Poetry of the Unconscious (while listening to Beethoven's 5th, 2nd Mvt)

I cry my eyes to sleep, in deeper thought I weep... I cry because I can, my soulful verse it spans a wan...My childhood memories they keep me tranquil at night.

I cry myself to sleep in such waning moments fly. I cannot understand why...I love you so much memory. I feel compressed of sought in invigorated irony. Why molest me.

Do not shatter my banter, memories wanker, plains of sight to see. My eyes they cry the memory of a sought-out forgotten majesty. Melancholy is only there for the heart to see.

Such illusion, such exclusion, such varass perversity. Such a time to remember as dying embers were to rhapsody. Oh I exclaim the words that claim purity over adversity. In such disdain I will complain myself to my master's mastery.

I dwell, thus I spell my name in worldless letters. I am fettered, I am fettered with such whilstful everetter. I cry, I feel, I remember. Like the yesteryear dying ember in that moment on that black December.

I remember I remember all the pain and joy that sembers. Please remember, please remember of the times I was a splendor. My eyes they cry all I remember of the past in plain I send her. Whilst in fury, whilst in jury, please forgive all I remember.

I walk a disconcerted walk past the trees of magic bark. They look down on me and tell me, "Dear, do you remember how you used to be. Such a galant lad with swiftful melody." A young buck renders memories of yesteryear, "A child of God of profugal melodear."

"I cannot, I must admit." I reply without a hint. But the tree it looks down on me and prevails in bringing homage to my past, my hidden secrets, all my essence there to seek it and explore it; bring the aura of my laurence.

"Preserve my innocence," thus I speaketh. "It's too late for that to reapeth". I repeated my words once more with such ever sending blasphmore, that the trees were taken aback, in my utter sounding sleeketh, meaneth not forseeketh in my ever sounding secret.

Thus they mourneth, and they scourneth, and the memory they keepeth, of the time I was a child, a lad, with no demeaning secrets. Thus they know, need not explore my mind and thus they weepeth...

I cry myself to sleep tonight and thus I keep no secrets. For the trees they know my soul as they remember, speaketh, truth about my lovely past, my essence, my ever-troubled secret.

I remember, I remember and I cry in such sweet splendor. I thus cry without surrender in this ever-founding splendor...

Ode to Beethoven's 5th (1st Mvt)

As I awake to a beautiful sunshine I see the world spinning on its axis. A whirlwind past the shredded plain. In whilstful vain I shuttered veins. What a place to be, what a dream to see. Such an otherworldly scope of plainless steed.

The worlds come crashing down in a beautiful symphony of sea. An arranged metamorphosis for all to see. A silent camel as it heads to free. In Indian style a death of thee. A created monster, it glows, its free.

The glowing darkness with stars to see. In silent contemplation the world to see. It changes worldly stations with such utter sounding sea. A place of utter contemplation in places to be. What a stark contraction of ever sending sayers place I see.

The music plays its symphony, my life cannot be impoty, such letter seeming melonchy with dreaded valiant ecstasy...

...the dark, the skies they collapse, collide with such utter sounding sigh. My world unfolds with eyes so dark my life respites, in utter conditions of my eyes to fry, eclectic motions of my butterfly I'm sending itself with melancholy, credence fly - - - - - -------- - I feel to die, I feel to die...I collide, I feel to die, one two three, It's done!

The Saving Power of Art

Art has the power to enrich our lives. Art can communicate higher ideals that the the common man has trouble grasping. The common man is an unmolded pulp whose motives lie in the pain/pleasure axis and knows nothing more than this.

There is an eternal law of the will as presented by the great German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (for a thorough discussion of Schopenhauer's notion of the will: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePt3kzfiRP4) Our immediate response to the will, or should I say, when knowledge which beholds ideals comes to know the nature of the will, the individual who understands it is repelled by it, for the will operates independently of ideas - as seen in vegetable or non-human animal nature. Schopenhauer was wrong in assuming that the will is inherently evil. The will is neutral, but our response to it when enlightened by knowledge of the Ideas is disgust, and hence undesirable but certainly not evil.

This response is similar to most things which we find repulsive - we humans have a tendency to demonize such things and label them as evil. Whether it is someone who does not agree with our political, social or religious views we tend to make ad hominem arguments against such people. And of course such arguments are irrational and devoid of reason.

The will is repulsive only comparatively in relation to the Idea. The will is the order of the day, it is the foundational aspect of existence in time/space. There is no being or no existence in this realm if there is no will to objectify the Idea. In this realm, the Idea exists only because of the will, its matter. The idea is the only proper objectification of the will. The ideas are like the basic geometrical shapes that exist prior to time, independently of time, and of which every existing physical object can be reduced to. In the same way, moral ideas, such as love and compassion among others are eternal ideas of which human behavior is reducible to.

Existence as such is only the chemistry of matter for the presentation of ideas - ideas which already exist independent of time and which will and can never change. Time and space allow for the multiplicity of different combinations of matter into different forms and each time what is being presented, in varying degrees of accuracy, is an eternal idea.

With this in mind we may say that as with every endeavor, art is the presentation of eternal ideas. In fact, art is the endeavor whose direct goal is this presentation and nothing else. Therefore, the greatest artist is the one who presents these ideas more accurately. Now, this doesn't mean that the greatest art is the one that has the greatest complexity of form. Not at all. For even the sand on the beach presents an Idea and the artist combines visual elements that best represents this idea, independent of chance and circumstance, but as it actually exists in itself, the archetype of which all representations of sand are a mere echo and which represent it in varying degrees of accuracy. In short, the most accurate depiction is the greatest.

But the question then becomes, how do we know which representation of art is the most accurate? The fact is, every human being already has a preconceived knowledge of these forms, for the very concept of knowledge is merely the apprehension of forms. This also explains the fool from the genius - the genius is he/her who recognizes these forms more precisely and the fool is he/her who doesn't, but of course both concepts lie on a continuum. For instance, the artistic genius is able to determine which artistic expressions are more accurate to its archetype and thus can judge good art from bad art. The fool does not possess the same ability and is therefore no authority on such questions. He/she is then more closely tied to the will and its pleasure/pain axis and is therefore driven by this and nothing else. The fool's motives are decided by the interplay of pleasure and pain because the Ideas play a diminished role in his/her life. For this very reason these people themselves possess little form in their thoughts, in their behavior, in their existence and are a considerable weight for the rest.

Now, this does not mean that the fool is hopelessly lost and doomed to a imprisoned life within the walls of the pleasure/pain axis (as the beasts of the field certainly are). Human beings are moral beings too, and moral ideals are as much subject to knowledge as non-moral ideas; both of which have the effect of loosening the bonds of the will. Let us not, hoewever, confuse the morally religious individual with the social religious zealot. The former is one who perceives the moral idea by means of a heightened knowledge (as the artistic genius) while the latter fails to perceive the idea and is simply operating within a social framework by mere habit or tradition. The latter is, unfortunately, the lower strata that currently permeates all religion, especially in the West. Religion is but a formal institution who has defiled all lofty and honorable idea by using it as a means to the end of "self-preservation". But its vital energy is lacking that initially provided the vitality to establish it in the first place and are now merely running on inertia.

The true moral religionist no longer has a place in any established church (there may be a few exceptions though) for even in these he/she feels as a foreigner amongst his own. Because ignorance (a failure to perceive and understand the essential moral ideals) is now the order of the day of religion, and this is what the dumb crowd expects, its leaders cater to this expectation, so that when an original idea is brought before them that doesn't coincide with their narrow world view they immediately reject it as the devil's work.

What a sad and regugnant state of things.

Art also deals with the perceiving and understanding of higher ideals and hence also possesses a redeeming value of true religion. Of course, after the establishment of these art institutions a similar drying up as that of the churches can be expected. This is just the pattern of all things that possess life - they posses it for a little while and then vanish. In time/space nothing lasts forever. The ideals are the only things that last forever and time/space is a constant conceding and receding of these...