The drag about thinkers such as Alan Watts and David Abram is that by positing the ‘word’ and ‘abstraction’ as something that impedes the full experience of the body and reality they fortify the very divide between man and nature that they are trying to mend and end up recommending fantastical notions along the lines of mysticism and pantheism that cater perfectly to modern spiritualities’ world negating needs. For here we have a truth that wants to do away with its own kind and kin — all other abstractions which are henceforth to be acknowledged as falsities. But what is it that fuels this truth and wants it to act as goddess and executioner? What god or demon spins its wheel and to what end? And we answer thus: it is a sympathy afflicted by the evils that man and culture have wrought upon nature and the future of mankind. But if that is so one cannot but wonder why these thinkers do not recommend the ‘word’ and ‘abstraction’ themselves as remedies to the state of culture through understanding and transforming the social process. In their hearts they are as afflicted by the world of man as they are tired of it and unable to fight it; they are weary, and their weariness demands an answer and wants to be resolved. The answer and resolution are delivered through a world negating philosophy that takes cover under the wings of the mystic and seeks to resurrect that which cannot lift its head anymore. For time has spoken and the hammer has fallen. But they did not hear it as yet, perhaps, and off they are still going with a weary spirit seeking after a single stroke that shall resolve it all and reveal reality as it is and plant man back within some equilibrium with nature. Or is it that they refuse to hear it? – for then they cannot but exercise their will. So hard did the world come down upon them that it robbed them of all will and hope. Of course, the resolution, if any, lies in our ability to control ourselves and not in seeking subtle and intelligent ways to absolve ourselves of all need for control under whatever banner that soothes our conscience — whether the animistic or mystical or those on the opposite side of their spectrum.
His heart, a burning field
With flames standing out
Like stalks of wheat
Reaching for the moon
In the wind’s mouth swaying
While breathing ember in flocks,
Golden wings to travel the world over
And cast in the beloved’s ear a whisper,
Letters of fire trickling
To rest his name upon her heart.
Dark like a deep night full of hidden scars
A mare leaps into the blizzard of stars
And dancing, his strong feet crush the white grapes
Which light trickles to gather in heart-jars.
Objective reading — is that not a sure and certain way to mis-reading? to setting oneself apart from the experience while in its midst? to avoiding the bitter cup and that which wounds and at the same time to compromise one’s laughter and the spaciousness of one’s laughter? to miss out on that which is most instructive by taking it into our blood-stream and heart? But, of course, pointing this out to “objective readers” is to no avail for they will handle it in the only way they can — objectively; and for that we must allow them their haughtiness — a haughtiness before which we others must appear as “weaklings and dwarfs.” But, mind you, that is only a question of appearances and appearances deceive. Let us allow them their “truth” and “knowledge for its own sake” as a most comforting sedative and pillow and bid them sweet dreams.
White clouds slowly drifting in your blue skies,
My hands, over your face, a shadow white,
A fountain spilling light and melting sighs,
Calling your cheeks to rest and drink all night.
I celebrate you,
A body of white waves
Like flower clad hills
Rising and falling over me.
Your rough salty hands
Brush me to whiteness,
Your silken petals
Soak their sweetness into my skin,
And your relentless motion
A pressure so soft and firm it kneads
And pulls me in all directions
Calling out my blood and yearnings
To rise, quiver, and speak
Break and shatter my body
Into waves frothing joyful
As into you they churn
A song of celebration,
A hymn to the full moon.
Whenever a mishap or an accident happens; whenever two wills collide or a malice spills over from eye to act; whenever a situation spurs and presses demanding adaptation and malleability — I have seen a reconciliatory will jump to the fore, eager, full of energy and jovial determination to overturn whatever “bad” results have ensued, offer a hand brimming with good intentions, and adjust taking the shape and form of whatever the situation demands. Such a will is always anxious to wipe clean the differences and place them in the “right” light, and to make amend for whatever might hint of dislike or disapproval. Anxious and fear-ridden, for the keener eye, her anxiousness is not hidden by her jovial mask and apparent goodness — she is afraid, and driven as such she becomes servile, always says Yes except in the most trivial, and adapts and seeks to reconcile where a stronger will stands up ready for a fight, says No where consequences are costly, and wants things to bend to her desire and need. Ultimately, what such a will is afraid of is setting herself into her own authority and becoming independent.
The flow of our emotions never comes to a halt so that our senses might record a thing or experience in its “suchness,” as it really is. Rather, they dominate the senses to such an extent that they overflow into whatever is being perceived, colouring it and, like a good artist, giving it shape, form, spirit, and penchant as to fit their state and taste.
A poem is a tour de force with heels, an untamed surge of muscular grace and beauty, stamping against the heart.
That vice is the price we have to pay on the way to the glorious effusion of love.
Ah, so delicate and subtle are his emotions and feelings that a feather falling through still air can wound him — and he writes poetry too! But surely, should he realize it or not, that which poeticizes in him is something other than his sensitivity, something more, over and above.
Pleasure and enjoyment are not goals in themselves. They are, rather, afterglows and floods resulting from the frictions and tensions in seeking after a goal — countering obstacles, overpowering and overcoming, and the infinite small battles in the long war leading up to the summit and goal. Hence, thus viewed, pleasure and enjoyment are no more preferable to suffering and pain which may very well be more preponderant — in themselves, they possess no value but are mere coins which we pay gladly once we have something to look up to, something we want to purchase and acquire. That pleasure and enjoyment have become goals in themselves can only mean that nothing is worth waiting and fighting for anymore, that, somehow, what we now have is all we can aspire to have — therefore, let us make the best of it!
Red grapes of passion;
Love’s ocean turned pulp and flesh
In the poet’s hands –
Outstretched and open, a gift
To all worthy lips and hearts.
Weeping through my eyes,
The streams of her soul painting
My verse, and my sighs.