The growing audacity of the deprived to act depraved. The obstinate, the ethically famished, the sour, sorry, starving scavengers that scour the landfill of professional poverty, the value-hungry squanderers who smile and score squarely on the efforts of others, brandishing half-wits,half-hearts, half-lives, full-blown self-entitlement swelling with expectations of ease in enterprise.
‘Experimentations’ Category
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Attitude Problem
July 10, 2013 by A.
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To someone who waits
January 28, 2012 by A.
It will come. The ones who deserve the purest love are oftentimes the ones who wait the longest. You get to the soul of a thing by experiencing it until it whittles down to its most basic yet potent form, like rose oil.
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This, a test.
August 27, 2011 by A.
Taking a first bite into the apple
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There is a point in life where
August 11, 2011 by A.
There is a point in life where we gain a higher understanding of life. Like the very first time you find out that your parents are imperfect creatures. Or that you are actually good looking. Or that you can sing perhaps, and are overwhelmed at how much better you are at it than the few people you know. My son is in this point in his life right now. I woke up to find him right next to me (where there had been previously a considerable amount of space between us), already awake. He had kicked his blanket as it lay gathered at his feet. And there he was, looking at his hands in quiet observation, gazing at the way his fingers curled and closed. And when I whispered, “Hey…” he slowly shifted his gaze towards me, cooed, and then smiled.
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Fecund
May 11, 2011 by A.
She raised her birthing hips high as a full bowl to a sipper, as he situated himself where he had always been drawn to the heady scent, and she felt, at that moment, as she clawed and clenched, seeing him rise and set over the horizon of her valley, and as fluid came rushing forth from the most primal river of her being, her body threatening to go inside-out, that she was giving birth to him, the father, her pulse beating like a tambourine fecund with the feast of fertility.
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Black Saturday
April 24, 2011 by A.
Took a much-needed walk outside with him under the stillness and silence of midnight. The seduction of demons all day, and could not be comforted. In the end, silence and darkness are as much a source as they are a cure when all means to apologize for being complicated, for harbouring maddening and mysterious passions or dispassions have been exhausted, as they are as much a mystery to the one who harbours them as they are to the beloved who suffers their emergence, their emergency, complexly, perhaps deliciously.
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In medias res
April 15, 2011 by A.
You cannot regard a lover for their present alone. While love teaches you to appreciate moments by treating them in their pinprick singularity – each one, a single strand of hair standing on end to the stimuli of beauty, both an end and a beginning in itself – there is always a past that goes beyond the blanket and currency of skin, deep beyond what you can palm in the dark and cup in the light. And while you will be jealous of it, for not being part of it, for never being able to own that part of him like a language lost to the gaping mouths of jars of oral history, you soon realize that love is as linear as it is scattered. Like light, you face him, and with your ray of love you permeate through his present: exposing vein and vessel, he is made transparent by your gaze which reaches far towards the opaque, impenetrable mirrors of his history as they, tiny broken mirrors, stare back at you with beady darkness, a multiple-eyed creature deflecting your light, making it ricochet in all directions, slicing across space in elusive brilliance like mercury. It scatters throughout his body, which reflects upon your own when you make love to him. And he will see it on you, perhaps while he stares intently at your face and at the furrow in your brow, the parting of your lips left unchecked or the faint flaring of nostril, or while he ponders on how your red nail enamel had always suited you best as war and love, pleasure and pain, all unite at the tips of your fingers, thinking it – this scattered light – to be autonomous, exclusive to your being, which to him exists far more out of grasp than his will ever be to you, and something of which he will likewise never be able to own but can only make everlasting. Everlasting, with the present palm of his hand pressed on your crimson cheek as he imposes himself hardly upon the universe inside of you, then moving ouwtard, making all the single, infinite strands of your hair stand on end, on their own moments, as the two of you stand in the middle of things, always in the middle of things where everything else seems to gravitate towards disarray, towards a scattering, of baseness and brilliance, because to you, he is beauty made carnal and incarnate.
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Lines
September 4, 2010 by A.
The remaining strings of fading light play
on your body like a harpas the day draws to an end. Everything is
either still or subtle here, a solemn orationto the sun, somewhere far off,
slipping behind a reddened creasethat folds the earth thoughtfully, beyond
this room. Here, your bodyrests like a horizon as my spirit sets
over the edge of a red bed, a sea partedby the creases drawn by the bedlam of our ways.
I had severed your body withmy tongue, had sliced
portions of you to consume, separatedeach locality eloquently from the rest
with the precise pinprickof the present. I am now
connecting your body, partby part
my lips parted asyour shadow slips out from underneath you
to elopewith light, like lovers moving towards
the unknown. You remain herewith me still
in this still roomdarkly at rest and beautiful as I sit in gentle
arrest having stoppedand surrendered to this
precisemoment, knowing
that somewhere far off there isa point into which everything vanishes,
into which everythingstrings away
folding back into origin,unlimited rays of light
brought together bythe very limits of
our sight.
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On skin: a one-sided dialogue
May 22, 2010 by A.
Dear friend.
I had a myriad things to say.
But then you know, suddenly, everything began to whittle down in my head into the most fundamental form, perhaps the way skin both sublimates and settles into particle upon particle of dust, never ceasing to touch surfaces. Simply because everything is matter.
Simply because everything matters. And so, very simply, such is love: to love someone, we later on learn, is not so much wrought on our want to own and be owned by someone, but on our want to be free with someone.
So do not be worried. Because at the end of the day, we really are all alone – no matter how relationship-oriented one is, no matter how deeply intertwined couples are, no matter how solid a partnership stands – we are all alone. And one’s awareness of this is precisely what relationships must bank on: each one a solitary human being, accompanying the solitude of another. Skin to skin. Bone to bone. Particle to particle.
So i will say, simply enjoy the confusion of being in love, but with as much clarity – as if beholding dust particles dance under light.
I hope to hear from you soon. Update me.
—-I didn’t expect your call. You are very welcome. This is also a great pleasure for me, to inscribe these things in the context of certain situations – in this case, yours – as I learn in the process of thinking them out as well. And, thank you. You gave such a wonderful evaluation of the imagery I used, you beautified it with your interpretation. I am very glad you got what I intended to mean by the sublimation – not that I ever doubted you would, of course not – just that I’m glad my language did not fail me, as I always tend to think it would with my sudden sporadic expressions.
Now allow me to add: Love your skin. It holds all the vulnerable parts inside of us in place, and beholds all the arresting parts outside of us as space. It seals in as well as springs forth compactness and distance.
And yes, precisely: skin, like love, aspires to mediate between what we receive and what we perceive in this world. Distinguishes yet connects our external and internal realities. Churns memory out of common experience, sense out of stimuli. Skin. Through which love’s passage is a permeated permanence. Moments are turned into monuments. And sure bodies will grow old, or better yet, give in to gravity – perhaps the law of attraction is nothing more than two bodies recognizing that which is grave, or that which carries much weight, pressing on us tenderly and encouragingly until our skins wrinkle. And that graves, really, are nothing more than gaping mouths on the earth lusting after bodies that had once loved freely.
The skin, like love, is what tells us, that the point of contact and separation are one.
Like a kiss.
You hold while you let go.
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Pay attention.
February 27, 2010 by A.
1) Your anchor to living in the moment, to fully experiencing the present, in whatever circumstance, whether you hurry, whether you linger, is your breath.
Your breath.
Your breath.
2) Your anchor to getting the most out of human experience is to recognize it as spiritual. The spiritual capitalizes on connection, and permeates through all the chambers of your life.
3) To love where you are is to recognize that you are always moving, and that every thing around you is a breathing, heaving body – whether it be of breath, history, or beauty,
4) To love someone is to pay attention to all three in their body, and fully experience their presence in the present — their assertions, expressions, silences, shifting, hesitations, mannerisms, embarrassments, color of veins against thin skin, their swallowing, delicateness of throat, blinking, delicateness of eyes, tiny hairs against light, tone colour of voice, the vibrations, the textures, the splendid heat of their body, distinct scent of their sweat, the curdling of their hunger, the modest knocking of pulse, the breath that refreshes with your breath making you different people every moment.
5) Because you keep the things that you love alive.
(for Gael)
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