blather
_idle_hands_
sabbie make light work.

becclebee told me. 		020208
...
BonTon Idle hands win title belts from satan.
Idle hands are often those forsaken.
Idle hands are what makes this forum.
Idle hands never show decorum. 		040901
...
but then what about the lonely contemplative who by dint of flaw or purpose has not one scintilla of mechanical aptitude...right?
he finds himself
the wanna be
poet philosopher
and one time aspiring priest
always pitting himself
the quietus of himself
against the noise and furor
of a world that favors
action, movement, impulse
carved out of that maverick
spirit that carved out a culture and a continent from indigenous peoples
he is engaging in that
narccissistic act
not out of vanity
or pathologic or sociopathic indifferance
he's trying to sort out why this
world and its people
are so alien
this is nothing new right?
this is perrenial
this is
the citizen separated
from all the distractions
all the paper parades
and incessant importunations
of his life
he's come here to this
high tower
the narccicists premonitory
to assess his inescapable
and increasingly unbearable
incongruity to what it means
to be part of the perambulating
consuming self-driven tide of modernity
"yo!"
"What's up wif YOU man?"
"Hey! Saul, what is this your
pre-mid-life crisis?"
"Honey. Why don't you come down from there, mother wants to.."
He can't say he's trying to carve
his own cleft of rock
because
....he knows
i know i'm grasping and confused
here
many of my recent posts
have been grasping and confusing
i'm assessing the meaning, the worth
of modernity, not in abstract
ivory tower sheathed in poison ivy terms
i'm assessing whether or not i am FIT
for modernity
or wether it is fit for me?
the esteemed social theorist
and dabbler in philosophy
and general sticker of giant
wooden spoon into the staid
contemplative pot of slow rot
that's been happy to feed the minds
of bright earnest liberal arts majors
the same bi- or tri-valent
take on civics and society
and aesthetics
and the meaning of personhood
the quality and extent to wich the
modern life can be redeemed
from its exile from decency
and someone said the more
man thinks about truth
the more the truth escapes him
he wants to say
i'm waiting for that critical
moment of clataclysm
that crisis, that moment that is
the critical conjunction of
crisis, death, epiphany
ressurection
to interrupt this complacency
of tortured postured
that are supposed to be enobling
and somehow compensate for my
incongruity, or malaise
or borderline adult ADD
I'm leaning towards being able to make that leap
(after being none too gently pushed)
i want to be able to say
w/o fear
w/o rueful irony
i lost my footing and fell
toppled sat myself up right
and stepped into freedom
the whieght of this soul
in me
in me
the thing i carry in me
it is so heavy
it is the ineluctable state
of the modern soul
to be dead locked
deep in the
unwholesome truth
of this inevitability
fly to ones bed
or drag your body
to bed to dream
or meet the mealting
heart of life's fire
that is It
No Gods
no shaft of light
no nubile angel
with big brown eyes
upon the crests of perfect
cheek bones
come to knead
my spirit into wholeness
to bring all the warring
parts of me into unity
no falling upon the scyth
life exacts a toll
i feel no younger or older than i
did at the age of 12
i mean this old grieving
soul in me
how many lives had it before me?
so momentarily
the intoxicant
the opiate of
melding with the mind
or the echoes of past lives
that have shared this soul
or the collective unconcious
or something
some divine apothecary
some eathbed oracle
still wet in the earth
some remnant of myself before
i was rent
and spoiled
and thrust deep
into the genetic soup
the rotting pot of me
i reach in sometimes
and pull out something
from something that
sho' ain't me
but that intoxicant wears off
surely
the love of my God
the love of perfected symbiosis
the surety and the promise
of a bond that connects brothers
beyond the petty squabble
that divide men
that spur men to blood
to murder
to End
what started as eternal
the wars we would wage
on one anothers behalf
the worlds that we would
and DID conquer
until the bile of ego
left long unsanguinated
exerted its tyrannical usurpations


I am not by all means not yet Done
with this world
but DAMN
i am
getting close
but it's me
it's NOT them
It's the thing
that is shaped in
ME
this mewling
thing,
i want the secret
of lightness
i want the secret of gravitas
i want the secret of
anything
that can me make me
more substantial than
what i am

whieght of this world


an ancient an un acedemic skulleries 		050131
...
ol drippy "... spend time at the genitals and we know how God hates that" 050131
...
Uh...
I never got around to giving Cornell West his props or even finishing the thought. 		050131
...
I can appreciate the sardonic wit of a well worded phrase or dig but I'm not sure exactly the point your trying to make.

I never said that my mind was full of anything but a 'mist of words', the (self) enchanting music of my own solipsistic tongue, this is perhaps the first brick, the foundation stone that built this sense of separateness around me. But the sense of separateness and isolation and the desire to meditate upon the state of the individual and national soul is something that has been going on in the corpus of national identity and culture and the contemplation of personhood being something never free from flux, the dynamic, the evolving properties of the Human beholding the cosmos around him and trying to justify or legitimize his place his role in it.

How do we separate ourselves, how does one separate oneself from the dented burning heart of duty, of responsibility, juxtaposed against the receding horizons of his own potential, how does one lift the dying dream of a young man set loose upon the world, with a mind newly minted with a liberal arts inculcation/matriculation - how do you articulate in life, in posture in word the sense of ones oppressed lungs grasping for air...how does one say or subsume this thought - Give me good air to grasp within my oppressed lungs -

I'm paraphrasing Willy with the Shakes here -

You can't cut out the soul, the scourge of conscience or memory, you can't take desire prisoner and ransom it or sell it to the highest bidder. Even if you plunge into opiate seas you eventually rise to the surface after those deep dark delving things have thier way with you.

I don't have any kind of buddhist precept to share with you or anything. You are what you are, what nature has shaped you to be. 		050201
...
I don't think I ever represented the cracked and sprawling corpus of my contributions to blather were anything that was equivelant to serious acedemic exposition. If you were refferring to cornell west - well that's not the first time someone has made that assertion w/r/t to his writings and ruminations. I think if dr. west wrote in the dense turgid anal retentive style of some of his peers he'd never reach his students and a wider populace who are inspired by his many explorations and civic homilies.
... 		050201
...
This one thing will always be in my mouth

this one word

the irreducible

no

every blow struck on behalf of hate, burning bruises of pride and cruelty and cowardise will be met by the one
thing that has survived the darkness of Hitlers ovens and stalins pograms and Custers genocidal campaigns at the imperative of manifest destiny was met with No.

no

no

no

no

no

no

NO! 		050201
...
jane the devil's playground 050201
...
unhinged make beauty and innovation 180911
what's it to you? blather
who go from