intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this creative-destruction, and the Truth in this sentimental-reality ...

sometimes my heart is about to burst

sometimes my heart is about to burst 'cause when you notice beauty, beauty notices you -- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality... those who see this world so intuitively, they're aware that these syntactical-alliances of language are not capable of parlaying a look that dares to see this creative-destruction, this sentimental-reality; as such, they're moved by these feelings of beauty whirl'd into a push and a shove, swooning with the power-of-love ...

breath is full and strong again

Just completed a 8.62 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:26:25 | Calories Burned 211 Average Pace 3:04 / km | Average Speed 19.58 km/h | Elevation Climb 170 m http://lnkd.in/rKGSSg

riding in the Sun

Just completed a 6.79 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:24:23 | Calories Burned 184 Average Pace 3:36 / km | Average Speed 16.69 km/h | Elevation Climb 144 m http://lnkd.in/A3WwRw

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

Xpanding negative-space

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye
of a howling-pen,

language-weeps
language-weeps
after-words language-weeps
from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,
seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
the wound of tunneling-fear,
seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,
the wound that is a mirror

there where they're trembling from the loss of blood,
from their lessons on the alter,  stoned
in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the stretchered edges in longings go,
where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,
and falter lessor still, there where we whimper in the clinging,
instead of weeping for the longing Dream, bursting at the seams...
                                              where the mirror is cracked, where the bubble-breaks,
there
where its dark and deep...

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing to belong,
bent before their vulnerability, they're overwhelmed
and underunderstood, as a fierce-grace burns conflicted,
their wounds are open-wide, to let the light inside ...

The Alchemy of Word

This Is Your Brain on Metaphors
By ROBERT SAPOLSKY
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/this-is-your-brain-...


"Our brains are wired to confuse the real and the symbolic. And the implications can be as serious as war and peace.

A single part of the brain processes both physical and psychic pain.

What are we to make of the brain processing literal and metaphorical versions of a concept in the same brain region? Or that our neural circuitry doesn’t cleanly differentiate between the real and the symbolic? What are the consequences of the fact that evolution is a tinkerer and not an inventor, and has duct-taped metaphors and symbols to whichever pre-existing brain areas provided the closest fit?"

Do we dance the brain or does the brain dance us... what's a metaphor for?

Religion, Science and Politics are often immured in an arrogance of ignorance, i.e., promoting cliché as self-evident, eh, in that they define their percepts with allusions of their own creation, managing their metaphors in a sort-of Möbius-strip logic —a self-fulfilling prophesy!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was Theos ...

Another 'meaning' of 'LOGOS' was 'MIND" and 'WORD' was an extension, the action of mind ... because 'thought' was imbued with 'LOGOS' and therefore 'THEOS' stirred. The word became a sort of Magical creation on its own. ... and the Word was God! Ergo the 'word' as LOGOS could actually change things; where the idea of incantation Magic comes from like the AbraCadabra Myth.

Goethe was, among other things, an Alchemist. As such, he was aware of the principle of 'Sympathetic resonance' found in the Emerald Tablets of Hermes Trismigistus, a line of which is, 'As above, so below'. Even words are imbued with potential, acting as agents of change.

"If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be." -- Goethe

Heartfelt words of magic, igniting Grace to action. The Alchemy of Word.

I do not think Goethe was intending any singular future for those individuals he was referring to in the above quote. Rather, I believe his intention was to 'free' the person from imposed personality constructs, both from within and from without. Neither compelled from the past, nor future beckoned! Free to become who they ought to be; in God’s image, you see.

Simply put, he believed that we are all Gods, but we have forgotten this over lifetimes of uncertainty and fear; the veil of ignorance; and that by the miracle of Love and Courage, and our God given freedom to choose, we can become again as Gods. It is this, in which he beckons us, with the quote above.

We're Masters in the making. Yet we're fools of our own predispositions; a veil of ignorance covering our sight from the very Heart of it; the bliss of this sentimental-reality.

There are Alchemical principles which can turn our very base proclivities and experiences into this Bliss of Gold through the catalyst of 'Constant Remembrance', Sankalpa – Subtle idea – the inner name of God. We become what we Think in Wonder and Joy! With Grace and Love we become whom we ought to be, Simple and in tune with Nature, naturally.

Man is what he loves.
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
     ye might stone me! -- St. Augustine

Ghandi stated, 'to be the change you want the world to become.' Dr. Wayne Dyer said, 'change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.'

Quantum physics has shown that depending on the observer, light is either a particle or a wave. (Quantum entanglement theory) It is a strange power that the observer has, is it not? How we see ourselves and others would have similar consequences, n'est-ce pas?

-- what was it that Einstein pondered when he spoke in a mathematical show 'n tell? "if I rode on a beam of light through the deep dark reach of space, what would I see? what would I be? would I be anyplace?" then he chuckled, stuck out his tongue, made his eyes go wide, "I'd be everywhere at once, bent toward the infinite, really deep inside."

A word can convey a meaning and change a mind, infused with 'Joy' and 'Love' it can change a Heart and that's forever!

civil-writes

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-congruency,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
 cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illuMentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
 outer-airs, expediting creative-destruction's negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
 just to make-nice...or

are they just innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy?"

the cloud-of-unknowing

we phase-shift through our wonder into awe as our eyes glitter with the beauty that we saw...

the phases of 'knowing' have been parsed thus: firstly we're unconscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we do know, then, finally, we're unconscious that we know.

knowing is often wounded by our reasons inside, those 'forms and rituals' that fear the unknown, from which we hide, and that they lied about the numinous that is always moving-us beyond the shackles of Newtons arrow-of-time or that we're slaves to Darwin's struggle from the slime; nonetheless, we're made in our own image and can invent ourselves anew, as three parts dark-matter, where deep calls to deep, and one-part light, to see what our sentimental-reality reflections really do...

this slippery surface of merCurious illuMentation:
this ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
where the numinous is really moving-us
beyond the limits of the fatal 'skin-we're-in'
and beyond this tunnel-vision we call time--

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing
        before sentimental-realities bottomless bliss;

where you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee,
and listen to the sound that only the heart can hear,
and there, experience eternity...

reasons un-wound, fall, unbound, toward
a pointlessness of
     parallaxing into a tunnel-vision,
               where the paralysis of analysis 'n indecision
becomes a doubt about it, then derision...
that cynical-sin of taking things apart, piece by piece,
and then cutting them down, again and again,
and calling it discriminating-wisdom then;
where deep calls to deep,

where it gets
wrapped up
        in many Mansions
                    for LotusBlossomslaughter,

where wounds of reason all bleed-out
from lessons upon the alter,

where Gods like Horace
and that blind-Homer
reached within the cloud-of-unknowing,
for another conflicted hero,
watching shadows lurching on the wall,

bent-over laughing at the absurdity of it all...


When we are at rest, we Dream; that is Poetry, in that what we experience as Dream is the concourse of being inside out withoutta' doubt; a sentimental-reality - Poetry is often this language of Dream, in that we experience these Dreams of Language in Poetry which is without the doubt of reason, but reveals the phases of 'knowings' natural 'seasons' - Novalis said, "We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes" - we make Poetry to contemplate what is beyond mere reason - Poetry is meaning in motion like the roiling ocean reflecting many Suns - the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning or end, always rolling, rolling 'round 'unknowings' wondrous bend -

unknowing-one - what would 'objective' Art look like? -- it would seem there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blendings of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, lifting our wings of wonder so we're flying through a vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality, throughout Natures continuous motion of creative-destruction. So it is that Nature reflected in Art moves us beyond our tunnel-visions, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our habits of seeing and hearing, or provide us a temporary diversion at best.

Poetry often reflects the 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Poetry as a Language speaks within but without reason, and sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' We can share these 'stories' of our 'Map Quest', our experiences, and somehow in the sharing we are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like this Map, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing you're presently 'wondering' through...

Dreams are like Poetry;
Some are wishes, some are fears,
while but a few are prophecy!
Some are laughter, some are tears,
while some are mere philosophy!

Some writers write to be mean and right,
others to be liked, feel they belong;
then there is the Shiva-Grace: a destroyer,
a creator, a Diva of change!
An urge of nature in lyrical song!

She is mystic, language her crucible,
igniting grace to passion;
no past compels, nor future beckons!
Her dreams of light, this second sight
that comes of longing in the night!


mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it's glinting in your eye as you release into the 'flower of meaning' with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence reflect again ... we're epiphanators, ecstatics reflecting a whirl'd-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving at me 'n you...

"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin
"believe nothing, not even yourself" -- Gurdjieff

Mission Statement:

To be a visionary, bent by my individuality, which is made in the image of a look that dares to see, this whirl'd of creative-destruction and sentimental-reality... then to act from courageous-vulnerability, by giving generously of my core-competencies, toward helping my community change the world so wonderfully...in tune with Nature, naturally!

The goal is Love! The goal has always been Love, however derived, denatured or deconstructed.

Have you ever met someone who is a visionary envisioning their beloved? A courageous-vulnerability swells from them in waves of Peace and infectious Joy.

it's a-muse-sing with them, as their eyes are filled with many reflections, while they're simply staring at forever, absorbed in every small thing, as if it were all a gift that God did bring -- deep calls to deep and yet they're in tune with nature, being plain and simple --

when Nature has need of some new expression sHe urges in surges throughout mankind for a heart made ready from beating wings dipped in tears and laughter, and when sHe finds a ready vessel, malleable, vulnerable and made pure for this new expression, sHe urges in surges the creativity of wonder and realized raptures in the bliss of a longing heart song --

this Mystic, this visionary is often reflected in that urge, as the creator is always part creation, and as all things go, all things become the yearning-Love-song, and so too, is this Mystic, this visionary becoming an urge of Nature express'd in the deep surges of Loves bliss -- the Mystic-Visionary then speaks the language of Love, with tears and laughter, in such a way that the enrapture'd listener becomes the beloved and is an expressed urge of Nature surged in the rhythms and sounds that only the heart can hear...

the visionary is guided by the beloved, his heart a compass of yearning, pointing to where, Love is the goal, I'll meet you there ...

on Facebook and the authentic friend

I like you, however, Facebook is too one-sided without a 'dislike' button! Perhaps a few buttons which reflect our core-feelings and values, such as a 'significant' button with its opposite 'insignificant' too. A button for 'incompetent' as well as 'competent.' Those would reflect things better than the 'like' button alone. Doncha' think?

random 'friends' come and go, whether it's where you live or any other place you show your face, but this I know, that if you wanna' grow, wanna' embrace that grace, then you wanna' have friends that feel out of pace with your winning Master-Race, and friends that show-up broken and crying in your space, and friends who are not just clones of you, doing the same things you are compelled to do, and friends that'll quietly take your hand when you don't know what's going on, and friends that'll give you a firm push when you felt your life was finally done...

I remember the school yard, where tribal approval ratings were the thing, judged well if you wore the latest and greatest bling, and then another compelling day of whispered-opinion, when you felt their snickering derision; we sometimes have this need to feel special and cool, not just one of the herd, one of the clan, and yet, if you did not feel you belong, you'd be longing to all along, whether woman or a man -- rather than looking-away, we ought to be living like we were the first person who ever dared to say, 'hey, it's OK, I'd of loved you anyway...'

‘The love of a true-friend pierces the heart and batters the head’

we're really a lot like 'Le Petit Prince a novel by Antoine de Saint Exupéry,' that child-of-castles-in-the-air, in that we're all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around, looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free, to really be whom we ought to be; beautifully-fractured-reflecting ones -- life is real, only then, when I am bursting at the seams of what I assumed 'I' really means...

"Most people, including ourselves, live in a world of relative ignorance. We are even comfortable with that ignorance, because it is all we know. When we first start facing truth, the process may be frightening, and many people run back to their old lives. But if you continue to seek truth, you will eventually be able to handle it better. In fact, you'll want more! It's true that many people around you now may think you are weird or even a danger to society, but you don't care. Once you've tasted the truth, you won't ever want to go back to being ignorant"

Socrates : Greek philosopher, mentor to Plato (469 - 399 BC)
Source: The Allegory of the Cave and Book 7, The Republic

Stars, I see Stars...

what if light is the language of Star
and Star is the language of night
and night is an under-understood feeling of ineffable space
where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen
into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ...
then our shadows slow-diving on the ground are reminders of the night we always carry 'round...


Yes! greatness in another brings us all up; no one is left behind. When a Writer or Poet lifts the veil, revealing reality, we are all made more by this feat! Nature always sends us Visionaries, Poets, Mystics; just-in-time mutations bent by infinity. They take us to the next evolutionary level.

our hero's are conflicted, hanging cross-wise, riddled with choices; pock-marks on their skin, topographically hardened by their spirit of humanity...

if poetry can fill the gap where words are whirl'ds inside the brain, if another voice can boom as thunder to release my tears like rain; if rhyme and rhythm can move my heart like streams that rush to the sea, where waves all gather, but disagree; if a writer writes infused with fire and lonely empty space, in a feeling that's numinously-moving through us, though irrational and out of place; if sHe can jingle in fractal-frissons that goose-bump tingles up my spine, then I've read another piece of beautiful, in a viscer-real voice that 'feels' like it's mine, in another heart-felt work of conflicted-yearning blooming as human-kind...

nonetheless, a writer writes and never stops writing and rewrites and writes again and again ...  and we never stop writing, except to Dream, perhaps to reach for that Star in that Star crowded Sky, and bring that Star to the end of our Pen, and write like plasma all over again ...

see the French root of courage, 'with heart' -- viva la couer, à la vie ... like Nietzsche painted in his marvellous, 'Thus spoke Zarathustra', we are a 'bridge,' an interim response toward a loftier goal, toward a farther further place which our hearts do show -- we're the quantum-foam on this sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We're a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We're this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet which longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of 'reason' nor the fatal-skin we're in, uncluttered by the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliche' of mediocrity!

Art reveals the passion of creative-destruction imbued with sentimental-reality -- and so it is in the heart of the Art-Martyrs where flames of confliction become a book of dreams written in the night of the 'Laylat al-Qadr', the night of storms, when they'll speak in tongues that flower into flames so hot and bright that they'll consume the Moon and the Stars and sear the secular eyes of all who cannot see this Love...

'if there's no mass to catch my fall, is my velocity vector toward forever' -- of the two universal laws of living in time and space matters, i.e., the law of falling and the law of catching up, the former is often given a bad rap due to the physics of terminal velocity, which kinda scares us, i.e., the terminal part -- nonetheless, this falling is part of why things move in space and why the second law, which we're more myopic about, is also very important, as this is why planets ellipse around Suns and why Poets are always falling in Love...

Nota Bena: on  journaling: if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are these curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as a circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly ...

it’s always much too soon, ahead of all parting

migrations are many
far and away
they go
within you with-out you
whether you do or do not know…
a delayed reaction
toward your realEyesed success
loving the word as you do
becoming the most outstanding
‘time-waster’ of your generation
as if on a well-trodden rockie-road in Afghanistan
where we’re constantly replaced
(in absorb’d reflections;
a screening in paraSympathetic relations)
to be aware where we are
faceBack’d
in a walk about
baby…
I was let-go due to Economic necessities, (
today there was a chill in the air)
yet, I rode my bionXbike 11k, eh
but it’s contagious, this lack-mentality
and dangerous, too
making making a difference marginalized or repressed
beating down the doors to get in
and by being deeply moved
so you no longer weep or laugh
so, it’s really beautiful
these migrations
we do not gently go through
to the last-laugh stage of life…
it does not fall everywhere, all at once.
and by going through the out-rageous repercussions
of throwing books around and
exclaiming with inflection,
‘look where knowledge got me now!’
underunderstand: we’d need not understand … there’s nice sounds in that – in a language we’d need not understand
or it’s really really another chance to recreate yourself
in the many mansions of your heart.
a fracture’d creature that looks over to see
this sudden sentimental-reality
it’s like they’re really only pointers
file’d under ‘with or without each other.’
yet
I’ll always take away something valuable,
about what I really want out of life,
so I can exact a plan to getting there…
it is always much too soon
’cause in duality it’s conflicted…
and it’s just another place where I’d desire only a deep sleep without too many dreams
and that the underworld would not have me…

civil-writes

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-epiphany,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
 cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illumentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
 outer-airs, expediting creative-destructions negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
 just to make-nice...

expanding negative-space

...from the eye
of an artist's
howling-pen
language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seep from wounds of omission,
seep from some-deep-super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
seep from some gimme-gimballed lurching-duality,

trembling from the loss of blood
lost in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the manic-music lifts
dreams farther-f u r th e r then the stretchered edges in longings go,

to those places where the bubble-breaks,
there

where all that's left is dark and deep.

mea-culpatterns

in Cezannes colour of blue ...
think it through and feel it out;
yes, if it's under-understood,
it'll be over-stated and over the top --

It'll bring restraint 'round the
swelling of that
voice inside, which shudders
to jab with the tongue

It'll watch
for dissonant growls
and raucous rants
all diseased by the need to disagree...
between your terminal-shadow of despair,
where your dark inadequacy lingers,
It'll dismantle your misery
and unravel your fear--

these pieces of you
they're not nearly risen ...
into my love;
in the invisible rhythm of suffering,
-- these simple words of loss: not with me.
-- forever

’tis wondrous to be a mote on Gods eye —

-you see roots of light, filaments;
it’s a miracle speeding ponderously, stupendously
as a congregation of stars transfigure into a winged-galaxy
and spiral-Angels glitter in your eyes –

dancing between every wondrous thing
in time and space matters,
orbiting infinitely-in
where every round thing dares begin –

first-light at the edge of the fatal-skin you’re in,
rises in longing swells, the measure of your heart;
a nebulae of mystery, the numinous light of peregrinated stories –

from stars we come to stars we shall return,
this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn,
to shine on ‘n on from inside out,
where illumination is a fire without any doubt

I’m not worried now, she is beautiful
no need to hurry now, she never dies
in infinite nights, she carries us far and away

curious cosmic scales

http://www.nikon.com/about/feelnikon/universcale/index_f.htm

All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I’m DIRT you know, a stone weathering into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust blowing, blown so far away! From dirt I come, to Stars I’ll return, through this fire aspiring inside my yearning to burn…a mote in the eye of God, slow-diving toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust like me and you, gathers unseen from all over the place …

what if light is the language of Star and Star is the language of night and night is an under-understood feeling of ineffable space where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen into particles ‘n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real … then our shadows slow-diving on the ground are reminders of the night we carry around...

the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter — I’d imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight — Godal, Escher ‘n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin — canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made — it’s Higgy dust come from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made you ‘n me

Cosmologists used to consider that the Big Bang would result in a Big Crunch — it seems that mass and the Gravitational force of that mass is not enough when you consider that deep of space ‘n dark matter is actually accelerating expansion — there is a slipperiness to empty space — they’re calling it the ‘Big Rip’

see the French root of courage, ‘with heart’ — viva la couer, à la vie … like Nietzsche painted in his marvellous, ‘Thus spoke Zarathustra’, we are a ‘bridge,’ an interim response toward a loftier goal, toward a farther further place of which our hearts do know — we’re the quantum-foam on this sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We’re a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We’re this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet which longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

‘if there’s no mass to catch my fall, is my velocity vector toward forever’ — of the two universal laws of living in time and space matters, i.e., the law of falling and the law of catching up, the former is often given a bad rap due to the physics of terminal velocity, which kinda scares us, i.e., the terminal part — nonetheless, this falling is part of why things move in space and why the second law, which we’re more myopic about, is also very important, as this is why planets ellipse around Suns and why Poets are always falling in Love…

downLight:

downLight: an Alchemical transmluminal process with darkness the Mother of light


halting-stars we are, aching
for the vastness of space,
that lonely-only place
where heat-beats swell
on the edge of night -

here we are sun~bending toward a red-ochre sky,
a gnarled branch, and bony-finger reach
for a cloudy-whirl, white on blue,
all the while curling-roots 'round
stones of earth, star-imbued mud
for sipping nameless elements of course -

we lurch in wind, whimper for the climb,
make leaf-song, slow-swelling from Sun
drenched dirt, the blood of longing serpents-up,
from deeper whirl'ds-turn'd where harder-roots have
sunk

into the electron-cloud where numinous-valences are allowed,
which are inspired to arise, such that lead becomes gold
glowing as a singular-sight, vortex'd through Quantum tunnels
that make our body bright -

just another rapturous transmutation
of matter into light

first-green

the doubt of religion is science and the religion of science is doubt; it's doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and it's a revelation that silence is without doubt; I doubt that God has any religion and its doubtless that religion has any God; it's true that science reveals our doubts but I doubt that there's a science of true revelation; in this I'll remain silent for I doubt that either science nor religion will reveal this truth, nevertheless, poetry is as an echo of eden where that first green was golden