I talk to a reader I do not have.
Feeling an urge to transcend words through writing, a desire periodically chronic in my poetry: as certain types of prayer resemble a demand that God exist.
Expressing a spirit of insurrection against language from within. Or was it closer to some hermaphroditic quest for union?
Thus silence, as darkness to the light of words, is broken by its own negation.
While, if signs function in relation to others, separation will not reveal their true nature.
Once structure is missing, criteria of evaluation may likewise be lost.
In a behavioural frame, one could compare the way we call an act “free” that is self-caused, not uncaused.
Yet, rather than resolve, my thought switches from free will to the idea of eternal recurrence: how this might contain traces of a nihilism it purports to overcome. In toiling on treadmills of eternity, akin to a Sisyphus, repetition can devalue existence as it does time. Though the “once only” of mortality could seem as hard to bear as the “once again” of an absurd forever.
I talk to a reader I do not have.
About whether what matters for our future is not how intelligent we are, but how intelligent we can become?
Wondering if we could have a non-specific capability for love: only accidentally fixed onto certain objects?
Or if humans also need to be polite because we are warlike?
Then, perhaps I should avoid mentioning that my heart feels like an open wound?
And how, after falling asleep hoping to experience significant dreams,
I spent my latest one searching for a towel.
“Where are those others, who feel as I do?” mutter castaways of the soul.
When loneliness appears like a destiny. To live, and die, among strangers.
My relationship with belief-systems is an inability to fit into any of them.
For thought, faith is a restriction.
Though we cannot build on air. At any starting-point conventions are present. Social animals tend to conformism. Group behaviour and saving face may surmount virtue. Notions of good beyond a categorical imperative, being needed for its use; the formula works inside an ethical frame, rather than generating one.
Zealots could act upon the maxim: “Always obey a divine voice, however terrible its command.” Ancient abuse might be cited in support of the new.
Ideas can coat even immorality with an insulation of sanctity.
The lure of a benign universe drives some to extremity.
Self seems to dissolve under examination, but so does object.
Should I attempt to speak soulfully
of some spirit that is lost
while night cloaks this world
in a profundity
dispelled by dawn?
Someone says: “Given that the world is divided into mental or physical spheres…” And the fatal step has already been taken!
Dualism opens a chasm then wonders how to close it.
Man is a problem to himself.
Would we have motivation without emotion?
Even logic is a product of will.
Some disconnected thoughts strive after aphorism…
Most systems produce attitudes unsuited to freedom.
Opinions that cannot be defended are not worth holding.
Firing-patterns: thought from the viewpoint of an electrode.
Asking a question could indicate the overcoming of a problem.
Certain optimists hope to change what people want by not giving it to them.
Arguments from design appeal to natures not disgusted by biology.
We learn the result of refusal to learn from history, from history.
For believers incapable of life, its postponement until after death seems a useful option.
Many praise virtue, yet dislike those who hold its mirror to their faces.
Love your enemies: so they may hate you even more.
Deception is parasitic upon truth.
Dissatisfaction with my writing
shed in these
words like dead leaves
scattered across whiteness.
When thoughts are a part of the universe, we are part of the universe thinking.
Logic is of little use without true premises. If we cannot live with truth are we fit to survive?
Do even gods escape determinism? How can a being choose to exist, unless it already exists?
It may be easy to love an abstraction. People are more difficult.
Some belief-systems take prior morality and claim it for their own. Virtue-thieving?
Faith sees wishes dressed as truths.
I try to have no illusions except the illusion of having no illusions.
Beyond the window
in cold moonlight
stars seem to mingle
among restless branches
of a tree.
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
is a lion.
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
Lostness (2) 1973
Am I ever to draw again? My ability seems lost. All that lies between this hand and the paper is effort.
I think I lack talent. Which is tough for a dreamer. I fail to see a way for art or writing.
Living has no appeal.
The window is open. Sounds of night through shifting curtains.
Death wins over life. In the end. Perhaps evil wins over good?
There is no justice in the world. Justice only comes from us.
Suffering continues everywhere.
The foetus hears a cry
in its red lair.
Notes of a teenage dropout
Part 1: 1972
We move like pieces on a darkened chessboard.
Chess is a good game.
It will wreck your life and drive you mad.
Never is always
Atoms hum in dispute
driving shapes through flavoured air.
along the snowline
of a body.
Like a ghostly patch
where a mirror had been.
And his mind was there
settled under the trees.
Perhaps we will arrive in Greece
several thousand years too late.
Put my last poem on this blog a week ago (5th May 2017) .
Felt sad afterward. At least it had a chance to be seen, before sinking back into obscurity. (Though only one view, so far. Illness saps my energy to interact with others or gain readers.)
I have been sorting through old notebooks and papers: working on a transition to the prose. Thought I would start at the beginning: when I left school in 1972, age 16.
Art was my main interest. But then I tried writing.
It has been downhill ever since.
Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
like a bug.