Mirrors of the Past

Looking into my eyes, I stare so intensely that I can feel the burn in my iris. Just a little longer and I will see it...the vignette of darkness around my face and the lives that I have lived inside my head. Some memories and some dreams. They come dancing out of these blue spheres that burn through all my own bullshit telling me who I really am and who I have become. Who do I want to be if my past is something I have already pushed through? Is there something more that I cannot see at this meditative state of "stare"?
The feeling of eternity overwhelms me by taking a walk though time in my mind. Taking my aura and shaking it like an apple tree. A tempting red apple rolling on the green of my brain... wanting, pleading for me to bite it. Eternity pushing it's sweet flesh into the corners of my micro universe. Feeding it with this apple I long for but instinctual push away. Tucking it into the corners of a black hole that is my mind.

Tyler Durden

"God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

The Computation

FOR my first twenty years, since yesterday,
I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away ;
For forty more I fed on favours past,
And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last ;
Tears drown'd one hundred, and sighs blew out two ;
A thousand, I did neither think nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you ;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life ; but think that I
Am, by being dead, immortal ; can ghosts die ?
-John Donne

Electric Blue Storm

The Mayan Oracle

The Hollow Men

MISTAH KURTZ—HE DEAD.
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkling of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-T.S Elliot

The Naked and the Nude Part II

It compels me that one man, with only a handful of words, can take mans' egocentric hypocritical nature and spell it out so simply. For what it really is and always has been (BY that i mean Graves, not the common psudo-intellectual hypocrite). For "He", man, speaks of knowing the ego and the ignorances of life lined with a dark drama and depriving it of soul and meaning , assuming they have knowledge by proclaiming that they do not know everything and have so much to learn? Yet they have the most to say and a look down at those of common thread with great disdain. They have wit, i will give them this, but wit is nothing more than a poser in a coat of rhetorical disguise... nothing more than a dichotomy lost in the ego of all confusion...complete and utter nonsense. Then there are the fools that fall for the bait and are hooked and sucked down by the under tow not knowing that just swimming against the current will set them free.

...and yet, "how naked go the sometime nude"


I died for Beauty—but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room—

He questioned softly ``Why I failed?''
``For Beauty,'' I replied—
``And I—for Truth—Themself are One—
We Brethren, are,'' He said—

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night—
We talked between the rooms—
Until the moss had reached our lips—
And covered up—our names—
-Emily Dickenson

The Naked and the Nude

For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.

Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.

The nude are bold, the nude are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.

The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime nude!

-Robert Graves

Hello World

Something about the state of reality in this world made me finally surrender my thoughts to the blog. So here I am in my own state of "reality" which was in need of an outlet to bleed upon. It's something that i have shied away from for years for reasons that i don't completely understand. Perhaps i thought i was fooling myself by hidding my realities inside in neat little folders and compartments which i revisit with lonely strolls while taking long showers? not so. age comes quickly and steels the agility to sprint to those moments and with all the stresses of reality each one of us is bond to in our own ignorance, we need to have an outlet to which we submit... and so here is mine. no jokes. no pretentious crusades. just the "reality" of my youth and age as it progresses here in time. forgive the run-ons as i am completely incompetent to remedy them. i write(type) like i think...in one big ass mess with no ability to edit English, error, and syntax.