Permeance (Ataraxia Into Spirals And Eddies)

"Fire is the freedom at the base of the world, at the base of time, at the base of love. An endless fire [...] Equal is wrong. Identity is multiplicity, the multiple One. An unbridgeable gap, a divergent operation, a third which works. Like sorcery. A machine works by sliding ones into ones, breaking and opening them against into another. A musical game of harmony and dissonance: does this belong or not? 1 or 0. Pure logic. A heart works by dividing zeros into infinities, merging and weaving them into one another. A mathematical game of distinction and repetition: how intense is this difference? 1 = 0. Pure chaos. Logic = chaos. In the middle, there is light, only light."

-Joseph Weissman ("The Voice of Silence")

There is a separation of life placed tilting between bibified counter-occurrence and sunsets (bursting alive with laughter, boxing down regret) bound beyond calloused hearts – unset by their intrinsic inabilities to over-comprehend. These, fully and unregretably, are the moments of our lives… and they are unfathomably innocent in the amorous capacities of their infinite wonder.

To speak that life were a liquid ghost, sifting like fool’s gold throughout our perceptions as lights to the stage, is to deny that which spirals before and beyond us. Doors that show us.

Who are we to categorize that which is our soulistic makeup? We are all creatures of pulse, and I am yet to find a being incapable of embracing.

All of these moments, these memories, these intertwining of fingers, they are all mere ports of precedence for which there is only one antiphon: Our peace of mind permeates in shifts and spirals, clearing the leaves of our paths; setting the cycles of our movements.

It is my concern – nay, it is my adorance, that the epidermal cages of man are unavoidably used to perpetuate the carnal exchanges of our genetic experience. It is Love that drives us, makes us, kills us; blooming as roses, we are made to crash into halves destroying, creating our very existence. Much as the fruits adorning thorns placed like crowns onto the wilting heavens, it is certain that this much is breath: A Love is a Love is a Love is a Love…

Seventy-Two Hours

"There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one [...] from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved."

- Charles Darwin (On The Origin of Species)

If pressed to find the truth in things, I would say that it is in those words which remain unspoken, looks which remain unexpressed, and feelings which remain unconscious - limited in awareness to the actuality of their individualized existences... it is in the act of leaving that our caring for another is shown. Thus, it is only through the enlightened realization of the separation bred between the notions of the simulate and the origin-less copy (the simulacra), that we can begin to experience the world as it is rather than as it claims to be.

Tangled in the foreign sheets of an illuminating action, I experience perception aside from simulation hidden slight in the lips and eyes of another; a movement born of a thousand happenings and intricate parabolas, leading indefinitely to a single moment - a feeling, a connection, a passage in time. It is from such slight alleviates, that we gain the capacity to perceive humanity as a uni-willed socialization comprised of infinite forms.

In form, we are beings composed entirely of temporality, and it is in our mortality that the essence of our reasoning is conceived: There is an immediacy in every moment. Every connection we feel is of a single and inevitably passing constitution, thus making lively and apparent our need for instantaneous expression of all of who we are.

Connection is an evolution. It is a Neo-Darwinism, engendered by both selection and inheritance, that sets the imprisoned forms of humankind free from the cages of simulation, deception, and mundane predictability. Ergo, it is through the corridors of adulation that the essence of connection mediates the breaking of the transparent mold of simulated experience... And it is here, in the midst of such ameliorative calamity, that we begin to encounter the five phases of connectivity: Spark, familiarity, expression, exaltation, and continuation.

The first is born of a kiss, a look, a single word or utterance; it is of a conceiving connection - a feeling which precedes the knowledge of the why and stems only from the what is.

Consequently, one may then say that familiarity is found in a more continuous touch or extrapolated resonance - the ability to see the forms of a lover through closed eyes, or hidden deep within the world of a dream; ethereal recognition of the other within the self.

The third is an expression of this familiarity, a gratitude of the initial spark, a combination of two bodies in order to concentrate the feelings preceding knowledge - an action pulling away from existence in order to re-connect aside from brazen visibility. This goes much further than sheer aesthetic contends.

Exaltation is the joy of this very connection - the factor that demonstrates the inevitable conclusions of a pair's illumination.

Last, is that of continuation...

In both forms there has become one. A call to the origin of the two - the stardust of every nebula; a cradle of the life that has come to produce such odds as to bring two bodies, separated by oceans of difference, into this single respite in time. It is here that all histories stop, glow, and shine onto the present moment, creating a single breath aside from both space and matter.

This is the place where the truth sleeps when the sun has died. This is where all reasons are held at bay. It is a niche nourished in the whispers of two beings connected where God cannot be seen as separate - where the only Creator present is the moment in itself, and the ashen rise and fall of each lover's chest slowing humane immediacy into the infinite.

It is here that origin spurs, that formless evolution refines, and that eyes that smile before they see may sleep, may match, may reside.

From Nashville

“Women with night-lily eyes feel love in a paradox of passion-bound infinity.”
- Jayadeva ("Gita Govinda")
She boarded for four thousand miles, leaving a hug and a whisper – passed months and severed her ties with an asterisk-latent, weathered epistle. It is difficult to wrap around a memory.

I am finding, in time, that you cannot name a passing moment. You cannot place understanding onto the fading until it is shut. And nothing is ever as vivid in life as when it can be touched, can be seen, can be felt.

We can never attempt to understand aside from persistence.

And what precisely is this understanding? May we find it in a touch, in a sense, in a seeing? Thought is the pursuit of the understanding of the mind through unhinging temporality, much as feeling is the pursuit of an empathy of the soul. How then (with all things considered) do we move without an attempt to understand? How do we remember but in faded degrees of understanding and misunderstanding? A clarity of translucence – sights through stony fog.

She flew in the Fall, when the air was as chilled as the bone, as the tree, as the bed. She stole the time of a boy – and all obligations turned to privilege. They traveled a dirty southern road; a car filled with objects yet to amass separate reasonings; a smile and silence in beauty. The boy found friction in the woman, the woman sand in his eyes. And the days were filled with vanilla, the nights with dim-lit false Irish skies.

I am caught in a wind that cannot be expressed, and it kills me to not let you know. It kills to not let you know. And it cuts to be ambiguous. The persistence of time makes it difficult to breathe, to think, to speak...

Today I went to a church with HDTV screens and prophetic banners; a poorly Photoshopped Apocalypse to mention. Yesterday I emerged (chest bare) in a swarming crowd of sweat, and bodies, and arms – the stage sang of revolution, and there were smiles on all of the faces. “They are breaking our neighborhoods. They are taking our lives.”

I am still yet to take a breath, and I can feel the clouds in persistence beginning to sway. The rain is next; I am certain of its coming.

The storms swirl in ambiguous passing, breaking free from understanding, as all of my lovers (gleaming deep with their night-lily eyes) hold still to the center with a passing vividity of a thousand broken crossroads and the daunting winds of present time.