sky - fuck / shapeshift

love on the mind, love on the brain.

if i, only i, could understand and maintain
this foolish predilection for a devilheart's strains,

then all of humanity's knowing wouldn't
seem
so
plain.

i love all you are, all you've been.
all you will be too,
fiend
or
friend.

you once said you know not how to trust,
for on a face two functions cause shifts, thus -
subconscious emotion and conscious possession(
an inner hell wrestling with an outer love);
disconnect the connection, and with such obsession,
we read and deign to understand and believe
the book of all that's unknowable.

with all our might we believe what we will -
that which causes our hearts outwardly not to spill.

do you realize the heart with which you're bequeathed?
the joyous pain with which time is set  free?

("and have i?", i wonder, when hearts entrusted to me
are snatched by a Fate so cruel as to be
the routine of a dysfunctional, pained ennui.)

all love is dysfunctional until willed to be true. to be real.

to be the One.




the One is always what it is, always both outside of our experience and inside of / behind every neuron's firing.

the One cannot ever be escaped, for we all are the constituents of its essence -
as the membrane of its outer layer, living also in the deepest recesses of its interior.

the One shows no sign of existence until we question our own outer layers;
until we unify ourselves and see that great cosmos yet padding OUR earth.

so, the point:

unity.

separating the wheat from the chaff (to use a pianist/musician's term) -
discovering our individual voice, hidden amidst blustery fields and in waves of oceanic rage;
discovering our own voices among the monotonous sea of faces in which we are born. 

it is only i who determine my ultimate identity. it is only i who assert this Self, this expression of my existence - it will not, must not be done by another. not in this lifetime. not unless i sign my being away to the will of another.

.

to will Love is to will Truth, to will Reality, to Be Fully and not look back. until it becomes subconscious, i will not stop - that is the essence of learning, and of teaching.

teach that which would become a subconscious function; it is the only way to build upon the layers of knowledge gained prior.

i want to start my own label. electro-acoustic music. compose Rachel's-like works for viola, cello, and piano. i want to memorize about an hour's worth of piano music and play around town, for free, just because i think i am great. i want to read poetry out loud. i want to sing in my own language. i want to play percussion and play steve reich's mallet quartet. i want to take lessons with lamonte young and marian zazeela. i want to go to norberg festival in sweden this summer. i want to compose drone music and perform long, meditative sets. i want to be able to teach my art, for money, to those willing to learn. i want to write more about music and write more in general - the idea of pretention left behind.

there, i said it -

I WANT TO BE MORE THAN I AM.

    ^ what a constellation sounds like ^

voice

in the construction and constant re-formation of this self and personality it is natural to look nowhere but outwards, rather than in, as an instinct. watching the others and how they live; their faces, their eyes, and what secrets play across their features that they aren't telling. subtle and not-so-subtle hints at the inner workings of the human, and how these behaviors relate or don't relate to my own - i am an amateur researcher of my own kind, of the humanimal i both am and wish to become.

one thing i keep noticing, time and time again, is the presence of and absolute necessity for an individual voice.

THE impulse

-brevity for aesthetics' sake-

the stars are so close and looming, it's like i'm underneath a blanket with holes in it... and my bed an enormous field. a tipped-over cow,  asleep, serves as tonight's pillow.

the snow ravages a town. with low, dense clouds and growling winds that shake bones, only ice and powder are left behind. sleepy humans rise and face another dawn, still half-dreaming

and

hyde park, uk

poetry can be so abstract as to become almost meaningless - a line of words can be a curtain concealing entire worlds of meaning. if these worlds are not easily accessible through the experience of reading or hearing the words which have been chosen then it is only mediocre poetry. good poetry takes effect immediately upon being read or heard, though true understanding is of course another matter. maybe true understanding (whatever that means) is not as important as true experiencing.

i've been reading bukowski and cummings and hughes a lot lately. i think these are some incredibly good poets - i only feel, and see, when i read their words. the poem itself is a door into sensation, image, life. i love the simple look and feel of their poems, too - it's like looking through a window into an anti-extraneous world. FINALLY. simplicity!

is it all pretention, any rendering of the Real Life Experience through hypersensualized art forms? transforming the Glorious It into something easy-to-swallow, or pleasurable, or labyrinthine, or beautiful?

(we humans are quite obsessed with beauty. as individuals we know when we sense it, we know when we do not. we lust after beauty for it lends meaning to the mundane, though only with the use of perception).

i only ask because i wonder why it is that we create, why we simply must add to the chaos, add to the pool of the collective subconscious. maybe it's all we can do.

. . .

this is the perfect driving-and-howling-in-the-desert-at-night record.

so many good songs. each one a world unto its own. "cuts like drugs" an instant classic of the 90s. unwound sounds all over and inside this.

hoover - the lurid traversal of route 7 (1994)

.

BECAUSE YOU AREN'T AFRAID TO KISS THE DIRT

(AND CONSEQUENTLY DARE TO CLIMB THE SKY)