Music from the Void

Music from the Void

I often think that the nature of love, or perhaps it would be better to say that the nature of the concept of love that is used in our society is based entirely on the understanding of self-desire and self-fullness. While most of us are unaware of this simple fact, the operation of love, and the perception of it are propelled by self-fullness.

When we say to someone, it would be great if you would do this, and we propose that idea justifying it by our conviction that we propose it because we feel it is best for the beloved, we forget that is only in our self-interests that we make such propositions.

We find very few instances in our society in which people set aside their selves in order to commit an action. If we remove the sentimental quality we associate with love, we see that we are free to love more genuinely and in ways that are more original and effective. The sentimental quality associated with love is what deteriorates the understanding and expression of it. Sentiment is a kind of gravity that aims to alter the external experience of life in order to make it fall in line with the inner desires for experience.

The initiation of understanding is in the acceptance of our innate selfishness. In compliance with the moral code of society in general, it is considered to be a rather distasteful thing to be selfish or self-full. If we bring ourselves down to the very bindings of nature, we see that selfishness is an encoded aspect of behavior that is necessary to the survival of the organism. We denied this very basic aspect of survival and created a delusional opposite called selflessness through which the principle of selfishness has been unconsciously propagated, fuelled, and made to thrive.

Every human being or most human beings prefer to fall in line with the norms of the social family. As a result, we see cues and cues of individuals striving permanently to destroy their individuality and arrive at a situation in which they can be a cog or a simple screw in the vast matrix of social structure. On further observation, we come to observe a very simple but paradoxical aspect of human behavior. We strive for social acceptance in order to understand our roles as individuals but in doing so we burn and destroy the energy that actually supports our individuality. You’ll come across very few ‘individuals’ in this world. Most folk walking around are collected chunks of ideas who happen to breathe and move.

Returning to love, or let’s call that thing love for now. I’ve seen that though children have no idea of what love is, they seem to be the only folks capable of it in the world. Does this mean that the idealization or the objectification of love is what distances us from it? What if we’ve always been in love? And there came along this day when we were told that it is a good thing to love and we began to strive for it and in doing so distanced ourselves from it? You see when I say love you must burn the entire sentimentality that is associated with it. People avoid love talk because they hate sentiment. They also fail to understand that sentiment has nothing to do with love. Words carry great power, and power goes both toward the light and the darkness, understanding and ignorance. Love is just a word, if you can find out what it points to you might see more for yourself. Let’s say for now that love is that thing which is the most innate desire of every individual.

When you ask a man what he desires, you get very simple answers, answers such as a new job, or a fantastic college education, or a woman, or some delusional idea of spiritual gratification which is nothing but an idea. Nobody knows what they want. Nobody understands what want is in the first place. Have you ever really asked yourself what you really desire? If you do, it would be really hard to nail it down to the one thing you really want in life. If you’re really honest with yourself, I don’t know if you’ll find anything that you really want. It’s funny how we spend most of our lives chasing pleasures and when we sit down to find what we really want, honestly, we find nothing at all. You might choose to tell yourself that what you really want is money, that that is your most honest answer. Whether we say it’s materialistic or a low desire or anything of that sort, you say that’s the most honest answer you’ve got. And then you spend your years, in honesty, chasing this desire and bringing it to fruition on a regular basis. You might probably stumble upon this day when you meet an even more honest answer, boredom. You’ve gotten all the money in the world possible and expressed that wealth in the most fantastical ways imaginable and then you meet this moment in which you feel you’re done with money. What next? I don’t know.

The human mind is an operation that thrives on excuses to escape momentary perceptions of reality. It loves to project the alchemy of energies into scales of time, and time is dream stuff. Alchemy of energy here means the transformation of raw will into material manifestations, or subtle movements in energy fields. Whatever it is, it basically is the manifestation of will into the perceptible world. Why do we have dreams? We have dreams because we block this manifestation and allow it to remain swirling about in a very low energy plane. We do not allow the will to move through to higher dimensions of manifestation. And hence, we end up living lives of repression, spitefulness, confusion, and dread. Most of our lives are lived in dream and if you deny that very simple fact, you’re either from a different species or blatantly cheating yourself. The human story is complex dream stuff.

So getting down to the crux of this very un-cosmic issue, we see that resistance to life movement is basically nothing but us. The fact that we think we exist. There is a paradoxical idea that lives in human society. It would be a paradox to say it itself. There is an idea that lives in the human mind, an idea that the mind itself exists and the understanding of this idea destroys the idea itself. Mind is dream stuff. When you ask me why I say so, I wouldn’t have an answer for you. You and I operate within a dream. And it becomes very difficult for a dream to become aware of itself, for that simply means the dream would end, and we don’t want ourselves to end.

Always in the logical universe, we say that to every problem there should be a solution. There is no solution to a problem such as this. We are thoughts that move about in a universal matrix. These thoughts are constructed with energy and they change on a regular basis. Change is perceived by each thought as its own death and each thought is unaware that death in this case is only a re-structuring of the energy system. We can get into the whole business of desire and the transcendence of it but all that jabber for the last few thousand years has only proved the idiocy of the whole operation. You cannot transcend desire. You are the desire of the universe. There’s no point in the talk of transcending yourself.

So how do we tackle this issue? We can’t. We simply see it for what it is and begin dancing to the music that erupts from the conflict gaps of creation. The things that make the universe spin are the things words cannot bring to expression. We cannot build edifices to explain the mystery that runs the show. Somehow though, we’ve been blessed with the ability to dance at our confusion. Maybe that was meant to be the climax all along, to learn to dance in the chains of our suffering and laugh at the madness of our hearts.

Words will forever fail, and we will for at least a while try to change this very inevitable fate of verbalism. There will come a day when the children of men will trade music with the heavens without sound. On that day I will meet you in the skies and share a whisky with you, and we can tell each other of our new plans for a new world.

Image – The White Void, the Cold Steel by Myrdah

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Nice Dress

Nice Dress

Somewhere in a thorny heaven,
I met a girl who wore a nice dress
She tickled my soul with her imperfect teeth,
And let me know that I’m more than just lost
In her simpleton eyes,
She showed me waves of a stream
Where love was nothing,
More than a dream
Aching for ice-cream,
I asked her for sweet
But all she gave me was salt,
Dancing on her long heels

I say baby, I say baby,
Come and fill me with champagne,
In my dread,
Fill me with wine,
For I’m nothing but dead
I say darling, hey darling,
I’m dancing on dreams that are queer
I say take me away to a forest of leaves,
Where we can be animals again

So we left, we left for the sea,
Where the ships took us to catastrophe
Where the nights were long,
And the days too strong,
In the sunlight,
Our hearts got too hard

So I told her, baby wear it again,
And she wore that dress again
Her legs shining like Olympus,
Beneath the dark of her eyes,
Crying to be played with,
And touched
We went along,
Into another beer drenched memory
Where we felt our hearts broken in spring
I don’t know, if the world is true,
But your legs,
They bring me the blues

And so I turned,
To another glass,
Of bitter whiskey and class
Lying to my heart and mind,
Of a future that was never mine
We are lost,
In a feather of time,
Drinking rum and wasting time
Even though the night,
Ends too soon,
I’ll never forget,
How your legs,
Give me the blues

Names of . . .

Names of . . .

Belligerent, as a man’s thirst for the ecstatic might reach,
Curling and swerving through the highways of rich sensual delight
As dissolved in selfish abstraction he deviates from natural cause,
Seeking women with eyes that milk the finest of his memories
The fault lies in wanting things that were never there,
Giving one’s vision dreams that never dared to live
The trouble has been harbored much in the endless search,
For an altitude at which most things under the sun, are perfect

I have wanted good things and chased worse for many moments,
Delighting in cloudy minutes of elevated self-uplifting
Scrounging at the clever discoveries of older groovier men,
Putting their sacred renderings of goodness into my own elevation
I have made myself an edifice of crafted lies and smiling masks,
A skeleton of all things that have delighted in the history of hearty things
Look at me, much too less now for you to see, lost in a menagerie,
The menagerie of existence that floats unfounded, in the halls of death

As we walk like shadows through the several nights of the long rain,
Groping for every little tickle that holds to glory our feeling selves
Hopeless, and meaningless, I can never find a sentence end
That will justify the torment of entrapment to this raging fire
The delight lasts as long as the eyes see, things they cannot understand
And once they discover, the name of the dawn, the song of dusk,
The light that brings life leaves sooner by the way in which it came

Everyone is cursed to feel the sky and be lost with no words to tell,
Even an ounce of the glory that one beheld, an ounce of that wonder
Is it our endless agony to know that some things can be named, yet not all?
Our endless agony to know of the infinite, and left with no other words to tell
For the eyes of man see things that words hardly tell,
His skin feeling things that no poetry, no sensational song no dance can tell
We see, and we know, and yet we leave without words to keep our sanity

Perhaps I’ve come to see that the name of the dawn cannot be told,
That the names of most things are ramblings that carry hopelessness through time

We come to see that the names we carry are the sounds of our memories,
Echoing through a delusional vortex of undressed time, naked in the moonlight
And the sounds of our memories hardly come to tell the tales,
That we sew and spin through the many days of this moving moment
This only moment that always is, this now

All names are but the sounds of memories,
And memories tell us of nothing but time
And time tells us nothing, but of things that are gone
Leaving us to mourn helplessly,
Remembering how most things could’ve been,
And of how we always fell short,
Of the better sweetnesses of life

Monsoon Memories

Monsoon Memories

It’s monsoon here, and a perfect time through the seasons of the world in which this very sunny friend of mine celebrates his birthday.

We have this little temple across the road called ‘Rose Garden’ where most of our memories our cherished with rum, whisky, doubtful chicken dishes, and a famed specialty called egg burjee that washes down very delectably with the cheapest of rum imaginable.

There’s something about bars and birthdays, a marriage made between them that nobody should dare to explain. You might wonder how alcoholic my soul is when I tell you that a birthday without alcohol is like Christmas without wine.

Anyway, today feels too hot to write any sort of poetry. I thought I’ll stick down a few of my inner movements onto prose. It was quite a quick week, days flowing by on my office floor, racing by, the weekend is mostly going to fly by even faster. The problem with having a job is it makes you feel like the things that make you who you are slip out all too fast like sand through your fingers.

The fellow in the picture, Pramod (middle). All too often he reminds me of normality after I get home from work. We sit in our temple, with rum and speak of the ugly side of humanity. And then we speak of women, and then of better ways to get high and then finally about our eternal conflict with the natural movement of life. These conversations remind us that it’s the little things in life, so often small talk and careless gossip that helps us feel alive. Our ponderings over the abstract and spiritual so often disconnect us from reality and throw us into a realm of endless reasoning and worry and we forget that being alive is mostly about the little movements instead of the big ones.

My rum with this fellow on the many evenings of the year help me remember these things. And I guess I’d say his birthday is a day on which I can celebrate the man, a friend who I’ve cherished for years now and will continue to do so, hopefully in ways that are beyond just the bottles and wasted dreams on moonlit night skies on the dimly lit terrace of Rose Garden Bar.

Happy Birthday buddy!

Blueprint

Blueprint

Culture is the blueprint of immortality
The grey curtains of marriage,
The vibrant colors of puberty,
The sweetness of love,
The endless curiosity of history,
The fierceness of teenage rebellion,
And you drinking coffee on the morning of sobriety,
Eating marshmallows and doughnuts,
Saying AUM, singing come save me Jesus Christ

Smoking a long chillum at the edge of the world,
Wanting nothing but this adventure to end
Eating snow and wondering about Indian mythology,
Stealing philosophy from broken Greek souls,
Asking for mercy and intercession from Jewish prophets,
Telling your soul mate that she’s nothing but candy on ice
Culture is nothing but the blueprint of immortality

Telling men that your ways are the ways of magic,
Luring women into the bedchambers of your creative madness
Asking cousins and brothers to come look at you,
And understand the pillars of your elation
Bringing your parents to hate the poet in you,
And yet love you for the fact that you’ve moved on
Bringing that sweet damsel who turned your heart to cotton stone,
On winter’s night eating swan meat singing garden rhymes
To see the many dawns of your revolving vision
To kiss you like you were winter’s own very delight

You will not know, and you cannot see,
You eternal seeker of immortality
The mirrored dances of fate’s blasphemy,
That sing your song for eternity

The drainage of your corrupted soul,
That yearns and yearns for eternity
Will anyhow shake this whole galaxy
Culture’s fake blueprint of immortality

Image – A Lost Soul Trapped – Nichofsky

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden