Sábado, 12 de Abril de 2008

Sorrow and forgetfulness




Sorrow and forgetfulness,
make the history of memory.

A continuum of random loose events,
glued by a feeling of unbecoming
and history made whole by regret.

The unexamined life is not worth living…
They say…
That might be true,

But I live a life put to such scrutiny that no man could survive this.


All,
All day,
All the things,
All the things that I think and that I am,
wait bovinely to be perused by the panopticon of conscience.

Self and reason as the plot where it’s weaved this web of failure.
Nowhere to run,
nowhere to go,
hostage of myself.

Alone in this prison,
sacrificed at the altar of me.
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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:58
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Love Shall Rule the World





I

Love rules the world.
Listen to my words,
because it does.

Love, the unbreakable law of the universe,
the last word of God
and His final seal on creation.

Love is the gravity of the soul.
The force that gives Spirit direction,
purpose
An up and a down.
Movement and a direction to move.

Love the cause
and the reason for causation,
a force beneath and above all forces,
beginning and ending all things,
so powerful and so present that is,
as if it wasn’t.



II


Many names are given to Love,

Compassion,
Caring,
Wanting,
Protection,
Solidarity,
Charity,
Piety,
Sympathy,
Empathy,
Affection,
Tenderness,
Enthusiasm,
Devotion,
Attachment,

all different,
all wrong.

All the names that Love was given,
all of them,
are veils to protect the eyes of Man from its true nature.


Because the true name of Love is Obedience.



As matter finds matter,
as time bends space,
as space twists place
as place becomes gravity,
as continents drift above the mantle,
as trees look for the sun,
as animals hunt for prey,
as rivers run to the seas,
as fruit falls from a tree,
as man searches woman,
and
as all die…

So do we,
all,
obey the unwritten law of Love.

Unwritten and unexplained,
for it was never meant to be understood,
only put in motion through Creation and in each and every one of us.

Love is God’s intent in time and space.
And, being of God, his intent his alive and sentient.

He unfolds trough time this long mysterious narration of Love,
of which we are an infinitesimal part.

We move in His direction, oblivious to the whys and the hows.
Not because we don’t know them,
but because they don’t exist.


Love as a clear stream of Logos pervading the universe.

Reason without logic,
Knowledge without understanding,
Love forever free from the yoke of causality,
shining on us its cold white light,
freezing us to immobility,
making us stop,
and listen,
and learn.

Obey.

III


Love as a thud in the mouth of the stomach.
A pang in your chest,
a tremor in your hands,
a quickening of the heart,
and a widening of the eyes.


The mother who kills her own so as not hear their cries of hunger,
the instinctive scream as another man falls,
a sickening feeling when other animals are hurt,
a strange revulsion against death and pain in others,

foreigners,
strangers,
beings to whom we owe nothing,

unknown,
uncaring,
but,
still…
All of us,
united against the outrageous scandal of entropy.

This is the new Revolution.
The True Revolution.
The Only Revolution.

God’s path to Himself,
and Man’s only unquestionable allegiance.


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:51
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The Words of Others




Long gone are the halcyon days,
too bad they were so short-lived.
Sideswiped the cake, and stolen the champagne.
we drink the dregs and wait for the bell of last call.

A green yellow morning trundles violently towards the bed,
and we see our faith as mobile, relevant, and bold!
The reason is simple:

We are dead in our beds and hearts,
sickened to the stomach by the lingering want of living,
and the secret shame of not dying.
And the churches are rarely full and our many countries are being sold off, to the Mammon devils we fear no more.
Bowing mechanically into silence and turning our back into public discourse.

Going,
and growing,
evermore into stunned and unutterable disbelief.

Increasingly dependent on the words of others to
wear the many identity masks we wear concurrently – race, ethnicity, gender, class, language, region, tribe, and faith
all exist simultaneously.
While identity is not essential,
it is profoundly democratic to choose which aspects of one's identity to represent in the public.

But,
again,
maybe the presence of so many players is not the necessarily the issue.
The more voices the merrier...
maybe.
life is an effort to live a life of divine awareness and acting in accordance with high moral values and ethical standards...
and ,
even if this sounds terribly idiotic,
we need not be ashamed of that.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:46
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I'm Becoming the Pillar of Salt


(Detail, Mosaic of Ravenna, "Lot's Wife")

I’m becoming the pillar of salt.
The last glance to Gomorrah.

Orpheus guilty glimpse over the shoulder,
the last long look to things not done,
to the Styx and
forward.
Forward…
to the sadness of wrong turns taken at the wrong times.

Opportunities lost as soon as they are found,
time passing by like a thief in the night…

watching the spectacle of being and
living as the silent detached witness of myself.

Cold
distant
and aloof.


I haven’t slept for five years.

All,

All days
mornings afternoons and nights,

all,
together,
one after the other.
All days and all nights,
are the same, under the harsh insomniac light.

The hours pass
(dirge-like as in a prison)
as I walk down the garden locked inside the walls of my house.

The light darts yellow trough the window and onto the trees,
as if shielding them from reality…

Yellow restless light that counts time passed between vigil and feverish dreams.
A light of ruse and mischief,
artistry and puppetry,
light made by a slight of hands, smoke and mirrors.
reminding me that,
from now on,
there is nothing here but the ghosts of reason.

In the phantasmal light that scars the trees,
I sit grass like and canopy looking…
tall and distant….
Taut and alert.

trees.

I watch them green and stupid,
tended and erect,
darting upwards towards the sky…

silently intent on photosynthesis.

Inside them a myriad of organisms, moved by the simplest tropisms.
grow and move,
restlessly and mercilessly,
unmoving and uncaring.
oblivious to everything but their growth.



All.
All this,
All so foreign.
All cold and unaware.

A universe of vast silences and expanding indifference.

Cold,
Cool,
Beautiful.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:38
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Would if I Could





I

Would if I could,
refuse me from life and its appointments.

If I could,
I would,
sever all ties with polite society,
set sail from humanity,

Shun all morality,
all knowledge,
all Love.

Not out of rebelliousness,
and least of all to be free,

but out of sloth.


The apathy that impedes me from acting has led to this philosophical detachment.
That’s not philosophical at all.

It is,
whole,
inertia.


Would if I could,
surrender unashamed to the weariness brought by the passing of time.
Quietly address the silence that’s inside,

wrap me up in indifference and leave the world to its own devices.

So I could watch TV…
for eons and eons.

My indolence is irreducible to logic and cognition.


There’s no causation for this sadness,
There’s no sickness or sorrow that could explain it.
It’s just there,
like gravity…
one and the other bringing everything we know crashing into the ground …

My mind is one with the forces of the universe,
fighting nothing and wanting for less,

I wait that the last guests leave so I can be alone.

But I know,
acutely,
that talking of being one with the universe is nothing but words in love with words
taking them to the end of themselves,
finding release on the cusp of nothing .

Laziness,
pure
and
simple.


And as I sit here writing these words, I’m reminded of younger days…

Of watching adults go through theirs lives half awake,
responsive to just a small set of stimuli,
Living a life that the dead would be ashamed of living.

well…
I believe I achieved maturity.
I am an adult…
And not even the horrified gaze of a younger me will wake me from this stupor.

I also remember reading that when a man has children looses half his soul.

Forever incapable of redemption,
an empty shell,
living a life that the dead would be ashamed of living.
well…
I’m a father now.
She’s three and she’s adorable.
Do you want to see pictures?



But all this remembering feels like reenacting finished conversations.
Lines of enquiry who were closed because conclusions were found already.
All this knowledge is useless and cold.

Even if it is the only source of explanation for me…


but…
honestly,
I can’t be bothered with myself.


II


Would if I could…
but I cant.

And perhaps its better this way,
leaving even the wish of ataraxia unfulfilled…

what better monument to anomie but the failure to stop.
There’s a deep logic in a laziness so profound that stills acts.

But,
still,
who cares?
who could possibly care?
why?


God knows I don’t.
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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:33
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Ice Storm

As everything expands to the end of its possibilities,

and the cold brings homeostasis and simplicity to the universe,

We bow,

gently,

at the unstopable violence of cause and effect.

 


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 15:27
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Black Girls Over the Steeple





Black girls peering over the steeple...

Silent disbelief as the monks looked at dune where the women stood.

The slow, red, caressing wind, touched their faces, hair, and feet,
spreading incredulity all trough the desert.






The day was getting late.
The hill was ahead...
high and long...
Northern breeze blowing the sand out of the buried church.

The women looked at the monks;
looked at the sky and;
went away...
over the hill
and nowhere to be seen.

The night drawed near and colder.
Paulus, Josephus, Silva, stood tired and silent before the hill of sand that surrounded the church.
The Old church.
The church they longed to find.



It grew darker and darker,
colder and colder...
Night oozed blackness through the golden stony desert...
Everywhere sand, stones and nothing.

They walked for 40 days to get here...


And now;
for the first time in 3 days.

They stopped.
Tired and unable to move.
Parched and gasping for breath.
Weary and kneeling in front of the dune.



Before it they stood;
breathless,
Their legs broke, their eyes widened, their hearts bleeding.

There were no more places to go and no more prayers to pray.
Prostrated,
broken,
waiting.

The sunset came over the desert like a sunset who comes over the desert,
as men waited,
like men wait in the desert that will kill them.


Looking at the dune that's not a dune but a hill,
and hill that's not a hill but a church.
The Old church.

Clearer and clearer through the night wind...
it's stony walls cleansed by the dust of passing time.
Long,
Long,
Time ago.


Far,
Far,
away,



in the desert.
There were three names who were men, and men who were monks, and the monks who remembered their master...
He spoke of the new God.
The Man-God of Galilee.
Chocked like a beggar, died like a king.
He brought them news of the end of the old gods and the promise of a new beginning.

Servants of Jesus, the Christ.
Fishers of men;
Fishing for spirit beneath the remains of the flesh.

Their zeal and piety was not enough.
The light of God trembled dimly through the haze of doubt and reason...

And the longing for the Nazarene became a wanting, and the wanting became a journey; and the journey became a story;
and the story was this:

"When the Verb Incarnate walked the earth,
he searched the desert, listening for the fading sounds of God.
Deeper and deeper into the vast white silence,
into the barren loquatorium of the Godhead.

And,
He found himself very, very
far,
far,
away from everything else.



He saw for the first time his own Divinity;
Naked and triumphant;
the presence of Being as a wave of destruction engulfing this unwelcoming altar.
His life and body a fitting sacrifice for the reward of the final truth...
In this place,
In the center,
the middle.
Inside,
him.

This was the first church.
This was the place of the prime sacrifice.
Where Jesus died for Christ,
and the destiny of the world was sealed by the Son of Man.



It's this empty place of giving the monks searched for...
walking,
not standing...
looking,
not finding...
living,
not being,
in the centre of God's first sacrifice to himself.

And,
Lo,
They found it in the desert.

Under the hill,
the dune,
the sand,
time,

darkness made flesh.


On their knees,
before the night wind,
blowing the sand from the church that awaited them.

And,
as they waited,
horrified,
terrified...
as God slowly striped before their unwanting eyes,
they watched,
(after the point of no return)
the grim spectacle of men made spirit,
and spirit made sacrifice.



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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 14:20
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