating what has been dispossessed. Our lost paradise. We struck the first match and now cry, fire, fire.

 

Maybe it is intellectual laziness that causes me to think so, but what can cure a snake bite if not its own poison? Gandhi was wrong when he said, an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind. He was a chicken, a hermaphrodite, who chose stupid tactics and slithered his way out of imperialism. Now the entire country is living off his name, what a rip-off, but saves them the hard work of establishing their own identities huh? What happened to the world was, a couple of dope-heads made their way to the top of the human assembly of intelligence and power and began to advocate/dispose off their mental diarrhea on the lower-half of the populace, rendering us incapable of fresh air as well as the existential mobility to which we were entitled to as our birthright. So we stink, reek of polluted remnants not of our own doing, and yet they burden the shoulders of men, women and children, who think they are of sin. Whereas the original sin was the conception of ideas, the duplicity of our illusory sight, when man thought he was the almighty God, and began making offerings on the altar of his deranged brain.

A Winter’s Night

The ice expands the wood

Congesting the door to its frame

And I have to pull harder

To get it to open.

 

A treacherous draft hits my face

And I gasp with the impact,

 

There are chores to be done,

But my mind is already elsewhere,

 

I dig my heels into the snow tentatively

Re-checking my pocket for the grocery list

Things I write down because I occasionally

Forget where I am and what I am supposed

To be doing.

 

There is an unhappiness that surrounds

People with things;

Material, immobile to their consciousness,

The noose around the neck

Tightening its grip,

 

I have stopped counting days

By man-made calendars

Or watches that tick out of semblance,

For I refuse the dominion of a life

That will end with death,

 

My brother drives

Lost in thoughts somewhere,

 

I look at him

And think of the escape

We all attempt at least once or twice

No matter how shoddy the plan.