Notebook dump 301011

October 30, 2011

(i ripped off the Notes format from Uncle C[zeslaw Milosz])

Notes from Delphi

AN INTERNET MUSEUM | Hurry, the future generations will remember only the Minoans.

LADYFRIEND AND TRAVEL | Of course I love you like a woman. Finding Mt.Parnassos parlays your eminence.

DELPHI | The temple builders would keen at our mournful pilgrimages.

ORACLE | How may I contibute best to what is Good? Not right, not just, not great

ΑΘΗΝΑ OVER ΠΟΣΕΙΔΩΝ | Keep your seas with its greed and tumult. When our eyes lay upon her silver and green we tremble at our place in eternity.

STRETCHING | From a mountain view of olive pastoral, the past and present tug at me without respite. I don’t mind.

TO A PAINTER WITH A POET HEART AND PHILOSOPHER MIND | There is something bittersweet about all the elderly climbing paros and marble steps all over Greece.

ADVENTURE | Terrain feels familiar, it’s mapless navigation without a tongue that requires hawk eyes. Sometimes courage, sometimes luck

NOT KNOWING | Denial can be good for us. Tell me that story again.

KIND OF LIKE THE BIBLE TRANSCRIPTION | The father reads to his sons who are busy looking around with wide eyes and only hear every seventh word.

BONE LONGING | Bury me with the others. Let these hills and rocks hold me forever after.

UNICORNS IN HELLAS | When mankind come with their gods and commune, humans are good enough.


Notes from Frankfurt

NEW SUN, FOG, LITTLE CITIES | I did not run away to the beach at an August dawn, but the view from above Frankfurt in October is orange magnificence.


28 October, Syntagma Sq again

Prime Mins told a lantern-jawed man ‘Oxi
Antigone told her bethroned uncle she could not abide
My tongue has always been perched upon by a little ‘No’.
Saying ‘yes’ is like taking from Atlas his world. A yes is almost always harder won.


29 October, 6 flights in 20 hours

My envy is desire is coating my insides until the howl in my throat is a single thread away from snapping and breaking the world again.

I’ve learned to train my screams to lie down but doing so has left a thousand ripped cords in my chest.

I suspect those fleeting moments of animal purity –
Ragged breath is a reliable indicator –
Muscles and blood and hot flesh – keening in the sun, gulping sweet silver water – grips on wrists and manes being steered – the biting and any or all fighting – views of expanses on high that tan your soul like a hide – the praise of your imagined or truer tribe/s – being or having birthed –
all blood and all passions that are not simple bastards –
are not unlike the final death a body receives. Mankind had embraced the eternal calm, chiselled away a Heaven for themselves where the peace of stillness could remain a wall around their souls forever.

My dualism begs the opposite.

In my life, those moments are the winged freedom which must be tamed at all costs – and still they pierce my veil often enough that I am positive I am alive.

We have elevated our story by the grace of the right words and imagination. Haven’t we?
There are scales and moderation and halves of wholes.
But when we can teach our machines to do as we do, when our dream scape is charted by metals and rubbers, when nothing is sacred, we are not more than masters of robots. Overseers of our most abstract, reproduceable variables. And honestly, who wants to be the same as everyone else? Who wants to be a machine?

To be human and not an animal is to deny our mother and father. Why bother rising above other species and claiming a throne just to die? Just to bleed all our sweet sick vibrant blood away?

No. For humans, the struggle to contain the burst of noise from your throat is our finest gift. We love our screams. We will never be only screams as long as we live. I maintain that my imagined/projected epilogue is like one grand return to that old, wild song.

The chittering, the wailing, the crowing and the braying. The baying and the thunder of the purr; the thunderclap of the snarl. The shrieking and the echoes and our ringing out in eternal howling is our dearest reward.

If I am a blade of grass and last long enough to sun, drink and be whipped into bending by a wind I’ve known a hundred times before, my every fiber will lift its singing to join the choir of the field, lawn, or clump.

For me, this prize is enough.

For me, no joy and calm and peace in an embossed stele, that is someone else’s relief.

For me, the joy and calm and peace live every day in the tender release of your sigh – in using my hands to see colors – in the first few bars of almost every song I know – in an alphabet that knows me and cares for the world I love so dearly.

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