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Maxilla

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October 9th, 2013

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Maxilla
If of the thousands of poems I've written only one makes you hurt or smile or shudder or shiver, it will be worth all that damn ink and paper and breath.

But I don't write them anymore, and they are hidden in books in boxes in a house in the woods.

December 27th, 2010

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Maxilla
I think about you every day.

December 21st, 2010

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Maxilla
Woke up late last night to see the lunar eclipse.

In moments like this I feel like everything is falling apart while coming together. I no longer want anything but everything is right at my fingertips. All of my cells are dying at exactly the same rate they are being simultaneously created. I feel like the ouroboros giving birth, and it is the most profound but mundane experience. I am flux. I am an empty vessel.

December 18th, 2010

Cabinet of regrets.

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Maxilla
A few days ago I found a supremely depressing note I had written while drinking:

"It's almost as if I've subconsciously picked these years to cram in all my life regrets."

After the initial shock the implications began to sink in and I really began to consider all the things in my life that I really do regret doing, and not doing, the things I forgot and the things I refuse to. But ultimately I decided that the logic of my drunken introspective bout was fundamentally flawed.

Regrets are not something that you can squeeze into just one time period and move on. The nature of regret defines it as self-perpetuating; you stack regret upon regret and build your life upon and around this pile. As it grows you climb higher and when you look back you are looking down through misty memories warped by nostalgia into becoming "before regret." I doubt there was ever such a time.

December 11th, 2010

If there is anything of which I am certain, it is that nothing lasts forever, and that nothing ever truly ends.

September 21st, 2010

A persistent insistence:

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I promise, somewhere inside this petulant, sullen, and petty child there is a smiling sober principled man with the individual initiative to sculpt his life into something beautiful and strong. He is in there somewhere, and he is shedding juvenile dreams for even more fantastic goals. He is painting arrows on the tops of his feet, pointing forward, so he never forgets where he came from and where he is going, and so he never stops. Soon this man will start out, and to impress no one but the child that dreamed but never really believed.

September 2nd, 2010

T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

DEDICATION


To S.A.


I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To earn you Freedom, the seven pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When we came.


Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near
and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me
and took you apart:
Into his quietness.


Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage
ours for the moment
Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind
worms grew fat upon
Your substance.


Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,
as a memory of you.
But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now
The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels
in the marred shadow
Of your gift.

May 17th, 2008

There was no beginning. See, reality is not like a story, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, so I can't start the history with something like "In the beginning". If I did, I'd start it with something like, in the beginning, there was everything. Most of the stories you hear have some presupposition similiar to that anyway: what created the Creator, or where did the mass from the big bang come from, and all that shit, but the storytellers always give some lame answer like "God was as God is" or that all matter was leftover from a previous cyclical universe. I'm not pulling that punch.

There was no beginning. In several places at all times in the universe, there has been stars, brightly pulsating and fading and dying in a relatively slow, rhthmic grace tugged by the tides of the eternal creator Gravity.

These stars are creators, too, in a way, using sheer heat to fuse simple hydrogen into more complex and pretentious elements, before dying and scattering their remains across the universe like so much intergalactic spunk. More stars pick up the beat and spread the love and some at some point are orbited by debris and tiny cute planets that manage to catch a tiny fraction of the incredible amount of energy constantly pouring our of these stars on their spinning surfaces.

The planet I'm on now particularly interests me. Not really because I think it's so special, but because the entanglement of mass and energy it forms results in a intricate infrastructure upon which my consciousness rests. Oh, and you know how important consciousness is. Man, if there is one thing that motherfuckers rave about, it is the ability to reason. Humans (or at least those I'm exposed to in Western society) just think its the best thing since sliced bread, and many would argue, better! They're also absolutely convinced that we're exclusively rational, and that it grants superiority and free reign to do what we please. "Look at the food chain, bro. If it's on my plate, it ain't eating me."

I'll grant that reason and language are pretty nifty. I like talking my ass off constantly. Makes me feel important to rattle on for a while before someone interrupts me with something relevant. Thing is, reason is just another survival mechanism. It allows beings to blast through so much time of genetic trial and error. Now, one may pass on learned information so much longer before it would become programmed in at an instinctual level. It allows for the development of culture -- the system of practices and rules that pattern behavior. Hell, culture is almost an organism of itself. But I'll come back to that.

However, a lot of people don't regard reason as a survival mechanism, but as a crown. Some believe, though they may not say it, that it makes us king over all other life forms, because while some of these other lifeforms may be able to see the world, we see it, and we know it, and we understand it. Unfortunately, that is simply egotistical banter. It feels good as hell to say stuff about yourself that makes your feel good, but just because it can't be proved wrong doesn't make it true. Nobody believes you shit potpourri because you spray freshener before your leave the bathroom. Reason doesn't automatically grant understanding of reality. That's bullshit. Yeah, maybe you can figure that with some serious meditation, but I can't back that up with personal experience. All reason gives us is speculation and science; speculation gave us religion and science gave us a rapidly-growing list of stuff we've proved doesn't work. We don't really get it. It's disgusting how prepared we are to worship ourselves.

The food-chain argument falls apart from a gradeschool observation: we don't live forever, and try as you might, you can't stop other life from eating our dead for long. Goddamn, we try so hard to build walls and distinctions between us and the rest of nature, but it really doesn't work. Pump 'em full of preservatives, seal 'em in a box and bury them, burn them, sink them, whatever, but we try so hard to forget the flora and fauna that eats us. My culture cannot seem to stand interdependence. We are more like a small organ, or the tissue of an organ, of a much larger organism, the entire ecosystem. Our role? We collect and bring nutrients to the trees that let us live. We may forgive ourselves for forgetting this, because they speak not our language.

Flora is a perfect queen, piously worshiping the sun, collecting its love without a thought, breathing calmly and uncommandingly feeding fruit to the animals that serve her.

April 30th, 2008

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Maxilla

March 11th, 2008

Displaced

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Maxilla
I never get on the computer anymore. Being on it now for more than an hour is tiring, almost dizzying. So this feels weird again.

I'm in Memphis visiting my Aunt and Uncle, and occasionally a cousin. Erin's here, and we've been O.K. at not tearing out each other's throats. No, we've been just fine. I've been reading and sketching a lot when we haven't (and sometimes when we have) been on the road visiting my cousin Taylor in Murphysboro.

I bought some cool cigar boxes from some bar there last night, while Erin bought five. Rooted through the yuppy uptown part of town before we skittered off back onto the road this afternoon back towards Memphis. Not the shit district; just the new shit district.

It's funny how the Tennessee accent differs so much from the Floridian Southern (arguable just the South Georgia) accent.

I wrote a letter home today, the first in many many many months written longhand. Old cramping letters crumpled into clean white envelopes, hoping squinting into the sun to spot a photograph, flower, check inside.

I'm actually compiling a list of albums I must look for tomorrow in Memphis. I won't get my hopes up; Taylor warned me that I'm actually not too likely to find anything too rare. Maybe I'm just thinking that my tastes aren't too rare. Failing this, we'll plan a trip to the zoo. Aunt Suzanne says go early; the animals get up at dawn, and bored, nap by noon. I'll bring a sketchbook just in case. Sleeping animals, at least, hold still, and hold their figures better than dead ones.

The plane ride was surreal. I had thought I had only ridden a plane once before, hopping from the Bahamas to Miami, but Erin pointed out: "How did you get here years ago?" Oh my. I had completely forgotten, I came here before 9th grade, with my juggling torches to show off in the yard, my uncle shitting his pants in anxiety. I had flown, and completely wiped the memory from my mind. I remember, at least, being alone, being dropped off in one time zone, and picked up in another. By one twin (mother), for the other (Suzanne).

This is the longest I've ever grown my beard out. That is, about a week and a half, though you would hardly guess that from looking at it. It's not nearly as thick as I would hope. Sorry to dissappoint the hopeful with my previous pics.

I'm reading a book of Charles Bukowski's poetry published by his wife 10 years after he died. I looked in the library for "Post Office" and walked out with that instead. I'm enjoying it tremendously; yet it's no surpise to find out that his tombstone reads "Don't Try."

My father had suggested to me to read Nelson Algren, so I picked up "Man with the Golden Arm". It takes place right after the War, in Chicago, and all the dialogue is written in cryptic '40s slang (noteworthy diction: fingers = "lunch hooks"), so it's a little hard to follow at first. I wonder, if like A Clockwork Orange, I'll find myself slipping phrases into normal conversation. Like a twit.




There is a pattern.
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