Keep Only What You Need

Posted on April 28, 2018 by randomyriad

from SYNTHETIC ZERØ

Posted in All part of the process, Being Human, Check this out, discovery and recovery, mindworks, music, my museum of inspiration, Other peoples words, paying attention, philosophy, poetry, Self-Experiments, Singing, thinking in words | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Thoughts and Images of April

Posted on April 23, 2018 by randomyriad

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Misremembered Movie From a Dream

A talent show, Sing!, but with real people instead of cartoon animals.

This feeling that I had been somewhere, but it was a different place. 

 

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I am forming a project to examine the layers of existence and consciousness. The sign on the door reads “Philosophy”.  I am using words now so that is what it says. I am not sure what it means. I don’t intend to know anything.

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The part of me that is aware and responsive to this body cannot comprehend the complex interrelations, the chemical/electrical physics that creates a living being. So much easier to use words, pillows of symbols to lay down covering the messy processes of constant negotiation inside the living surfaces and that take place on the surface as I move through the atmosphere and connect and disconnect with objects that occupy the part of the planet I inhabit, where each moment is filled with miracles of horror and elegance beyond imagination. Just glimpses of the whole mess bring on both nausea and awe, overwhelming the perceiver, each lifetime so filled with the infinite and the infinitesimal lives and connected in a chain to the utter beginning and ending of all things. Can I hold this tiny piece of awareness for one second? 

 

Posted in All part of the process, Being Human, bodyworks, capturing light, Chaos and Order, Dreamtime, file folders and nut shells, Measuring Time and Space, mindworks, philosophy, Questions and riddles, spring, the end is the beginning, thinking in words, Wild Life, wonder world | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Poems of April 2018 #2

Posted on April 14, 2018 by randomyriad

Transfer

He was misleading 

The two women about

his father’s ability to

care for himself.

He feared they would not

take such a helpless man.

 

Dis-integration

All this world wants of me

is everything consumed,

from beginning to end, 

how can a person even know

who or what is this cloud

of tissues and liquids,

gasses and electricity?

Posted in Being Human, bodyworks, Chaos and Order, mindworks, NaPoWriMo, paying attention, poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Poems of April 2018 #1

Posted on April 7, 2018 by randomyriad

Concentric Bubbles

When I think in poetry,

I draw diagrams of meaning

inside larger circles of words

made of symbols for windy sounds 

constricted.

 

Packs of baseball cards on the racks

as I walk past into the supermarket

enclosed me in a scent memory

of cardboard and bubblegum

a distant feeling circle

so immense I could never 

get outside of it.

 

Now my limiting circles have expanded

to reach stars and inverted

down to microbes and electrons,

my enveloping skin stretched 

so thin I could pop me with a thought.

Posted in Abstraction, All part of the process, Being Human, file folders and nut shells, mindworks, NaPoWriMo, philosophy, poetry, thinking in words, time travel | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

A Map to the Next World

Posted on March 25, 2018 by randomyriad

By Joy Harjo

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for
those who would climb through the hole in the sky.
 My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged
from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.
For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.
The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It
must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.
In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it
was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.
Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the
altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.
Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our
children while we sleep.
 Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born
there of nuclear anger.
 Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to
disappear.
We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to
them by their personal names.
Once we knew everything in this lush promise.
What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the
map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-
ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.
 An imperfect map will have to do, little one.
 The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s
small death as he longs to know himself in another.
 There is no exit.
The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a
spiral on the road of knowledge.
 You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking
from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh
deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.
 They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.
 And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world
there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.
 You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song
she is singing.
Fresh courage glimmers from planets.
 And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you
will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.
When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they
entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.
 You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.
 A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the
destruction.
 Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our
tribal grounds.
We were never perfect.
 Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was
once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.
 We might make them again, she said.
 Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.
 You must make your own map.
From A Map to the Next World: Poems (W. W. Norton, 2000)
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