Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.
Human instinct is to turn to what's easier, even when the difficult path is best for us. I wake up each day from a dream I don't want to leave. Even though my head is clear and my body is light, every nerve refuses to get up. There are no more highs, and no more lows. There's just silence.
Get up, shower, pick something to wear. I dress each day just for me, because the few people I see each day probably wouldn't give a shit how I dressed.
Bike. Refreshing, no matter how many layers I"m wearing. I'm usually the first one at the office. I enjoy the silence of the morning, and watch as people get in. I wonder what it'd be like to go to the office knowing someone'll be there already...every day. Almost every day.
Work. Work relationships. Friendship, yes.
Home. Inspiration is work, but when attained it works for you. He said the struggle is to learn how to grasp it at your will. When you sit and there's nothing. Silence.
The world brings inspiration, but sometimes the world is scary. What you know about yourself, what you think you know about yourself. What you don't want to find out. Every day the same, but expecting the next day to be different. To find yourself to be a higher authority, after spending your life pushed by "higher authority".
Fear and self awareness. Self awareness is not peace of mind. Self awareness does not let the world rush in. When you can only sense yourself you turn your senses from the entire world around you. That sounds like something from Eat, Pray, Love.
Sometimes the barrier is broken, and the inspiration hits. But I can be lazy as fuck. It's always easier to think about doing something than actually doing it. But I do suck at following my own advice.
Inspiration is good. Inspiration is strong. Inspiration dies. Sometimes to come back, and sometimes to not.
Words rush in, rush out. Don't stop, breathe.
I choose the same, tomorrow will come. And tomorrow does come again. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Insanity.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Hunt to the Death
Today my cat caught a bird and brought it into my room to play. The first thought that came to mind, as she started batting it around with her paw, was "I hope she isn't going to bring that onto my bed".
Sometimes, we meet a darker part of ourselves, one who we don't often think of.
Seeing my cat pounce on that bird, tossing it up in the air sometimes before swiping it up again, my head switched between "oh my baby kitty is so awesome!" and "damn there's feathers all over my floor now". Soon, the bird only had one tail feather left, and it twitched on the ground when it wasn't trying to run, batting its wings, or getting shuffled around. Finally, my cat seemed to lose a bit of interest in it, and I stooped down over the bird and grasped a leg with my fingers. I dropped it, feet down, onto a finger to see if it could stand. The thin claws lightly grasped my finger, and the bird shook on my finger. A few moments later my cat stuck its nose up and grabbed the bird back.
I grabbed my camera, snapped a few action shots. It was like watching a cheetah take down a gazelle. Although, I'm not sure if cheetahs play with the gazelle after it is helpless but alive. Or do cheetahs kill so quickly because the gazelle is never really helpless while alive? Or are they just that hungry?
Play, and honing our best skills, are what people do when their primal needs (namely, need for food and shelter) are met. People create music, people draw, people build computers, design games, practice a sport.
A cat's best skill is hunting. My cat is fed well and has a warm bed and lap to return to. She catches mice and birds.
The bird seemed still on the floor, and I picked it up and put it in my palm. That's when I saw the shaking. Two puncture wounds, a patch of feathers gone on the back. I took the bird up to the house to see if my housemate had any advice. She said that she'd either give it back to the cat, or kill it. She didn't think she could kill it. I said I could detach myself equally from either bashing its head with a rock so it dies quickly, or giving it back to the cat. I didn't say that I didn't really need to detach, I didn't think I'd feel much about either decision. Killing it would mean it suffered less, giving it to the cat means I won't have its death on my hands, but it'll die slower, in much pain.
She said it was too much excitement for her, so I took the bird downstairs to the yard. My cat meowed at my door, wanting me to let her into my room. I knelt down but she had no interest in the bird; she just wanted to go inside. I took a rock and held it in my hands. I put the bird down on the concrete. I raised my hand, rock in fist, and I saw it heaving, bleeding. I put the rock back and picked it up, putting it back on my palm. I put the bird on a corner of our garden, on soft ground. Silence.
Suddenly my cat ran in and snatched it back up.
We both went back to my room. She played, and I lost interest soon. Feathers littered the air and ground.
If I killed the bird, I would have taken a life. If I gave it back to the cat, or hid it, or put it somewhere the cat wouldn't get it, it would have suffered a slow painful death. I could selfishly refuse to bloody my hands and let the bird heave and shake for another hour or two, or I could immorally end a life.
Frankly, I was just a bit irritated that I would have to clean up all the feathers from a floor I just scrubbed two days ago.
As I write, the bird is in the trash and my hands have been scrubbed clean.
Sometimes, we meet a darker part of ourselves, one who we don't often think of.
Seeing my cat pounce on that bird, tossing it up in the air sometimes before swiping it up again, my head switched between "oh my baby kitty is so awesome!" and "damn there's feathers all over my floor now". Soon, the bird only had one tail feather left, and it twitched on the ground when it wasn't trying to run, batting its wings, or getting shuffled around. Finally, my cat seemed to lose a bit of interest in it, and I stooped down over the bird and grasped a leg with my fingers. I dropped it, feet down, onto a finger to see if it could stand. The thin claws lightly grasped my finger, and the bird shook on my finger. A few moments later my cat stuck its nose up and grabbed the bird back.
I grabbed my camera, snapped a few action shots. It was like watching a cheetah take down a gazelle. Although, I'm not sure if cheetahs play with the gazelle after it is helpless but alive. Or do cheetahs kill so quickly because the gazelle is never really helpless while alive? Or are they just that hungry?
Play, and honing our best skills, are what people do when their primal needs (namely, need for food and shelter) are met. People create music, people draw, people build computers, design games, practice a sport.
A cat's best skill is hunting. My cat is fed well and has a warm bed and lap to return to. She catches mice and birds.
The bird seemed still on the floor, and I picked it up and put it in my palm. That's when I saw the shaking. Two puncture wounds, a patch of feathers gone on the back. I took the bird up to the house to see if my housemate had any advice. She said that she'd either give it back to the cat, or kill it. She didn't think she could kill it. I said I could detach myself equally from either bashing its head with a rock so it dies quickly, or giving it back to the cat. I didn't say that I didn't really need to detach, I didn't think I'd feel much about either decision. Killing it would mean it suffered less, giving it to the cat means I won't have its death on my hands, but it'll die slower, in much pain.
She said it was too much excitement for her, so I took the bird downstairs to the yard. My cat meowed at my door, wanting me to let her into my room. I knelt down but she had no interest in the bird; she just wanted to go inside. I took a rock and held it in my hands. I put the bird down on the concrete. I raised my hand, rock in fist, and I saw it heaving, bleeding. I put the rock back and picked it up, putting it back on my palm. I put the bird on a corner of our garden, on soft ground. Silence.
Suddenly my cat ran in and snatched it back up.
We both went back to my room. She played, and I lost interest soon. Feathers littered the air and ground.
If I killed the bird, I would have taken a life. If I gave it back to the cat, or hid it, or put it somewhere the cat wouldn't get it, it would have suffered a slow painful death. I could selfishly refuse to bloody my hands and let the bird heave and shake for another hour or two, or I could immorally end a life.
Frankly, I was just a bit irritated that I would have to clean up all the feathers from a floor I just scrubbed two days ago.
As I write, the bird is in the trash and my hands have been scrubbed clean.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Word with Which We Speak
Many things are learned once we are able to turn our "self" off and place our focus on another person. And I don't mean romance, although romantics do it. When I am able to listen, it's always extraordinary how much I learn. How much I observe. How much I can activate. How much someone else knows, how much you know. Everyone speaks truths in everyday life, and if you listen, inhale, osmosis.
To be, I must do.
____________________________________________________________________________
The cultured mind. Faulted.
The intelligent. Insightful.
Footsteps tread lightly when egos are born.
Noise finds me clear-headed.
Clear-headedness finds me confusion. Confusion, I
understand.
Understanding is successful navigation. But do I stand under or
over?
I think I am clever, but my cleverness is wry, and the clever are cleft by
their wit and
their pride.
That rhymed.
Sometimes we are right, and sometimes we are wrong.
Sometimes we are wrong, but still right.
Sometimes we are right but it's wrong.
The wrong right makes a wrong right
and righted wrongs are still wronged rights.
Confused? I am.
___________________________________________________________________________
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
I understand now. I have made an adoption. Experiments.
And I can't stop.
A bite now. A bit. A thought. A? A can't stop.
Well, while it flows, flow it shall do. Bad grammar?
Laugh.
The page will inundate with words. But space is where words exist. And from space words.
From nothing.
Regurgitating. Morphing. Growing. New power.
Words a visual art. A picture on a page.
Beautiful. Ugly. Meaningful?
Full of meaning?.
Nah, maybe. Is it maybe or nah?
It's easy to be the wild child, if everyone's a wild child. It's not so weird to be weird, when everyone's weird. I'm losing it.
A paragraph of sorts. beginning again, maybe the writing and the art are no longer eclipsing. Prose is beautiful, and more beautiful when they are full of space.
___________________________________________________________________________
I think people would become more confident if they become more humble. If they are humble, they are open to their own mistakes and open to absorbing thoughts and perspectives from other people. They continue to learn and grow. Thus they learn that if they learn to work within their own faults, they can also learn to work within their own talents.
People hate admitting they're wrong. Especially when they're REALLY wrong. Maybe I'm wrong.
Oh well, sleep time.
To be, I must do.
____________________________________________________________________________
The cultured mind. Faulted.
The intelligent. Insightful.
Footsteps tread lightly when egos are born.
Noise finds me clear-headed.
Clear-headedness finds me confusion. Confusion, I
understand.
Understanding is successful navigation. But do I stand under or
over?
I think I am clever, but my cleverness is wry, and the clever are cleft by
their wit and
their pride.
That rhymed.
Sometimes we are right, and sometimes we are wrong.
Sometimes we are wrong, but still right.
Sometimes we are right but it's wrong.
The wrong right makes a wrong right
and righted wrongs are still wronged rights.
Confused? I am.
___________________________________________________________________________
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
I understand now. I have made an adoption. Experiments.
And I can't stop.
A bite now. A bit. A thought. A? A can't stop.
Well, while it flows, flow it shall do. Bad grammar?
Laugh.
The page will inundate with words. But space is where words exist. And from space words.
From nothing.
Regurgitating. Morphing. Growing. New power.
Words a visual art. A picture on a page.
Beautiful. Ugly. Meaningful?
Full of meaning?.
Nah, maybe. Is it maybe or nah?
It's easy to be the wild child, if everyone's a wild child. It's not so weird to be weird, when everyone's weird. I'm losing it.
A paragraph of sorts. beginning again, maybe the writing and the art are no longer eclipsing. Prose is beautiful, and more beautiful when they are full of space.
___________________________________________________________________________
I think people would become more confident if they become more humble. If they are humble, they are open to their own mistakes and open to absorbing thoughts and perspectives from other people. They continue to learn and grow. Thus they learn that if they learn to work within their own faults, they can also learn to work within their own talents.
People hate admitting they're wrong. Especially when they're REALLY wrong. Maybe I'm wrong.
Oh well, sleep time.
Inspired by Professor Titty
In terms that are alien to most, it begins:
green men with black eyes. or is it yellow?
bananas are yellow: but then they are black.
the night is black but they blues have more meaning
the poetry is in the green. green grass grows
a message of colors
from a mess of styles. naked is how we are born
but i prefer to wear whispers. a hum of smog and trucks
on a block of concrete
carrying concret.
she smiles. i laugh. he cries.
she laughs too, but no one cares.except nobody.
aliens may care
aliens are foolish. but they like to enter you train
of thought. they train your thought.
they say everything always comes full circle, but what
if it's actually an egg. or a hamster. what if they just
don't like hamsters?
light and sound. boring. boring, to bore into you, how can
it be anything but boring? but if it bores into you, is it now
boring
because it has come too close? gone too deep? gnawed on your
flesh and bones, nom nom nom? or meow?
green men with black eyes. or is it yellow?
bananas are yellow: but then they are black.
the night is black but they blues have more meaning
the poetry is in the green. green grass grows
a message of colors
from a mess of styles. naked is how we are born
but i prefer to wear whispers. a hum of smog and trucks
on a block of concrete
carrying concret.
she smiles. i laugh. he cries.
she laughs too, but no one cares.except nobody.
aliens may care
aliens are foolish. but they like to enter you train
of thought. they train your thought.
they say everything always comes full circle, but what
if it's actually an egg. or a hamster. what if they just
don't like hamsters?
light and sound. boring. boring, to bore into you, how can
it be anything but boring? but if it bores into you, is it now
boring
because it has come too close? gone too deep? gnawed on your
flesh and bones, nom nom nom? or meow?
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