I am 562 pages into a 1157 page novel called 1Q84

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art and design

I am reading it synaptically as if the words fired parts of my brain now fully lit. The novel plays back and forth between two characters, each chapter pertains to either Tengo or Aomame. I’ve read from an interview with Murakami that he writes his first draft till the end without knowing what the end will be, then he revises the shape of the novel to give it novelistic slant.

What I like about writing is that it forces one to come to terms with what one knows because we only know what we are able to convey.

I am at that place in my life where I abide by the rules and I avoid risk. It’s as if my former adventurous self has been told to sit out the rest of the game, this new docile being is now in charge. I think that is the way of life, we age and we adopt the carriage of the aged.

But this is a mood, a despondency born of work fatigue and the sky is overcast and on the wind there is the soft spray of coming rain.

What is that word where one feels one can do what one wants? Or is a concept? This is where my mind falters. I just lack the necessary recall to build my arguments. Some minds have an increased capacity to remember things.

With me, it has been said: funny the things I do remember.

At this point in time, I find benefits from close examination of what I am capable of… lets call this barroom banter…where we are passing the time sharing drinks and what we say is not the point.

The search light has found a new subject

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art and design / cinema of the body / culture / Journaling / personal / philosophy / Psychology / self-help / Your Moma

We live each day without looking at who we are, we have to- being how we are consumed by living- though some of us are so inclined that when our mind lights upon something heretofore dimly lit- this becomes our overriding occupation to better see what this seemingly accidental strop of light has revealed.

We are motivated first off by an extraordinary need to preserve the status quo, not to rock the boat. Though unto our supposedly calm seas stirs a wind that chops up the water making it all a confusing swelter. Making stew of our long held beliefs.

I have always been privately a voyeur.

Is this a confession?  It seems more exploratory in that I want to know what this means to be a voyeur when at one and the same time I am many things just depending on the situation. I am not one thing but many things to all people. Maybe I shade into borderline personality disorder.

But this idea that I am a voyeur implies that there also is someone whom likes being look at. It’s relational. And when I encounter such a woman it would be best to call it a silent dance. And consensual. At these times seldom is there consummation. An opposite outcome, one that does not depend on being touched but depends on being seen. Body parts are the objectives. Maybe owing to have been raised not far from a Playboy magazine, at hand was all that one could desire.

I don’t know exactly. But I imagine there are aspects of having been exposed to these sorts of images that would later present themselves into the fabric of my life. Or since we are looking to see what lies beneath this idea of voyeur could it be also that I have an extra ordinary capacity to be awed by nature and a woman is one the more beautiful things that can be witnessed on this earth.

When I first met my woman, she felt that when I came into the presence of some magnificent architectural structure say for instance the first time I had the chance to behold  the Catalan architect Antoni Gaud basilica will I just completely forgot about her and became so engrossed with what I was seeing it was some hours later that I came to my senses. She later told me she did not like it that I could experience something so passionately without including her.

To exist

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2015 / meditation

I must sit zazen.

We spend our lives searching after meaning and truth when maybe meaning and truth are just concepts that are related in that there are said facts that once are given meaning become truth. But as is the case most often we don’t have hard facts to examine and meaning is obscured, made opaque because we don’t have all the facts. So our sense of truth is a distant star we look to when we feel confused.

To end my confusion, at least for a day, I sit zazen. In truth, it is the most uncomfortable thing to begin. Put yourself in my place, sit on a cushion so that your hips are higher than your knees and cross your legs in louts, or like me half lotus and lay your palms upward against the infold of your knees and bring your thumb to bare upon and even touch every so light your middle finger, this is my favorite mudra. I like this finger position and the palms up against my knees because there is very little drag, my body is positioned in a way that lends itself to sitting upright.

Now as your body is adjusting to your weight and as it’s sinking you down more and more, bring your mind to your posture and lengthen your spine and take that first in-breath and allow your stomach to inflate like a ball. As a rule of thumb, to give some initial indication of time, you can apply the 4-2-6 method- 4 seconds breathing in through your nose as your belly rises, taken two seconds to hold that finally in-pulling breath; then releasing through the nose the exhalation to the beat of six seconds. Your out-breath should always exceed your in-breath.

Another guide point would be to count your breaths, every in-breath is one and the out-breath is and…you count every in=breath until you reach seven consecutively counted in-breaths without a thought dominating your mind. Then start over counting each in-breath again until you reach seven, then again- these three intervals of seven will add up to 21 whereupon now you should be floating in the ethers.

That is the essence of mediation, is to let go of thinking and to sit without doing anything but simply sitting while observing your posture and bringing your mind to your breath. When you start mediating it becomes your practice. The idea is to start where you are, even if that means lying upon the cool sheets of your bed. That was all I could muster yesterday, I laid for an hour not sleeping but simply counting my breaths until, I forgot all else save this all inclusive feeling that I was at rest, that this was where I needed to be.

But when you rise from the bed and you sit upon the floor and you lengthen your spine, there is a a stricter observance and the results are heightened. I get more from my mediation when I sit zazen. But to sit zazen is much like writing- they both require energy and stamina.

The mind draws a blank

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art and design

The hand taps the keys unconcerned, non-directional wherein you begin to consider that the mind’s eye is much like a light house that only lights a portion of the darkness you start to see that what you are looking at in a different light.

To write one must set an intention such as today, I will write. But another part of me has other plans, the day has long broke across the horizon and the greenery that surrounds my house still glissens from yesterday’s rain.

In conversation, my woman spoke about the four agreements and I questioned her that though they made some good points but there was no agreement as  to righting what might be wronged. In that, the twelve steps- the ninth step has always been a guiding point for me, that when we wrong someone we make amends. Without this action, this act wherein we acknowledge to the other that the behavior we exhibited is not in keeping with how we want to be, we would just continue being who we are without a smidgen of growth. Though I know to well, that over the years I have apologized about certain things and I keep having to apologize because some actions run so deep through us we have to let them run their course.

But the second agreement, to not take things personally resonates with me because that has always been a keynote with me, to take things personally. Especially the habits I developed as a young southerner, where you either learned to solve things with your fist or you got your ass whupped. The world my son lives is so different from the world that I grew up within.

And the first agreement, be impeccable with your words, that one is not hard owing to how I was raised that your word is your word and you have to hold to it. But I think it means not so much that as to mean that we have to guard how and when we say something so as not to offend. But me, I have this habit of making off color jokes which to some would seem crude. I can’t help it, I love to make people laugh but because my jokes are so edgy, there are those rare people that take offense. That’s when I step in with the ninth step and try to make amends and say something even more stupider like, this makes me want to fall on my sword.

I am rambling now just writing to be writing. Let me go, I want to skateboard some walls, feel for that second that rush of energy that comes with the flow. Then return to my yard work, house work, then my labor for the day. Then my woman and I having that warm embrace.

It’s like the need to write differs from the need to share

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art and design

Writing for me has been about exploring life events and moods and such things that rattle my cage or things that excite me.

As much as I would like to continue revealing aspects of who I am, there has come about this need to shut up. It’s like if I write it means that I endorse a certain point of view. Things continue to happen to me that normally would have been fodder to write by but now I have decided to either not write or to wait for some higher order of thinking that may bare light on who I am.

I think writers will nearly stop at nothing to secure a readership. What does that mean for me? At first, it seemed easy enough to write about sex when sex was and is what I do that engages me with sensations that everyday living fails to provide. Sure, I get a rush out of skateboarding, surfing and working out of doors and included too being creative by writing or looking towards some future design project.

But for me I like to start the day and end the day with my woman. I told her what we was doing was not fucking, that what we’re doing was lovemaking; love making constituted this act where the poinnt for me is not to come but to continually go between her mouth and back to her slot. Prolonging and stretching the act itself while attuning to her skin, her various smells and how different and various are the multiple ways she can spread her legs.  All the while I am climaxing in these incredibly small electric like sensations. Also, on occasion, I squirt into her, this is not a full on climax but just sperm escaping; it has to because I just about wont release it otherwise.  Plus my woman usually has her fingers touching my nipples or caressing my balls.

For my woman it takes this warm up to get her revved up for her final diddling of her clit which brings it all to a head and she says enter me and feel my juices and energy. And we lay there for some minutes kissing and careening and enjoining our bodies.

Then we get up make coffee and prepare for the day without me loosing my seed.

I allowed softness into my voice

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art and design

Trying to touch down enough to the ground to write. Thoughts come and go but to catch the afterthought, that is to write. To stretch what is set aside by asking yourself what will you do today: will you let another day slip by without asking why?

But enough about why.

To a paranoid everything is proof positive that doom is near to hand. To be certain is to be paranoid. To live with doubt is to grow.

The thought of being without talent is not enough to staunch my resolve to write

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2015 / Aesthetics

Maybe it’s not that I lack talent, but stamina, that capacity to sustain a thought. But more to the point, would be my gross inability to recall words that would abet my writing. Or better yet, the great divide between what I am capable of repeating back and what just wont adhere to my working brain.

We stand at a point seemingly far removed from where we want to be. And we run in place thinking we are making gains.

Life is episodic. We are held by a tenuous thread that pulls us out bed each morning. Some are guided by a thought to remove themselves from the world; while others are motivated to hurt people. Then there are those who run in place, not getting anywhere. They are looking for a hand out: brother can you spare a dime? Sister can you take a knee?

How can we live our lives of quiet desperation while others are playing havoc with the world?

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art and design / Islam / pantheism / personal / philosophy / prayer / Psychology / Questions / religion / self-help / war

It’s the strangest thing to read about the advent of a war between citizens of the same religion. Why is that strange? Maybe better put would be it’s incomprehensible to think that people as a body polity still want to actualize themselves through the malingering and killing of the other. Where are the higher aspirations? Where are the love children of the sixties? Are such lofty ideas of peace and hope, love and joy just that: lofty ideas?

There are those whom stare at death with passionate attention.

What are we to do to make it otherwise?

This all reeks of the Vietnam War era, a clash of values, a melding of ideas that brings harm to those that think differently. While all anyone wants is the right to manifest their destiny, no?

We in the West, so accustomed to having it all are squeamish when it comes to dying. We don’t have the stomach for it.

It gives us indigestion, an unpleasant feeling that lingers.

The victims were not identified but were in their 20s, witnesses said. The woman was described as being married. It was not known whether they had been given a trial, but none was held in public.

Twelve ISIS militants were standing there who had bags with them filled with stones, and they began throwing the stones at them, and after the third stone the woman was killed.

Where is the wisdom of he whom is without sin cast the first stone?

 IMG_4372Annihilation of the abomination.

While others go in circles

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art and design

I collapse unto a ball and roll away. Incoherent thoughts shall begin this discourse because if I don’t begin it now it will be days away and it frightens me to think that I cannot coalesce my thoughts into something coherently readable.

Before slipping off into the nether reaches of sleep last night it occurred to me that I am a compulsive reader. Someone whom is orally fixated on the printed word.

I just pushed published and now I can relax and write. It is happening, the act itself is liberating. Much like oral sex, the preamble to bigger things while we oscillate for days upon multiple subjects.

Point in fact is that I am never far from a book. Not all books can sustain my attention. In some way it may also reflect my taste in women. Though I am in a relationship, it seems I still see value in other women. Are some men predestined for polygamy? Or are they just pigs by nature? Or are my reading habits more indicative of my inability to stay focused on one thing for long. In some way, reading works as a ballast by keeping me upright.

In not equal parts, I read for information, inspiration and for a synaptic high. Also, I see reading as a mini tutorial on how to write, how to think, how to be. And hand to mouth, I read continuously.

You know too well my present fetish Murakami though that has waned since finishing Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, still in the wings is a nearly read after dark and 1Q84 which is a tome of a book. But what derailed me was acquiring A Confederacy of Dunces which had me bustling with laughter from the start and then to read that writer had committed suicide 11 years before it was published and that what i was reading was literature, reminding me what I was reading was not. Not that Murakami is so bad a writer, style is hard to press through translation. But some writers just have that literary flair, that knack for telling a story that seems to include the full sweep of humanity. And I feel Murakami is just  a tad short to be considered literature. I know this because I find myself skipping ahead whereas with literature you want to imbibe it like scotch. Leave it long enough in your mouth so as to quicken its entry  into your blood stream.

Reading has various hand holts on me. Some pertain to the arts. Especially those concerning Michelangelo whom has a broad reach on my esthetic underpinning. Everything is via everything. Especially those things that connect reoccurring patterns. In some sense, I have concluded my study of Michelangelo. I can only stare at his architectural works and ponder for so long, or read about him or about his works but a greater thing has occurred that is perhaps more significant. I have discovered Francesco Borromini whom shares a similar fate to Brahmans. Both men were guided by their love of another man’s work. As was Brahmans to Beethoven; Borromini to Michelangelo.

I had not found the spice to spike my curiosity concerning the Baroque. I could not find access, there seem to be no discerning point. Sure my eye was entertained but my soul was left wanting. That is until I read a New York Times movie review of Eugene Green’s La Sapienza. And had to do an image search to see what this Borromini was about which lead me to the library where I found a dated book by Anthony Blunt who ties  Borromini into Michelangelo and now I am hooked. Distracted if you will away from other reading matters.