5.22.2009
Hey Folks
Hey guys, we might be organizing an Open Mic at Kaffeine in downtown New Rochelle. Let me know what you guys think etc etc. Meeting soon. Answer Phones!
5.16.2009
I write to take refuge from my accent.
I am told that there is content in the edges of my sound, and history in my pupils.
But you can only know me here, alone, I am accentless, I can not dance or sing or articulate my flesh-
Better to be the lake beneath your curious eyes, silently hearing your soul.
Better to be the silence that we've never known exists.
If you want to see me properly, you must know that I do not exist; you have projected this content onto my flesh.
you have sprinkled my aparation with fairy dust, my beauty is an illusion-
I am just a joint and limb, startled by movement.
The color of my hair is up for interpretation, please do not love me for a freckle of a difference from any moving body, I am the same but to myself.
If you want me, be it only because I am a blinking consciousness like the dumb owl.
Do not disrupt me not talking, I am being my soul. See me like you see yourself, unrelated to characteristic, on a mountain above a fog; I am the pool of your reflection, see me only to see you.
And if you see me cry, do not worry your mind that I too must suffer humanity-
When I die, my tears will become the literature never to be heard.
I am told that there is content in the edges of my sound, and history in my pupils.
But you can only know me here, alone, I am accentless, I can not dance or sing or articulate my flesh-
Better to be the lake beneath your curious eyes, silently hearing your soul.
Better to be the silence that we've never known exists.
If you want to see me properly, you must know that I do not exist; you have projected this content onto my flesh.
you have sprinkled my aparation with fairy dust, my beauty is an illusion-
I am just a joint and limb, startled by movement.
The color of my hair is up for interpretation, please do not love me for a freckle of a difference from any moving body, I am the same but to myself.
If you want me, be it only because I am a blinking consciousness like the dumb owl.
Do not disrupt me not talking, I am being my soul. See me like you see yourself, unrelated to characteristic, on a mountain above a fog; I am the pool of your reflection, see me only to see you.
And if you see me cry, do not worry your mind that I too must suffer humanity-
When I die, my tears will become the literature never to be heard.
5.03.2009
City Drive
There's a certain kind of simulated nostalgia for me when driving the night-struck roads of Mid-Town. The evening air is as cool as the city is impassive, and both contrasted by the bright-fire neons and oil-slick refraction of a million unimportant lights. The metropolis creates a clockwork chaos that gives meaning to the fusion between a man and a machine.
The cars name is Vesper. It's a female name, yes, because she is my beautiful partner. I understand it means "Evening Star". Her electric yellow exterior adds another spot of light the the uninterrupted flow of mechanical luminescence that is The City.
But this light, is mine.
Along the worn ways of the FDR a sudden turn looms into view, and I give my life to her. At speed, any miscalculation will end in an extinguished flare. A quick motion with my left foot and right hand and she realizes whats going on, sheds her speed. Hanging idly, she waits. I put my right foot down and hear her purr. She grabs the ground, trusting me. She feels it like I do. The left foot comes up as the right hand moves again. Then I feel a smooth pull as she responds to my ministrations and takes us through. The broken concrete wall is a few scant inches away, and its the difference between blind faith and a trusting love.
She settles back into her groove, and I settle back into simple feeling. The stereo is illuminated by a shaft of of soft and simple light from a full moon. The speakers give a smooth hum, a blend of retro-synthetic jazz and a saxophone melding into the evening air and bright city lights; together easing all my troubled thoughts under a canopy of un-seeable stars and ever increasing shadow-chasing shine.
There's no room here anymore, under this substitute starlight, for things that aren't progress. Is it a shame, that the joy an unimportant man experiences here is the personification of a construct? The feelings are real though. I can hear her respond any time I want. No longer are we separate from what we create. If all these lights went out tonight tomorrow morning would be all fire and brimstone, the afternoon would be every man for himself, and that night would be the first time someone sees a clear night sky. Is the trade between man and machine even? It would seem so with all our dependence, but I wash her, I wax her. If she's sick, I take her to have problems fixed. And so it is with everything. Like these night bright highways all is communal, all is merging, and all is forward motion.
Maybe that's why there is something beautifully basic and pleasing in taking a city drive. The night is forever young, reborn every singe day, but we are not. Time moves forward, as do society and technology. So in taking the time to appreciate this fusion that we will never be able to avoid, this progress, maybe we can learn to appreciate ourselves. It's simple forward motion.
The cars name is Vesper. It's a female name, yes, because she is my beautiful partner. I understand it means "Evening Star". Her electric yellow exterior adds another spot of light the the uninterrupted flow of mechanical luminescence that is The City.
But this light, is mine.
Along the worn ways of the FDR a sudden turn looms into view, and I give my life to her. At speed, any miscalculation will end in an extinguished flare. A quick motion with my left foot and right hand and she realizes whats going on, sheds her speed. Hanging idly, she waits. I put my right foot down and hear her purr. She grabs the ground, trusting me. She feels it like I do. The left foot comes up as the right hand moves again. Then I feel a smooth pull as she responds to my ministrations and takes us through. The broken concrete wall is a few scant inches away, and its the difference between blind faith and a trusting love.
She settles back into her groove, and I settle back into simple feeling. The stereo is illuminated by a shaft of of soft and simple light from a full moon. The speakers give a smooth hum, a blend of retro-synthetic jazz and a saxophone melding into the evening air and bright city lights; together easing all my troubled thoughts under a canopy of un-seeable stars and ever increasing shadow-chasing shine.
There's no room here anymore, under this substitute starlight, for things that aren't progress. Is it a shame, that the joy an unimportant man experiences here is the personification of a construct? The feelings are real though. I can hear her respond any time I want. No longer are we separate from what we create. If all these lights went out tonight tomorrow morning would be all fire and brimstone, the afternoon would be every man for himself, and that night would be the first time someone sees a clear night sky. Is the trade between man and machine even? It would seem so with all our dependence, but I wash her, I wax her. If she's sick, I take her to have problems fixed. And so it is with everything. Like these night bright highways all is communal, all is merging, and all is forward motion.
Maybe that's why there is something beautifully basic and pleasing in taking a city drive. The night is forever young, reborn every singe day, but we are not. Time moves forward, as do society and technology. So in taking the time to appreciate this fusion that we will never be able to avoid, this progress, maybe we can learn to appreciate ourselves. It's simple forward motion.
Check this out. Its an excerpt from my favorite existentialist writer. I'm in the midst of what is supposed to be a 6 page research paper in spanish about him, but with this one poem alone, I could write hundreds....I don't know how to limit my opinion about him to these six pages when this man translates my soul to literature....
"Análise"
"The idea of your being is so abstract to me
That when I look at you and entertain
My eyes with yours, I lose sight of you,
And nothing remains in my gaze, and
Your body moves so far from my sight,
Yet the idea of you is so close
To my intent to look at you, and just knowing
That you are, just by being
Conscious of you, I no longer feel myself.
And thus, by being unaware of seeing you, I feign
The illusion of sensation, and I dream,
Not seeing you, nor seeing, nor knowing
That I see you, or even that I am, smiling
From an inner blue twilight
In which I feel that I dream that which I feel myself being.
From the dream and little of life."
-Fernando Pessoa
"Análise"
"The idea of your being is so abstract to me
That when I look at you and entertain
My eyes with yours, I lose sight of you,
And nothing remains in my gaze, and
Your body moves so far from my sight,
Yet the idea of you is so close
To my intent to look at you, and just knowing
That you are, just by being
Conscious of you, I no longer feel myself.
And thus, by being unaware of seeing you, I feign
The illusion of sensation, and I dream,
Not seeing you, nor seeing, nor knowing
That I see you, or even that I am, smiling
From an inner blue twilight
In which I feel that I dream that which I feel myself being.
From the dream and little of life."
-Fernando Pessoa
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