actively I am writing.
belatedly I am thinking.
carefully the night tires me.
dreadfully the day caresses me.
eccentrically another day passes.
freakily I live another day.
gently this wind cools me.
hastily this rain went as it came.
irkingly I am passive.
jokingly I am active.
kindly my breath continues.
lovingly the earth nourishes me.
merely a long vacation.
newly reborn after a passage of change.
openly nothing has changed.
peacefully suffer the duration.
quietly say nothing.
restfully nothing really happens.
scarcely he leaves me untouched.
thankfully i still live
usually homesick
viciously repeating
wistfully running
xenophobically greet the other
youthfully meet the Other
zealously dying.


there is always an egocentric sequence at work.

persistence of metaphors,

we insist on speaking in riddles.

'I am' ?

must 'I' always come with a verb? a labour towards a direction?

a spatialized entity, from experience to entity.
isn't movement towards the Said, the Being, the end of somewhere? content with the stable metaphors? metaphors that represent nothing?

Isn't the present, a concept, an idea that is never material? Is it not both isolating and mobilizing an entity at the same instant? The instant becomes an event.

is it not a spatialized entity that never occurs? There is no present because it is evanescent.
can we even view 'presence' and 'present'?

music comes closer to revealing the nature of experience: a happen-ing, an unfold-ing.

pain, is the progress of the self; the awakening of what is stillness, idleness and contentment.

there exists a more complex movement. One that is cruel, deadly and absolutely unforgiving.

The disaster of duration

it is duration that gives us the consciousness of presence and absence.
but it is also the immediacy of an encounter that summons the 'I' to a relationship.

I always appear at the summit of presence.
but I am also doomed to be annihilated at the end of my time on Earth.
I become absent in the world of things.

Duration is the gift that makes us wary and weary.
It is both a slow-working poison and the progress of salvation.

In this (limited) duration, one comes to term with oneself.
One cries.
One crawls.
One walks.
One talks.
One plays.
One learns.
One laments.
One works.
One laments again.
One lies.
One sins.
One labours.
One dies.

One can never escape the work/verb that determines his or her position in the world of things.


one cannot escape a disaster unforetold.

one cannot escape the pain.

one must deny and forsake the Other that conceived you.
only then does the relation re-establish its enigmatic and rhizomatic nature, its dialectical birth/death, destruction/creation flux

I -> I -> I ->

I persists.
but I change.

It is duration that delivers us to the ending, come what may.

It is impossible to live in the now. There is no now.
there is currency, there is immediacy but there is no now.

The first experiences of life all unfold in a duration.
what you achieve or lose happens in time.

Without recognising this finitude, no one can understand his or her freedom of will. (another paradoxical metaphor)

Therefore, submit.
Submit to the will of duration: that which rises up, and rushes to its end.

tbc.

Lukewarm,
the weight of passion falls on me.
loving is to keep me running,
lifting and sweating, but it feels,
lukewarm.

i should explain, the earlier the rain falls, drenched;
patience is not contemplation.
moving the world in a closed room.
roam the desert of redemption.

long live the fireflies!
stay a bit longer, rainbows.
the resistance has to last a bit longer,
longer than any expectations.

lukewarm,
the canals of the Ancheron don't flow here,
erupt the torrents of change.
then clean us with white snow.
lukewarm, my touch is lukewarm.


is the playground rebuilt? oh? where's the sand? we live a life in synthetics.
is the city rebuilt? oh? where are the walls? we live a life in technicolor.
are the fields plowed? oh? where are the men and women? we live a life in mechanics.
without the sun, without the rain, without the moon,
with you,
i won't smile. I won't smile. ich wird nicht lächeln. .

wouldn't it be nice, to be able to meet you again?
as though you have not changed since then;
those same cheeks and those small dreamy eyes,
revealing though a huge interest in that poor plastic straw.
Perhaps, this time, this place,
I could see through those eyes and guess accurately what you could be thinking,
this time, this place.
that time, that place,
I wished I could have hanged on to them,
motto motto, mousukoshi unsere Zeit,
together. longer.

时间，短，断。

你不再是你，我不再是我。你是你，我是我。

tabun.
若しかすると?

language is a barrier to the inner depths of consciousness.
that which is always an irony: to express with the fear of being misunderstood.

maybe.

I'm listening to Homenaje a Martha Valdés.

Difference is not the repetition of loss.
Difference should not be the reason for conflict.
Difference should be the reason why love triumphs all.

gentle breeze, the night sky, earth is not alone, with the moon, and the stars, across the universe, so alone and not alone, each shining not because they shine on their own, for the gaze perceives as such, so let all of us not be boastful, and the wind blows because we feel the air blowing against us, and grains of sand fill the ground we thread, together with the pebbles, the shells and the polluting trash, in times of loneliness, in times of merriment, in times of company, in times when we walk to the brim of the sea, treasuring, hallucinating, being who we are, or who we are not, moments when voices speak loudest, moments when everyone is silent, and those rainy days, those sunny days, the laughing crowds, the midnight traces of yesterday's fun, today is the time of twilight, peace be those who keep still, whose desire to keep quiet is strong, but foreign is the tongue that speaks alot but means nothing; so quit talking, and start loving, even in silence, aye, even in passive silence. with you.

salut.

fais-moi justice. eins zu eins.
一对一。
one to one.

the unnatural that is the natural inwardly,
is only that silent, unspeakable daily trauma and melancholy, which is
the nightly rejoice and invisible embrace before the morning rising of the pale;
before the full glory that is its zenith.

the divine will, or a gliding principle pulling me up into the skies,
is trapped behind the walls of skin, skin deep, my parasitical presence and finitude, in all its gnashing darkness and silent screams, heard over and over again,
which is a gravity opposite pull of a human, o so human consciousness; exterior and interior -
negotiated and mediated by what is the face that I can never see outside myself.

The third, the immanent third allegorised in the growing of hair, the growing of the body,
even the disintegration and its dying, but it is the voiceless charm that speaks silence;
the unknown spark that makes nuclear fission seems foolish; but it is the source of every blessings uncalled for, every manifestation in the visible, external world, that shows the narrow path, with all its thorns, trappings, ravenous wolves and obstacles of sin.


Is there a witness, a fourth? Another person who has to reflect everything, and provide the biographies for the day of judgment? The always Other who sees me from the outside, staring, peeking, stalking and perpetually there.

Perhaps, whoever or whatever there are, there just is.
Peace, be still.

you can imagine all you want,
you can imagine what you want,
you can imagine who you want,
you can imagine the rich landscapes of your mind,
i won't be there, then.

you can tell the DJ to repeat the last song,
you can watch the same show twice,
you can read the same book twice,
you cannot ask me to come back.

you can change my life in so many ways,
but each way runs its own course.
your face changes each time I look at you.
every bit and every trace, I don't recognise.

But we stay to the end.

I won't entertain illusions.
and delusions.
I won't repeat fantasies,
and dreams.

i can't write.

joy may be far away now,
but for that, she is also close to him.

how he lives his life, he is often clueless.
floating, is what he might describe his life, this life.

all he asks is a simple release from this place, this place.
maybe the simplest answer now, is to wait.
like once in a bar, a pineapple cocktail, 2 hours before the jazz and within an hour it ended.
that's how goodnights are.
a few hours before you sleep, and when you do, you wake (you bid goodnight), almost immediately.

Peace, be still.

Mark 4:39

faith is still, peaceful, that which calms the winds.
Nonetheless;
Without the winds, the summon is nothing but a blowing of air.
be still, facing the winds.
be very still.
the profound fear and love of the Word.