Black Lives Matter.
I wanna see your face.
On a Sunday morning at 6.
Unmasked, unmade, summerly sweaty.
Asleep and awake, going back to sleep.
I wanna see your hair fall freely,
Taste your skin,
Touch your lips.
I would find—a piece of who you really are.
I imagine this wonderful.
My realities are misaligned,
My minds avoid communication.
I feel out of sync.
Disharmonious awaiting the summer.
To perhaps fall in love again.
Suck on another cigarette.
Something like that.
Till then. I’m tried at day and awake at night.
But there’s a pill for that.
Right wingers confusing Rage Against the Machine as non-political reminds me to one of my favourite metal experiences: I was in Norway in 1996, above the tree line, with a bunch of other kids. I had befriended a punk and got together with a goth, which made me a goth punk (until today) and we introduced each other to new music. The punk had asked if I had ever heard RATM, which I had not, so we took a hike to the next towns record store (again, in middle of Norway, above the tree line….). Next to a lot of metal (my love for Black Metal only started the next year, but I am sure I would have found treasure there, had I known), there was Evil Empire as CD (which I bought out right), Vinyl and a poster I wanted, but could not get.
Back at the holiday house (which was next to a lake, surrounded by mountains, which were always Blue, either because of rain or because I was smoking tea bag apple tea as an alternative to tabac [always have papers!]) we put the 2 speakers (around 1 meter high) on their sides, droped the CD in and laid myself down between the speakers.
I will never forget how “People of the Sun” shocked my system, both mentally and physically. By “Vietnow” I was on my feet, but hell this was awesome. We played most of the record until 3 Nazis came in, who were part of the kids group to tell us to shut off our lefty music, while presenting me with a noose they had made for me; in their words so I can hang myself.
That caused the three of us to turn it up and nearly burst the speakers, so the adults came in and shut us all down, but hell, it was fun, encouraged me to be an anti racist and established a strong love for that album in particular.
Met a smoker late at night.
Shared a kiss,
Conversed a Portishead track,
Left after a cigarette,
For all the words I want to say to you.
I cannot say to you.
Words to tear us apart.
Words to shape worlds.
Tiptoeing on ice.
I’m so hot I melt.
And what do you know.
Temporarily feel me.
Momentarily be me.
And let me be you.
For some eternity.
It is so good to know you found me.
Lurking in the dark.
In a history.
Throwing thoughts around.
You found me.
Where I tend to find.
I was found.
This just may be a first.
All over again.
The petals falling
Remind me to
Return to live
Resume to die.
Words got stuck
Need to unstuck.
Emotions frozen on grounds on fire.
The world ain’t dying
Only what we used to call humanity.
I look forward to re-emerge.
You wanted something real.
And you found a quite place.
You looked over your shoulder, but not ahead.
See, it’s ok though.
See, what you get.
We are here to protect.
Your path leads you right now to where you are.
Yokohama Station, the door opening, people streaming out like rain.
I stand and look in, will I sit or will I stand?
A foreign woman looks at me and smiles.
Behind my face mask, the white woman sees her kin.
She raises her hand as to high five.
And through my jacket she touches my skin, gives me a tender, yet short kiss, as she leaves the train.
She has no mask, dressed in leather and black.
Passing quickly, leaving me baffled, I take a seat to ride home, on a Corona emptied train.
the kiss was metaphysical, but felt.
My heart is moved with your changing mind.
Let me come in, please, and witness your prayer.
Thank you for your welcoming heart.
I rejoice in your warmth.
History we share.
Pain and joy we dealt.
Hope resides in these halls.
Love flowers within this walls.
We are still capable of endorsing life.
And within our severed faiths we speak a universal language.
After listening to a feature about Jewish life in Iran, it’s long long history and the fact that Iranians start to refuse to hate Israel. It’s a faint hope, but it is good to remember Jews, Christians and Moslems all pray to the same god and follow the same prophets. And it was fascinating to learn, that Iran culture had influences on Jewish, Christian and Buddhist faiths, even before the Prophet Muhammad walked the earth.
And why at this hour
All the poets
See a rebirth
At this hour
I need to remember,
Words meant to console,
May well be
And I did not know, I could like you so much.
Feel close when the distance is still wide.
When I saw you, I saw an old friend in your eyes.
As if, remembering you from a past life.
Do not thank me.
I simply exist.
In this space.
In this time.
Where our paths are crossing now.
Rather, thank yourself.
To be brave to live one more life.
Move and feel and see.
Only brave souls live in this time with open eyes.
Being around you makes me a better man.
Learning from you is a truly great experience.
For all the curiosity I feel.
When we part there is a new memory.
The possible is laid bare by the things we deem impossible.
And the impossible is a celebration of the things we do anyway.
A priest stands, smile, nods.
A friendly word here and there.
It’s Sunday. 4 hours earlier he woke to “Owner of a lonely heart”.
And woke the whole family.
I am 6 years old.
Imagining what it’s like to be respected like this.
Not knowing the hate and fear flying in his face every day.
I imagine being like him.
Not knowing the fight he fights for my future.
Not yet understanding the brutalism of the regime we live in.
But soon I will be called pig son of the pig priest.
Soon I will draw a robot eating weapons when we write lyrics about the great national army.
And not too long after that the system will fall with the wall.
But until then, my father impresses me.
Listening to that now old song.
Feeling the warm summer breeze.
Tasting the starlight in my hair.
Feeling the tenderness on my skin, that never came.
Remembering that last night I played anyone’s expectations game and we both lost.
Seeing you again, that last time, leaning over the wall, looking into the banana plantation, those trees I wanted to climb.
Your lustful looks at me linger on in my mind.
And I am still never truly gone.
Nothing ever truly makes sense or has to. The joy is in what happened and what was imagined.
It leaves us with a taste of closeness and longing.
You know what I would do if I knew I could.
A physical expression.
Of deep admiration.
I would like to reach out again and say: you are good.
My thankfulness is out of bounds.
“This is actually a difficult question — which philosophical texts are best for beginners? But it’s also one that I get asked pretty regularly. I typically suggest starting with Plato, and occasionally delve a bit deeper into the topic, but admittedly haven’t devoted the thought and attention it really deserves to give a proper answer.”
Sorry. I cannot read past that, it makes me shudder. Honestly, the best way to learn philosophical thinking is to question, anything and everything. Then go to a book store, to the philosophy section (or religion or semiotics or anything else that sparks inspiration) and look for a book or title that fascinates you. Read that. Go from there. A path will open itself, coz philosophers have the (sometimes) annoying tendency to quote one another. Boom, rabbit hole.
Honestly, start with the classics if you want to show off. They are important to read if you study philosophy I guess, academically. But all thoughts are always repeated, so if Plato speaks your language cool, if you prefer something more modern, try Nitzsche (also his poems which are beautiful and unjustly maligned). The ideas don’t change, the wonders don’t change. The language does change and the people writing it.
And make an effort to seek out women / differently gendered thinkers. They are you there. And usually better thought out.
My last priest, the one who performed my Confirmation, told me a great wisdom: every thought is a prayer, because God, no matter their name, their number or their ascribed actions, lives in everything we do, in us, so every thought is a word in gods ears, a mirror (perhaps darkly) of our self.
Philosophy is like the air we breath and the food we eat. Everything is philosophy, everything is thought. And if you have a faith, a prayer.
For an academic or perhaps a young intellectual, I may be too tainted by Sophie’s World (the book, which remains amazing).
In the end, we all ask ourselves, why those dancing shadows on the walls are reborn every morning and how we can escape that endless cycle.
2020/2/4–5, to and inspired by Anna!
Your bag reads.
Forever, though, is a long time.
Proudly, tall, pretty.
And then a base punches.
Deeply, deep into.
Pulling the hood over my head.
Stilettos, moving, standing, producing a beat worth dancing to.
Pushing up, like grass in spring.
Oh, hey. Music is saving my life again.
Your eyes focused on the night outside.
Inside light, keeping us up.
That you are is amazing.
That we are crossing paths is something short of a miracle.
Let me synthesise the memories of today.
And attribute them all to you.
Your trust means the world.
Through words I might just mirror you.
And when I pass you, I say thanks.
This is a slow burn.