The alpine crisp. A sky that lingers longer, wisping threads of air into itself. Clouds like knitted waves dissolve. The sun glistens, peeping shards of longing sight down to the ground. Forming myriads of colour upon the grass. Love is the between. Air. Free. life. The floating nothing that suspends. Clarity is piercing, blissful to the point of hurt. Life is painted before me in vivid truths, and yet I see it like a portrait in the national gallery. Distant, and beautiful. Admirable. Detached, from the reality of being and the essentiality of life within my veins. The sun hits my back. A single circle of warmth. The canvas drifts forward. The frame alludes illusion. Dripping ornate gold from its melting torso. Upon the cusp of an objective vision. The inbetween reduces. The clouds continue to hover in their absent totality. The grass stares up at me as a shaggy mountain dog rushes past. There is no-one. Rocks are my friends, and the unveiling canvas my soul. Reflecting light and life, love and sorrow. It is this moment. I am this moment. I have become it and yet it eludes me. Time is no longer, just as it never was. Nothing has changed. Only everything. I see the distant with murky clarity, that brings it forth into a depthless reality. Dimension has lost its meaning. And meaning lost all substance. I am substantially lost, essentially not. Stranded in the barren oasis of Mother Nature, starved from all the banality of life and its empty distorting nutrition. Less is more. And more no longer. This is all. And I am. The am I always was. That drifted into the distant winds of commerce, trapped by synthetic fibres and scrunched up pornos. But in the open sky with its commanding sun, I feel the raw sexuality of being. The sordid brush of objective intimacy dissolves in the canvas of godly plight. This Is the piety of loving. And I am pious. I am one. And as the sun beats upon my back, I am the mountain sky, that lingers on, that lingers long, into the eternity of an chickadees bosom.
Reminiscence of the Present
Spiritual Encounters of the Analytically Insane
She is the I am
And in our absence we teach the water inside each other
Mostly Everything. Essentially Nothing. coming soon
Notes On The
Uncertainty Of The Forest
I cannot confine myself to any doctrine. For within me lies a fickle man, a child fascinated by the wonder of the world, and a slave to its transience. Life would be easier if I could have taken a few hours, at the beginning of my life, to sit down and write a few rules to live by, before following them through with absolute conviction. I am neither an unruly nor a rebellious man; just one guided by emotion rather than text. When I cook, recipes confuse me, and when I live, I walk as if I had nowhere to go. I want to be free, free to be engulfed by delusion and free to stumble upon truth. Free to live in a contradiction of actions and the irreplicability of moments. Today I live by the guide of kindness, but tomorrow I may buckle under a more, or less, profound disposition of my soul. Until then, I live as a man: a man lost in the well of the world. A pawn to inquisition and the eternal pulsation of the universe.
Notes On Possibility
If nature has taught us anything, it is that the impossible is probable. Possibility is a man-made limit imposed upon the imagination. It is a limit that has been orchestrated through logic, with a view of the past. What has happened is possible. What can logically be abstracted from what has happened is also possible. But many an impossible thing has occurred in the past. If our rationality begins to evolve to a point that encompasses a level of irrationality, so that our thought is not so rigid, there is no longer such a thing as a miracle, because everything is a miracle. Everything makes sense, because in this paradigm, sense not only includes logic, but also includes ‘sense’. Nothing is normal and nothing is crazy, for everything is normal because everything is crazy. And common sense is nothing less than uncommon sense.
Notes On The Place
Beyond The Pines
Everything has a boundary, and in the moment we define it, we simultaneously give rise to its boundlessness. Limit fuels our curiosity because we are enticed by the sensuality of that which we cannot conceive. It is the place beyond the pines. A place that holds no definition in the constructs of our minds; a place improbable, inconceivable and immensely seductive. We want to transverse the contours of its emptiness, to engulf it and be engulfed by our own intrigue. It is a gratitude for something we have not yet been given, a desire for that which has no form, and an appreciation for infinite possibility. Whether born of curiosity, boredom or sensuality, it is not sensible, but human. It is what breeds and maintains the vivacious spirit that keeps us alive.
Notes On The Fluidity Of Man
I have come to realise that I am more a phenomenon than I am a man. A phenomenon with the elegance of nature, the integrity of death, and the atmosphere of a deceitful turtle. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I am no more than a concept; no more certain, no more permanent, than the notion of communism, and as unattainable as utopia. The beauty and solidity of man involves an absolution no less absurd than the absurdity of non-existence. And the man that I live within becomes more and more elusive, more far-fetched every day. So much so that I begin to live beyond my body.
AIPRFK is a stream of consciousness collaboration with the Andrew Fernandes, that spun out of a series of whattsap conversations. The aim of the project is to return to an autonomic state of writing, which imbues language with a thoughtless viscerality.