“Before you die!”

 

Konica1189

 

Lostness   (89)

 

 

That passion to be known
which rages in obscurity

among those craving fame
while long oppressed
by wounding insignificance.

 

Once people felt constraint
from often being seen.

Now cities spread a stressful
anonymity
where visual culture gives
non-appearance taints of
nothingness.

 

Should we embrace our humble fate
not take demanding ego’s prompt at
vainly chasing special praise?

 

Though some lone individuals
lacking faith in what’s beyond
think dying ends their only world.

An apocalypse for one.

 

 

Religion’s wake spawns techie dreams
transcending weak humanity
envisioning uploaded minds.

So hoping vaster data’s grace
permits becoming animate as
ghosts in new machines.

Yet aspirations to spectrality derive
from basic dread of
darkness, fathomless.

 

Older souls might here bemoan the
rotten luck at getting born, perhaps,
in final generations facing
total voids
outside much chance
for virtual
immortality.

 

 

Then I read these (numbered):

“…things to do before you die!”

A current media cliche
tempting us to overrate experience.

As if death’s dire severity were
offset with a well-ticked list
and items added on could
compensate our missing
an eternity or
memories from
what we did.

But instead
my brain
stayed haunted
by

the monster

of extinction.

 

 

 

(2006)

 


 

(Any art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it. Comments are very welcome!)

 


 

 

(anxiety / art / beauty / culture / death / depression / drawing / lostness / mental health / philosophy / poem / poetry / thoughts )

 

 

 

 

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Reason’s end

Lostness   (30)

 

Reasons come to an end in feelings.
I have this preference, rather than another.

 

By stripping things of their attributes we may find not essence, but emptiness.

 

An idea that nothing exists apart from experiences: leaves the unanswered question of their source.

 

Does a search tend to create its object?

 

We could enjoy thoughts of ourselves as too sophisticated for faith, while seeking a place of truth: yet can anyone live there?
Do we owe truth enough to sacrifice for it?

 

It is possible to undergo alienation from all roles: feeling like an actor of our own life.
Though acting is also a vocation.

 

Should I avoid what I cannot excel at?
Suffering for the sake of art grows more dismal the longer I remain unknown.

 

Am I to find myself through others?

 

Where the unconscious serves its purpose, consciousness will be a matter of degree.

 

When we ask about the meaning of life: what answer could satisfy us?

 

Death is not an opponent that can be fought.
Our struggles end in a silence
without explanation.

 

 

(July-Dec 1981)

(philosophy/ideas/opinions/questions)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shooting my grave

Lostness   (22)

 

I imagine a multi-gun salute fired into my grave, instead of over it.

 

Someone in a dream insists “Special relativity is all very well, however the time I am referring to is the same throughout the universe!”

 


 

Trust is needed by infants, but an open book can be filled with lies.

 

Lacking knowledge of either parent a child may be partly an enigma to itself.

 


 

My freedom feels greatest in actions of least importance.

 

Moves of chessmen are determined, not the game.

 

Art is one of the better ways to waste time.

 

A culture should leave space for activities which lead to its advance.

 


 

What I reject philosophically can still affect me emotionally.

 

Alienation could lead to identification with the oppressed.

 

Explanatory power might make a theory more harmful, especially if it is false.

 


 

I return to this moment won from death
in defiance of entropy.

 

 

(Sept 1979)

(philosophy/ideas/thoughts/opinions)

 

Distractions and mortality

Lostness   (20)

 

One can spend a lifetime planning and worrying, without actually living.
Which, in certain cases, could be the point.

Or there is an urge for continually gaining information, then finding no time left to use it.

Distractions and mortality.

 

Death negates security.

 

The dead take our shared history with them. Part of a reflection in the social mirror is missing.
If I live long enough, that mirror may contain nothing except my haunted stare.

 

This desire for oneness, in my isolation, makes me vulnerable.

 

The reward of love is love; but it cannot be demanded.

 

Are chains of my past purely psychic?
I sit gazing at items in the room.
I may hold one, even print a name upon it, yet these objects do not feel like possessions. The relation is more “being with” than “having.”
Things retain an essential apartness. It is for me to ascribe their significance.
I spread meaning into my world.

 

Time is a medium of transformation.

 

 

(July 1979)

(Philosophy/opinions)

 

Kinds of silence

Lostness   (15)

 

A lost object still exists, or there would be nothing for which to search.

 

Finding blades of dried grass, some crumbs, even a tiny bloodstain, as I turn pages in a library book. Reading about imaginary characters, while passing evidence of real lives:
those who touched these pages before me.

 

Belongings of the dead remain, like mute triggers for our guilt, over loving words we found no time to speak.

 

How many kinds of silence are there between us? Perhaps it is a sign of closeness, this ease in each other’s silence.
Do I really know someone if I am deaf to their silences?

 

Memories or geology: darkness and metamorphosis, seething in unseen masses.

 

Bad enough that we must die: to spend life tormenting one another is a sort of obscenity.

 

Death approaches. People fall away. Bringing realisation of primal aloneness.

 

Can I love for a moment?
What else is there but the moment?

 

Should I write about women when I have never gone beyond their eyes?

 

 

(Feb/1979)

 

 

Desire and thoughts

 

Lostness   (7)   1978

 

Souls wake in sperm-forests
they cry out from my groin
wanting to swim across dreamy membranes
to become flesh and memory.

 

Significance undermined by time.

 

Turning away from death: we travel just as fast at it, backwards.

 

When I am ill objects seem to grow stranger.

 

Philosophy senses the problematic in all things. Once dogma is lost existence comes into question. Alienation as a price of freedom.

Awareness creates separation: the potential for loneliness.

 

When means are bad, ends get debased.

 

“Portion of space bounded by surfaces.”  This definition of solid also defines a hole.

 

Words are snakes
but thought
is a lion.

 

 

 

More lost thoughts

 

Lostness  (6)   1977

 

 

Blue sky, but the moon is already up.  An unutterable stillness cut into its second. Beauty I live for, yet cannot reach.

 

Do we ask what play is for?  Why ask what art is for.

My life was a performance without an audience.

What karma have I been paying?  Perhaps, one day, I shall manage to forgive myself.

Happiness is not my vocation: I leave it to others.  Life is a wince through the bones.

I resent meaningless toil, unless unavoidable. Better to confront the problems of freedom. We need a utopia to see if it is bearable.

 

Creativity as rebellion against death?  An art of mind improvising itself?

 

This time I tried to play the game their way
but the big machine had painted my ass with cement.

Pretending to be normal is a full-time job.

Footprints wind toward the horizon. My own trail, stretching out before me.

Death has no morality. Nothing can be asked of nothing. Or a universe seen as oppressive neutrality.

 

Toothpick fingertips of a word
almost remembered
almost touched.