Kalles Kultur

When they take your dreams, then you must think;

When they take your thoughts, then you must feel;

When they take your feeling, then you must be;

Where does joy exist?

When they’ve painted our own minds with their useless ideas -

Their own shortcomings,

Not ours:

This or that,

That stains your image of your own friend -

You know better.

One of you must be the better of the two -

Then you at least have a chance,

To survive,

For if you both give in,

You’re done.

To find a glance halfway,

To save yourselves,

Then maybe you can both meet again,

Not on the other side,

But this side of life -

For otherwise,

Your friends will be but a set of ghosts,

That haunt you not while you sleep,

For you’ve sold your dreams,

What happens when things go too far?

You remove choice from the equation,

And you leave a slave,

Not to instruction or reason,

But to objective itself -

A monster, that starts to adjust not to his environment, but to design.

All of us are capable of these,

And when conditions are awful,

It is not the man that is to blame,

But those that set the stage.

This is not a ground for excuse,

For the man,

For all of us are responsible for our deeds,

Whether wrong or righteous,

Or more likely pointless,

For most of us.

For when you make the choice to act,

And someone suffers,

Anyone,

Regardless,

The worst among us,

Still sentient,

Still suffer,

This is yours,

And yours alone:

Between you and God,

Though humanity can and will likely intervene.

Still maybe someone plays a song,

That saves your soul,

Before you go,

Knowing what you did,

And anyway took the time to see you in the absence of such hate,

Knowing we are all at best super human,

And even then,

Little things,

On an eggshell,

Spinning round,

That from the dead,

Life itself will spring,

With such indifferent violence, That death itself will cower in resign -

The absolute, the joy of man, let lose upon the world.

That from the mud,

A new tree will grow -

Its height the subject of lore;

Its colors,

The echoes of the firmament itself -

For it will touch the brink of Heaven,

And then mankind will know,

What it is to truly Love.

For the subtle aggravations of others are not an accident -

That we live in a sea of people that misbehave on purpose,

Not in an overt way,

But in a manner that makes everyday life unpleasant,

On purpose,

And not because they believe in this or that,

But instead because they cannot help themselves,

I see a house, unafraid of Nature -

A house that is transparent, in design.

Private, and modest, but splendid,

For one family, by no means fit for any king -

Modest inhabitants, wise, and weary alone of God.

Our minds are one -

This is the way it apparently is.

I have only my modest beliefs as to why,

But ultimate causes are beyond all of us here.

We have only our senses, our bodies -

Fragile things,

Subject to the whims of an indifferent external world.

Does this imply that our Creator is indifferent as well?

This is again not for us to know,

For it is either the case or not,

Regardless of our aspirations for higher Love.

The attachments of the external world,

Stain our minds -

Confidence, a victim,

Sometimes deliberate,

But otherwise an accident of history:

The thing that reminds us of our shame,

Our self-doubt,

Our loss,

Pinned to something new,

With which we have found Love.

It is upon us to shed these apprehensions,

And to see the undisturbed object before us,

As best we can. This is, as far as I can tell,

As close as is possible to true happiness:

To Love,

And yet to know.

To be alive is to suffer, at times,

And for some, it is to suffer often.

But it is an error to say that all of life is suffering -

This is plainly not the case. This is a life worth living, at times,

And in those times,

It is upon us,

To try and see the undisturbed experiences before us,

So that we can discern what is true from what is not;

So that we can discern what is worthwhile from what is not;

So that we can discern what is done out of Love, from what is not.

We cannot pretend that the body does not poison our consciousness,

And perhaps even our intentions -

These two are inseparable in this life.

It is therefore the case that those with conditions that damage their bodies, 

Will struggle to attain clarity of mind,

For it is only common sense that pain,

Like all unwanted experience,

Is a nuisance.

This is simply our condition.

And though we cannot know with certainty how others suffer,

Because we are closer to creation,

We are louder -

Energy, higher.

Too busy in time and structure to worry,

We value only each other,

And know the proper place of colors:

On pages, and as ideas -

It’s Syttende Mai, we’re in the living room of our apartment, there’s a TV mounted on a white wall.

You take your earrings off, which are large, and silver, and quite reflective, your hair is blonde.

Our bedroom is quite sunny, as is the entire apartment -

I watch your hands as you take your earrings off, your ear is almost glowing a bit in the light, I can see the faint outlines of the vessels branching under your skin, and your earlobes look like small, slightly opaque gumdrops in context.

It’s all bit disorienting, and I’m relieved we’re finally home, and it’s nice that you feel so comfortable around me.

Our apartment is not that big, but it’s certainly not small at all -

My snobbishness keeps me from fully appreciating most things, including our home, though you are the rare exception, leaving even my exhausting pretensions at a loss, unable to find an unflattering aspect of your appearance, or behavior.

The bedroom has what looks like floor to ceiling windows, and the room is filled with typical Scandinavian summer sunlight, ultra-bright and white.

Your knees are shaking somewhat, planted into the bed, with your palms also flat on the bed, supporting you, with your back approximately upright -

Your hair is down, obscuring your face, which is looking into your lap, just a few inches away from mine.

I drank beer for most of the day, to avoid getting too drunk, and acting like a jerk, so I must really like you, and it seems as though we love each other, but I’m nonetheless concerned with your opinion of me, which is atypical -

It breaks my confidence, leaving me less free to enjoy my drunkenness than I’m accustomed to, which I dismiss as an unavoidable consequence of adulthood, and a mature relationship.

We’re engaged, and I can feel pangs of financial anxiety at times when I see your ring, and my obnoxious car, and my obnoxious clothing, my obnoxious expenses generally, all tethered about some pretentious drivel that I do, pushing papers about a desk, quantifying some nonsense risk, all of which leave me carrying the constant weight of a career that appeals in many ways to what is worst about me -

An overly aggressive jack ass, eager to remind everyone else that they probably wouldn’t fare terribly well but for the constraints of civility.

You elicit something else in me that I’ve grown dangerously addicted to, perhaps because I’m being paid to be my worst self most days, providing me with an escape -

An exaggerated privacy that is all ours.

We both enjoy the same pretentious bull shit, shamelessly enjoy the way we both look, the fact that we share the same set of cues that lets everyone around us know exactly where we fit in now, and where we expect to be.

Nonetheless, we seem to really love each other, and spend a significant amount of time laughing at each other’s expense, suggesting that despite healthy mutual admiration, there’s a current running under it all that keeps us from slipping too far into our own graces.

The light cuts through a glass plant vase, through the soil, illuminating its roots, which distracts me from you -

It’s on a table near the bed, to the righthand side from my perspective, just a few feet away from my eyes.

Your legs are shaking, seated near me in the center of the bed, as I’m still laying on my back, and you’re crying.

You say, in a disappointed tone, with inappropriately long pauses, “Charles, ... ”

“I want us, to have a kid.”

You don’t look at me, struggling with your delivery of the idea, using the word, “kid”, which I’m not sure was entirely deliberate, though you say it with the insistence of a demand, and not a suggestion, so it’s clear to me that you’re serious, and that you’ve been hiding this idea from me.

I become nervous, and uncomfortable, expecting something quite different initially, but I noticed a change in your mood, so I expected something.

The birds are up and chirping quite a bit, which is seriously annoying me, and subtracting significantly from the gravity of the moment.

Without much pause, I sit up a bit, placing my lefthand on your arm and say, “OK”, though I’m still not sure of the merits of the idea, and I grow worried that my apprehensions have shown in my delivery or expression.

You slip your arm out, and place your hand in mine, and I squeeze it, with a firmness consciously adjusted to convey both manly assurance, and sensitivity.

I was drinking Carlsberg, or Tuborg -

I don’t remember which, but it was a green glass bottle, for sure.

The curtains are open, we’re on a somewhat high floor, so no one can see in as a practical matter, and the sun is so bright, it cuts through the fabric of the curtains -

We must look like lit up cutouts from a distance, haplessly entangled in each other, while our handler is off doing otherwise.

You have extremely beautiful eyes, and some freckles near them, and though I’m used to seeing you at this point, I’m always taken back by your appearance, especially now -

Faint outlines of your lips flash, mixed in with the bright sunlight bouncing around your hair, and your skin smells and looks simply wonderful, and as you lean in to adjust your posture, I can see droplets on your eyelashes, which remind me of the light breaking through the roots of the plant minutes earlier, though I can’t make sense of why I made such a superficial association at a moment like this.

“You think it’s, OK, that we have a child together?”

To an American, you have a sophisticated accent, suggesting plainly that you grew up speaking British English, but you nonetheless have the charm of a Norwegian bumpkin, with the typical bouncy pronunciation when speaking English.

You start laughing, at yourself, and my thoughtless response, for a bit, for having been so emotional, which suggests it’s out of character for you, which might be why I’m actually worried about what you think of me.

You wipe your eyes, and your nose, collecting yourself, and though an imposingly mature person emerges, I can see that part of your persona has been shattered a bit by your own honesty, which brings me a bit of pride, and guilt, but mostly pride.

You slap my right shoulder quite hard, laughing harder, and say,

“You’re such a prick! Charles,” sounding this time entirely British, and I gather that you measured my placating had grown to something else entirely, leaving you confident in my love for you, and your expectations, though its realization may have been a bit off from what you had hoped.

You slip in the shower afterward, and hit your head, which leaves me feeling legitimately hopeless, for the first time in my life -

The prospect of an impossible loss becomes a possibility, and my arrogance shrinks into meekness.

It’s something I’ve never known, and I resent having let myself slip so far into my affections for you, but my concern for you preoccupies my thoughts, after a moment of initial hesitance in reflection -

All I can see is your wet hair stuck to the bones of your naked back, and the top of your head, your hair roughly split down the middle, darkened from the falling water, and I’m terrified that I’m about to see blood color the soap running down the drain.

I cautiously move your hair back from the left side of your head, as you’re still seated on the shower floor, not saying anything at all, or moving, simply staring forward -

Your skin has been scraped off a bit near your left eye, but you don’t seem to have any serious injury, which I find relieving, though the realization that you’re safe frees a bit of callousness, and aggravation, as I sit behind you and take your right hand, and lean in toward you, giving you a moment to organize yourself, and your thoughts.

One look at you,

And I understand the will to change,

The way things are.

One look reminds me,

That what we’ve got just won’t do well -

If I can spot an aspect,

That when changed,

Or recast in some new light,

Change its color or composure,

To better suit your life -

To make things better than they are -

I will.

Because to fail is to let you down,

If I can do a thing I must,

Otherwise you’ll sense some absence -

An item left unchecked.

To know some aspect left unchanged,

That would have brought you joy -

I can’t imagine such things, no,

Or tolerate their notion.

All that can be done will be,

For that is the shape and scale,

I make up a complete lie as an excuse to take you away, as I take your hand, and we leave the others, going back inside our house and up the stairs.

You’re laughing at what I said, which made no sense at all, but was nonetheless delivered with confidence, indicating plainly that I did not care to explain why we were taking off.

We walk through our living room, both taken aback and laughing at how beautiful it is, with a bit of snobbishness.

You have significantly more grace in your enjoyment of things than I do, and it shows in your motions, which are slower, taking account of a longer view.

As an idea,

My love for you can achieve the permanent -

The infinite, and immutable.

A jewel suspended,

In an infinite void -

The home I will build,

For you.

Each day,

You will rise,

Astonished,

By my love,

For you.

Its relentlessness,

Will exhaust you,

And so you will never spend a day,

Alone.

Even in death,

You will hear its echo,

And it will call you back,

What I’ve found,

Inside my mind,

Has found its own way out -

Its own path through time.

It bounced back round to me,

Like moonbeams from the Sun,

Round like echoes,

Mirrored by your minds -

Sights and sounds of your designs.

Like morning’s light on tired eyes,

It wakes me up,

All at once.

Diffraction breaks distraction’s rut -

We’ve found our way out,

Now it’s obvious.

The path is long,

Though its end is clear -

A home for us -

Better suited there.

Bright, diffracted morning Sun,

Cuts through curtains towards our eyes,

Illuminates the way out,

It is the energy of a person that leaves this place altogether -

The desperate abandon that cuts to the source itself.

When encountered, it is the spark that replicates itself in others.

It is to experience all prior deceits,

All at once,

And to know reality -

Painful, and beautiful, beyond articulation.

It is to be exalted, and exhausted -

Free in defeat,

When you fall,

Out of sight,

I slip back in my mind.

And I see a long game to play –

The cruelest of loves,

That’s been found and then displaced.

Though it’s not a way to spend your days –

Tracing out memories of a broken vase.

No it’s not a way to spend your days,

But it’s a longwinded way of saying that,

That I love you.

That I love you.

That I love you.

That I love you.

When you fall,

Out of line,

Just slip back in your mind,

And you’ll hear a song, singing plain –

Proof that love has found a home in this place.

Though it’s not a way to spend your days –

Rebuilding memories of a broken vase.

No, it’s not a way to spend your days,

But if you want it,

Here’s my way of saying that,

That I love you.

That I love you.

That I love you.

I’ve been experimenting with ideas in interior design, and though I’m not the finest artist, I have a strong intuition for engineering, and so I’d like to think the net results are pretty good, and certainly commercial quality, at least in my opinion. Specifically, I came up with a sketch this morning for a shower with some clever design components, and I was thinking about how to replicate the design on a mass scale, even though it involves some elements of artisanship, in particular the wood cutting near the drain of the shower, which I’ve assumed has been perforated, and sloped, to fasciliate drainage.

What I’ve realized is, you could have an artisan make the original model of, e.g., the flooring, while the tools used are being monitored and recorded by a machine, effectively recording what’s taking place, to allow for accurate recording of the angles, pressures, and motions made use of by the artisan. This could allow for the mechanization, and mass production of copies, since a machine could then imitate the actions of the artisan. Obviously, this would require the artisan to make use of specialized tools that have been equipped with sensors to allow for the type of observations necessary to actually implement this, but the point being, that with sufficient data, you could probably imitate an expert artisan carpenter, e.g., and then mass produce the results, by having a machine imitate the actions of the artisan. This would probably require a large number of observations (e.g., contact pressure at a large number of points on a surface), and I’ve already written software that can efficiently manage extremely large numbers of observations. Then, perhaps finishing touches could be applied by human workers, but the point being, that an artisan could make use of A.I. to mass produce their products.

Here’s another one,

Another one for Her.

I know it’s not great –

I know that they’re always the same song,

More or less –

More or less the same song.

But I find there’s clarity in repetition, that,

By repeating,

I find what I find to be most simple, and,

I find Her.

I find –

My Lady in Blue.

She’s another one.

She’s not quite the same.

I know it’s not great –

I know that they all look the same,

More or less –

More or less the same girl.

But I find there’s clarity in repetition, that,

By repeating,

I find what I find to be most simple, and,

I find Her.

I find –