Lust, Love and Trust

I have the same problem writing as I do with women
My problem is this, the two exist on a different wavelength. I mean, my passion and my intellect simply do not belong in the same sentence.
While my intellect loves rhymes and ironic designs meant to delight the senses without a hint of rough edges...
My passion is a boulder rolling down a mountain, unfit for any tact or caution
It's a seeping, bleeding of mess of raw emotion
A colossal, syrupy dissertation from a dictionary six hundred volumes longer than my stark vocabulary

Let me put it another way. A friend of mine once explained to me that when studying attraction on subjects undergoing catscans, three different centers of the brain light up depending on the nature of the relations. To paraphrase them, I'll say they're called lust, love and trust. We all want all three of these to light up at the same time but for me, they never do, they're always out of sync.

This feels especially true when mulling over my celebrity obsessions, for while I always, always masturbate to Natalie Portman I swear I feel real, romantic love for Emma Watson whose pedestal I dare not desecrate with desires either honest or carnal. And I'm pretty sure I don't trust anyone.

My emotions are a rocksong played by narcissists all dreaming of their careers as solo artists. My lust being an edgy, murderous bassist, my love a hardcore, ambitious guitarist and my trust a soft spoken, wide-ranged vocalist.

We usually open with our bassist who thrashes and writhes about on the ground in convulsions like a fish choking on oxygen, and the band plays it cool like the whole seizure is all an act performed at his leisure.

But if they can mellow him out for just long enough to get passed the introduction the real terrorist opens and strums his strings at max volume, assuming each note belongs in the heavy-weight songs so magical you don't know if you're listening to the satanic gospel or the love child of punk rock and classical

So if the singer can even get a word in edge wise, his throat cracks, his voice trembles and his body arrests in anxiety attacks. And he wishes so deeply his bandmates would just mellow out long enough he can catch some hint of a beat and let free to unwrap and consecrate a vast, breathing mirage. Instead all he does is hum along.

And yet still they wonder why it is they never leave the garage.

But where on earth exists an audience for such self-absorbed and fragmented dissonance? Even if they dig a particular instrument they're bound to lose interest when they realize they have to take every piece of this. Nothing in me feels willing to compromise an attribute and I'm stuck wondering how I'll be ingested. Will I be applauded in glory uncontested and triumph unbreakable or dismissed as if I'm purely disposable? Will I be swallowed up into darkness without notice or feeling or will I cause internal bleeding?

In the end it doesn't really matter because the real me won't stop whether or not contemporary audiences are caught and one day everybody will be listening to the love child of classical and punk-rock.

Speaking the Truth

Alright so, Abstraction is... a word.
The thing is even when something makes no sense it still needs to feel true. Even when something isn't real it must some how come alive. Otherwise it's just a verbose soup of obtuse bells chiming flatulent spells, rubbing so close together and stroking everything tender, starting soft and feeling through every splendor, then humping and throbbing and pumping now mercilessly stronger, and louder and foaming and moaning in heat and surging buckets of supremely engendered prose in a dissonant beat, bursting robust and muscular harmony through the celestial pink now swollen and open and dripping, coming closer and closer to the peak of ascension. Pay attention because this part's important. Did you just get a little horny? Because if you didn't catch it, I was talking about farts. Armchairs and tables become sexual sights and seeds, clashing against the boundaries of pitiful niceties and dishonest memories until anger takes our proud humility and plunges into a deep, foreign melody.

You see, everything must sound as though it cries when missing its favorite blanket. Otherwise we're stuck wondering where the cruelty of reciprocal interest came from and how we can be rid of it as quickly as possible. How loud must we shout when chewing through the thickets of our lost dreams and sending costly signals to the underlodged and naked things.

I apologize, this is all really deep shit. It's so deep we drown in the stew and stink up the metaphysical rockets with our egotistical glue. We take life and grab it right from our eye sockets until we can recognize something, something, something new.

This is what came before the sun and the seagull! This is what came before the cosmos and the rain and the quiet truth. This. This is honest truth. I swear to god I'm Not making this shit up. It may not be recorded in history books but that's just because conspiracy nuts worked with evangelical coocs to fill every inch and corner of the moon with baked potatoes colored golden-brown and covered in feathery sour cream and juicy bacon bits. Now ponder this, because this part's important. Did you just get a little hungry?

See, this is the really deep shit. This is the sound a child makes when it realizes it's going under the thumb of a band of parasitic loudspeakers, cannibal tricksters and uprooted scores of boundless whispers and that hidden shade staring at you from the closet is so fucking real you better start screaming because it will come and get you but only. Only if you promise that you're really afraid. See everything must sound as though it's too ripe to be real, as if it's begging to be picked from its pedestal and chewed up and swallowed and shat out some dude's asshole. Otherwise it won't make you cry.

And real truth must make you cry. Sensible assertions are broken by the complexity of the frivolous and circular circumstance circling trivial options and deceitful concoctions and activists are just catering to propaganda's patronizing sentences. But I promise you this. I will never patronize my audience. But feel free to start crying. After all it's a rough and lousy sketch of life for doubt collects upon the corners of our eyes each time we wake and realize our dreams pulled a fast one, fabricating a haven to console our locked passion. We scratch and claw at the concrete walls that have all rust and dried to dusty, sour surfaces so ugly and pale and seeping smells musky and stale. We claw at these walls, driving and pounding and stripping our nails to bone to escape the cruelest truth we could ever know. That flat, frigid fact that short and shallow hearts beat deep and always sweep untraveled streets, clinging to the sideburns and leather jackets of extradimensional Fonzis, hanging off every synchronous remark whether or not it stands a chance at solving any Earthquakes or Bee stings or Overdue Rent and not one of them can shake the feeling. Not one of them can shake the feeling. Not one of them can shake the feeling that none of this shit makes any sense.
W-w-wait! This part's important... Nevermind, I forgot what I was I gonna say.

Creation

Primarily we have singularity, the atman or brahman, that which is neither something nor nothing. Infinite potential sought manifestation and the source fractured into pieces. Arbitrary habits evolved from the earliest reactions and processes and they became our physical laws.

According to the standard Abrahamic perspective, we are powerless creations living in God's grace. However, according to the Hermetic perspective, we are co-creators with God. Magical terminology shares roots with language. In the beginning there was the word, and the word was God. To cast a spell means merely to spell, to curse is to curse, a Grimoire shares the etymological root with the word Grammar.

That's why they're called the Magical Arts. An artist could be described as anyone who commits action with the realization that the pen is mightier than the sword. The efficacy of our actions upon the world is often beyond our awareness. We typically cannot see the ripple effect of our attitudes, our thoughts and our words. We are mostly blind to the influence we wield over our reality, which causes us to swing this power around haphazardly rather than take responsibility for our circumstances in life.

Making decisions can feel easier when one has a sense of truth on their side. However, actions and beliefs cannot be considered more truthful than another, simply classified under different styles. In the same way that physical habits emerged from the infinite potential of void, evolutionary habits also emerged from the ecosystem of living things. In Hinduism the first fraction of Brahman manifested Vishnu, who represents Preservation, and Shiva, who represents Destruction and Recreation, or more simply, Transformation.

This is different from the masculine and feminine aspects of the Gods. The masculine aspects draw power from their feminine counterpart. For instance Vishnu's feminine aspect is Saraswati which can represent knowledge, music, art and science. Knowledge arises from ideas which have a strong enough foundation to survive the criticism of Shiva. This foundation invokes a sense of harmony like Music or a statistical advantage like Science. In this way, what Shiva fails to transform becomes sacred, and Vishnu draws power from this sanctimony. Shiva's female aspect, Shakti, is synonymous with power and without Shakti all beings would be inert. This power is analogous to the relationship between flame and heat for a fire. What the fire burns becomes the heat that powers the fire. This makes the term Destruction rather inaccurate. In fact, when your computer gives off heat, it is expelling excess bits of information, not destroying them. That which cannot be preserved is not destroyed by Shiva, it simply empowers Shakti which in turn empowers Shiva. That which can be preserved becomes knowledge, empowering Saraswati which in turn empowers Vishnu.

Speaking in terms of evolution, all adaptation is born from random mutation. If the mutation is not viable, it does not survive through time and instead reinforces the standard. If the action is viable, the transformation spreads throughout the system and becomes the new paradigm to be preserved and tested against further mutation.

In biblical terminology, people are the battleground between the Creator God and the Challenger God. In Zoroastrian terminology, people are the battleground between the Creator God and Destroyer God. In Nietzsche's Apollonian and Dionysian terminology, people are the battleground between that which Godly and Beastly or Civilized and Wild. We have the choice, not between Good and Evil, but between clinging to Statistical Advantage or Experimenting, between Pragmatism and Imagination. In this way, Art can be described as the bridge between Heaven and Earth, between the Animal Kingdom where our Corporal forms find their history, and the abstract sphere of Possibility our minds are capable of exploring. There is no certainty, we are all Gamblers placing bets. But much of the time, failure draws more reward than inaction. The failure of Shiva enables the growth of Saraswati, and the success of Shiva cleans the excess aspects from the realm of Vishnu.

This concept promotes a sense of balance when considering the reception and propagation of new ideas. If the mind is locked too deeply into preservation, it becomes immovable and thus cannot evolve, leaving it vulnerable to systems which are willing to evolve. If it is too open to transformation it becomes susceptible losing valuable aspects of its current fixture, or spreading destructive behaviors throughout the system.

Simply because there is no certainty in life, that is no excuse not to perform action. Only time reveals which actions and behaviors are viable. We are all a fragment of God, and because of that, all our experiences and the actions they lead us to are sacred.

Our Collective, Expectation Driven Reality

I'll get the "pseudo-science" out of the way now so Skeptics can respond directly rather than read the entire post. This idea leans very heavily upon studies done with perception of electrons, and that is essentially the only evidence but I think it's rather good evidence. Basically when scientists try to predict the path or spin of particles, they discover their expectations were deciding both the path and spin. In other words until they observed the electron it was literally exhibiting all possible outcomes. Perception caused one outcome to manifest rather than the others. At this level of observation, particles take on the characteristics that we most expect them to. Imagine using a Guess and Check table for observing particles, only your first guess was always right because the particles had no right answer until one was provided for them. Feel free to sigh and roll your eyes if you think I'm misinforming people on the conclusions reached with these studies. To me it seems undeniable that our expectations have a direct effect on reality. This line people have conjured up between mind and body (imagination and material) is illusory. Like just about everything else in the universe, it exists on a spectrum.

The problem with solipsism is it invokes the idea that one mind is in control of everything, this mind is solid and non-fractional. The Hindu form is much more appealing to logic: One single mind has divided into every droplet of disconnected awareness. But enough with theology. Accepting the postulate that mind, energy and mass are all basically the same, one can begin to see the connection between what is manifest and what is possible. And between what is imaginable and what is possible. Consider the idea that every expectation in the world creates for itself a possible future and as long as that future does not get impeded by other, more powerfully expected futures, it will manifest. Now you understand the war of expectations. Our expectations compete as they are pulled ever closer to the present moment. When you desire something, you are creating a force that both pulls it in and pushes it away. The pushing away force is stemmed from your clinging to this desire. Your fear of an outcome outside of this desire in fact empowers these other outcomes and makes them more likely. In much the same way when you fear something, you are creating a force which is both pulling and pushing. To exercise one's power over expectations, one must accept all possible outcomes and fear none.

Your expectations are directly affected by your mood. If you are angry, for instance, you'll have some ego-driven energy to feed off but this, in turn, empowers aggression and makes violence a more likely outcome, handing victory over to those who prefer aggression (such as police. In other words never get angry at a cop or you'll make him stronger). If you want your expectations to be stronger than others, you must focus on inner peace and non-being. Non-being is the greatest source of energy.

Books like The Secret can be misleading because they tell you anything you imagine is possible, you just have to believe in it hard enough. This is false, believing in things really hard does not make them more possible if you're too attached to the outcome. It will make you frustrated, though, and less likely to believe your expectations hold any real power. Keep the Collective Reality in mind. If your expectations are to manifest, they must agree with the overwhelming collective expectation. In other words it's a lot easier for a telekinetic to do his thing if he's surrounded by a room full of people that believe in telekinesis. Cynics literally dull the universe. Your expectations of people can also influence the way they behave. By expecting people to behave a certain way, you are providing for them an intuitive compulsion to behave that way. While it is necessary to accept what is, it is also necessary to keep in mind the best possible result. When dealing with people in controversial circumstances (such as being stopped by a police officer) its far easier to expect the other party to behave immaturely or in an undesirable way than it is to expect them to behave positively. However, by keeping these positive expectations in mind without being attached to their outcomes, you are actually providing intuitions for the people around you to behave better and with more compassion.

Hence the greatest weapon is compassion. In fact, if our enemies are corruption, greed, ignorance, apathy, oppression and violence then compassion is our only weapon. Acting from any other emotion (rage, pleasure, boredom) and you have already lost, or even worse you've become a foot soldier for what you're fighting against.

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It is golden fingers wrapping against my skull, grazing and clawing its pretty pink nails. It is stripping me wet and throbbing. It is bellowing like wind, it is god damned awful. It is so tingling. So livid and living and alive and lovely and I die in its grace. I die like ribbons floundering in a gust of wind. Like an ice-dance erupt in fire and split down the middle, and a demon emerging ripped in proud muscles, torn like ambition and cowering in the face of its majestic opposite. So massive and powerful and ferocious, and yet useless as a rusty old heap of monumental pieces chained and growling from its post in the junkyard. So ugly and worthless and creative and burning.

And dying for the reason itself. To be able to. Because that is all we can do. But we can do it in so many different ways. We can do it long or real quick like a shadow black envelope or a dull, murky lake collecting in its place. And always there. And I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop needing it. I can't stop yearning it. Not death, oh no not death every stupid driver is in my cautious gaze and every weapon pointed the right way. Not a physical one anyways. But what can truly be lost? My memories exist in the same way they could. Nothing I really need would die. Just this illustrious, bleeding suffering in the back of my mind. I choose to kill that thing.

I crave it. That shadow. I crave for it to stop haunting me. So come at me, I say, and I expect nothing but what you are. Come at me, demon. You are and you are. And I... will find the God again when this needful thing ceases. Me and the illustrious void together in lovely harmony. Shadow as my friend. The tiger walks the same path as me, and though we find ourselves at odds with each other from time to time I fuel this flame with my nourishing guts. I collect the grounded things, the left-overs, the forgottens. And me and my people pitch these bits for our trolleys and truck them to the furnace, our tiger.

And he burns them all to void. New beginnings then rise from their remains. What was void is now ashy, silky soil. My team and I then water and ponder and blow empathic little kisses against this nasty manure until it grows.

It grows so lovely, and the loveliness shows as our little hearts dance at colors indescribable to us who only know blackness. And we pray so hard that our creations be strong and sturdy and always as pure as they were then.

And we protect what we made with our friends. Though the leeches and the weather plunder at our treasure, we build shelters for these things and work so hard to keep them clean. Though they dampen and they stain and willow in the sun rays we build walls and detergents and washers and gates.

And we protect what we made from our friends, those tarnishing blades they call trust. To plunder and sulk and you know that they must at least get a gripe of what you hold hidden. Bare and then thin and groping like mad at the blackness, looking so hard for a shard of what used to be pure and delicate and colorful.

...

But it's all over, now, isn't it? We didn't even make anything here at all, as far as the earth knows. And I see a family of little creatures below me collecting the dust and feeding it to their mothers. Beating their little hearts in pride for something they don't understand at all.

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This is a nonsense feeling. Like dripping molten rubber, absolutely stale in smell but rich in texture. That meal so delicious in festering bacteria only eskimos dare call it a delicacy. That richness like solidity, like salt and fleshy membrane. And ounces of it, too. Drippling a stream of unsettling goo. Oozy eggwax, it founds a pool in my mind's sewer drains and gathers up into a growth. And settles longer, still, growing roots. Reaching further out into parts of me even I don't dare explore. And there it truly feasts, and buries its feet so deep in me I can't hope to pull it out less I remove every chunk of my insides with it.

And so I do, bit by bit I chewed and grit against it with my canine teeth until I'm scraped hollow. And when that day comes that I've licked every reachable corner clean, I shall await the boiling. And I hope to sizzle well, to not give way to easy thinking nor needful clinging but to boil with perfect meaning and finally be the seeing. Finally see the being.

This is what my mind finds in that nonsense It's entangling, unsettling and far too enchanting too ignore. It's gentle darkness is so unspoken that everything within me calls out in utterance. I am alive only because something like death exists. I have projections only because it presents its lovely canvas for me. Only in darkness can light exist. Only in silence can we find noise. Only through hollowness do we know fullness.

Every single thought, no matter how pure and beautiful, is an act of rebellion against death and God.

The Beached Whale

I don’t want a soul mate, I want a total stranger
I want to reach across the stellar chasm of anonymity to a world of veils, masks and painted faces
And find another person there
I want to bond two quarks completely foreign to each other
To start new
To defy fate
To divide by zero
And let the magic dissipate
Let the color dry to stale white
And fuck all the angels
I don’t need them casting charms against my sails
I don’t need reminders that God is real, that life’s not mundane
I don’t need to be happy, successful or sane
I don’t want it
I want to be a warrior in a crowded death museum with paintings of old wisemen smirking from a joke you wouldn’t understand
I want to be an ugly weed stripped to withering stem by herbicide
The one that still grows
I want to be the point zero one percent of germs that survive antibacterial soap
I want to be the gas leak in a bankrupt bar caused by an “accident” that leaves the broke owner with an insurance check
I want to explode
I want to be discarded teeth, a bit of ear left bleeding on the ring
I want to be the fight between the weirdest geek in school and the jock boyfriend of his crush
I want to be the child’s shoe locked on the gas pedal of a car speeding to the hospital, eyes barely able to see over the steering wheel, the younger sibling struggling in the back seat to keep breathing
The cancer that grows in your belly telling you you’ll never have children and pushing you puking tumor juice through the gateway to heaven
The dream of riches that comes to mind when investing in a Ponzi scheme
I want to be the tv show running another season after the title character quit to do features
The house on a vacant street that just went for sale
The song of a beached whale
The teeth that tear your leg like sweet release when a bear trap’s caught your paw
The rocking shell of a top-turned turtle cooking in the sun
Defeated but never quite done
I want to grab a boulder by the balls and make my climb humming rock songs like a true Sisyphus
But I won’t buckle and let it drop
No, I’ll push it off