Friday, November 26, 2010

Transitory Verses

Inspiration is a result of something external so influential it jars our internal universe, this external force, or being, with powerful vibrations has just collided super white stars to orange and blue stars, jarring what exists within us, creating another big bang, a new thought, a new idea.

As inspiration thus becomes the beginning, the causal spark that creates and puts forth an intangible idea or ideal into a tangible or intangible expression for the sake of communication, for the sake of tangibility. Inspiration gives birth to a result, which then continues to procreate in an exponential ponzi scam like numbers, colliding and jarring into newer sources of inspiration and result and inspiration and result, dynamically shifting and destroying and creating. We resolve and then dissolve, follow the cycle repeatedly as what nature's evolution has utilized and taken place.

All those that are deemed present up to a certain frame of time are resolutions and dissolutions in process, poetry are inspiration procreating inspiration, these verses are transitory and are in the state of working progress, a step phase per step phase of experimentation and mastery and further mastery, dynamic are these verses that they do nothing but inspire further, hoping another violent and powerful revolution.

Double spaced and placed with well sought out margins were observations from a window of a morning rush of nature as organic matter formed into comprehensible, evolved beings pursue their calculated daily lives. It is but a constant cycle of attaining the minimum required benchmark for survival and the crawl pace of evolution that is met, and that no danger is faced in the process accordingly.

Take into this poetry of words flowing and take that pause to rethink, it all goes away. Keep writing and let it flow, over time, it falls flat on the floor of the lowest level of the mine. It gathers no weight, and yet balance is sought, inspiration is sought, the need to feel that beauty keeping energy and pace to that of the synchronized rhythm and coordination of heartbeat and breath of a marathon runner, or that of the same marathon runner back in his homeland being chased down by a less amused feline, perhaps a Persian cat, or perhaps, a Jaguar.

It becomes abstract and unclear as clouds of verses flow in and flow out, many many choices of words, and of all the words, it makes no sense, but something feels right, something feels good, and you stop and pause to think, if it feels good, is it moral? Is it legal?

Release is relief and relief feels good. Release is an expression, a result that is now due to procreate on its own.

We are but lonely and yet socially connected travelers in a journey through our patterned lives. However abstract, there is a story, a beginning, and end, and another beginning, formed through collaboration of dependency, interdependency, and strict aversion of a myriad of external and internal forces, chi, yin yang, vibes, and alcohol.

We are, therefore, the very poetry in our journey, we are the very transitory verses that are part of creating perfection, as what may seem insignificant, is vital to make a verse grammatically correct, and any misspells are intentional to create conflikt and confusion, to jar inspiration, create a spark, a push, or even a shove, using a tank, to get action from inaction.

On the next page is a new blank page flowing with void everywhere, nice and white to the extent paper bleaching has brought, open to new ideas, suggestions, continuation from its past life, its previous life was page one filled with ideas yet to be further discussed. The story has not ended yet my dear and it just keeps getting better, or worse, depending on the level of sobriety, the level of inspiration. And words will keep on flowing page to next page to next page until said book reaches to its full completion, the journey, the story, is complete, all conflicts are resolved, and an ending is deemed fit.

This transitory verse creates a story, has shaken up planets, universes to great tsunamis and earthquakes for the sake of amusement and media benefit, for the sake to tear down and breed something newer, shinier, different and rebellious in its youth, but inherently in in the footsteps of its parents, inherently carrying the genetic fuckup passed on from generation to generation.

Life, in varying hallucinogenic colors of insight, which is indeed intoxicating, to the point that knowledge be deemed the cause of doom, is the cause of something new.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Friday, November 19, 2010

6 Hour Drive

“Just one right turn 2 blocks after, see the little laundry shop, make a left, and three stores after, there’s where it is”, reply of a slightly confused, middle aged convenience store owner inside the Gas station. Wherever this guy is going, driving for 6 hours does not seem to make any sense for his destination. None whatsoever.

And there stands our main character, thankful, as he proceeds to his car. A Japanese mid-size, he has a decent job. And now, he feels a strange twist inside his stomach, a knot that might look like if a boyscout were to go through your intestines and knot it around to something that would hold the base tent to the nail strong enough to withstand a small storm, or falling apples, whichever is the most imminent incident.

What drove our main character, who, by the way, if Gordon, for those who is thinking of his name, to drive six hours to a place I have not yet disclosed? Here’s a hint. “In an argument between a husband and his wife, there are two sides of a story, the woman, and her mother. Yours did not matter”. Yes, his mother-in-law has arrived, and has reached boiling point, 5 days of tolerating two loud women and Mexican take-outs. Gordon is looking for something to mend his mind off and cool him down.

“Women, like life, are only beautiful when they’re mysterious, for it is in the innate nature of man to try to discover, in frustration sometimes, and understand the underlying cause of a woman being illogical, just like life. Once discovered, life, like a woman, is something you just go along by, and hope to coexist in utmost peace, for as long as it can hold.”

Further to the discovery, “The only illogical point in life, seems to be women and Japanese VCR players, aside from Microsoft error screens. Take them out and life is actually simple and logical, like a stable machine”.

It might have been noticed that Gordon is an intellectual, he is, and a quiet man with stomach problems at that. At this point in time, he is not after going to the toilet or the doctor, which is not as significant as what his main issue is. He wants peace.

From being a complete Atheist, he has pondered his curiosity to Buddhism, which offers one thing that got him curious, peace. And the peace he is seeking for, is 6 hours drive away. 

He did not realize there was a temple a block away from his house.

He did now that he got to the temple and explained himself to the person at the lobby.

That did piss him off.

But for the strangest part, aside from causing greenhouse effects on his carseat, he did find peace driving 6 hours to the Buddhist temple. Asked what got him curious, in the middle of the whole argument, his TV was still on, and he saw some quiet monks who seem content.

While driving though, he has always thought that they might have been happy and peaceful because they weren’t married to women.

But it is this frustration with two loud women that brought him this generality, as he can believe, for others seem to still be happily married, but he does suspect that his mother-in-law might have been majorly involved in some kind of conspiracy involving irritating straight men into becoming homosexuals. Anything is possible.

How did he end up with his wife? How did he end up not meeting hers and her mother in law’s expectations of him when they don’t meet his? What were they looking for in a man that he wasn’t? That is the more important question.

Once the romance died off, which was two days after the wedding, all’s hell.

And here is Gordon, in front of the temple, sweaty and confused. He does not know if he is sweaty because he is confused, or because of the Mexican food. But he does realize that he has to decide, now that he has traveled six hours.

And maybe that was his problem all along, to decide, to conclude, to justify and set his foot down. This might be what he needs to do all this time after all.

He decided to go in the temple, make the first left, and use the toilet. He then thanks the usher in the lobby and heads home with a good sigh of relief. Therapy and reflection did come to him after all, had he known all about the temple near his house, this might have been a different story altogether. But you know what, like life, he did get the intended lesson, and this might have been the story best to suit his needs at the time.