Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Playing is the third

playing is the third

How does one write? Is there a write way? I like to type. It’s odd that I enjoy typing; at least to me. I enjoy the finger/ mind dexterity. At times I look only at the screen; at times only at the keys. More often than not it’s a combo. A nun taught me. I can’t recall her name but I was certain it was a man’s name. A buddy and I cheated on our weekly testing- taking advantage of sister what’s-his name’s godly graces and naiveté in 1987. however, even then I enjoyed the potential skill of typing; reminiscent of playing an instrument its physically staccato rhythm tip-tock-tapping the devil’s tattoo through my fingers , past my brain to paper or screen.

I tend to be stymied by the act of writing. Generally finding myself stuck and unable to take initiative. Stuck in a thick glue of despondency that I could never achieve some deity-worthy prose that cut through the mundane falseness and penetrate some untouchable pulse of muse’s heartbeats. The thick ponderousness of a slow and dense reality where manifestations move about sluggish years is a difficult thing at best to be tolerated by a continuously mercurial mind. But there in lies the rub, as the poet says. How to reconcile two opposites? Jung portrays a truth of an active third. An undeniable force that joins the adverse aspects of a coin through a dynamic and potent presence.

There are those who believe that these vitalities are sentient entities and species-specific forces; created by countless years of being and feeling and thinking. As essential to our existence as air or water. This ethereal consciousness grows and corresponds with our collective sharing of the planet and its struggles and joys; it’s roles and positions; its deeds and misdeeds. They are the antipodes; the ones who dwell there.

It is life that is the active third of us and our shadow.

My son plays video games like no one’s business. “dad. Ya know that game we got the other day? Well, I beat it.” I am impressed at the speed and foolish fearlessness he proceeds through them. Although he misses many nuances of a story he achieves a certain primal level of accomplishment, especially concerning the active adventurousness of the themes.

Without bothering to read the instructions, whether they come with the game or not; he boldly dives into the process, reckless and nearly rabid. He controls the action on the screen. It’s a world that is made by numerous people. There different visions of a particular milieu are somewhat mirrored by the world of the consumer. Many years of genres have imparted a mythology. Take for example the high fantasy of Tolkien or the soap opera melodrama of a space opera, and certainly the sophisticating and depressing style of Japanese and Chinese martial arts films. All of these have many active participants that slowly flesh out a somewhat standard form of existence for affairs of this fictional life. He knows basic standards of how the controls work. The “x” button is generally an “action” controller. The right trigger more often than not fires a gun. Yet these buttons in combination with others at certain times may cause other affects. And while many personalities have determined other standard forms of actions to stimuli we have a meager reflection of life as computer game.

My son is the soul. The personality he chooses to take in this role playing game produces effects in the “reality” of the game. The other souls projecting through their own actor’s personality. He controls the actions. Often mistakenly, and definitely with the more complex maneuvers he stumbles through this being. Because we have all read and dreamed and drawn dragons we have a preconceived notion of what it may be like and how it may behave. Of course it has as many options of action to stimuli as we due to the infinitely varied potential of our thoughts. We are only limited somewhat by our consensus of what our reality is like. If we all agree that dragons have scales then most likely it will present itself. By this point however the dragon and what it may or may not represent on any level has gradually gathered more energy and become an entity of itself. This of course has happened for the most part 30,000 years ago but we do still continue to affect it’s temperament and needs fro life. It breathes and eats and has desires just as each sentient creature. Some more advance than others, as mankind is to plants.

These archetypes are the “rules” of a video game. In grand theft auto, if one breaks the rules the cops eventually give chase as the scenario changes and one’s character interacts. As one’s behavior changes in the game so does the reality. An artificially intelligent program may behave in interesting ways. We project onto them and infiltrate their behavior just as theirs may inspire our choices. Projection is two multi-laned highway at rush hour. We created a multitude of beings that need to feed by attracting and magnetizing others towards us that fit our filtering of these shadowy sides of ourselves. As they move through us we change how they present themselves. Being enormous and not nearly as plentiful as the number of creatures on a planet they result in occupying all minds. A mere low percentage of us , these select vigors project through all of us. Their multitude of versions again interacts in our lives creating reality.

We watch a play yet impinge upon the drama; often jumping on stage, possibly stealing the show or perhaps hiding in a balcony seat, peering from behind a curtain with opera glasses on a stick and a ridiculous wig.

So how does one write? Who are these muses, and what do they partake of and what do they require as sacrifice? How can we relate to them and move our others into mutual alignment? Somehow I must reach into their lands and establish contact. To learn their language is paramount for to enjoy the best play I can produce. Let’s choose the actors and stage crew. Let’s bring in creative people and reliable managers. Let’s gather a quality audience in a beautiful old theatre full of history and romance. Tend to the gaslights, oil the trap doors, secure the riggings and mend the curtain. There’s a show today! We haven’t rehearsed properly if at all. No one is certain of their part, but we have a good gist of the story. We control the genre and plot. Generally speaking theirs are only so many plots and themes. The muses remain elementally leagued as a small company of characters. Use them wisely for affect and reap the effects of leisure and pleasure.

Happy playing. For playing is the third.

Monday, June 15, 2009

"Now the 5th daughter on the 12th night
told the 1st father that things weren't right.

'My complexion', she says, 'is much too white!'
He said 'Come here and step into the light.'

He said 'Hmm, you're right. Let me tell the 2nd mother this has been done.'

But the 2nd mother was with the 7th son
and they were both out on highway 61"

-B. Dylan "Highway 61 Revisited"

The Chrysalis of Amandolin

Their dreams are magnificent.

Each one so unique ; yet all so full of power. The shear force of their purity alone is sufficient to be the the stuff of lasting myths. Lyrical archetypes in fluid motion, conquering all suffering in all ways, Ebbing and Flowing through Space, permeating through Time; such are their unconscious desires.

In a self induced slumber they lie. For Eons, a tireless cosmic hum has infiltrated all that there is.

The Songs of Creation do not often penetrate and awaken into their own awareness. Their chrysalis capsules only a vague cage which they know not to see as fragile shells; but which appear to be as real as dreams when they sometimes retire from their quicksilver lucidities. Curled into fetuses and only able to see directly in front of them; they witness endless arrays of shadows and translucence from neighboring chambers. This they believe to be real on those rare moments of heavy existence when the mesmerizing music calls to them and draws them away from wonders of joy and infinite happiness to wonders of form and ponderousness. The droning buzz of countless other pupa weighing down their own mundane manifestations into a (dense and thick) false existence. Capable of transforming from a fertile and membranous paragon to a heavenly force in the instant of a Promethean thought; they now not to awaken to their awesome potential but instead become involved in these formless dances of color and shade. Merely reflections of other perfection; they undulate to the rhythm as another one of their kind drowsily recalls the preternatural condition and responds in kind to these bizarre motions projected in front of them.


i remember she began as mostly invisible and strangely unavoidable.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

1 little, 2 little, 3 little pills i take
a brown and a round and a green little pill i take

4 little, 5 little , 6 little pills i ate
a gold and a pink and an orange flavored pill i ate

7 little, 8 little, 9 little pills are great
a big and a long and an egg shaped pill

i take 10 little pills in the morning.

Friday, March 27, 2009

she told me to right..

She wasn't a muse, only a messenger to seduce me deeper in. In to the core of something larger than just myself is where she beckoned. She had me convinced that I am called to right. If only I could break free of this cocoon, a chrysalis of contemplation; then I could right.

I thought I had found someone to be larger with. It seems that this one only wanted to be made larger by downsizing others. I couldn't compete and only became more victimized more mesmerized less super-sized, only patronized. I became embroiled in a war of roses and found it not too cool. I stopped laughing and started crying. I became vindictive. I couldn't get the pain to stop. I didn't have the strength to leave. No relationship with self is a sin and a relationship with another - a crime under these precepts. My powers have been syphoned leaving a shrivelled zombie shell that paces alone in a dark room - not knowing where it belongs or what it is meant to do.

Now I will listen and right.

Right an Epic mythology. Change my name to GILGAMESH perhaps and flood the world with my Tears bringing fertility and forgetfulness of winter.

My hands are my Pen. My Mind the Binding. My life the pages. Stages are chapters and Spirit illustrations abound throughout.

The story will have laughter and hot chicks kicking with Kung-Fu priests. Rock bands in Walmart and disco balls for sale. Playgrounds in Museums - Picasso inside the hamster tubes. Secret agents fighting blatant evil where the good guy wins. It is not idealistic. There is treachery, Dishonor and Tragedy. Mistrust is an Idol to topple-to test our strengths. Robots to ensure we maintain human compassion. The laws of prosperity are simple; yet the patterns they create are complex. To Break them is to weave a self entangling web that draws ever closer. Can we call a magical sword at will?

It will be a Play, a Rock-Opera. All of you are in it. A High Fantasy of Orcs and Pigs. Animalized Characters with some riding on chariots of clouds, others with giant carven masks like Dark Shields of Ego. It's a quest for the Shakti. I am green with 4 arms. I wield a Vajra of Perfect Balance emanating colors. Ever changing images ride across my skin and mind.

Thoughts are a physical force which can interact and permeate, Collide and contort with other thoughts as beams of light. They later become form and their paths are Plot-able. Map-able. No Tom-Tom required, these are ancient and form the support strands of the Weird through dry-ice fog and a frenzy of fire-flies. Truth rides the gossamer wings of the winds as pollen clings to a bees knees.

Heroes stride with confidence dripping from their skin like heavy spring raindrops amongst the mortals. Acts of Jumping , Drumming, Dancing and various movements cause physical effects ranging from trees-uprooting, dervishes of leaves, parting waves, erupting volcanoes, eclipses and animals taking flight.

There will be no inter-mission. It will begin in the middle as Homer did. Then end- full circle. My Vader breath the climax of life long driving to completion. And She will be there, Smiling, waiting. Knowing I would come when my work was done.

affirmations test 1.1

My name is I AM
Art is a verb. A mode of Being.
Transitionally expressing affirmation of occurance.

I merely create.
I thank for what I ate.
To be less than is to NOT be Great.
I AM DEATH and not afraid.

and so therefor
MORE, MUCH MORE than what I consume
as I bloom to heights dreamed for.

Lucid and limitless
Terrifying in mystery
making sense of chaos
magically delicious

with no emotional deposit
Abundance flows through my pores with
thunderousness and glowing lightening.

My Vibration Rings True
in Multitudinous Range,
Making monks Red with Jealous Rage.
I phase beyond molecules
of molestation
re-solidifiying elsewhere.
The other side of LIFE.


I was paralyzed.


I can't -"i can't" anymore. I can't afford it...I'm broken of was.

The GODS are not on my plane.
They know me not.

Disproportional Analysis of Mugs. test blog 1.0

I have a theory that the cleanliness of one’s car is reflexive of the state of one’s affairs in life. Quite a simple idea, really. Perhaps a bit too obvious at first glance. Yet like Meis van der Rohe’s “less is more” Seagram building ; “…its aesthetic impact on the elegance of its proportions and …verticality” (Allen Temko Horizon Sept. ’56) is brought to dawn.

For example I enter brief recollections of my first driving experiences as a licensed youth; seemingly related to encounters with women:

1987 Brightly tarnished canary yellow Escort. First Car. Black interior. Dad and I repair the floor so I don’t feel like Barney Rubble. Keep car clean.

Noticed girl-friend has incredibly hairy bush while on swings at park. Scared by implications. She collects her toe-nails.

Wreck car in blinding sun. Hood folds in slow-motion. Not my fault

1988 Drive dad’s car and burn out clutch on way to pick up date for prom. Wearing new suit. Was model for group of black guys at mall, manager wanted to show his keen sense of fashion to buddies. I am pleased with advice and meeting. An uncle rescues date and I. We get to boogie.

Mother picks us up in Decorator Den business van. All 3 vehicles are clean, yet I have to sit on large swatches on way to returning date.

1989 Inherit the Red Camaro with white interior and tape deck. Uncle and friends imbue her with good vibes. Car is straight up teeth. Keep car clean . Cheese puff balls spill in dash vent, would hover while air turned up high.

Made a girl laugh so hard she peed her pants in car.

Offer suggestion to police while accosted during beer slamming session in parking lot, to “lock my keys in the trunk and walk away from this whole experience. Break in car after teen-dance club, and rip back seat out to get to keys.

‘Cops R us Interuptus’ late at night rebounding with hairy pussy girl in parking lot.