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21 September 03
We the wordsmiths pull from the deeps the raw, uninhibited beasts of our innersouls, creatures perhaps the less aware soul knows only as passing shadows, as a mirrage in the undercurrent of the mind. Too often we then proceed to fillet and dress this truth in the culturally cultivated weeds of well-wrought words. Perhaps most men will only dare consume raw thought if it has been rolled and disguised as a foreign delicacy, but I am forced to wonder if we have hidden the very flesh we meant to expose in this cathartic cuisine.

There are moments when I am forced to pause, perhaps at junctures of the silver threads, a knobby meeting of divergent tangents of the vibrating network of coincedence and consciousness, this illusion of time created by the adhesive of mind. The very moment when the rising shore forces kinetic energy to lift from the glass smooth surface and declare itself, a blue hill capped with a flurry of white petals, only to collapse a moment later and dissipate through a tight packed filter of sand and shell, creeping backwards until latent energy demands it rise once more.

Can you see it now? The carefully sliding knife edge, atoms pulled in a tight line to slip through and sever the blunt, in comparison disorderly, arrangement of other atoms. The fingers dancing about the now bite size pieces, the words rolled, flattened, dry till they make a tight little passage, stuffed with the real grit.

Maybe it is only with trickery that I might spirit away your attention, roll and duck past the myriad defences arrayed in protection of YOUR worldview. Force some pipebomb into the works of your, secretly smug, idea of the way things Really are. It’s that suitcase atom bomb all artists are really working towards, isn’t it? A device, an arrangement of ideas so powerful it rips apart all the wrong ideas, obliterates the possibility of any prejudiced mind. An explosion that leaves the observer standing above a plain cleared of distractions, a point where all the whirling roads of possibility are mapped out as clearly as they might be. An unhindered view of the mawing void that is at once the definition of terror, eternity, and beauty. Truth lies in the realization that the moments of and even our lives are as transient as the drop of water pausing on its fall from the sky in a spiders’ web. The light of consciousness shatters on its surface, the web of flesh holds these thoughts in a temporal march, and in moments of brutal honesty, we see this symmetrical weaving of diamond threads as the shocking but brief brilliance it is against the empty backdrop of eternity.
:: posted by walker

20 September 03
Stunned. contemplating complacence, less disgusted than tradition demands, words a unilaterally-three-legged army of electric ants, swimming crippled circles in a brain deep puddle of soured cerebral soup, their cryptic ticklings painting maimed messages across the expanse of my unthought. & the moment I muster the courage to call this squadron of small soldiers into order, they evaporate, imaginary as the crawling blemishes that float in front of fatigued eyes, amoebalike in their microscopic detail, until an attempt at focus, and then, fleeing the fovea, disappearing(evaporate) into peripheral obscurity.

Such perhaps is the curse of seeing at once searing detail and soaring outline.

--but with this excuse I am forced to wonder if I have sliced out my tongue, gnawed off my hands & feet, (but first carefully carved half my heart, a chunk of my reptilian brain and unnecessary threads of my vascular system, and woven a beating network to feed them in my absence) left them to taste, hold, support the solid & mundane embrace of earth, while my mind soars fearless, courage found in the impossibility of failure as I have left all the parts of me that might create, safely behind. When I do succeed at dragging some floundering half-formed idea from the depths of my mind, it is some sick desperation, the creation like a lonely mathematical idea. The square root of a negative number, only tentatively true, awaiting some incredible equally tenuous twin idea, the mating of which would swing them both from the obscureness of imaginary into the full-fledged solidity of integer. but I abandon them, forced halfway from unbeing, and left etched incomplete, oh I may return, moments later, or on some day only half driven to torture latent ideas, and prune them of extraneous words, worry at them till they have the sheen of an oft handled rock, but I rarely carry them down from the attic of my museum of mutterings—

what part of me am I leaving behind when I am consumed in flagrant mania? might I safely abandon this periodic melancholy? Or is it some chemical necessity, that I hunker down in occasional darkness to keep my mind from shimmering off into an asylum or levelling off in some deadly mediocrity? The true fear is not only that I already hover in this mediocrity and that the only path to escape lies in a full acceptance of this fact, but that once I concede I might find myself lost eternally in its labyrinth. for this has been the fate of too many around me.

can you feel the slowly thickening fog of hope obscuring this ludicrous melancholy? I almost despise it, creeping in always to obliterate the eventual evolution of whatever nasty bacteria I try to catalogue in this transient chemical miasma that feels so consuming until I tease at it. This anger is only a result of the fact that it is so hard to put words to the ethereal lunging that is my normal state. I am yet to grasp why the anger, rage, and sadness are so much easier to name but I fear this trend might be at the heart of so many of man’s problems. The fear and anger so much more primal, their primitive force easily fed and even more easily spread.
:: posted by walker


15 June 03
chemistry again an impenetrable obstacle.
an all natural earth friendly organic barrier
between myself and i
since abstinence, neurons crawl, chemicals flow, previously stillborn and static. like spreading internal lice, eggs hatching, ponderous, unobserved clouds, a dangerous precipitation forms, electricity poised.




the march of words, ceaselessly wrapping my simple animal pain, disGuising my fear, ornamenting my monkey madness with the trappings of time and metaphoric complexity. through the words do i gain greater self-awareness? or do i create greater and greater barriers between myself and understanding? the words are certainly sword and shelter but is it my human or animal self i parry with their use? there it is again that bloody mind body dichotomy
:: posted by walker


14 June 03
obscurity. apparently i am totally incapable of knowing if anything is true. there are people who would wish me to consider this the core of my philosophy and accept all things as equal. rape and love, pain and pleasure. a philosophy based on the idea that there is no way to confirm or deny an axiom. a system of thought, they would say, that recognizes that all systems of thoughts are built on quicksand. hmmmm. using the knowledge that all knowledge is questionable to remain openminded is one thing...but shaping a life around the unknowableness of life? (why do some people make the truth seem so dangerous and impossible? and here i mean the truth of feelings and such not that elusive metaphysical beast, (the though here is too large to elaborate)
:: posted by walker 12:42am 03/29/03


29 Septmeber 03
we can choose to march, dance, cry with the symphony of change
or we can cower, drowning in the sound of our own screams against inevitability.

It is not without some sense that we are attracted to stagnation,
in sameness there is predictability & some might believe safety lies too in sameness,

but the only future that can be predicted is failure, the only action whose ramifications might be seen is inaction,
and inaction is death

or at the least, its own special breed of
in(s)anity.
:: posted by walker 12:42am 09/29/03

19 october
This is the man I am at one moment, a whirlwind of words, vicious electricity filling blackness with the jagged smile of light, dancing through the dark clouds of unknown forging connections with the bold pen of thunder.

& then, the storm clears, with the speed only island and coastal dwelling folk might know. A hollow breeze, a brutal sun, a sky devoid of character, an occasional sound pushes through the still dead air, only to be swallowed by emptiness, serving not to shatter the silence but instead to amplify it. SCREAM, CRY, bawl, like the seagulls call swallowed by the tide, they will travel no farther than your own ears, magnify your solitude. No matter how competently I forge metaphor you will know my story only if you too have been consumed. For this empty landscape is inescapably drawn in the pigment of thought on the canvas of mind. What tool or weapon might I wield against my own mind? What direction should I run, what beast slay, if I wish to escape what is myself?

A large part of the terror is child of these questions. For while the melancholy is pain enough, the inability to resist its call might be a thousand times a thousand the torture. & in the words, I might hollow out some refuge, find solace in the embrace of a well-armed vocabulary. How much of science and art are but bread crumbs, leading to the havens of other tortured men?


:: posted by walker