Aesthetic Musings

what is left to stand upon?

Thu, 23 Apr 2009 21:33:00 -0400

what is left to stand upon,

but loss?

memories that melt

and drip out our eyes

they soak into the ground

of the places we walk

the things that we touch

the names that we speak

then they depart

to the other side of the horizonline

the sky

so clear and meaningless

until the storms gather

and hang together bounded up

bursting full above consciousness

and cover us in regret

in a flash of awareness

the most meaningless objects

they bear all our pasts

and strike in a moment

and bring it pouring back down on us

dripping down our face

when it used to be a fog

like the name couldn’t bear the weight

but the loss stays with us

in a different form

always changing and going back again -

- sometimes I stop and cast my glance up

This Why I Love Teddy Roosevelt

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 14:26:00 -0500

Let the man of learning, the man of lettered leisure, beware of that queer and cheap temptation to pose to himself and to others as a cynic, as the man who has outgrown emotions and beliefs, the man to whom good and evil are as one. The poorest way to face life is to face it with a sneer. There are many men who feel a kind of twister pride in cynicism; there are many who confine themselves to criticism of the way others do what they themselves dare not even attempt. There is no more unhealthy being, no man less worthy of respect, than he who either really holds, or feigns to hold, an attitude of sneering disbelief toward all that is great and lofty, whether in achievement or in that noble effort which, even if it fails, comes to second achievement. A cynical habit of thought and speech, a readiness to criticise work which the critic himself never tries to perform, an intellectual aloofness which will not accept contact with life’s realities - all these are marks, not as the possessor would fain to think, of superiority but of weakness. They mark the men unfit to bear their part painfully in the stern strife of living, who seek, in the affection of contempt for the achievements of others, to hide from others and from themselves in their own weakness. The rôle is easy; there is none easier, save only the rôle of the man who sneers alike at both criticism and performance. It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face in marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Her

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 17:08:42 -0500

I have a garden
perfectly planned,
organized and managed,
a safe space carved out
quarantined, of the wild
and fruit too sweet
flowers too bright

In the winter
(it is often winter)
all is buried and numb.
thinking this was true
I walked unbothered
until from far away
I noticed something
unintelligible at first
then tragically clear
beautifully exposed
blooming with life
bursting through time
a reminder

the distinctive blue of her eyes
called my name
long before her voice did
and with a much truer smile

in that moment,
her bright golden blue
warm and icy white sun,
her cleansing pure truth,
her nature, her presence
her fire, her water
her energy
her force
transformed me
held me accountable
forgave me
overcame me
knew me
loved me
in a way i never could

The Idea of Order at Key West

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 22:01:14 -0500

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.

It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds

Barack Obama as ‘Action Man’: Japanese toy company makes US...

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 14:05:11 -0500

Barack Obama as ‘Action Man’: Japanese toy company makes US President dolls - Telegraph

Child elopers' Africa plan foiled

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 12:58:03 -0500

Child elopers' Africa plan foiled

Pet Peeve:

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 16:32:11 -0500

When people think “prolific” is a synonym of “profound”

now, when i record, I usually set up two vocal tracks, and then do a take on one of them. Then i do...

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 19:11:33 -0500

now, when i record, I usually set up two vocal tracks, and then do a take on one of them. Then i do another, of me singing along with the first one. Then I record over the first one, and sing along with the second one (me singing along with the, now nonexistant first one). I just repeat that pattern until i like the way it sounds. So in a sense, what you here is me singing along with a voice that is no longer there.

unrequited

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 22:24:42 -0500

glances across the room
she is beautiful
sitting and laughing
so full, overflowing
her joy reaches
i am caught
infected
feverous
or is it magnetic
feminine
drawing me in
either way, i am stuck
yet timid
hesitant
a look is enough
i tell myself
wishing she would notice
but i give her no reason
she has given me none
yet i am still caught
infected
unrequited

eye contact

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 22:23:36 -0500

I am paused and time stops
a direct line of sight
and she turned towards me
i have to wonder why
her face was intent
for a second
thinking about me, surely
hopefully happily
it must be something
it happens again
strangers crossing paths
unsure which way to take
we look up and down again
wanting to catch each other
trying to not get caught
it must be something
if not, my mind is cruel
the smallest things,
the most unsure,
are the most exciting:
for now, to me
she is perfect
it is forever

the sky

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 22:20:35 -0500

the full weight of it
soaks, seeps into me
i alone feel it
even though i don’t understand it all
i feel the full weight of it

others have purpose
with hopes and goals, structure
sheltered in thoughts
from the full weight of all thoughts

my shelters have crumbled before
i pour foundations and ask
why here?
no answers come and my spirit fades

i want the full weight
but i can never bear it
being a human
and running out of time

but i also can’t bear just some of it
always knowing there is more
cheapens all my meager gains
makes me wonder if they’re good

on the outskirts of the shelter town
the structures aren’t as clear
many of them ruins
or else unfinished

i wander here time to time
but always am forced back
by the full weight of it
the full weight of the sky

“I feel like you’re like House” - Ahmad (on me)

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 14:24:40 -0500

“I feel like you’re like House” - Ahmad (on me)

"Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if..."

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 10:37:11 -0500

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

- C.S. Lewis

Attention Is The New "Work Ethic"

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 03:19:01 -0500

Attention Is The New "Work Ethic"

a moment

Thu, 01 Jan 2009 13:33:15 -0500

I don’t know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as a Beethoven
symphony
then you forget it and you’re back
again.

-Bukowski

scary, or reassuring?

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 15:10:49 -0500

scary, or reassuring?

Inside (via bashaw.nathan) Remember when you used to lie upside...

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 02:21:12 -0500

Inside (via bashaw.nathan)

Remember when you used to lie upside down on the couch, staring at the ceiling until it looked like the floor? I used to do that.

(Tragically) Accurate

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 07:06:27 -0500

I am 54% Tortured Artist.
Art is significant in my life, people are scum but I have the capicity to deal with it. Give it a few more years and I will either forget about art or hate the world.Take the
Tortured Artist Test
@ FualiDotCom

fame

Mon, 22 Dec 2008 02:56:11 -0500

I don’t really get it. Why is it that people half-ass creativity so they can have shit to push on people? I’m not saying I don’t do it - I definitely do. But isn’t it just all kind of fucking weird? I just don’t understand it. It’s like taboo or something to admit you just want to be famous. If you asked someone why they asked you to check out something they did they probably won’t be able to give you a straight answer.

“I don’t know, I thought you might like it”

Bullshit. You didn’t send me a link to your myspace because you thought it would make my life better. And by the way, it’s pretty pretentious to send someone links of stuff that you create because you think they would think what you did is good. Think about it.

This essentially leaves me sitting on my hands. I want to make music, I’m just confused as hell about why promoting it isn’t just an extension of vanity. If it is, I wish people would at least fucking admit it.

How to Increase Quality

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 15:08:04 -0500

Want to increase the quality of your work? Figure out what you don’t already know. I find that for me it is usually the most basic things. There is a lot that gets skipped over, in order to make people proficient at operating machines they don’t understand. That seems like a low-quality endeavour. I’ve started using HowStuffWorks to make my understanding (and quality) deeper.