도둑과 시인

도둑과 시인....

겉으로 바라볼 때는 근본적으로 대비적인 인물이지만 
그들의 늘 울리는 영혼의 리듬은 어디 동일한 원천에서 흘러나온다.  

그랬더니 그들 사이에는 사실상 혈맹으로 다져진 맹방이 존재하고 있겠다.

살아 있는 유리

겨울이 다 되어버렸다. 하지만 이 살아 있는 유리 안에서 가을의 색다른 영혼이 보장되어 있다.

Name-less Thoughts

Treading, head-down
you've gone fore.
Or so you thought.
Head-up, reflecting
on what's more.
Thoughts you had not.
Too late, head shakes
tears fall on all.
Rotting their thoughts.
Head-clear, now you see
fake is their path, was yours.
Thoughts, thoughts...
One wish: head-less,
thoughts name-less now.

Uttering Containers for Being

I strive to utter containers for being.
Open, to be filled with the fullness and emptiness.
Not tightly packed, taped and ready to ship boxes;
something that can be ripped to shreds, 
taped back up,
or worst yet re-cycled.
I want to walk within the two-folds,
un-concealing what is and has been,
the nearest of the near, but
to most the farthest of the far.
I want to only say Saying
to signal there is a Way
and give you a sense
to re-discover what you've been rushing ahead of.
Listen to what has been said Hermenuetically,
and be messenger
for all that is worthy of question, worthy of thought.
Just be in relation to what holds sway:
the welling up of the message of the two-fold's 
un-concealment.
Now I'm just grasping at the essence...
in order to abandon my own path of thinking
to namelessness.

제2의 봄

가을은 두 번째의 봄이다.
그때는 나무의 잎이 
여러 가지 울긋불긋한 꽃으로 변하니까.

November's Death

November's death, has swept what's left.
Bereft, inept you slept.
To me, I see what doth be
For we, yes we is be-
ing the whole, of those, whole
in all, with all, as all
that fell or Fall, and walked
then slept. For November's death,
has swept; now, we are left.

Novels & Short Stories

The long novel, in it's intricate and detailed reinterpretation of life as it is, as it is perceived to have been or could possibly be, is anti-life in the sense that it seeks to impose the will of a single mind on all those who read, by making the story function as an independent, autonomous expression; the antithesis of what it means to be a part of this world or even the smallest community.  The short story on the other hand, in its open and loose framework, allows every reader to impose his or her own will into the story interpretting those "empty" spaces, thus creating their own unique story through their subjective perception.  Humans, if separated from this continuum of collected history, some of which is still fresh enough to maintain it's meaning and significance, some of it devoid of any culturally significant content thus making it a dead imposition on man, would make and impart new meaning onto their life and world around them; and it is this element that is specifically human.  Picking and choosing; a removal of those impediments to fresh and contemporary human expression is necessary for a humane society and for works to function as an extension and expression of that humanity.

Summa Summer

A waft of stale, summer tinged air sails around my standing figure as the subway abruptly pulls into Sangsu station. My ears are enveloped in supple cow skin, mellow melodics invade my nervous system and guide me through the open safety gate into my seat. Before I sit i'm jilted to my right as the cars lurch forward. I look around at the other 30 or some other folks who managed to catch their last chance home; yawns escape the tired expression of one forlorn lovers disappointed lips, a group of young girls whose dreams haven't been raped by their future team captains are chattering esoteric gossips about some handsome boy who...

이 도시야말로

지금 살고 있는 이 도시야말로  

장마철이 다가오므로
써써써 I I I 

습해 젖어졌어 내 마음이  

Like 가나다라마 

로닝맨은 진짜 우리의 우리 아니

야 임마 

다가다가오는오는 그런 오랑캐 

Destructive 영향을 주는 그런 개

쌔개
Now 난 고개를 지으며  

내다보고 눈물을 흐리며 

권고하고 있어 너희들에게 내 입

술로(부터) 

그런 장애물을 물리쳐라 여기에서 

이 도시야말로

2011.7.15 지음

자유롭게 사는 노예

이러한 싸움터같은 사회생활에서 우리가 유일하게 가지고 있는 무기는 바로 스팩이다. 좀 더 과장해서 표현하자면 스팩은 한 사람이 죽느냐 마느냐 하는 것을 결정한다라고 볼 수 있다. 정부가 우리의 스팩을 팔고 있다는 뉴스를 접했다. 기사에 따르면, 스팩은 곧 상품이고 상품은 객체이다. 그러므로 우리는 스팩이다. 논리적으로 정리한다면 우리는 사고 파는 객체. 우리는 곧 노예. 사회에서 자유롭게 사는 노예이다.

Prescience: 1961

On the fringe of mass Suburbia, even the advantages of the primary neighborhood group disappear.  The cost of this detachment in space from other men is out of all proportion to its supposed benefits. The end product is an encapsulated life, spent more and more either in a motor car or within the cabin of darkness before a television set: soon, with a little more automation of traffic, mostly in a motor car, traveling even greater distances, under remote control, so that the one-time driver may occupy himself with a television set, having lost even the freedom of the steering wheel.  Every part of this life, indeed, will come through official channels and be under supervision. Untouched by human hand at one end: untouched by human spirit at the other.  Those who accept this existence might as well be encased in a rocket hurtling through space, so narrow are their choices, so limited and deficient their permitted responses. Here indeed we find The Lonely Crowd.

The organizers of the ancient city had something to learn from the new rulers of our society.  The former massed their subjects within a walled enclosure, under the surveillance of armed guardians within the smaller citadel, the better to keep them under control.  That method is not obsolete.  With the present means of long-distance mass communication, sprawling isolation has proved an even more effective method of keeping a population under control.  With direct contact and face-to-face association inhibited as far as possible, all knowledge and direction can be monopolized by central agents and conveyed through guarded channels, too costly to be utilized by small groups or private individuals.  To exercise free speech in such a scattered, dissociated community one must 'buy time' on the air or 'buy space' in the newspaper. Each member of Suburbia becomes imprisoned by the very separation that he has prized: he is fed through a narrow opening: a telephone line, a radio band, a television circuit, a broadband line.  This is not, it goes without saying, the result of a conscious conspiracy by a cunning minority: it is an organic by-product of an economy that sacrifices human development to mechanical processing. Suburbia offers poor facilities for meeting, observation, collective debate, and common action - it favors silent conformity, bot rebellion or counter-attack.  So Suburbia has become the favored home of a new kind of absolutism: invisible but all powerful.

I might be uneasy about the validity of this analysis had not the prescient de Tocqueville anticipated it long ago, in Democracy in America.  He sought to 'trace the novel features under which despotism may appear in the world.'

"The first thing that strikes observation [he says] is an uncountable number of men, all equal and alike, incessantly endeavoring to produce the petty and paltry pleasures with which they glut their lives.  Each of them living apart, is a stranger to the fate of all the rest - his children and his private friends constitute to him the whole of mankind; as for the rest of his fellow citizens, he is close to them, but he sees them not; he exists but in himself and for himself alone; and if his kindred still remain to him, he may be said at any rate to have lost his country."


De Tocqueville was describing in anticipation the temper and habit of life in Suburbia, a habit that has worked back into the city and made even democratic nations submit, with hardly a murmur, to every manner of totalitarian compulsion and corruption.  What this great political philosopher foresaw with his inner eye, less gifted observers can now see with their outer eye.  This is the last stage in the break up of the city.  The expansion of our technology only quickens the pace of this change.  What is left, if no counter-movement takes place, will not be worth saving.  For when the container changes as rapidly as its contents nothing can in fact be saved.

Mumford, Lewis 1961 The City in History pgs. 583~584

Summer of rainy night revelations

"So im on the bus," to quote the true voice of my youth.  

Foreign land, friends of a different stock and just feeling life; my little slice of life.  Ears wrapped dapperly in that cows skin and im telling you, im thinking i can take the whole of my predecessors on, seriously.  Like no bloated head on this pair of shoulders but I sat with them, spat that spat and drank that drank; but I know I'm better.  

That's not to say that they have not accompplished more than I can even imagine, but where I am now compared with where they were then, does not compare. And the trully beautiful thing to me about this revelation, and it is just that, lie in the knowledge that it be not just I but a whole gang, no fuck that, a whole army of us that are on the ascendent path.  

Have you thought of what lands we will pound beneath our feet? The tabooes we will relegate into oblivion with the mists of our thoughts? We are them and we are what they want to be; thus we are the future, for that beith what we want but can't have.  We are (and I say that uncontractedly because it necessitates being spoken of deferentially, but being so makes it almost obsolete) the future.  To be at the precipice and acnowledge it...it trully being something that ne'er happen as often as it should.  And if it be so, savor it to its fullest, but moreover exploit it to the fullest of your capabilites.  

You, yes you there in that foreign land, that place of your unbirth, but being so makes it the land of your re-birth.  Look around and know that your boys, your friends from thy youth know not what yee seeth, what you heareth, what you have becometh...  But it is what they be, if not now then then i speak of the generational future, and of them know that your seedeth doth be.  

Speaking historicially my aim only be that my respect for then and the better then reverbrate as resoundingly humanly as possible.  As humanely as possible.  Before, this was the way they spoke of the Gods, but that tone came from men that no longer exist for men that no longer existed.  For we that have no savior, the sole correlation be our past and future; we being the mean of our past and the same for our future, means that we are them and they us, thus we are what has been the object of striving, and striving is what we are: Gods.  

So transcend your life and be transcendence becuase you are then, now and soon to be; you be an omnipresent existence omniscient in your conception of life and omnipotent in the life of that truth.

In the cloud

My youth, and when I say youth I am referring to that unique time in between ones second and third years in High-school when you are no longer a kid but not yet a pre-formed adult, felt like an overcast early summer afternoon. Velvety to the touch, insulated like no worries but when you are going to meet up with your friends, and hazy like the dopest times when you got high with your best friend. 

I never thought that I would be able to bring back that feeling, but here I am sitting under a poplar in any city in Asia, prepping for the second to last series of finals for my extended undergraduate career. 

The previous night I received an email that I had resigned myself to not expecting the day prior, and was happy. One of the biggest corporations in the world asked me to come for an interview, and I accepted of course; I'm no fool. 

It could mark the beginning of my life as a real adult; give me the means to start a family, like bringing new life into this world status familia, as well as being more materially comfortable, like not asking myself whether or not I should go out and buy a two liter bottle of water or suck out the water from my tap, as if I were some kid hailing from northwestern india or some shit. 

But, the thing is, as I see it from this youthful flashback I'm currently in, being that northwestern Indian kid worrying about when he's going to next meet his best friend to get high before the open house at that tits ass chick's house from Ms. Druckenmiller's English class, is dope and sustainable. 

That real world I'm about to, and probably will enter into in the relatively very near future, is the real dream; temporary, wasteful and full of illusory benefits. 

So I'm just going to fall back into this cloud of real life before I'm back in the clutches of another fake life; and all of you out there still lucky enough to be in your true life, hold onto it until your last gasp escapes your lips and they have to wrench your cold dead grasp away from the realness. Peace out my brothers and sisters!

阴影

I love them,
I hate them;
they remind me,
of you.
Of the good,
so good;
and the bad,
so bad.
I want them gone,
right now,
but they remain,
and so do you.

Thoughts on a Bus

Love is like a cobweb; beautiful for its seemingly indiscriminate union of unique geometrical shapes, figures and strength derived thusly from; at the same time a nightmare when no longer viewed in the light of day. In the dusk of a former love's memory gazing, nearly hypnotized by the pink and orange effluvia projected upon the near eve sky by that hollow glow of what was, sinking beneath the horizon, one runs the risk of becoming entangled within that forgotten web behind. Fight as they may, it is soon realized that all effort to free oneself from this web be futile; the more one struggles the more impossible it becomes to extricate oneself from the grasp of this mental cobweb.  

Out of my time spent partaking in life, it is indeed a rarity to find a soul who enjoys, beyond the mere nominal acquiescence, the cleaning up after oneself or another; it always remains a chore. However, tidying up to keep a clear home leads to healthier physical potentiality. As spring cleaning serves to rid the house of the accrued death and cobwebs accumulated over winter in preparation for the season of rebirth in the physical world, the same is necessary in that other, regrettably often too neglected world we also participate in. In this dialectic world of the subjective self and objective surroundings, the exterior receives most of the attention; leading often to deleterious results for both. The cult of change that society has become the exemplar devotee to, that man and woman have without so much of a feigned struggle, chose to accept over the past century; a change that affects the very life blood of humanities political economy in the classical sense, is but the negative principal of the forgotten positive ideal. We've removed ourselves from the seasons of nature into the narrowly sterile, neatly quartered monetary confines where wares for the abstract concept of what we used to know as seasonal changes are peddled. The fight for this change is what people live towards in this day and age. 

Focus on this sterilized form of exterior change, having removed us from the bosom of mother nature has also diverted attention away from our Jungian selves. The ego being the conspicuous element of adolescent development that projects itself outward to rely on style or the opinions of others for support. As a natural, but not absolute antithesis, the self being the container of the hitherto weaker parts of the personality relegated to our unconscious, serves at first as a means to protect our fragile ego development from failure. On the whole, however, it is not supposed to be suppressed forever, and in keeping with Hegalian dialectic, it ultimately purposes to create, or more appropriately endeavor to create a synthesis or in Jungian terms a 'Gegensatzvereinigung' with the ego. 

It, refering to the self, is to be perceived at first with recognition and a purposeful striving towards strengthening those weaker elements of the personality to make a fuller, richer self. Thusly, since life itself is but the objective backdrop of what our subjective self projects out upon it, a necessarily richer and more diverse world will be able to cultivate itself and spring forth organically, rising out of the compost of all humanities subjective selves. That is, to move away from what Freud termed the 'death instinct' or that of relying upon lifeless material things and dead cosmic superstitions to compensate for our disconnection from that richest conception of unified existence; that of the inseparable nature between a mother and child in its first two or three years. So then, having recognized and internalized the self and our previous death instinct there arises an attempt to recreate a new system of life; that of moving back towards, not the infantile, but a new mature and enlightened 'life instinct'; utilizing the crystallization of both human and natural history is what we need to strive for. (UNDER CONSTRUCTION) 

A life instinct whose only hope of rediscovery for the majority, I fear, is within that sterile egoistic state that men and women have cocooned themselves within. Despite the consciously oriented attempts of humanity until now to create a sterile, lifeless canvas for life to be rationally organized and directed upon, the most conspicuous element of the former organic life, full of potentiality towards reorienting our lives in exactly a more organic direction is love; specifically the lost, forgotten, only to be re-discovered within the unconscious dusk of love's cobwebs. The pain of being trapped within, makes us look within, towards our own self, and it can only be through a re-connection of that boundless depth and diversity of life that resides in all of us that we can even maintain the most infinitesimal hope for a better objective life for all. 

Phillyish child-ish

A wave of panic descended upon me when I realized my doll Thomas, a paraplegic confined to a wheelchair, was forgotten on the platform as the torque of the engine began to tear us apart.  Green froish hair, Ernie type orange complexion, button for a heart my precious Thomas. Meanwhile my self-indulgent parentals are obnoxiously reciting the stations as we pass them: paoli, daylesford, tredyfferin, raddford.  Repetitive ramblings that might suffice to pacify the spineless grownups staring out their windows dead to all feeling but not I, not I goddamnit!

It was a warm August afternoon, late afternoon if I recollect correctly, and it was just Thomas and I riding side-by-side in my fresh to death Lambo: power wheel addition.  We had just finished watching a glorious episode of the delightfully bucolic yet oddly arcane 'Saladfingers'.  Having dropped a few tabs each of some LSD my astute partner Thomas had procured from some fellow referred to solely as 'Dat nigga' in hindsight a leisurely drive through the country was perhaps not the best of decisions, but goddamnit Thomas and I lived life  to the limit and liked it a lot.

Speeding down Old Yellowsprings past the old monied aristocracy that had so resolutely guided our once proud nation down the road of individual exploitation and voluntary indentured servitude, I video gamed my Lambo into 5th gear and really laid into the upcoming corner: the rest, as the expression goes, is history.  Rolling three times we were both damned lucky not to have died; two compound fractures in both femurs coming within a hairs length of puncturing the femoral artery, a few bruises on the old baby face and a dislocated pinky finger were the extent of my injuries.

Thomas on the other hand, suffice it to say, was not quite as lucky.  Face down in the bushes next to a gurgling brooke gasping for breath; according to one of the first paramedics to respond to the scene he was mumbling utter gibberish: something to the effect of "Atum-re must be stopped!" "Osiris" Spaghetti".  Total and utter nonsense is how my parents interpreted it.

To be continued...