shapes of old ideas....making new

DOCTORED WRITING FROM A FEW YEARS AGO...ENCOURAGEMENT TO KEEP GOING!

This is the story. The regiment. The self-satisfaction. The enslavement to the illusion of what you want to become, which was borne out of an illusion dictated by the media in the first place. You progress get smarter stronger wiser and it feels like a full life--is it? There is the empty feeling that won’t go away no matter how much it’s shared or how unique it is, the empty inside gets really big and people handle that in different ways. Radical groups against it…this that. Pour gasoline on the fire or alkaline on the acid. But to have the nerves of restraint? To let it grow natural and accept what becomes? Who does that? I'm interested in those that do that. Those that listen to anyone and everyone fairly blindly get pretty far pretty fast so there is good reason for them to keep going for it. Those that don’t and can't grow resentful. Most are in between and often people feel guilty that they’re not trying harder at it. All want the far-off thing of greatness somehow some way. There are problems here. No faith. No ground. No nerves toward restraint and wonder. Insecurity and not quite-knowing but seeing anyway. Mind-centered rational living claims to have balance, but it is just fulfilling preset marks with little of the creative and intuitive logic that makes living a full life special. Some even justify praying and meditating saying it changes your neural pathways. How can you make deals with god if you're excited only by that un-mined pathway YOU think YOU are creating??? They don't get it and certainly take license over something they just got as a gift. I pray. Not know. Let things be done for me which I can't do alone. Keep the storm and disorder up.

And there's this too:

“What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy”—Neil Postman “Amusing Ourselves to Death.

techno flesh

Tough feet--tender mind. Calloused hands--soft heart. All scarred on the outside all new on the inside. Harsh elements leave the gentle charmed. Who maybe even see some points to the harm. And the hard-inside people even did concede: “God damn it, you’ve got to be kind” (Vonnegut). Suppose you resign to acting fine, so you don't gotta talk that way. Like if there ever was matter made by what postulating Powers say.

Tender feet—tough mind. Soft hands—rough heart. Carefully presented skin—inside still no gut direction. And a people's rule has always been: the poor have the fun while the rich wish on; wish maybe that the excess was served up a slight-bit different. Go on, increasing schemes for what's not even there anymore—we’re just trying to use what we got, and what it's for.

Which raises my point about those hands and the feet again. Because I saw a picture today. It showed the most advanced bionic hand created to date, a hand made by who knows how many a man. Fabricated all that imagining into a working part, which spawned an image sent before me through a machine. And frankly, it led me to a simple state of wonder—to wonder if all that touches can necessarily feel.

Fishy and the Kosmos

This time he was trying to guide his nature far away from, “I got one.”

Casting last bait, wondering means how—looping visions of her getaway.

Because together they might come, but will go like late day sun,

If thinking like the fisherman who got one too full of fight to stay.

Sure as sun rises, red toenails sink into she-says smelly shoes,

Blood exits white knuckles, squeezing tighter to the reel’s winding core.

She told him she digs hands and how he touched each time with two.

In secret he knew of their barbed hooks—a tendency to forget what hands are for.

Before him, he tied together, was this creation “not far off from me.”

Two creatures that saw with eyes of a “striking blue,” or so were often told.

And two that held regard for wonder, and sang its praise slightly off-key.

An intuitive thought snagged him: “Hands hold no good in letting good unfold.”

She had said her fake fingernails made her feel pretty and so he wanted to be one.

She offered a nibble and the blue eyes met, only to insist on maroon.

Their slip-sliding flesh together one last time, his hook hold came undone.

and off she swam for a sinking sun, for tomorrow’s light, and the coming full moon.

The memory stayed of her long slither go; thoughts fought back when they pleased.

The moon always hovered above coming and going, constant but with a chance.
Looking up he got used to his reflection in Blue, and found its hookless Ease.
But every now and then he stared down into any-moment uncertainty.

If ever that fishy rose to surface, and lost fight in these two salved hands, 
then soft-lit circles might ripple out perfect, like rulings made by moon: 
So the Kosmos be.

Fed Up

Remember the days when we could complain about the skyscraper steeple with all the marketing people? When it was boardrooms of lined pockets one-dimensionalizing the human touch? Those days before a screen was a basic necessity--or at least convincingly sold to us as such. I'm on an unpaid internship with myself--the ever-green naif watching how a self gets sold. Just add resist and grow giant weary of fitting day's mold. Got no key card to that bean-stalk brothel of glass-- not this puttin-down stones, well-mannered whore. Whoa Jack, can't take it any more: we who remain child souls are scheming the Last Roar.