cycles 2

i return to the scene of the crime. emotion. pure emotion. exhaustion settles in. exhaustion. it is time that you know that i fell in love yesterday with a dead man who was impotent when alive, and with another dead man who was homosexual. by now you know that the sex lives of dead men interest me more than the sex lives of living men. men, just men. it's a men's world, and i have never known another world. women are an invention for the weak, the coward and the spineless. women, like god, are dead from too much veneration and too much oppression. god, like women, is dead. it does not take a professed philosopher to make such a statement, it takes an ignoble ego concocted from frustration and repression to declare the death of all identity.

then there was last night, and again you flirted with that tormented and ignoble ego that i carry around. you make me feel that i am standing on the edge of that abyss of intimacy that you are promising me. you make me want to go again at the break of dawn for a walk along the river, to listen to the crows and smell the moon's whispers.

the warrior returns to details. the ego denies all.

cycles

dear friend and fellow monk, dear departed, dear you. you wanted to know how it is going, and what it is that i have to tell, and what it is that i will tell. i have seen you at the distance, and i have avoided you when i could. the trouble is, you have been right, and you have been wrong, and i am damn tired of the judgements over right and wrong.

i know what i feel now, and i know i have felt it before, and i know that i have repressed it before. repressed feelings, the scholars would say. i say, it is not repressed feelings, it is the just glory of the mechanism of repression. repression comes out of need. to contain the tumult of the vortex of emergence, there are times that if the frame is not going to fall apart, you must repress what wants to emerge. you keep yourself pregnant, and you put that strong emotional hyper-energy in hibernation. some die without ever giving it expression, others, the warriors, they leave a trail burnt by that energy that emerges out of the sensory gut of your psyche. it is seldom a pretty picture, and on occasions it is a glorious and magnificent display of all that is noble. humanly noble! what a strange concept, this one is!

there are words that i refuse to use. there are sentiments that i can not express. there are needs that i can not represent. i live within the crevices of the unrepresentable, yet i live. i exist. on the best of days i amuse myself with the desperation of the struggle to just exist. on most days, existence is nothing that i care about.

this is the point where i go back to my armored cocoon. watch what tunnels on the other side of a reality that i have hidden from you, but can not hide from my self. the warrior returned.

grounded in the city

last week i returned to the city that harbours memories of rough and unadulterated rawness. radical changes follow my visits to the city. there is an after, after this city. it is the one for wine, music, horses and theatre. did i mention sugar and coffee? it is a city first explored with a mystery on tow, and where i started to remember what i had forgotten while distracted. this time...

it all started with not making compromises. then the roughness of a morning that torpedoed all good intentions of bravery, and for a few days i lost track of time and academic preoccupations. a long standing relationship from the early sunny days of graduate school was transformed beyond recognition. back then, in that summer when the plug was pulled on the illusion, i got the physical taste of what i rarely experience: the roughness and the power. force, the abandon to force and the surrender to the air that we breathe. after that, once more i chose the monk's life; it was not easy to understand. it goes on. another time it was work and the city hall kind of thing, the usual, as routine as my usual is, but nothing to write about. then it all crashed, and like a few weeks back, once more i pulled a few more plugs from their sockets.

now. different circumstances, different people, different restaurants, different beds. it all changes. it does. i am thinking of that morning and the rawness of it.