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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion

10
Jan11

Looking Inward

 

As days go by...

As days go by, I,

and all the others,

grow increasingly distant from the world.

As I grow older,
day by day,
things around me seem less clear than their image inside.
Which is not an image,
or a representation,
but a foggy, cursory feeling of something else,
something simpler yet darker,
clearer but evanescent.
The blueprint of reality, seen fleetingly through closed closed doors, eyes and hearts.

Everyday I,

and all the rest,

learn our part in the world by rote … but not by heart.
Knowing it so well that it is now,
all tropism and inertia.
A fluid give and take of forces and masses that determine a psychology best described by the equations of physics.


The Outside is left to its own devices. A garden of powers engendered by complexity and the will of the young,
who were

still

not summoned to inspect this strange vision,

begotten by action and living,

and existing as something else entirely.

And as time passes I,

and everyone else,

feel this inner truth to be a little clearer, and the Outside,

a little distant,

a little dimmer,
more remote.
Increasingly foreign and threatening.

This is called growing old.

This small nugget of knowing that we believe we glimpsed is evermore enticing.
Still incomprehensible,
distant of words and wary of grammar,
it seems to stand still if looked from the corner of your eye,
but if you try to stare at it …
it’s not there anymore.

And,
as time passes,

as it surely will.

This hunt becomes path, motion and goal for those who have more years than time.

Slowly the Outside gets evermore abstruse and incomprehensible,
full of change and movement caused by nothing and going nowhere.
And,

as it gets increasingly difficult to understand,
we loose the words and refuse the meanings that perpetually mutate to survive.
For we haven't
looked Outside for so long,
and retreated to the other truth that needs nothing but us.

This silent knowledge,
devoid of language and requiring only unerring attention,
grows to encompass all experience.
And when I,

and all of you,

don’t forget,

have become nothing but watchers of a truth that requires no dialectic,
there’ll be no need for words,
for seeing,

for duality …
and for watchers.
For a watcher that has no Outside watches nothing, and cannot exist.

Then I’ll die,
and disappear to the place where there’s no more Truth or Reason.
And these words will have meant nothing.

 

 

28
Dez10

Dubious Blessings

 

Morning looms strange by the window.

Unexpected and unwanted, it tramples uninvited through the living room,
bringing light and a crisp fresh start to an unfinished night.

It is over,
night's done,
and all this caught me a little off guard.

I squint, unprepared,
for the radious winter sun that is being welcomed by someone else, somewhere.

Not here.

I wish it would rain now.
I wish it would rain hard and long,
a dark and enveloping barrage of water
to shield me from this new beginning.

God!
I’m really not ready for this!
08
Jan10

Eumeswil (1ª Parte)

 

When I close my eyes I see a desert.

The, long, brown, infinity that stretches from the mountains to the sea.

Leaving everything in between dead, and indifferent to its embrace.

A space of immobility where movement is Wind.

Blowing.

Hard and soft....

Subtle and strong...

Northward and southward,

Hither and thither.

Striping the structure out of the desert.

The only truth the wind.

And the wind is the desert.

And the desert is ...

It.

 

 

The desert as the end of wanting.

The last mille of hope in the road to despair.

Where the Saviour goes to die.

This is the place were everything stops, and is moved by chance.

The place of the prime movement

Fate,

Chance,

Flow.

When I close my eyes I see a desert,

Beneath me, and in front of me.

In space in now, in time in here.

 

 

 

Southward on the other side of the sea,

in the other side of the ocean.

Europa’s birthplace.

My birthplace.

The desert that was then when we started.

When Europa made its first tentative steps to Itself.

A desert not as a desert but as a barren place;

A place where to be free.

In the Future,

Here,

In Europa,

The Peninsula will be a undulating vastness of naught.

Rocks and sand where once stood the cities of today,

Ruins of fountains, pools and waters mirrors,

Incomprehensible artefacts of a past best forgotten.

And,

Scurrying nimbly through the desert,

Our children’s children.

Traped in a culture too slow to move with time.

Still believing themselves Empire,

but,

now,

all made of sand.

Yesterday,

Late in the day,

Yesterday,

Long ago,

In a day dead and done,

The day before now,

Yesterday.

It’s hours frozen by time,

For it’s yesterday.

Final and frail as porcelain dolls.

These are the days that you’re given.

Existing because time is locked in yesterday.

Yesterday where knowledge goes to die.

A land of reason and language,

The last sarcophagi of living and a prison.

It’s in this tomb of being that I see the desert,

Southward and in the desert.

 

 

 

A premonition of nothing,

A call to arms

And words to the wise


08
Jan10

Eumeswil (2ª Parte)


The sky seems to get a little bit higher,

Going upwards and upwards,

Escaping us in a hurry.

Fleeing a place promised to anathema.

Knowing something we don’t.

 

The rain is evermore scarce,

The forests crackle dry and burn in winter.

The rivers turn into torrents of mud.

Crocodiles hunt in the mountains

And bears fish by the sea shore.

 

The climate is changing and we seem to stand still.

As the oceans flood the lands

And the desert gobbles up forests.

Rain now only a wet remembrance of days gone by

An enormous sadness for the watery world we left behind,

Fills the air under a indifferent sky.

Growing evermore remote.

 

Scientists say it’s not going to rain anymore.

That we shouldn’t count on our crops,

Anymore.

Rain buried in the dust that becomes wind,

Flying through the ocean to the,

Original desert.

Sand as the seed of the future.

Feeding on each other,

And turning the Mediterranean a salty oasis.

 

Scientists say our land is dying and that we should move away,

Elsewhere,

Anywhere,

To a land that’ll keep us...

But I ... I’m not a scientist,

So I’ll think I stay.

 

And as I prepare to wait I ask myself,

Will the desert bring its own religion

Will this be the final death of the Green Man ?

The Green Man survived the cross,

Will he survive the death of the woods?

Will the sand bring forth Mahomet or will this be Christ greatest triumph?

He is,

After all

A son of the desert,

 

Or,

Maybe,

In the end,

This will be the final moment in a 2000 year old changing of the guard.

 

Perhaps Mahomet and Christ are not all that different,

Both are sons of the desert and grew feeding on the spirits of the wind,

The tree spirits mortal enemies.

Or maybe something new will appear,

A culling of all this deities, places and times.

A crucible to bring forth a new and happy science,

But,

This is not a place of beginnings but of endings.

A place best understood by the old at heart,

The cautious and suspicious mood of age best suits this changing mores.

And the old,

Out of habit and out of fear,

Look to the past for answers.

To yesterday,

To the house of porcelain dolls of intelligence and discourse.

But not even time past can illuminate the sombre path that lies ahead.

Only looking long into the past,

Can we glimmer faintly to something akin.

Deep into the harbour of the first wanting,

can we find the face that suits these final features.

 

Europa’s long journey from the bogs of magic though the plains of philosophy and to the rarefied mountains of science

has brought to a place so bereft of everything else,

That only the first Gods

Who were not here and needed nothing,

Can exist

Finally liberated from the shackles of religion,

The bonds of reason

The yoke of aesthetics

The burden of morality

We were delivered free

To the desert of our own creation.

 

And as form follow function

And matter follows spirit,

Our land becomes as inhabitable as our heads.

 

When I close my eyes I see a desert.

I move from the window where I stood,

And stagger into my darkened bedroom,

And lying on my bed,

Eyes wide,

Looking intently into the ceiling

I shed the first tears for the place where I’ll live,

Waiting its coming,

It’s God,

Their people.

 

27
Jun09

SONG OF FREEDOM

 

 

 

 

I

Have they taught you nothing?

All the prophets,

all the poets,

All of them.

Thousands of years of words, deeds and actions,

Have you not heard?

Saw?

Understood?

 

No matter

For what I’ve come to tell you is the summation of everything that was told before me.

At least everything true.

All truths, all science, all art, all philosophy,

All paths to freedom through knowledge,

come to this:

 

It’s not important.

 

 

You are not important,

Your family is not important,

Your friends are meaningless,

Society does not exist,

There is no “we”,

Bury the fiction of Nation,

Of good deeds and bad,

Of knowledge,

Of beauty,

Of love

All of this is wrong, small and unimportant.

 

And it was this that they were telling you,

The prophets and poets and the others.

It was just this, they wanted you to know.

 

This is all you needed to know.

 

II

 

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

For now you are free!

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

For now you live in a brighter, better world!

 

All life, all of it,

in its complexity and abstruse variance,

 is of no importance.

All has no meaning in this bigger picture will make our own,

For if it’s the result of evolving matter as say the scientists, what of it?

Theirs is but a small place in the universe,

Beautiful,

But small, and of no consequence.

And if life is the gift from Gods, is this the bigger boon we can imagine?

Surely not.

 

So rejoice, rejoice!

You were set free from respect to life!

 

And what about friends and family,

And all the bonds of empathy that keep us together?

What of them?

Since Life failed us as an answer,

we could always take refuge on the certainty of love.

But we all know,

deep down,

that this is not sure footing for the lovers of truth.

This is a marshy land, that shifts and moves ceaselessly.

Very beautiful and not to be trusted.

 

The answer is not love,

Nor is it all you need,

Because we need so much more.

 

Rejoice, Rejoice!

For the Ghost of love no longer haunts you!

 

And the knowledge of all these things,

Brought together by reason, logic and intuition,

Is of no consequence even before its very eyes.

For its science itself that teaches us that what we know is but a speck in what there is to discover.

And that what we can imagine is like a haze covering what might be there.

 

When you look at a stone,

any stone,

And imagine the millennia it witnessed:

Being on the bed of a lost sea,

Having risen to heights of mountains that disappeared,

watching dead animals howling at stars that

for so long

have changed their place in the skies…

To now be carried unaware in your hand,

with no inkling of itself,

deaf, dumb and blind.

This in each and every rock!

 

 

Rejoice!

The burden of knowing was lifted from your shoulders!

 

And God in all this? Where to find him?

Everywhere.

For this is a poem not about the death of God but of its awakening.

Not the God of the spiritual accountants they keep chained in Churches,

Any church,

Not the personal God who has hygiene advices for you,

Your wife,

Your dog.

Not the God of everlasting love and goodness that sounds so human that we call him Father,

Sometimes,

Mother,

More often,

Creating sacred families of variable geometries,

And unfailing dysfunctionalitiy.

 

God is so,

so,

distant,

 

Beyond the last frontier of imagination.

Making sure by its presence that our wildest dreams are nothing but small extensions of ourselves,

Not the yardstick with which to measure the Universe.

 

So rejoice!

For God is far way!

 

 

Haven’t you learnt nothing?

From all the Poets, Philosophers and Prophets of the ages?

To think far and wide and deep,

so you can see how near and small and shallow you are?

 

This was all the knowledge you needed to live free from fear.

 

And even this,

Is not important.

15
Mar09

Fim de Semana

 

Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.

três, portanto.

três garrafas levaram-me de uma ponta do fim de semana para a outra.

Do principio até ao fim.

 

E daqui,

do princípio do fim,

deste patamar de onde vejo a descida para onde vou e os sítios de onde estive…

olho para o futuro e para o passado como se fossem a mesma coisa.

como se fosse só tempo.

como se fosse uma linha … estendendo-se para um lado e o outro, infinitamente…

 

tempo portanto.

 

Tempo como o espaço de agora que vê esta enorme e informe extensão de existir.

E para esta enormidade só tenho garrafas e o tempo de as beber…

como o relógio de quem deixou tudo para atrás.

 

Tempo medido copo a copo, onde a seta do tempo se confundisse com a embriaguez, como se a entropia fosse uma enorme embriaguez, um esquecimento, e a segunda lei da termodinâmica apenas a incapacidade de nos lembrar de…

tudo.

 

 

Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.

É a única verdade que tenho.

Não sei onde estou, o que faço e o que me é pedido…

mas,

sei como conto o seu passar…

 


 

um

a

um

copo

a

copo

um

de

cada

vez.

 

 

Três garrafas fizeram este fim de semana.

Três garrafas fizeram o espaço onde fiz o que quis.

Ou onde me deixaram estar.

E aqui, onde me largaram para brincar no recreio durante 48 horas

(prometendo que me vinham buscar outra vez na segunda)

Fiquei mudo e quedo,

bruto e estúpido,

ausente de quereres

expectante…

 

em silêncio.

 

no silêncio desconfortável de estar comigo mesmo.

esperei…

esperei três garrafas.

Duas de whisky e uma de vinho.

 

Á espera que Segunda chegasse e tudo fosse como dantes.

06
Jul08

No Sun as come undone

 

No sun has come undone,

As no moon was found unclean.

Under the watchful eye of Being.

 

No God was found wanting,

No Spirits questioned…

Nor was the sea too shallow,

Nor the desert too dry.

No deed of beast was too base,

No will of rock too hard,

Compared to the inexorability of  the judgement passed to Man.

 

For, the scrape of Light ,

(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),

is hard and elusive to get…

as if it was a prize,

as if it was good…

A bounty for the worthy!

Not the least of our expectations.

 

It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;

Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…

Biting everything and each other,

beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.

 

And,

For this, and more I ask you…

 

His not Man’s lot

A cast lot?

Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?

 

Were we not singled forth?

 

Is not our being darker than death?

Is not our dying clearer than living?

 

Are not these the voices of reason?

 

 

And to answer these questions…

Only blind hate against the living,

And a strong mistrust towards the dead.

 

                                                                        II

 

This self righteous anger,

Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,

physics,

bothany,

biology,

geology,

the rest.

Drowning in the flood of the senses,

broken and confused…

cumbersome before the incumbent task.

 

Sense and Knowledge one,

before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.

 

 

Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.

 

 

 

 

06
Jul08

Hoje Começa Devagar

 

Hoje começa devagar.

Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...

 

Calam-se,

Tristes e silentes.

Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.

 

Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,

Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.

Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.

 

E portanto estou,

Como sempre...

Entre há bocado e agora,

Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,

Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me

e...

onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.

...

porque a unica verdade de mim,

É um ponto questionante.

11
Mai08

Mornings are for mourners


 

  Mornings are for mourners,

 

To mourn the night before.

 

Morning is Night’s final throes of desperation.

 

And in her place…

Nothing;

nothing but the cooling corpse of yesterday.

 

You open  your eyes , sit on the bed (still unsure of where, how and why you’re here) thinking what to do with the sprawling remains extended till noon.

 

You await for the new day

 the new day

 to come and rescue you from this queasy unsureness that is morning.

 

But no.

Oh no.

 

You’ll inhabit this no man’s land till the afternoon.

 

Morning the death shrine of last night.

All promises , all possibilities

growing in the hopeful shades of dark,

Fizzled to nothingness in the raw light of the new day…

 

Crumpled little ashen mounds of wanting ,

burnt by the ugliness of time.

 

And a dense cloud of unhappiness clings to everything and everyone as if t’was the Sun royal  mantle.

.Yellow and bloated;

 

Smilingly pontificating over the debris of the new day.

 

Another day.

 

 

29
Abr08

Absent Friends

 

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

Will time leave us alone?

Will sloth and neglect, estrange us from the ones we love the most?

 

Will the mill of days grind away the ties that bound us?

 

No time like now,

No words but these words

No persons but these persons...

The ones here.

Not the chosen,

But the remaining.

 

But

I ask myself...

Will we forgive ourselves for our forgetfulness?

...

All people

Everywhere

Everyday...

The enormous throng of people we knew and loved...

Taken by time and sacrificed in the altar of now.

Distant shadows of a past made unnecessary.


 

Not by you.

Not by the others.

But by now,

By the movement.

This place in this time, and this place in this

place.

 

Love trampled under the wheels of necessity

and the stupid fascism of need.

 

And to all this I ask:

 

Will we miss our friends forgotten?

Will we need their love and warmth?

Will we be lonely?

Afraid of being adrift with ourselves?

 

II


Time passes like a glacier trough a valley,

Slowly but surely, all will collapse under the weight of the frost.

Like the valley,

We’ll be striped of everything,

Naked and alone.

 

And here, in presence of our own structure,

Before the great truth...

We cowardly long for time we spent with others and the truths we shared...

Longing for all the things we left behind...

 

And,

Knowing this...

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

 

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