Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I have much to write, however little will be written here. Don't feel jealous my pencil will never touch another piece of paper, theoretical or otherwise. For the time being I lay my thoughts here, if they get laid. Mostly they don't. Mostly they stayed backed up in brain, much like an important reference I could be making. With a wrinkled expression on my face I look down to my right, and hold my head in disdain (the entire accumulation of actions represent the disdain not merely the head holding.) Wine is a terrible thing, unless it's drank like civilized people drink, drop by expensive yet tasty drop. Those of us less civilized, those of use more human with more apparent complications, or simply the more sociable drunks of the working class care less about the quality and more about the effects of the tolerable quantity. My association to these words is direct and, simultaneously, indirect so different people will have different impressions (in the event this read more than once.) I will be frank here and tell you how I am writing most of this. I am writing it with my head down on my bed and/or keyed portion of my laptop(the latter makes it difficult because occasionally I hit the buttons with my face), brain comfortably filled with a decent red wine and a heart lost in many unnecessary emotions. I sigh often. The sigh is some sort of symbol for me. Not only sighing out of boredom or discomfort, in fact sometime out of neither, rather my sigh is my general angst. I can be in a decent mood and something will perturb or unsettle me and it will cause me unleash the awkward deep exhale that speaks every language. Or so it speaks a general meaning, the underhand is lost in metaphor or personal translation. What am I writing about? Stream of consciousness? Angst? Somewhere in between? I don't know myself. Perhaps i'm writing about failure or the assumption there of. Perhaps I'm writing about insecurities, or psychoanalysis there of. Perhaps, again, I'm writing about one's distaste of other's idiosyncrasies, and more over one's looking glass perspective of other's distaste of his or hers own idiosyncrasies. I'm not sure why my fingers are leading this incongruous onslaught of words unto the worldwide web. I, also, am not sure that these fingers and, by blame, I have chosen to ramble as I am. In either case I'm sure you can analyze what I have written much as I analyze everyone I am around and draw your own conclusions towards the well being of the author. Discomfort, confusion, and ignorance. Ego, superficialities, and making poor decisions on who to trust. Those could be labels for this post, maybe that's why they were termed in the last sentence.
Sorry for the poor grammar, punctuation, and poor versing.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
"And if one sees the truth of this matter, then what is our responsibility? Not only one has a family, wife and children, one has to be responsible for those naturally, but what is your responsibility globally? You understand my question? For the whole of mankind, because you are the mankind, you have your illusions, your images of god, your images of heaven and so on and so on. You have your rituals, you know, the whole business, exactly like the rest of the world, only in different names, they don't call themselves Christians they call themselves Muslims, or Hindus, or Buddhists, but the pattern is the same. Right?
I don't feel like writing, so it seems like a good time to write. "Consciousness is its content; the content is consciousness. All action is fragmentary when the content of consciousness is broken up. This activity breeds conflict, misery and confusion; then sorrow is inevitable." Now i'm quoting Krishnamurti. "This complex variety, modified changes in the pattern of pleasure and pain, are teh content of man's consciousness, shaped and conditioned by the culture in which it has been nurtured, with its religious and economic pressures. Freedom is not within the boundaries of such a consciousness; what is accepted as freedom is in reality a prison made somewhat livable in through the growth of technology. In this prison there are wars, made more destructive by science and profit. Freedom doesn't lie in the change of prisons, nor in any change of gurus, with their absurd authority. Freedom is not in fragments. A non-fragmented mind, a mind that is whole in freedom. It does not know it is free; what is known is within the area of time, the past through the present to the future. All movement is time and time is not a factor of freedom. Freedom of choice denies freedom; choice exists only where there is confusion. Clarity of perception, insight, is the freedom from the pain of choice. Total order is the light of freedom. This order is not the child of thought for all activity of thought is to cultivate fragmentation. Love is not a fragment of thought, of pleasure. The perception of this is intelligence. Love and intelligence are inseparable and from this flows action which does not breed pain. Order is its ground."
I keep going to back to my hypocrisies, reflecting on the person I am (or think I am, want to be or whatever that is) as opposed to the thousands of faces I've worn as I was caught up in the moment. Clarity is hard to achieve, it's hard to be clear about who you are, about who the reflection in the psychological mirror is. Do you know? I know I don't have one reflection. My mirror is broken and I've cut myself trying to repair it. Nonetheless I work slowly and occasionally find moments where I can see only one me. In those moments the mirror's easy to understand despite the fractions. I always get confused by fractions.