Category Archives: thoughts

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died it 

He believed, then doubted, then died it

 
Creativity was his door to become more

Poetry and prose were the tears that he cried,

  and he toiled with the question:

What was it all for?

 

Doubt was the dust

  infiltrating even his purest intention

Now he lies spent like rain in the grass,

  tears on a tissue, lipstick on a glass

Not even the universe affords him attention

 

He always believed too much,

  and proof was never important as such

If he liked it, he deemed it to be true,

  even if experts were cleverer and knew

 

His world, perhaps, was slightly askew

 

Belief was like a train:

Up front the idea, creditability and fame

…so far so good

Followed by wagons of responsibilities,

  too many to name

…that was the drudge

Suddenly a yardstick emerged

  with which he was judged (his ideas)

 

Yes, he believed a lot

But, certainly didn’t want to be put on the spot

  for that which he called ‘the smoke from his pot’

It wasn’t religion or philosophy or such,

  they were ideas,

  life’s attempts at art with a smudge

 

Believing was more like following a trail

Not weighing each thought or step on a scale

T'was an indication of an approximate direction,

  and was prone to frequent correction

 

Believing and doubting were forever composing,

One minute blissfully flying over harmonies crest,

  euphorically losing control in the zest

and then,

  crashing into the trough of Wagner’s gloomiest best

He was cog and engine in a perpetually opposing quest

 

Shattered belief, triumphant doubt,

  sometimes one or the other acted out

A farmer of conflict, a dreamer of hope,

  ever the next wave of life should puzzle it out

 

Liberally sown by doubt the seeds of conflict abound

That’s why believing in dreams is so very allowed

But,
 
  dreams are also the food 

  which conflict gobbles to sprout

  and once it has grown

  it smothers the dreams

  so they lose the belief in their own

 

If life was nurtured by believing in dreams,

  no matter how irrational they seemed

and doubt destroys them with such might

  undoubdetly, he thought, he had just died
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well of a question

tree

The biggest question for me:

 

Why am I not a tree,

…instead of this human be?

A question going deeper than space,

a well and the sea

And, does the tree ask why it ‘s not me?

 

Because of What, am I this human dot?

Come, give your answer an honest shot.

Am I still becoming a star?

Or, maybe a whole galaxy afar?

Why am I the one I be?

Happenstance, fluke, — tell me?

 

Of course, they will quote:

The answer is somewhere in

religion, philosophy and G . d’s boat

Academia might also have something they wrote

Surely though, you don’t still believe all this trap?

Man-made bloat and a heap of (s)crap

 

I wanna know why I am not a tree?

And, answering ‘because!’ gets me no closer to me

 

I am not a tree, so much in the mirror I see

But then the ideas of who I really am leave me be

 

Sunk in a question most important to me

My ship’s pondering and crisscrossing that sea

Cleverists answer: “you are whatever you want to be,”

Damn! It still doesn’t tell me why I am not a tree

Because no matter how hard I try to be,

a tree stays a tree and I am me, and who is he?

 

Even now there is still no answer, you see?

 

Mayhaps the tree is inside me or I am in the tree?

Quite crazeely confused ’bout everything,

— that’s me.

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truth, honesty, fear 

I fear the brutality of truth,
  its uncompromising honesty
  and undeniable existence

Selected for slaughter
  I am summonsed by its prophecy

Then it gashes into me with razor like fangs

Sometimes I think I have become its parody

Laid on a butcher block,
  my private thoughts
  are hacked by the invincibility of truth’s shock
The fresh blood of my ignorant existence 
  squirting denial onto the mirror
  that reflects the lie I lived since my birth

Impaled by the truth

The living flesh of my deceived soul
  stabbed with an edged knife
  splits open into wound like a cleft
Exposed now, the raw, oozing me reads: 
  “there, the truth, you see.”

Truth is like fresh blood:
  hot and sticky in its honesty, 
  and unforgettably red.

I fear it,
  yet I want to know it like I know about death
An intimate hatred to past events
  burns in my breath
Inescapably true and insensitive that truth may be,
  tortured, agonizing and upset, I still wish to see

Truth knows not diplomacy nor does it care
  Its words are whiplashes castigating any pretense

Sentenced to truth, even death would be less intense
  Even armed with a dictionary of swords
  no mortal will ever ably defend

Truth doesn’t blurb or make a scene
  it confronts me naked, ugly, sore and mean
It's the sadistic crusader
  silently wielding its honesty
  boiling my being to scream

Behind every frontage the truth can be seen,
  hidden only from the mind in delusional dream

I fear the honesty of truth
  Bitter, vile, — sweet and beautiful

The truth cuts me in two:
  One piece, the truth, is my book
  The other, the lie, is the way that I look
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96-hour days

I mean you read a lot. A hell of a lot.

One copy of yourself should be dedicated to reading 24-hours a day and provide feedback to yourself. It should then populate that infinite dormant memory in your head, indexing everything and getting on with it, ploughing through all that is readable and available, at thought-speed, — forget about sluggish light-speed, we have very (much) surpassed that.

You see a lot too. Maybe even more than you read. But, don’t underestimate the written word. With reading also comes seeing.

There is so much out there that you actually don’t have to think ever again. It’s all been said and it’s all been thought. And what remains, surely, is in a pipeline somewhere to be revealed shortly (on Netflix or some blog or in a pub).

And, the more I read and see, truly I feel, the dumber I get. Why? Because in some way by having all this input I don’t have any output anymore. I do, but it’s others’ thoughts, words and ideas.

I clearly know that I have to extend my 24-hour day. I have to create parallel days and still manage everything even if it is four-fold now. But, I don’t want to be a manager. No, shit no! I want to be involved in every little bit of those multiple 24-hour days, and I also want to get on with other stuff that interests me. I want to spend hours flying, soaring in the air, 3k feet above the ground, or landing in my neighbor farmers backyard on a penny for a cup of Wienermischung Arabica coffee. I want to immerse myself in music and play it and compose. I want to travel to every remote and beautiful corner of this magnificent continent called Africa in my Land Cruiser. I have a love affair with Africa and another one with another one. I have to create, split, multiply and slice the time I have available.

I literally have to drag myself away from the latest doing, reading and seeing, — which I am blatantly honest about, is all extremely enjoyable, — back into my chambers, close the door behind me and open the one in front of me. The one that opens into my world from my mind. You see, here goes another 24-hour day.

My function in life, — having come to this astounding realization of the ninety-six hour day requirement, — is not to write more initially. We have agreed that there is too much already for the twenty-four hour limited human being.

We have to find ways to condense time, expand time, multiply time, fornicate time, forget time, — ignore it, any which way, — and get more done in the moment of life we have so we can absorb, digest, create more and become infinitely more of ourself.

What other point could there conceivably be to continue with life once such a revelation has shone upon us, but to invent new methods and aspire to hitherto unknown heights of accomplishing the impossible?

Do you really want to slip back into your twenty-four hour drudge-day which practically gives you perhaps two hours to do your stuff, instead of figuring out some multi-parallel reality?

Fine, go for it. You won’t find me in that asylum.

Yes, there are schools of thought that we should do one thing and one thing only at a time in order to do them properly. (utter rubbish loser talk) Admittely, I have tried and I have made a mess of it. My first novel, a fictional memoir called ‘beyond Cloudia,’ touches on the subject. And, there are always those ‘I told you so’ encouraging cheer leaders. Instead of getting multiple things done, nothing was finished, except the bottle of red wine or the J, in the end. That however is no sentence not to try again, more evolved, and with better or more Jwine. I don’t smoke so there is no J in my wine.

The current steam locomotive of progress has become terribly, frustratingly slow and this has watered the seed for further exploration into the matter of parallel 24-hour days, or, at least one ninty-six hour day to start with.

Very few things, if any, have ever worked the first time around. How many rockets have gone up in smoke? Right. We have to start somewhere.

I think we have to be blind movers sometimes, believing that our movement gets us there, although we can’t see it, or explain the logic behind our (absurd) behavior .