Help has come and I have heard the call

of the wind, of the wild, of the rather pedantic exaltations of... whereeverdom, now now, on to the show.

the Question is, "why have we not encountered other intelligent life outside of the earth yet?"

My stab at it, for one, let us breakdown the question,

1. it is asking for a reason, a why?
2. the adjective is "intelligent"
3. the quantifier of range is "outside of the earth"
4. and a little hopeful intonation of "yet"

so how shall we attack it. How does one answer the question "why"? and what is really intelligence? My initial answer would be, well how can we as a people encounter what is qualified as intelligent when we ourselves do not display any of it in how we conduct our own lives? we kill each other over what the name of god is.... we let children starve and old men lay in the streets... if viewed from an outside world, how would that look?

but let me meditate on the question a little furthur... would the answer be different were the intelligence looked for came not from outside of the earth, but inside? from the consortium of souls, perhaps... ha ha, what is a soul anyway. i used the word "soul" yesterday, in describing the loss of a part of which, when faced with certain decisions of the carnal kind. yet do i even know what a soul is... ha ha ha ha ha ha

yet still we are hopeful, in the search, yes... yes we are, most certainly... yet.

my history is catching up

last week i started this method to keep a journal again, and swiftly laid it aside.

tonight i indulged, and will now read an academic paper by an ice princess of my dreams, but not the one that is most apparent.

the posts will be haikus, but never quite reaching the level of depth as I'd like.

(still the writing enchants me, more than any...thing else)

My Gift, Ma Pêche

ah, look outside, it is the first first snow of the season. I was going to let this speak for me somewhere, but that somewhere will have to be here for now.

the winter flight


to have come to this, like spots in the snow
the slow torture, the slight wisp of the wind
was it march or may when we were happy
or was it the flux predicted, this dream.
the songstress always stops before the fall
and the summer of my discontent, gone.


when the first months held such promise, now gone
underneathe the careless and trembling snow.
but the season has not yet reached its fall
when we still can lean back into the wind
and be held and beheld and lose and dream
faultless, carefree, vacant, safe, happy.


was it sadness that preclude the happy
was it pride that let go of the be gone
how the long night might prevent us to dream
yet leave the sense of ever lasting snow
lashing with the force of the wind, the wind
as i saw in the twilight of the fall


no bard nor dancer can perform the fall
of you into my lore and myth happy
still changes are erratic in the wind
and forgets where the center may have gone
faltering, chilling like the icy snow
when she wants to wake me up from this dream


the motifs remain constant in my dream
as all tragedies to do with the fall.
in pale novembers i can taste the snow
whose bitter nature made us so happy
used to, anyway, until it is gone
lofted upon the heavens in its wind.


what beauty in its wake, oh godly wind
what serenity that follows this dream
were we callous or fearful to be gone
from this absurd world, to this quiet fall
always up/down, oh Lady, be happy
inspire like a single flake of the snow

it's somewhat strange to think that today I bought a pair of sweatpants that probably cost more than entire outfits of mine in high school. Was it a residual residue of my consumerist counterrevolutionary reaction? I'd like to think not, actually.

then I was questioned based upon the "sales" principle about my purchase.... honestly now, I'd like to think I've afford my self the luxury of buying crap that I more or less need, simply 'cause.

Oh how low I've sunk to be using that phrase... ha ha, well, this is only a reminder, the manifesto's on the way

It's always been the music

Every time I hear Debussy, I'll think of you.

this poem illustrate all that makes me the worst and best of what I want to be. I read some old conversations i had with someone from March today, and remembered that I was not so dumb in feeling the Pull... but only because, i have too much faith in words.

"Fly
I have been cruel to a fat pigeonBecause he would not flyAll he wanted was to live like a friendly old man
He had let himself become a wreck filthy and confidingWild for his food beating the cat off the garbageIgnoring his mate perpetually snotty at the beakSmelling waddling having to beCarried up the ladder at night content
Fly I said throwing him into the airBut he would drop and run back expecting to be fedI said it again and again throwing him upAs he got worseHe let himself be picked up every timeUntil I found him in the dovecote deadOf the needless efforts
So this is what I amPondering his eyes that could notConceive that I was a creature to run from
I who have always believed too much in words
-W.S. Merwin"

The anniversary, two days late

that day reminds of the lesson i should have learnt a year ago. Yet no regrets remain but a flicker of a second for me. This past year has been the most curious of my middling lifetime. The only hope I have the remains unfulfilled is that I wish the lady would be a little less stubborn... though come to think of it, that might be impossible to ponder upon considering the temperament of the kind so like my own, ha.

This next year, will be the greatest test of patience the Divine has ever given me, and welcome it i do, with an Apollonian relish.

The Dream

i had the most vivid and beautiful dream last night. Usually i always know when i'm dreaming, but last night, i didn't...
the setting is thus, i was on the 6 train and she was on the 4 train, we were in our respective last cars and both trains were stranded in the station. I think it was the subways but really the trains looked like Metro North. It is appropriate, I suppose, that that image is used here... There was no one else on either cars. There could have been people in mine, perhaps I just failed to notice. she wouldn't have, so since she spoke, i assume her car was empty too.
we talked, over the opened doors, as the trains sat there. it was the most poignant words i've ever heard her speak. In the end, she gave me an explanation. The one thing I longed for.
Then the trains were beginning to move, hers i mean. and I stepped out of mine, but didn't go to hers. She said something else, and there were tears in her eyes. I stood and watched her train doors close and leave. My train left too and i'm left on the platform and i sank to my knees in a gesture of supplication that i'ven't performed since before i understood what it meant.
i could almost feel that i was feeling. then i awoke.
the dream is like the gift of the gods that I've only... dreamt about. It is fitting. and nothing she said was new, but still it was... astounding. I... want to remember this, as part of the memory of her. More than anything, I want to remember

i'm leaving

and i've arrived

i sought the truth and found lies

i opened my heart, and i lost it

I turned around, only to turn back again

the old lady did teach me something

funny how things are, i've been visiting her twice now in the hospital and yesterday was the first time i've ever talked to her really.

she sure is full of shit, but one thing she said inadvertently knocked me out. It was true, i've slid into the gray and she was right. There's either the lying and the lied to, intentions or not.

all things are easier now