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  • basement 7w

    There's no pattern to living.
    There's only living in a pattern.

    #maxis_bell #385thday #quarantineday4

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    Happiness O Happiness art thou coming soon?
    Fetching a pail of earthly comfort, and shall I attune?
    To thy daylong slumbers and pretty pretty foods
    I scorn at thy feigned care of this day that next day excludes

    A harbinger art thou of my mother's flowing eyes?
    And to she shall I attend while another mother dies?
    Let me die a thousand death, it's my unfeigned disposition
    Thy fleeting joy I pass, and their sorrow I requisition

    Atleast it dost not numb my senses and I'm always awake
    Atleast I know in a collective sorrow my loneliness partake
    What thou art going to befall like an uninvited guest?
    And it's always been thy way, and I shan't dare thee arrest?

    Then know thy mannerism I shall always protest
    Even when to placidity my reposing cheeks are pressed
    And I will always be watching thee with a pair of squinted eyes
    Thy every move, thy embellishments, thy every devise

    And I will run away from thee, at the slightest of thine err
    To that lonely mast, midst a brewing storm that knows me and my share
    Of my lapses, my valor, my lost days of existence
    Cause once one hast lost enough, there's no more resistance


  • basement 10w

    Last post and/or an archetype for future writings. Quite uncertain about it like a life.


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    Exegesis of a blank notepad (a fragment)

    He said, "It just won't come anymore," during the final days of his life; demented, depressed, delusional and unable to write after a certain period. The epitome of creativity, a giant bullfighter, a deep-sea fisherman, a hunter and a war hero. Yes Hemingway, lay dead with his brains out, by bullets ejecting out of his favorite twin barrels, with the press of a trigger by his own thumb, in front of his own house, dressed in his favorite dressing gown. It says something... Perhaps, that no matter what you do, no matter what you create, no matter how you bond, you are going to fade away - a writer, a human, a man, a woman, a success, a failure, a planner, a hermit, because the man you are is as singular as a marlin in a flowing water, cognizant of a deceiving hook of an unknown fisherman brooding in, baited with salty sardines, and no matter how much you try not to chum up, the down current is slowly going to take you to that pervading hook.

    I have created something and I like what I create. But isn't that we create is derived? I'm not talking about science, where you start with a posteriori. In art withal writing, that we create today is an outburst of a priori of the past, a repetition within the sea of incredulous meta-narratives swelling and crashing around us, more so because the requisite to create something today stems from the backdrop of selling it to others. Yes, art is produced to be valorized or perhaps had always been. Something which was supposed to be internalized, no more heals the mind, pulverized with the mechanism of having a face value and being transacted like any other commodity.

    Love, hatred, peace, war, abundance, scarcity, mirth, pain, etc, all these topics have already been elicited, written about, criticized, re-written, deconstructed, reconstructed, and then thrown in the dustbin. Why? Because hatred succeeds love, war capitalize peace, scarcity dwarfs abundance, pain and suffering negates mirth and happiness. Why? Because man’s sustenance calls for implicit pain and suffering towards others, and man is condemned to FALL, to FAIL with a forgotten memory of a paradoxical paradise. If you were to consider only recently more than half a million people dead due to Covid-19; consider or I must say perceive half a million dead corpses lying in front of your eyes like a mountain. The gaze itself is enough to send the concept of happiness for you into a lifelong coma. Yet, midst all the chaos and suffering around, man attempts to find a meaning in life. Second, talk about mankind and allkind sitting across a table at a restaurant, having ordered some fried chicken; or maybe a talk about the imbalances of the world, the pathos of existence, the rich and poor, the decay in weather, building a house, reciprocation of love, number of followers online, a good web series, etc. No matter what a man does, a man forgets; forget others, their incapacitated mind, their half filled belly, their diseased body, their drowned children, their raped sisters, their slain brothers, their burnt houses, their sentient moans, for 'I' precedes 'WE', and the catharsis of 'US' is a subservient rendition of 'ME.' Nothing wrong with self care, eh? Right, but only if one is to accept the fallacy of this forgetfulness. There are some inefficacious in forgetting, like a disease. Then nothing bad in living with this disease either I profess. So many diseases thriving inside a few inch body - hypersecretion of enzymes, hormonal imbalances, drought stricken and eroding joints, mutinous cells, evanescing synapses, weakening nephrons, failing beauty, a disintegrating process... Amid all the physical diseases harboring a man's body and mind, of course a man can live with a disease of cognition.

    If I'm to quote someone, there could be none better than Cioran from his book, A Short History of Decay, "Man should listen only to himself in the endless ecstasy of the intransmissible Word, should create words for his own silences and assents audible only to his regrets. But he is the chatterbox of the universe; he speaks in the name of the others; his self loves the plural. And anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an imposter. Politicians, reformers, and all who rely on a collective pretext are cheats. There is only the artist whose lie is not a total one, for he invents only himself."

    So Cioran, a man of unparalleled genius, who disavowed many accolades and laurels he was conferred with, talks about speaking for himself in his chapter Exegesis of Failure and yet he speaks in favor of the Greek skeptics and the Roman emperors of the Decadence in his chapter Magnificent Futility. Everyone deviates from their ideals in life and self proclaimed boundaries, if one is to live some odd fifty-sixty years or to write a few hundred pages; perhaps sometimes. No? The more you live to speak and/or write the more you contradict your own words. Writing is an act of feeding the ego, if not then why not carry your unwritten books to your graves? If carefully observed and deconstructed every writer can be negated of the virtue they dictate or preach, because man's hurry to create is synonymous to man's need for sustenance, for self preservation, for self glorification.

    A stimulus to write cannot antecede some stimuli of experience, of reading something or hearing someone or seeing something. When Hemingway received the Nobel, the subsequent year after having received the Pulitzer, by and large he was praised for The Old Man and the Sea. The heroic defeat of an old fisherman, who catches the biggest fish of his life, yet returns home empty-handed, broken and crushed by the perils of the nature and the sea; perhaps one of the biggest tale told about tenacity, loss and absurdity. But could Carlos Gutierrez, his previous first mate had been the real old man and the inspiration behind Santiago? I reckon he taught Hemingway alot about fishing and even helped him with the story. So is my incertitude about writing something singular, unparalleled, exact and accurate in error? Why are there so many laden ships with beliefs, making way through a muddy sea of the Unknown, dropping cannons at each other, drowning each other, killing each other? Because of a written text? If such is the impact of a written material, isn't it better to slay your precursory thoughts at its infancy before they materialize into a text?

    And you will say he is slaying Hemingway, Cioran, and probably everyone but how can I, when these are the writers who don't let me sleep at night? If I'm to slay them it be as if I'm slaying myself, which I would if not for my conditioning to thrive and see a next chapter of my life unfold, but not them. But a man has to write what he knows, then only he can be better at it, or slay being better, then only he can convey what he longs to convey. I believe a man can write a little and still be content. I believe a man can read a small chapter a day from a book of his favorite writer and still have a peaceful night. I believe a man can know not much and still pass a fulfilled life. It's surprising how much comfort one can derive from a little, and yet my thirst evokes every Saturday to read something new, until I can't read it anymore for I came across something else on a Thursday; and thus I keep ricocheting between books, between faces, between ideas, as if my universe is destroying and creating itself every Thursday like Last Thursdayism; maybe because life offers only one home run, to run and run and live and live and read and read and experience and travel and write, and then something happens to the mind in between which never heals, for it perpetually decay getting worse with each passing day, and so I begin to think, what if, that I'm writing now, doing now, creating now, is being fed to me by my subconscious mind, something which I have read or heard before and how can I possibly write something that's not already evoked? And it is then when I pause, and I begin to read with a subtle thought about not plagiarizing any known/unknown writers construct, with another subtle thought about how my whole life is based upon a societal construct of plagiarizing others, ushering/stunting within bottlenecked definitions of the status quo; having at the expense of someone not having - my food, my clothes, my books, my walls, with one count tamed sanity and two counts baptized virtue for adherence, and one count of dizziness to overcome. But probably we are all aware of this big elephant in the room; some avoid it, some talk about it, some write about it - aware and/or unaware that the writing didn't helped that person in distress rather you, that you are the beneficiary not the old man, will always be, has always been, that this is the way man lives, knowing but not knowing, healthy but diseased, sober but mad, tainted in the unanimous mud of a muddy world, walking hand in hand down towards the Unknown, some cheerful, some distressed, some sure, some unsure, a writer, a reader, a soldier, a criminal, a believer, a skeptic, an epicure, a stoic, empathetic, narcissist, perceptive, obtuse, learning from each other, negating each other, plagiarizing each other, transacting with each other, saving each other, killing each other - tacitly, explicitly, wordlessly, articulately...

    ...and hence my alarm ring and I wake up to witness another day, to see another chapter of my life unfold, realizing having an open blank notepad on my cell phone and agnizing having failed to read even a small chapter from the book of my favorite writer, having been stuck for days in between the lines that read, "Keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man. Or a fish..." ready to sink in; an inch deeper in the unbeknownst muddy sea of the given.


  • basement 12w

    for Hemingway

    Soldiers will die on both sides. That's what soldiers do Captain. (Wonder Woman)


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    my enemy and me

    One day when I was there
    Midst ocean blue at dawn
    Saw a Spirit, midair
    Whom I greeted with a scorn

    "What thou art inform
    Thou wretched being drawing near?
    How dreary is thy form
    What purpose brings thee here?"

    This was when the west wind blew
    And the billows roared so wild
    His form, more closer grew
    His aspect, calm and mild

    "O Mortal! Mortal! Of the Earth
    Don't fear this foul form
    This Spirit once had a cheerful hearth
    Which kept it's body warm"

    "Midst mountains, barren, wide
    Where bluebell grew forlorn
    But humanity never sighed
    Nor winter blight brought scorn"

    "It was on such mountain top
    This spirit once sojourned
    And when its mortal life was lost
    Its death was shortly mourned"

    "By kindred far and near
    The men had lost their joy
    Nay, friend you shall not fear
    What's destroyed shall not destroy"

    "My story is untold
    No mortal ever knew
    On that day, behold!
    The guerilla northward drew"

    "Our life was like that
    Follow orders, serve, and kill
    Neither blink, nor a bat
    Their wishes, our will"

    "I was leading them ahoy!
    Our numbers, not so grand
    Our orders, to destroy
    The enemies of our land"

    "The mission was precise
    To blow the bridge of Taht
    It would hit them, hard and nice
    Would severe their only path"

    "The bridge was manned by two
    On either of the side
    The charges, we had few
    The bridge was long and wide"

    "Came dawn, and we prepared
    For the task which was at hand
    The charges were all laid
    Neath the bridge, as was planned"

    "While the two of us were at play
    The third was standing by
    Watching near and far away
    His task, to keep an eye"

    "And so that moment flamed
    The first gunshot was heard
    Hit my sentry hard and maimed
    The enemies, roused and stirred"

    "Their numbers, more than two
    And gunshots, everywhere
    My fingers worked and blew
    The charges did their share"

    "It seemed no one had survived
    And my comrades too were gone
    To my joy, someone had thrived
    But from the Other, not my Own"

    "And my time was fleeting by
    I had gunshot wounds, some three
    Heard my enemy moan and sigh
    His back resting on a tree"

    "I started crawling downhill where
    The tree, stood below the ravine
    And pain, usurped my valor there
    My visage, wild and raving"

    "He was wounded very badly
    His legs were blown away
    His countenance, pale and sadly
    His valor, torn away"

    "His flickering life abated
    There were tears in his eyes
    Saw his pupils, dilated
    His eyes asking, many whys"

    "I wished to know his name
    But the blood just won't stop pouring
    Such was the terms of game
    Never occured, before this morning"

    "And I wished we had some time
    A few words, about each other
    Both lads, in our prime
    Born of some different mother"

    "I wondered what would be like
    Had we met, a place, another
    My woes, his woes, alike
    Could have called him my brother"

    "So, I laid my hand on his dying breast
    Knew his sufferings been enough
    Felt his last breath crest
    And witnessed its final trough"

    "And then when he was gone
    I lay me by his side
    Knew this war thing was forlorn
    It was then, I think, I died"


  • basement 30w


    1) Perhaps they were right when they said don't journey the path unknown. Now I know too much for a peaceful night and too little for a peaceful day.

    2) I'm like that. Either I'm insanely creative for days or I'm dull and dim for years.

    3) The more I read, the more certain I become of my ignorance.

    4) I was always certain about the rules of living, even before they told me.

    5) I know I'm capable of finishing it, can't say the same about starting.

    6) It's obvious to get unnoticed, but the idea is to say more with very little.


  • basement 31w

    I'm like that.
    Either I'm insanely creative for days or I'm dull and dim for years.


  • basement 161w

    A Peasant they say - fragments

    Here comes the man
    A peasant they say
    Tired and spent
    After a long tough day

    Brows dripping sweat
    On his worn-out face
    Still there is content though
    In his case

    A peasant by birth
    Or a nature's smirk
    Digging and toiling
    The good old Earth

    What kept him from reaching
    The isles of Few
    Where countenance are subdued
    With fresh morning dew