The Trunk and it’s Hair

خرطوم خر نیز چو فضلت کلفت
مک زنان غرق در اعماق فهم          *********           باتوم دشمنت چو پشم خرطوم نرم
میروید و مینوشد زین آب گل آلود مفت مفت

Ockam’s razor

it occurs to me – more as a quality metaphor rather than a deep insight into reality – that even the sharpest of swords, the swiftest and the deadliest, need the soft and comforting grip if they are to be used without cutting the warrior’s own hand.

smell of happiness

happiness is not to be reached, or attained. it is seduced to linger around whenever it happens to come your way.

perhaps it is my stench that drives her away.

humility

Peterson: must remind myself… must keep reminding myself that it is either that the condition of existence is naturally as dismal as I experience it OR that my understanding of it is incomplete and therefore any judgment and understanding of the “condition of existence” must be postponed as *incomplete*…

Godel: … ah Incomplete (yet *Consistent*?) !

Me: Mr. Godel, why won’t you leave me alone?

Russel: Forget about Godel – Yearn for local consistency, and what emerges is global completeness… yeah? no? Maybe. Either way, Don’t forget you really need to get laid my son.

Pirsig: By local consistency do you mean Quality? Yeeeees that’s it… can never see the track of Quality to its end (Godel interrupts: can never be complete), but all you need to remain on it is to keep your eyes on where the track is locally, right in front of your eyes, in the moment – local Quality tracking – that way your train will not be derailed.

Me: well… unless a piece of junk is on the rail.

they can’t quite figure out whether it’s stupidity or naivete… or they must be just too kind to call her either stupid or naive.  what i wonder is whether they would have the guts to bring themselves to wonder the stupidity or naivete at the visage of me holding a knife under my throat (with my hands shaking or steady, I cannot decide).

ah the church of reason… one is either crushed under it’s rubble or gradually, slowly, without one’s knowing, turned into one of it’s stone angels: rigid, paralyzed, hollow as a doll – there for earthly fools to kneel at.

cold island blues

me: i feel. I feel that the only permanent emancipation from fear, fear of insanity, of death, of staleness and constancy – is in pain.

she (1 day later): bullshit.

me (2 months later): I agree.

Bad Art

It is tough to describe the feeling of disgust at watching a bad piece of art. Cheap in content, and bourgeois at once. Aesthetically attractive but repelling like the sting of the alcohol from too much perfume.  You stand there looking at it, trying desperately to instill meaning into it by seeking form, structure, analogy, and metaphor…. but nothing comes. If it does it’s some boring, overrated reminder of an old theme force-fed by some element of surprise which usually involves a trivial oxymoron or irony: “meaning of meaninglessness” etc.

I feel like bad art.

The inability to stir motion in the mind of the observer. A clumsy handle on the eyes that scan you for substance. The mundane words, telltale of mundane worlds, which drag the motion of thought to a halt and blind her (secret) expectations for an overdue surprise. It is one thing to have to view bad art, but it’s more painful to be one (and imprisoned in steel frames too!)

The only thing that would make up for pieces like me hanging in this gallery (zoo), are unsophisticated ‘foreign’ adults, with (bad) faked French accents, running around the gallery, impersonating the artists of these pieces and fooling the audience in making them believe that indeed they are the artists. Now That is Good Art.

Friends and Laxatives

Usually the accumulation of an excess of things (thoughts) in a limited space (the mind) results in an eventual outpour. Every now and then you may need a little helping hand (friends or laxatives) to initiate the process. Here it is. Hold your noses.