Tin Man's Grandson

There's nothing more that's left undone.  I know now what I am... a robot, stimulated by stimulus, responsive--I speak no language other than what binary code can understand.  Flesh begone, bystander flesh... flesh poured on and melded over wire sinew and a semi-enforced titanium structure.  Communicate darling, I'm programmed to feel--smell the sweet lavender hair with the receptors in my artificial nose.  IMPRINT ME on your faded skin.  Dazzle me with you painted eyes, tin can lust on a Saturday night.  Move me, meandering half TWITTED robot soul brother.  I am a third generation descendant of the tin man--evolved into my celluloid heart that mimics the sound and rhythm of so many of you.  Turn me on, shut me off, no matter--beneath my platicine eyes are the animatronics of a 1,000 emotions--truly I'm indifferent, no matter what I'm programmed to show. Use me, control me, wrong me, lie to me, it's all good if it turns you on--they'll erase my hard drive every 75 years anyway.  Don't like me, get a new one, there's plenty more humans in the ocean.

The Sauntering

     

     We thinly waver between night and the translucent sky, opening our grievous arms to some other intention--some smaller bound mastery of future.  With an incandescent lamp, trudging like fireflies toward "destinations"--flickers of dream coloring our pallor skin.

Where has this spotlight of conscientiousness brought us? 

One step after the other in the direction of our seeming choice--all roads of the universe traversing over fields and myriads of our fellow travelers: over sparkling lives, comforts, wills, and sorrows--it is by means of hope, of love, of enchantment we saunter...

          Opening plasticine eyes to this ever liquid moment.

A New Dawn

       I bring to you the summer of my daydreams--the culmination of this elastic moment stretching far into the past and future.  The sundry days that rest around my  immediate perception I now have a kinship with.  I rest easy on their soil and tread comfortably on their footing.

     Here I have not unraveled any dark mystery, nor foreclosed any doorway to any stark painful realities; rather, I speak of an extended self, my instrument of perception exfoliating a thousand antennae-receptors among the abounding world.  Here I dream no future or revel any past, my movement through time dances with what I experience--dreams here are the speech of presences that surround... I listen and smile to their fortuitous tune.

     Here and now is the only moment I could possibly know, and be its foundation a gift for a brevity: the effects of sunshine, the freedom from some daunting austere presences, or the immediate acceptance, understanding and forgiveness of some woeful experiences--be this moment unsustainable, the knowledge thereof I now have as a beam of faith and hope.

     To those mired in complexity and sorrow, with haunting pasts and dislocating futures--pray for the strength to bear your pain; resolve oneself to hold your moral footing; to run into the depths of loneliness, ennui, abandonment, mistrust--remember, we are nothing more or less than the illuminated babe received by a world we could very well call Mother, ironically, through the gateway of our mother. 

Be it that we may embrace or be embraced... there will always stand the presence of a man or woman, who walked to the strand beneath a brooding and comforting firmament of night, who looked toward the descended horizon, who took the conjured ocean winds and starlit rays into his pores, who realized this moment I am not alone, who realized he'd never been or could be, who realized there are simple languages always speaking--smiles and comforts our thoughts too often cloud.

Somewhere some sauntering angel

Breathes her lasting sigh

Diminishing into the starbound night

She whispers my name

From parting lips

Which resonate in my steps through time

The Viscera

Upon entering, quite controlledly, a rectangular domicile in Cubosity today--I have come to witness again that strange monster.  I say again, not that I have spoken to you about it before, but because the creature has been in and out most our finely engineered right-angled residences and you may indeed recognize it.

It came about at suppertime soon after my arrival, appearing at the kitchen table.  There was conversation and good food, but then... a firery globule quickly churning, then not a flame but bulbous creature--then convoluting and augmenting with yellow and at times bluish skin--pulsating, (or throbbing?): what a curious spectacle.  With extra sensory perception you experience much more of it--a swarming of emotion: a resentment turned into rage, a gaping heart hallowed and tenderized--as if it feels itself being chewed by dogs.  Dinner had to end at this point.

And so I listened to it's guttoral sounds and shreiks beating the drums in my ears... and I watched the creature morph afront of me--piercing eyes emerging, at other times teeth, or it's flapping tongue .  I dare not speak, but then I dare not be silent too.  Both responses are likely meals for this sort of entity--and what to call this ball of emotion, but a Viscera, for it's seems as if a viscera consumed a whole entirety and Viscera is all that was left.

Feb 2nd--The Philosopher of Hub-Bub Begins

I want to carve out a space where untimely crickets can play and brood and watch and swim… a space far out from the boundaries of misgivings and chance, outside of the persistent call to labor, call to responsibility and call to stand up. A place away from wild goblin creatures shedding doubt and ruining us with their lies cheats and “told you so’s”.

Somewhere in the back of mind a flute player whistles out a tune, a water nymph hums out a sacred and ancient hymn that’s been playing since the time of our birth, before our birth—no one can hear her—our ears aren’t ripe for the sound anymore.

It’s awfully hard to hear anything when you’re confined to your destitute house of boxes and rectangles—shaped in the fashion of our wants—that is confinement, refinement, estrangement, “in check,” in accordance—straightened. The boxes over time creep around your eyes and fingers, working their way to your bones until they ultimately surround your pumping heart, until even that isn’t your own. You’re just a plasterine figurine beating to the drum of larger mindless forces going in no particular direction, with no particular intention in mind.

Fucking drones. All I see with my boxed in eyes are fucking drones.

I wouldn’t say that youth was lost, but rather humanity—the inner spirit labeled devil and all goes to shit. And believe me it’s shit—those cubical monstrosities you call a home, your workplace—it’s a dirt heap called 20^th century slavery: some more prosperous than others—a tribute to your disillusionment. Drive through any city and you’ll see it—mounds and mounds of cubic nightmare… boxes and boxes of overpopulated regurgitation—blocks and blocks of habit forming impudence.

Such a display of tumerous growth I suppose has its beauty. Yeah, I suppose, in certain moods and certain lights I’m in awe of such an accomplishment. To reflect on Man’s ingenuity crystallizing into such engineering with no particular engineer is something –how a mountain of steel and concrete could materialize is akin to a seedling sprouting into fruition. It raises the question of a cosmic creator, a purpose, a plan. But this plan has nothing mysterious about it—it comes about from need and desire--and I suppose the only thing that makes the outcome tolerable is the imaginations behind whatever brought it about—that amazes me. But the motivation, the source of strength for most the drones involved saddens me. But enough of that shit. Call it the greater setting of this journal—cubeosity, somewhere in cubeosity I was born.