Saturday, July 19, 2014

Blah-G Post #1

After coming to a sort of term that I should continue to write, I'm faced with my doubt or lack of confidence in my ability to hold a straight thought, to write something cohesive enough for the average reader or acquaintance to grasp. Or, I'd feel self-conscious about someone who knows me well reading it. Most certainly it's myself, though. Reading over everything I've written here in the past almost makes me cringe, or at least laugh at whomever happened to be thinking those words at the time. Stream of consciousness can be fun, though!

I just got out of a screening of the documentary film Life Itself, about the life of Roger Ebert. I liked how it presented things that are socially seen as "negative" in not necessarily an optimistic light, but with an assumption that the audience is personable enough to empathize and hold a greater knowledge about the events given the perception of the person or idea as a whole. Writing came to Ebert so easily though, and it was the only way he was able to put all his problems in the back of his head. To be that kind of person, to express with writing, do you not have to be one who thinks primarily in words? What about those with a cacophony of self-understood shifting wavelengths of feeling, or of fears and subdued passion? Even William Burroughs, another man I learned a bit about today, seemed to have required help from beatnik friends to put ideas together for Naked Lunch. His book touring assistant also confessed that one of his primary jobs was to find heroin in the underworld of every town visited, which is hilarious. Anyway, instead of thinking in fears (a full-time personal project, mind you) or trying to piece together ideas broken from the start, I'll try writing more in general. All that the public sees is a final draft, and I'm not one to proofread (what's telling me that something is better or worse?). These days, "writing" seems to be socially-charged sensationalist media punctuated by meaningless pictures wrenched in irony. Does anyone just write for the sake of it? I'd like to expand on that, but I can't.

Ideas are always flowing around in my head, but they're typically the same ones. Sometimes it's a little reminder or flashback to a segment of a future film script, but they really come in just that - segments. Sometimes the big picture of the film rears its head, but it's always something different - surely different from how it will be once I write the little things. I do rather like them, though. Outside of The Pit, which is still pretty clear in my head, though a barebones of the past. Then, there's a surrealist end-of-the-world flick about art, how meaning can change, friendship and love, and sickness. There's a romantic/nihilist western centered on three characters with different intentions to shape both the dying frontier as well as their own parts in it - that of course leads to destruction. Then, there's a drug-addled road trip drama, though this one is least fleshed out in terms of a visual style. It is all dialogue, as of now - my weakest venture! Still, I would like to profess this blog post as the first step towards "achieving" all of these!

Friday, June 13, 2014

"Untitled" 6-1-14

I evoke respiration in search of desperation
Scent to closing the eyes to the deep abyss I once knew a twin
Briefly feeling nothing but hesitation, how lost we were with your sin
Our hesitation to renew in the mythic sea of transformation

I open the eyes to here, all the sifting white brands, now, and wait
for the waves, crashing without the winds of change, to relate
Sliding over mounds of ashen sand I flash ideals asunder
Without a perfect form in sight, all but the malleable tides reaching miniature peaks is a blunder

Soon, not unlike the abyss I retract grasp upon spires of hope, naturally
And I always, still, forever, breathe while drowning under only waves a part of me

Monday, February 17, 2014

"Du, Mitt Konstverk" (12/27/13)

As the bumbling crow flies to sing
I try to wonder how life would be
Without a sequential secant of nothing
Silently echoing itself to and from me

Cyclical healings and forgotten rituals
Empowering the processes of power
Reversing unto spikes in these aerials
To eternally kindle the cure to this cower

You, the embodiment of all here unsaid
Are enlightened based on constructs in your head
I, myself still, meet anonymous subjection
Hailing the hegemony of happiness's rejection

"Love Triangles" (2/17/2014)

First a triad of mountain, earth and sea
Flinging parallel lights like thoughts so flickering
Bringing a close to desire to see it in the morning
and for a moment I find the strength to dream

Like dryads in the night we fail to reflect light
Black and white lives in a blue and redlit night
To recall what now deems erroneous I must fight
All to appear now as a weary parade of light

So of tired red eyes to the red in the sky never mine
say to see the one final cumulative star from familiar patterns
And of the most joyless tirades
is to remember one's own dreams

"Thy Light" (2/2/14)

Eros draining the sea
Let thyself come my desire
Lay down thy memory
For a moment retire

How sweet the rhetoric
Written in thy roots
Whenst potentials course muck
Slandered by reason's brutes

Thy light in both eyes prudent
Parallax within my mire
And, oh, just for a moment
I descend to retire

"Rack Focus" (2/2/14)

So suddenly close up
Focused not in the fore
Grounded in your head, somewhere
A sound crashes sand in your rack
The shifty apparatus through which I close my eyes
Slowly, blowing the flickering light of
existence unknowingly with every natural breath
Until all patterns, limbs, rearrange
and the breath in my eyes turns from the candle
to the sea
only you and me

"A Manuscript" (2/2/14)

A preface to that of yours
the law of multiplication is double-edged, bored
virgin to my eyes
but something starcrosses the sum of you and unity

We take a moment of silence as I look out the window with someone else's eyes
Where is the red in the sky?
Would it not appear until I die?

The cylinders did not surface here until I transcribed the sky
And in all of these lies I forgot about you
Who will have to wait up for me
Whoever you may be