Reality Explained

Going on about this would merely distract you and obfuscate your vision, so I'll shut up and let you go about your day more enriched and alive.

Eternal Wanderlust Moon Symphony

Isn't it amazing that we choose metaphors, or rather, that behind metaphors you can find the mechanisms and inner workings of the brain, as if the brain is extending itself out into space, permeating and coloring our words? In our lives, isn't it peculiar how our language indirectly reflects the physiological processes underneath words? As an example: describing our social lives as threads being weaved and interconnected—just as our brain's tangled mess of axons, dendrites and synapses weave in a similar harmonious, quasi-chaotic nature. Metapatterns are everywhere you look.

Crazy makes things happen, good or bad. You can't argue that it doesn't. Crazy creates. You listen. You watch, you look. You smell. You taste. Art is consciousness. Consciousness is art.

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Through this little essay, you just saved yourself a lot of money on a humanities degree. Congratulations! Time well spent!

Dear Mango, We are fruit with a nervous system. A breathing living organism. Flesh and ripe. Once inert. Now I perceive. Once inert. Now I conceive. Be— A beating heart contracts, then supposes its next inflexion. Space and time syncopating in pockets of synaptic connexions. Memories breathing life, into things passed. Begets. Begotten. Giving sustenance to this next thought, this next Aggregation—colliding; as I slice into the flesh ripe mango, its skin supple, as it succumbs to the impinging direct, tapered, pressure of my thumb and forefinger pressing in a soft, sloping angle, in its adjacency. I’m a fruit in juxtaposition, extended. Enacted. I lay the knife down. I reflect on reflection, and fall as a raindrop disappears into an infinite sky. The simple life of a fruit, a freshly cut mango, reaffirms my expansion blessed by my glance ceases without a witness I reflect more. Only to reflect more. when we take life ‘a fruit, we sever its connection we upend a bundle of nerves, localized pockets upon highways of synapses—sliding and dashing along ecstatic nerves imploding in symphonicity—its synchronicity! I begin to feel a resemblance, I puncture its sacred skin, give thanks, and celebrate its reaffirming reproach, In its simplicity, I find rest. I lose myself and find spirit—consciousness in its precious, rare hum, a furrow upon an undulation of space, unfurls its limbs and gives thanks to gravity for embracing the Sun.

Lying silent Upon pillow, Dreamt— Drifting, Dancing Upon metaphor Fields distant, Meadows A new eye Pulls back Prisms Primordial bells toll— Flowers toil, Trodden under foot Entwine, Layer upon layer Tangled roots Extend, Enchant; The tolls— O’ the bells, Resound To reach the meadow; The flowers, Try as they might Upend their roots, Lay bear Stretch out their spirits Beyond Shimmering expanse— Emancipating light In choral glee— Glistening Their senses Flutter Pixilated pedals Sing in gratis Gently Surrendering Upon sloping banks Of streams overflowing— A soft incline Abreast the mountain Slumbering O’er rolling meadows— Silently Concealing Upon sleepy heads And whimsy cloud-pillows Myths of yesteryears Ancient sagas Fading Into endless tomorrows— Dreams Seed in tempered soil; Fleeting, Its shriveled yellows Drop, Like tender memories Upon earth— Drip-drop, drip-drops Of rain Repent In passing scents Bows its head Upon mud and dirt; Drooping pedals, In hands, Lament; A willow sighs—whispers To entice a mushroom near by A nightly snack Consumes its body— Tasty, yes—! A last rite of spring Extol, The bells Swift upon deafened ears Resplendent news Adorn, Splendor, Bursts open Radiant, delicate hues My senses flutter— Lying silent upon pillow Boundless, I smile, Breath in, Breath out— Home, at last.

What is it—that energy that a body inhabits—in space—art—that void of consciousness? Inspiration rises up from the deepest depths of the human subconscious, if not unconscious. (Call it love, call it genius.) The rush of layers of melodies dissolving into the heart of non-being, and fills it to the brim with great joy and timeless rest. It puts to bed those empty years of selfish egotism (arising from an epistemology of individualism-turned-egoism). Oh, how these harmonies arise from the symphonies of sounds in my mind’s ears, weaving and unweaving equidistantly, intertwining, in midair; only there is no air, just space. Perpetually unchanging, yet coevolving in the likeness of its conscious partner, sentience; juxtaposed—perception; form. It is not there temporally, but transtemporally (, or timelessly) as an a priori requirement; for any well placed in the ground (that water must precede it, and the formation of the earth before it, and the formation of universe before it, etc...). There is no act in which this, shall we say, Sheerness, has made it necessary to leap about in some sort of drunken hobble. There is no illusory will (lower case ‘w’) that somehow magically sprung out of midair, arbitrarily, for no apparent reasonable explanation other than that “it felt like existing” without having achieved a medium from which to cognize, to transverse across the spatial void; or a body through which to manifest itself vicariously, willingly (but not willing-ly). It could never arise ex nihilo; requires an automatic presupposition of a chain, a link, an eternal unmover which simultaneously moves and acts, thinks and cognizes spatiotemporally; brought forth from the heavens and terrestrial life, something foreign, something other than its own native nucleus. For a ‘nothing’ that has emptiness as its substance (juxtaposed to non-substance), can never potentiate kinetic energy for- and in-itself, theoretically and realistically, with another outside potential guiding, preceding, principle; bringing forth the web of causes laid throughout it and beyond its fragmentary existence; and that nexus that encompasses its energy like a gust of cold wind feels as if it permeates your very being on a crisp fall day—reminding you of your very pallid, partial, conditioned body; that it can either induce upon itself organic, potentiating inanimate into animate; or it exists timelessly without a need to posit a cause to throw off the chains of static equilibrium of infinity (chasing its tail). Always a matrix of causes entwined in every echelon of known inhabitation; arbitrarily deciding when one special cause is the cause is like throwing a dart in the dark, hoping it hits something useful and analogically, semantically meaningful. If there were no emotions from which language could act upon as its kinetic board, its ground, its motivator; there would be no perception of meaning without that uncanny, frustrating needle in the sock of empirical reductionism—that is, discourse. How can nothing ever affectuate, or be effectuated, into existence—or inculcate its own kinetic motion with motility, through self-perpetuation in its pendulation, resonating, humming its eternal vibration; oscillating—that is, containing within its organism the intrinsic potential to convert inertia into sentience. Therefore, if any single phenomena in the world can actuate any kinetic motility of and on its own accord, at all—for itself—is to imply that ‘everything’ can never not be. That is, nothing dies, or is lost forever; nor is it born. It is recycled in itself, and through itself ad infitum. There has never not-been, nor there will never not-be this present moment, nature, in its enclosed, translucent, timeless, womb; a shadow seeks a cave to dwell in for a while, before the light inevitably brings it out of its hiding—its dark cave, unborne—home; so these “protoconscious” sentient forms spring forth from the same spring that endows life, and endears its senses with melodies and its voice—communication; where music, that precarious, ineffable bubble, springs forth from that expansive void—expressing itself through the amalgamation and aggregation of events and circumstances preceding it, and announcing its temporality . . .

I perceive— In its primordial vacancy; In its celestial silence Pivots limitless, Boundless revolutions Upon exuberant flights of consciousness Receding Within my depths, Past and future memories I shade my eyes—my sight, The savagery that man has wrought Upon this patch of dirt and molten rock I ascend And seek higher ground—a threshold Above moonlit canopies; Spacious domes, and Starry-scaped dynasties; Cavernous yawning o’er endless yesterdays The monsoons of discontent— Disenchantment Floods my past, present and future tenses Like a river submerges its banks And dissolves me into infinity— That its witch craft May deceive my conscience Possess my body, And enclose my mind in ignorance Shall its motion prevail? Like a strong wind bends and coils trees— Turning your glare a flaccid, equidistant stare Your eyes refract an epifocal light In an airs of stillness Gentle currents carry it, Mild climates tempt it A flash of pleasure— Electric under her silver cloud— Deceptive lightning, false epiphany: “Sink—sink, your ecstasy sought—!” “O’y –our wilderness, in its privacy Of moping willows gazing, contemplating Ancient motionless lakes!” “…Your wildness—in your animality Loving Observer! Free-natured light!” “...What’s the price you pay? What’s her dowry—is it naught Debauchery of your thoughtful lust!” That dynamic, spirit, Felsitic, benign and whole A pure, translucent sky, Enfolds Eros Azure, expansive galaxies In the frozen depths of space Oscillating concentric, exotic In its primordial quintessence Reduces human strife to effervescence Dramatic, Dizzying, exuberant momentum Rushes on and on In deathless form Cold; inert; vacant —timeless— How poignant Staring into the unknown— That vacuous anointment Of sense, light and consciousness In its terseness, Lies ineffably The proverbial mirror— Juxtaposed space Winding terraced stairs I am this air I breathe, This space in between Yet, I—A being—, Remain a prevaricate A sheerness hard to equivocate Drifting, In Elysian currents A vestige of lucid absence imbibes My presence, emptiness resides I pray You may lose your mourning shades And reduce to nothing your sheathe And behold Upon your head, the sun— A radiant disk In its’ luminescence—taking flight May it turn to dusk your pride As you denounce it In its weak withering blithe . . . Lie aside your sufferings And deny this drudgery Consume, consume no more This ageless beauty In circles, you seemed To triumph, defy Gravity You forgot, So you sought, And here you are: A blank verse —a formless chance No more than a silhouette Dancing upon the moon-soaked air Drifting gracefully upon the clouds In the moon-soaked light, We made love for the first time God—immersed within, This ambit of beautiful, human carnage Did we deny and conceal Under years of foolish pride That sophist within—like a grain of sand Sifting between thought and existence So, sing and profess In passing, thy joie de vivre L'amour, oh, philosopher Poet—dreamer; In high spirits Cherish its Vaporous radiance A finger pointed You saw its form Exclaiming “I, the fool looking at the finger pointing to the sky, Am the fool no more!” Having disavowed—with audacity Discovered on steeper heights The highest love Upon expansive sights Temperamental verve— Sly, in your stylistic curves To scribble your shapes Near the mantel Overhanging your hearth: Strikes a nerve upon the Mantra of your abode— Thy humble home; To sing in love, The epitome1 “…Always somewhere The general show of things Floats in review before my mind, And such true love and reverence brings, That sometimes I forget that I am blind. But now there comes unsought, unseen, Some clear divine electuary…” Under a spell, I press with hurried hands A dot upon an ‘I’—my being, Its point placed between space and line In her midst She holds no net to capture The depth of her abundant pleasures Ripening from the tree of Living Prose Taste the sweetness she fairs— Her tears of joy, Bring intangible, Eloquence, sublime Carried on the breeze The vastness of her oceans Never navigated Without a guide As no soul shall sail, To discover in temporal rhyme —Though it always aligns in the most unfathomable ways— Is wisdom inscribed And adorned upon her face In equipoise, she meditates Upon innumerable constellations To lift the veil o’ Her omnipresent space Witness the tide that carries her seers ashore Pale, insipid moon Of her fashioned convex moods Swiftly, her currents renounce their tarnish Orbit ecstatic Return the sensuous impecunious Do you wish to copulate Her rapturous bends? Her everlasting presence? Know with heart the pervading state Permeated by sky— A face with no face Space, Thy secret telescope to behold What is never mine, and never owned, Eye dilated—aware Nature bestowed An apparatus-inanimate With the potentiality to induce upon itself organic Embracing profundity—such complexity A sanctuary enshrouded Revealing all discourses To be mind itself in its holy-of-holies Its axis’s spin In lilt with the lofty heavens Refining, pursuing—surreptitiously, Its obsequious objects of perception —The word—lost. Might it put its pen to service? Etch its visions before it has obscured its thoughts? Before these words drift apart, Remember: Of all things sacred – nature has provided Apperception, her witness is you, In your pale, embracing complexion So she seeks, Stretched out, spirit beyond Eyes discerning, sublimely composed Suspended and transposed— A silent toast to Soulstice consummated This mind unbounded; Unfolding, ascribing; deathless— This loving observer! This free-natured light! Sweet specter—in word, in ghost; This body fades Then vanishes The sun wafts infinite among the blessings Refracts in a million fashions, A million modes upon A million faces—dissipating, Pixilating reflections Upon motionless lakes a frail tint and hue The light’s Transient manifestation Ever so near, Never far Eternally, it shall be witnessed Living in the minds of all Will it be motion For Light to see itself And behold: ‘We are witnesses to each other And always shall this be so!’ 1Henry David Thoreau

Could our radical hedonism of today be born from this uninhibited sense of "lacking;" a negative motivation=questionable incentives=loose-ended, ambiguous ethics=uninhibited pleasure-seeking (mostly among the privileged upper and middle classes) that naturally creates the necessary and sufficient opposite: poor, disenfranchised, starvation; thus, a perpetual imbalance of resources, and a capitalistic philosophy revolving around an economy of scarcity; and hence maintaining the status qua of social stratification. Which than completes this 360-degree circle that reinforces and justifies the implicit presuppositions 1st-world poverty and globalized self-fulfilling eco-humanitarian catastrophes? Of seeking to nullify our infantile anxieties/affections at the price of maximizing our pleasures and acting-out our nostalgic fantasies freely without the desire (or knowledge of) for a self-reflexivity able or desiring to acknowledge it’s radical utopian hedonism (that is, unknowingly seeks to ignore its conscience). And she who denies history is doomed to repeat the same failures because of said ignorance of dialectical historicism. Epicurus knew better than to give in to this persuasive hedonistic instinct, when he proposed that true happiness is to seek the ending of all pain (that is, desire), and ascend to a state of eudemonia—equanimity and loving-kindness. To eradicate “good,” “evil” or any normatively-relative ignorance (i.e. presuppositions) means to eradicate any notions of omniscience (which breeds omnipotence). Until then, this tautological spiral staircase will continue unwind into spatiotemporal reality to its own ending (enfolding).

Motionless primes.