Soft Summer Songs

There is nothing so satisfying as an opulent ocean of redolent rays gleaming across the sublime summer sky.

Relationships: these interesting symbiotic syntheses of feelings and minds and circumstance. Two people, pulled by fate, like magnetic force, yield their defenses long enough for a daring gesture of interest to find its way into their intimate chambers, where their egos reside with the risible recantations of a wry world.

Two men exchange their thoughts, like young twins speaking their own tongue, referencing their experiences, in blissful agreement: “Yes, yes” and “yea”, “but of course” and “oh right!” These affirmations of love, spoken in frank response.

Write with freedom, with unrequited passion; the world will never return the favor with the same fervor. Never mind it. You are a model, a leader. As a writer, your words do more than etch new thoughts and moods among men. They reverberate through time. Their roots wrap and coil around future gardens of growth.

I need to journal more. What do I mean by journal? I mean, feel more deliberately. Writers experience life twice. Why would I want to deprive myself the experience of living life with any less feeling the second time? Full and fabulous.

I want to be a writer. I want to capture the human condition, to communicate existence with humanity, as a comfort, a beacon, that life is not a lone journey, but a universal struggle. The journeys are all different, but the struggle is all the same. The phenomenon of each journey may be irreconcilable with another’s, but the limitations are universal, uniform, consistent.

Writers are sensitive, acutely aware of details, of the incantations strewn by the senses throughout the consciousness.

When I write, I feel. I never write without feeling. The best thing one could do for oneself is be transparent with their thoughts and feelings. Thoughts should reflect feelings, so that when you feel intensely, thoughts follow with equal force and vigor.

When I write, I write through my states, through the moods moderating my memories and mind. Like a performer, my heart commands and my fingers obey, with precise form and clarity of expression. There is nothing wanting. The audience is a lone traveler, hungry and thirsty, searching for anything to quench their parched and pallid imagination. The routine of this journey weighs, and each step adds another circular chain to their load. Starving eyes, so eager to capture the faculties of imagination so they might dispel their locking illusions. They long to shed the weight. The writer offers this salvation.

Relationships. These are a peculiar breed of experiences. The man longs to be free, the woman longs to be secure. Each seek to liberate or enslave the other. In this way each relationship seems over before it has even begun. But this is precisely the bond that brings them together.

Everything persists by demand, and it is through this demand we experience a command, a resounding order abounding from the passions. To disobey is mutiny: a self sabotage.

There cannot be freedom without activity. To utilize humanity one must act. But activity must be chosen every moment. Routines develop into chains as circular habituations take hold of choice. We must attend our freedom like a fire, gently stoking its embers and fueling its flame. The inattentive watchman risks losing the fire, the light of his soul; or it bellows beyond control, consuming everything until there is nothing left to ravage. Either way the man is lost: losing his way or losing his life.

Passivity is slavery. Unreflective choice is slavery. Impulsive choice is slavery. Any thought or action that is not chosen via volition is inauthentic. Passivity encrusts the consciousness, it clouds and clutters and confuses. There is no I without action, no subjective perspective without freedom and action.

TV, advertisements, anything generated from a capitalist society that engenders humanity as a static condition of a whole, is an assault on freedom, on authentic living. Man cannot manifest his freedom by doing nothing. He cannot create ethics or values or tastes or preferences that reflect an original genesis of choice unless he acts through himself, for himself, as himself. Men should not be whipped with their past. Advertisements: propaganda that illuminates man as a predictable creature, as a rational creation, with no faculty of imagination, objectifies man and indoctrinates him with alien laws and limitations.


What is insanity? The most familiar definition that comes to mind is from Einstein who said, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” It is peculiar to think of insanity this way, particularly because it flies in the face of normalcy. Many believe that the socially responsible and acceptable thing to do is to adhere to certain norms and customs and traditions, and that these will allow you to adequately function in society. What normalcy doesn’t guarantee, however, is individuality, or originality. To be an individual, one must do things differently and expect different results. But what of a society that values doing things differently only to achieve the same results, such as participating in all the counter-cultural rituals to gain acceptance as an ‘individual’ ? Can it be said that such a person has achieved individuality?

‎”Insanity in individuals is something rare – but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.” -F.Nietzsche

Insanity. What I find insane is society. Civilization. Tradition. Custom. Ritual. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the utility of consistency. I understand the pragmatic element of predictability, from a linguistic standpoint as well as a logical and epistemological standpoint. After all, learning curves are greatly reduced by assimilating the knowledge past down by forbearer, no? And we can’t very well go about creating our own neologistic language and expect to be effective interpersonally, now can we?  But where do we draw the line between maintaining and gaining? Passing on and passing over? Subsisting and thriving? Progress requires change. Change requires adaptation. If we sell out to maintain the status quo, if we fail to commit to the efflorescent incarnations of possibility in favor of the denouement of equilibrium, we must embrace our death; for we have already died.

Society is insane. Look at the way they scuttle around in the rat race, trying to secure these temporal provisions; see how they frantically instill meaning and comfort into fabricated facticities. Observe the perduring populous that embodies repetition; always allied to the alacritous attachment of doing the same thing, over and over again, and always expecting different results. If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll keep getting what you’re getting. In the end everyone’s demise is the same. Society is a self-fulfilling prophecy; a reflexive perpetuation proselytizing more of the same. The social consciousness does not readily expand but rather, it promptly strengthens itself onto itself.

So what is insanity? A break from conventional norms, I suppose. So sanity, once again, is doing the same thing over and over again. The endorsement of cultural customs, e.g. materialism, hedonism, consumerism, aceticism, celebrityism, sciencism, etc. I suppose the great majority of people think they aren’t insane because they don’t expect different results. Predictability is offered as a sycophant of security.

That is the real tragedy. When people not only do the same thing over and over again, but they do not expect different results. They have been sedated or conditioned or desensitized to rudimentary routines and rituals. 9 to 5. Primary, secondary, tertiary schooling, followed by a stint of rebellious youth, cue the career, make room for marriage, corral some kids, restfully retire, and then comes the inevitable surprise of death.

Sanity: “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting the same results.” This rationalist program will inevitably suffer the same stifling fate as freedom. Time waits for no man. If you are not progressing, you are regressing. Life is meant to flourish. Growth and evolution should be the cynosure of contemplation, the mark of progress. But not by any quantitative measure imposed by external authority. It should be an inward journey. Growth is not static.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — ‘Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.’ — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.”  -R.W. Emerson

Insanity is characterized by senseless or abnormal behavior by societal standards. But how amazing it is to look at societal standards! Especially through the perspective lens of time! How standards change!

So the question of insanity remains. Are you insane for following your desires? Even if your desires lead to your demise? Even if they cast you into chains? Even if they toss you into pain and hardship? Would you be willing to escape sanity and embrace the lucres of authentic freedom? At what price?

Men are never really willing to die except for the sake of freedom: therefore they do not believe in dying completely.
-A. Camus


Poetic Stirs

Colorful images seep synchronistically at the margins of my meditating mind. Shadows dance on the back of my eyelids. I open my eyes. The sweeping sound of rain pitters against the paned glass. The sky leaks onto the earth like a faulty faucet. I turn my eyes to the squinted blinds and observe: muted silver carpets of rolling moisture blanket the upper atmosphere and heather the heavens.  My mind baths in this stillness.

I think about the work ahead of me: fifty pages of writing within the next seven days. No easy task. The thought of it wrenches my gut.

My existence is binary; my mind, on or off. It teeters at the peak of propensity. Like a push car, once momentum is gained, it is an unstoppable force. Without the initial force, it lays unstirred, waiting, dreaming in quiet desperation for an impending impetus.

When I walk, I like to think that the world moves around me, like a standstill treadmill. The universe hinges on my perspective. All change is a discontinuous illusion extending from the reticent reaches of awareness. Life is but a recall of disingenuous memory. Labor and difficulty, a figment of flouncing imagination.

Warmth emanates from my underside. I lay prostrate. My supine stare fixes on the fan as it spins sedulous waves of coolness into my leeway of leisure.

I don’t have anything to say. I suppose my mind drifts to past relationships, with family, friends and females. Work, school, play.

Lovers. What is a lover? These intimate bodies are too numerous to value seriously. They multiply and divide and subside. What makes a lasting lover? The mark of friendship is the foundational formulation of any marriage of minds. Lovers are nice, but that’s about the extent. Friendship is much more rare. Much more loving and supportive and understanding. There’s substance that goes beyond the intimacy. That is how I judge these matters. Substance is to be prized above all else. The aesthetics of romance incite the passions, but the passions are prone to whither and change. Substance, real substance, principally endures. There isn’t sufficient time to spend chasing shadows and ‘licking the earth’, as Pascal puts it. I value a person’s values. That is appreciable substance.

cognitive diarrhea

My thoughts have been flittering lately (is that a word?). Fragmented. It’s late right now. I have nothing worthwhile to say. Nothing to describe and articulate on. I have the very average sense of whats going on. Not too much I’d like to get out of me. I feel okay not expanding on it.

I wish my thoughts were elongated (does that make sense?). I wish I had more to say or think. I haven’t always been this way. And its funny… I’m constantly cycling through these periods of inspiration and dullness. I always look back for assurance to tell myself that life’s been better or worse. I can make the best appear however I choose looking back on it. Its not static in my world. Typically I look at my past as a thing thats hard to measure up to. That many people would have a tough time living a life as exciting and risky and fun filled as mine. Ofcourse I only remember the best days, or worst days that I triumphantly overcame. The days in between filled with confusion and listlessness almost don’t exist. But I know they did. In the case that my memory starts failing in my old age I still have my daily paper journals. The journals with the black covers and blank lineless pages that I fill with updates on the mood, particular attitude for the day, hopes, vexations, daily goals and routines. All that stuff. Its my log. Not so much of a poetic archive as it is a record. A record to remind myself of my average self over the years. Like I said, I always remember the past like its an immeasurable accomplishment. Those daily logs keep me grounded in that fantasy.

I was thinking back today on a lot. Highschool specifically (I always spell high school as one word…dunno why, but i won’t correct it this time). The days in highschool where life was this weird thing that you were born into… and it happened to you. the expectations were drawn up and you just grew into them. I thought I was broken when I didn’t ever measure up. when, in my junior year of highschool I had a hard time comprehending what college was for… who the hell knew what they wanted to do the rest of their life at this age? It hadn’t hit me yet. How do all these other people know?!? My senior year was the same… but this time trying was unfathomable. I was still waiting for my life to happen to me. Somehow I would start accomplishing great things and measure up to society’s standards… or my familys expectations. I waited and it never happened… I waited so long that I became bored… and a little anxious… so anxious and bored that i began seeking out activities to fill my time. Activities such as binging of all sorts of magical substances. I thought these would jump start my perceptions. That some how these substances would provide me with a newer and clearer understanding of lifes purpose. I can now say I was wrong. And if i was still actively doing them i would still be wrong. and every time i drink I realize how wrong I am. They offer nothing. eh. Fun for the moment but thats about it. Listen to me… I sound like a pathetic recovering alcoholic. The truth was… I wasn’t messed up at all. A little confused but thats about it. And as soon as i began believing in myself… and in results… life got real easy.

so i’m pretty much amazing. no really. I am great. I mean.. as a living breathing thing… I am irreplaceable. ha… just talking like that makes me feel good. hehe. Talking like I’m some god. Though I often entertain the idea that I’m pretty much flawless and godlike. I wonder if thats normal. I wonder if other people think thoughts like that? hm… don’t care. i know I’m not but what I think gets me a little closer than the rest is knowing I will never be there. Thats when acceptance and all that comes in. I’m bein crazy again.

I read this quote…
“Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision.” —V.S. Naipaul.

Its pretty much amazing. Its also scary. I’m concerned I’m not living. Of course we all think we’re living it up. Doing all we can do. The truth is… YOUR NOT. I’m not. No one is. We’re all disillusioned. BUT.. we do choose the illusion. I’d like to improve it. I can. It takes will… believing… all that stuff.

I need to wake up early, go to the library… and study for like… an infinite amount of hours. I need to bang my head up against the wall and snap out of it. I want to crawl outta the niche I’ve carved for myself. Too comfortable. Thats the problem with this world.. me and you and everyone… we’re too damn comfortable (thats why i like working out). Pain means gain. I BELIEVE THAT. no pain, no gain. If your green your growin, if your red your ripe (whatever that really means.. i like it anyway). I need pain in my life… eventually.. and i know this from experience… it gets easier and less painful. Why do I second guess myself? Why do i think lifes soooo easy?… why do I always… and i mean… ALWAYS wait for it to get a little easier? All i do is cheat myself out of time… precious time.. and I only have so much… and opportunity… cause there is only so much opportunity that time can provide. UTILIZE YOUR TIME. err my time.

Digitized thoughts.

My chest hurts. I cough and a fiery sensation burns inside me.

A soft breeze really makes me feel good. It’s chilly but I’m warm now. I have a nice sweater on. It’s white and fitting. My blue jeans are snug and slightly faded. I’m wrapped up nicely.

There are so many people. Walking. Going and coming. They look lost. The mountains are gray. Generations of contrast layered in the distance.

Clouds hang not too far above. I can almost jump up and grab them. Drifting gently across the sky. They gang up on the sun, but its rays are too eager to shine through. The sun smiles across the terrain. Blue sky. Slightly tainted with striated shades of white.

My sweater is white. I have the hood over my head. I peer through my cave out into the world. It protects me. Little men dribble their soccer balls below on the quad. The grass is dark green with occasional spots of sandy brown. Apples grab tightly on the trees, ready to fall like their rotting friends. The hum of a helicopter. My mind. My cough. Damn this cough. I smiled hard today. I mean. It was hard for me to smile… but I did it anyway. It made me feel better.

Sleeping in…
This weekend I slept it. It felt good. Sleep always feels good. You’re in that dream world. Everything, all physical restraints that tug on the mind and body are somewhere far away. I dream and I close my eyes, absorbing into warm plush blankets and plump pillows. I melt and drift and escape from now. I play little movies in my head. I think about what the future will bring. I think about the people I will meet. The places I will visit. I visualize tomorrow’s events hour by hour, planning out in preparation. Sometimes I think about traveling to foreign countries… I like to see the rolling hills in Ireland, the soft grass against the ocean. I like free falling and flying. Sometimes I fall into a deep sleep for a moment and my stomach ascends into my throat with an exhilaration and adrenaline that leads me to jump up and let out a surprised gasp. Only I realize I’m not falling or flying and I’m safe in bed. Hm.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. It’s funny. You have good days… bad days… good weeks… bad weeks… good months… bad months… good years… bad years.

I think it’s funny. You’re life is as good as you make it. Sometimes I forge the true significance of that statement. Some days I feel like I fight against gravity and every urge to stay awake, and other days I make a powerful decision that life is amazing… or it will be… and i live the day like its so. I don’t know why I let myself live any other way. I forget. I get preoccupied with trivial things. Circumstantial things. I forget the amazing grace of God and the beauty of creation.

I’m sitting on a wooden bench. Weathered and splitting. It overlooks a tri-state view that captures the essence of freedom. To see this you need to just look at the rays cascading through the clouds, speckling the mountains and the trees, and watch the birds gracefully skim the tops of the ridge lines.