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Monday, April 7, 2014

"Talking Existence"

Portrait of Marco Polo.
Portrait of Marco Polo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We exist through the conversations we share. A man is a memory, existing in his sphere of influence. In this sense, being forgotten or ignored... equates to death. This is the essence of a philosophical concept bouncing about in my head. I call it "Talking Existence." The idea occurred to me recently, finding life much too intricate to be measured solely by means of a pulse. Talking Existence is not reverse-solipsism, nor is it a delusion of vanity. To best understand this, you must take into consideration that I see life as art-in-progress, defined by the relationship between the artist and those who visit his gallery. The only thing personal about a masterpiece is its creation. Unless it is regarded by a decent portion of society, a painting might as well never been painted at all. Of course this is a metaphor. (Nothing wrong with recreational painting.) Talking Existence is us sketching a portrait of ourselves each day with our words. Actions are but the manifestations of verbs, physical words. As such, what we do is also what we say. How we speak--both physically and verbally--unto others shapes our existence. That is "Talking Existence."

I can seem simple, deceptively. "Be good. Be proactive. Be remembered." Humanity often turns to established morality and terms for success to define its life. It's because, as concrete-minded humans, we assume length is the end all be all. I'd argue against that. Longevity is a cheap way to be remembered. It's not about quantity or quality-- it's about quandary. When we feel it seems as we are most alive, does it not? The more failure you face, the the more life you have. Only in the ashes of a blaze can we touch a fire. Loss is but a baby born to be a win. (Unless aborted by its parent.) By this, it would seem the content of our lives determines our existence, not our conversations as I proposed. Not so. This is a part of Talking Existence. What we feel and what we experience are merely ingredients to our existence. Our hardships and triumphs are reflected in our tone, humor and choices. Daily interactions are the basis for psychological understanding-- the blood of human interaction. You live by means of your tongue, but a tongue will only taste that which it finds sweet. Scars are inputted into the complex formulae through which we operate. Whether you wave meekly or embrace in a hug is determined by elements of our experience. This is why I say we exist through conversations. Man hasn't invented a time machine, and we all know how fuzzy memories can be, right? You can only follow a foot that leaves prints. If we leave no trail, we are lost.

Beyond being a measure of life, Talking Existence has a much deeper role in the whole of existentialism. It's interwoven into religion and relies heavily of the fallacy of "truth"-- the rusty hinge of morality. Lying is born of a desire to artificially enhance our existence. During my more cynical moments, I tend to regard truth as a great fallacy perpetuated by the naive. Thinking reality can ever be understood is arrogance/ignorance in its most sublime. Perception is 9/10ths of human understanding--a belief the very concept of Talking Existance is built upon. The remaining tenth is the established overlap of the collective beliefs of society and the closest we wee homo sapiens will ever come to an actual "truth." Liars play in this large pool of perception, persuading others to come swim in their version of the murky water. (Note: Read liars as everyone.) Opinions are glorified emotional guesses, but they're the only tools we have to grasp the world around us. Likewise, feelings are fleeting, abstract and non-existent-- excuses to act against logic. The relationship between opinions and feelings is our bias, the nature of our need for personal validation. It compels us to argue and teach, battling others for the right to shape existence. A lie, if not believed by its creator, is merely an acceptance of the ugliness of the so-called truth as we remember it, and an attempt to alter history to our whim. Through lies we are closest to "God," a figure whom I personally deem as the ultimate lie and manipulative tool. If a lie is believed, just like a person, it exists. We are taught about the exploits of Marco Polo as children, but it's questionable if the man ever set foot in China. Just as the ambiguous epic poet Homer is remembered, so too does God exist. In this way, God exists more than we do. True reality can't by perceived by our feeble minds, so what is a lie? It's the basis for perception, cloaked by our innate earnestness. What is remembered lives on.

Once our death is hence three generations removed, apart from being a chink in various strands of DNA, we die out of existence. Name one baker from 17th century Germany off the top of your head. These men are dead-- their ghosts haunting unread censuses and dust-covered family records. Our comparatively simple human experience is ultimately a blip in a doomed cycle of cosmic explosions that cannot ever exist to us as we will never obtain the means to grasp it. Grasping this, we must live within the criteria of a Talking Existence. By believing ourselves to be important and considering life a lasting concept, we die prematurely. The self is a pursuit of egotists and simpletons. Live vicariously through your words and ebb out a satisfying existence for your name.

This, however, only applies to those who deem society as a positive construct. This, quite possibly, is yet another human fallacy... but that discussion is best left for another time.

- B
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Saturday, April 5, 2014

"Musings of an April Morning"

Only a handful of people have the right to say they've done something truly fantastic with their lives. The rest of us mull it, though the more honest ones own up to achieving minor greatness within their narrow spheres of existence. I'd say artists have the closest shot at understanding the meaning of life. Their perspectives split into a stark fork. Half believe life to be brimming with purpose, appreciating the simplest of things-- harnessing the collective beauty of their seemingly irrelevant surroundings. The other half, the faction to which I belong, find existence without meaning at all. Not nihilisticly so, but rather... viewing the world as a blank canvas... bookended by tools for painting-- both physical and inspirational.

That's all I have to say on this at the moment. I'll reflect on this duality in mindsets and perhaps post the result later on.
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Wednesday, April 2, 2014

"The Pull of Fate"

I feel the pull of fate, it's tugging in your direction. When I think of your eyes, suddenly green has meaning. Hair has a purpose, now. It's for stroking gently. Whispers, I dedicate them to your ears-- passing on near-silent profundities and ravishing truths that the world will never be ready to hear. This flutter in my stomach, it's never getting old, is it? Our bond is a glimpse at immortality-- undying, unrelenting. It's a hurricane of emotion that wraps me tightly in warm uncertainty. The only way I can convey my feelings is through a stream-- a beautiful babbling brook of poetry. I'm paddling passionately through these waters, seeking the source of this never-ending spring of glorious inspiration. My heart is a ship, and it's already passed through Theseus's conundrum. The tattered remains of what I once believed to be my definition of love has been systematically replaced, leaving only your fresh cedar timber. The current that I coast along now is the strongest pull of them all. It's the pull of fate, and you are my destination.    

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Texts 1

"The most beautiful thing about you is your ability to see this world in a better way than I ever could."

"In spite of your fears and social challenges, the purity of your perspective and the openness of your mind is something to be envied. It's almost unfair; I could never hope to be in your brain nor understand how to smile so simply, so fully and so brightly."

"... But I don't have to. I'm happy with my front row seats. I get to experience a level of love and romance most cannot find. No one has your uninhibited beautiful mind."

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

"To Be Beside Your Name"

Title fight, unrivaled
To be, her beside
Crowds form outside 

Beauty incarnate, never enough
By words, untouchable
Odes justified, so tough

Fauna wilt, with comparison
By night, stars fall
Auditioning for thrall

Winter months, your beauty rest
To hone, as if
Home address, your chest

Oceans part, your feet
A sun, your miracle
A loving burning oracle

Dictionary pines, your name
In line, adjectives
To be beside her, fame

War wages, man and verb
Adjacency, the prize
The view, your eyes 
My surname, the contender
My sword, my love
My mission:

Beautiful surrender 

Breaking Skin

Beauty is skin deep
Skin is your life
There's cuts in your sensitive skin
I put them there
I live with that

I love you, this I know
Irrespective, I show
The feelings a man can have
Knowing a woman's greater
But I appreciate
All the more

Your heart is huge
An even bigger target
I always aim to please
But I am not William Tell
Apples in tact
Sad fact

I find myself at a fork
This is amiss a bowl of soup
Choices are good devices
To show my love I pick you
Unknown to her
It was easy

Tuesday, January 28, 2014


Death is a breathtaking concept; a statement as figurative as it is literal. It's the fear in it. The finality. Therein lies the brunt of its beauty. Death is the only force mankind shall never prevail against. No matter what life lengthening drug or procedure man invents, accidents happen. As do murders.

Homicide, the grimmest yet most potent of muses, and the engine of countless plots. Passion or insanity, what else could make a man murder? To betray a rule so sacred? To take away the--

...I won't dip my toe in the dark waters, on second thought.

As a voice-giver for fictional murderers, I've found it's best to shy away from a mind contemplating the nature of immoral subjectively. Cold science can never lend an unbiased perspective to psychology, as to judge emotion you must cast your own bias--emotion-- to come from a place of empathy. Authors know this best. That's why our stories tend to end happily. The bond you form with a story's characters is but a microscopic fraction of a passionate writer's. While you spend a week or two with the story, we devote months, even years.

I now find myself facing such a conundrum.

How do you end that which has become so deeply ingrained into your existence and everyday process of thought? These characters, they're so much more than characters to me. Oh the humanity! The horror of ending the horror. Pushing a plot out of the nest, hoping everything you put into it will allow it to soar as high as your visions projected. Rewriting. Rewriting. Cuts. Edits. Do-overs. Why can't it ever be enough? Why is goodbye so hard? The endeavor feels like an endless escapade, but I know that's just the artist in me. My dreams are the painting, my love the paint, but ultimately this is for sale. A product. A part of my life is a product, one that needs to sell.

Ending a book is like ending a chapter to your own life. No one understands the importance of ending a chapter powerfully as an author does, I'd say. As such, we are critical of our own lives and the conduct that comprises its content. Once you set your mind to a creative perspective, you see life in stories, potential material and irrelevant errors to edit out. It's torturous yet magnificent, though ultimately unfathomable to the normal people around us. The more at one with the written word I become, the more alienated I find myself with society.

When this ends, I find myself parting with an amazing set of friends and enemies. Fortunately, I know this particular cast is one I shall revisit often, but that is rarely the case. Though melancholic that we must part, I relish my momentary triumph over the dreaded blank page. A finished book is a bittersweet victory in an endless campaign. One that comes after a bloody string of unsatisfying losses and defeats. Perhaps it is the deluded English blood pumping through my veins, but I find that marvelous. The life of the writer is a dark struggle, but as the ends of our chapters come... we manage smile. Writing is its own reward. Truly it is. The end of a book is a sad reward. It's like attending a graduation party for a friend you love deeply, but you know is going away for a long time.

So you write again. Starting a new beginning. Renewing a need for an ending you never wanted yet pined for the entire time.

- B
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