ok, so i just want to make beautiful things . . . oh yeah, and have people appreciate them.

i mean, without an outside viewpoint, can anything be truly beautiful? maybe it can, but i’m not interested in entertaining only myself, i want to share beauty with anyone who will appreciate it, or even those who won’t, because there are perhaps few things more terrifying than beauty that is not understood, or if we felt like polishing off an old chestnut that lays truth and beauty in a comfortable overlap, truth can be terrifying.

So I’m out and about, hanging out with plant last night; standing in his backyard talking about the strange sort of stuff the cognoscenti tend to talk about, watching kids run about, assembling bicycles . . . you know, the usual.

Anyway, I’m standing there looking at a radio-flyer tricycle, we all know the one, classic design, I had one when I was a kid; but I’m standing there looking at this ubiquitous piece of childhood paraphernalia and it strikes me that this particular example has, very much like my own as a child, a marked difference between the aim of the handle-bars and the alignment of the front wheel.

Dear Family Members that I invited here on the occasion of my Thirtieth Birthday, and all those weird internet-using-people that have wandered in for whatever reasons y’all came here, I offer this in the sincere hope that y’all will share the following news with whoever you feel will honestly appreciate the following . . .

I’ve come to a resolution on this, the occasion of, the rapid approach of my Thirtieth Birthday.

Said resolution being namely that . . .

so there you are, living your life . . .
doing that which is expected of you as a human
(un)fortunate enough to be born here, now
just in time to witness history
as it passes on by

and all of a sudden, an invitation emerges,
out of the clouds of confusion;
a message arrives

the phrase - bat’s chance in hell
rings a bell
but still, there it is, just waiting for you
the clarion call of opportunity

i’m a dreamer; and a very lazy man

been meaning to write this post for weeks now

My entire life is sitting on the back-burner,
i’ve fallen into a rabbit-hole of sudden ability
to entertain my apathy,
and i’ve succumbed to the sensation
whole-heartedly.

Time passes as a series of pipe-dreams,
passion bursting into ephemeral flame
to paint moments rich in meaning,
so far away, and fading
as i trace their shape into memory
to be preserved with all the other artifacts
of dreams untested.

sometimes there is nothing but trouble to be found in the exercise of rational thought, sometimes it’s a terrible idea to go to the bar

you find yourself tangled in the decaying tendrils of the hard-won hope that there is enough inherent intelligence and good-will in the human species to undertake the admittedly difficult tasks of seeing to the sustainability of this human experiment

A couple of days ago, I posted a couple of videos detailing the latest (and potentially greatest) abomination foisted upon the american people by its government. Under the snappy title ‘will it be alright?’ I stated that there is still hope; I’d like to back that statement up.

wow, way too much silence from the jester’s end of the world
this blogging thing began with the most impossible aims imaginable
a pure reflection of my general take on life;
namely that unless i’m doing something to make this world better,
i’m wasting my time

all my dreams scare me

at night
i toss and turn
wondering
what it’s worth

howling into the void

File it under ‘odd games to play with your brain’

I’m taking at least a two week hiatus from drinking, this is day eight.

It’s a short step from Artistic Integrity to slovenly stagnation. When your heroes include such people as Charles Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson, it’s a safe bet that you’ve got more than a passing familiarity with booze, and I most certainly do. I’ve already spent more than enough words on the positive aspects of intoxication on the artistic mind-set, and I continue to stand behind all of them.

ever have one of those days where you run around, knowing full well that there is all of this terribly important shit that needs to be done, but you can’t get anything accomplished because you don’t have the faintest idea of where to start?

the last couple of months i’ve been indulging in a steadily increasing diet of odd intellectual fodder -

i’m shaking here
so impossibly anxious to
do something
great and sweeping,

I’ve often commented on the distinction between wisdom and intelligence. In all honesty I must say that the more important of the two, at least as far as survival of the species goes, is wisdom.

I’d like to point out an article that I just found that exemplifies my argument. Making a nuclear bomb is an exercise of intelligence. Not doing so would be an exercise of wisdom…

Here’s the article:

yes, this trend of posts that plant, Fullery and myself have been making here on Lewd Cognoscenti has certainly taken something of a political bent as of late . . .
and

i,
as the finite jester
speak only for myself
in the following statement

i’ve been somewhat obsessed as of late

i could not even attempt
to count
the nights spent
dwelling on mortality
and (for lack of a better word that rhymes)
destiny

I have often pontificated that english is an evolving language, much to many an english teacher’s chagrin. But this article put me back when I read it.

It is just that the language that they propose is so….. inelegant. Talking like a caveman would be fun for a bit, but what would it do to our collective psyches? What would this do to poetry? Or music?

Picture a psychiatrist at her desk reviewing a case file. The report describes a young, teenaged male who, with several others his age, killed nearly a hundred victims. The case is astounding—not only because of the intensity and magnitude of the violence, but because nothing remotely like it has ever happened in the community before. Not even a single murder. As the psychiatrist turns the pages and reads on, the pieces of the puzzle start to come together. A few years before, the young killers had witnessed the massacre of their families and been orphaned. Afterwards, although still very young, they were relocated to another community with few adults to raise them; importantly, it was absent of older, mentoring males.

The following is in response to talking plant’s retort to a post of mine. You may wish to read the original posts first, but certainly don’t have to.

Links: (for those who want ‘em)
- living this life of illusion (my original post)
- allow me to retort (plant’s response)

To the extent that a mere exercise in semantic brain-flexing can be called a controversy; the controversy stems from the various implications to be taken from a quote . . .

This wasn’t written to convince anyone of anything
This wasn’t written to be a great work or to explain anything

This was written because I had to write it
This was written because I hope someone will read this, and be reassured
This was written because writing is so often all I have . . .
In these modern times.

I swear it’s not doom and gloom, and I hope you’ll agree with me.
-finite (do me a favor and play along) jester

There is a group of native south americans who don’t speak of the past being behind them. Rather, they say that the past is in front, and it is the future that is behind them…

Tell an old Aymara speaker to “face the past!” and you just might get a blank stare in return – because he or she already does.

New analysis of the language and gesture of South America’s indigenous Aymara people indicates a reverse concept of time.

The Jester and I have been bandying about in regards to the definition of The Artist for some time. In his most recent post he had a quote from Nietzsche concerning what an artist is (or in this case isn’t).

Whoever is completely and wholly an artist is to all eternity separated from the “real,” the actual
- Nietzsche

first off, it’s a very dangerous thing to sit around and talk about socialism immediately prior to heading for the bar. although in general it’s also a dangerous thing to sit around and talk about socialism while drinking vodka, it’s just that if you head out to the bar immediately after; the effect can be devastating.

the american night
looks different
after a few stiff drinks

I was reminded today how disconcerting it can be when someone dies. Often people are unaware of the influence that they hold in the world and would probably be shocked to discover the true ramifications involved in their lives.

For instance, today I dragged the Jester out of bed at an hour at which his eyeballs would normally be enjoying the company provided by the back of his eyelids. With only the promise of a hearty lunch he was so kind as to offer his help in moving some of the excess baggage that I have accumulated in my basement to a friend of mine’s house for a garage sale.