Monday, November 29, 2010

Months of silence never brought insight...

What is one to say after drilling furiously out from the semblance of self awareness, and clamoring mad against the walls built to keep the reflected self out, only to see it kept in?

I write on abandon walls and wonder, "Who may contemplate my misspelled meanings?".

One must not chase after ideas like squirrels.
One cannot itemize or schedule time for thought.
But be open, aware, as on a walk, of the idea at the periphery.
Approach with sure-footedness and slow care lest it, being startled, become lost up the tree of forget.
But not all ideas come to us stray as cats to warm in our garages.
These must be tracked with skill, stalked over miles of brier thoughts.
These are the most difficult and delicate for they may vanish into incomprehensibility.

To be a seeker where nothing is sought. In all states, through all existences, there are "meaningful becomings". Meaningful in the fulfillingness or the transcendent engagement with the world, but must there be blockages? And why these vacant terms with their syllabic weight - over compensating length? ...the plaqued veins of a sedentary, over-starched life...

Must there be "ideal" paths? Can one find deep contentitude within a "becoming-junky" or a "becoming-self-indulged sociopath"? There must be groupings which cross over and allow "becomings-transcendent"... All paths seem to be interconnected at some point. But where is the set which contains the overlap, the openings which allow for that access, which must necessarily be shifting, opening and closing, always displacing. But inevitably each has their plateau of consistency - the demographic mire which continually appropriates the heterogeneous "becoming-individual".

Faces, faces
tied up
stretched over
the faux marbled table.

"...and these seeds of thought were so promising!"
"My, it has taken over your garden, 'Lizabeth! Are those your roses?"



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