We come from the night,
a crop of stars in our hair,
dancing with bodies bare,
knowing the sun must rise.
A taste of moonlight so rare
fills our senses, tip to tail.
A blood-wind fills our sails,
our ship wild as sable mares.
Under the moon, skins pale
glow glassy and ghostly bright.
We creatures, children of the night;
free until the darkness fails.
Poem XXXVI
M.M. — 30-May-2013
30 May 2013
29 May 2013
Development
I write this in light of the recent celebration of my 25 years that I have lived on this earth. It is a reflection that has certainly been made more poignant because of this important landmark, I think.
With each passing day in my life I have come to realise the nature of my development as an individual. I mean to say that I have come to comprehend that the person I am now is not—and I can say this with certitude—the person I was 10 years ago, and it will likely not be the person I will be 10 years from now. Moreover, I now understand that within the past 10 or so years it has been the case that I have progressed through particular discernible phases or stages—epochs has a nice ring to it—of development. They have been multiple and varied, some having occurred concurrently with others and some that are still ongoing.
Details of these epochs would require a separate posting altogether, one for each in fact, but to give just two examples: The first, nebulously put: I have come to appreciate the power in infusing oneself with a fear-depriving "blood-fire"—in other words, the value in destroying fear. And the second: What love means to me and what makes love, "love", as in the singular kind of love. (This one is definitely labelled "work in progress".) The first is personal and social, perhaps even political. The second is more philosophical, emotional, psychological—definitely more complex. But regardless of what the epochs in themselves are, the common factor is that they are characterised by extended periods of time (being developed, contemplated, wrestled with, engendered, etc.) and, most importantly, that they are integral facets of the person who I have been becoming, have become and will become.
Stagnation is something I have come to resist in my life; this resistance has become a part of my essential make-up. This is perhaps what I am concluding from this present contemplation. This, and relatedly, that "growing up" is something that does not have a terminal point. Most of us will likely have changed as we grow or grew out of adolescence, but I do not believe the journey ends once we have "grown up" in the typical sense. The whole affair is like a can of paint constantly being mixed with a variety of colours being added every now and then. And even if the paint were to turn black, as would eventually happen with the inclusion of all colours, the mix itself would be dumped from the can and the constant mixing begun anew with the order of addition of colours simply altered.
M.M. — 30-May-2013
With each passing day in my life I have come to realise the nature of my development as an individual. I mean to say that I have come to comprehend that the person I am now is not—and I can say this with certitude—the person I was 10 years ago, and it will likely not be the person I will be 10 years from now. Moreover, I now understand that within the past 10 or so years it has been the case that I have progressed through particular discernible phases or stages—epochs has a nice ring to it—of development. They have been multiple and varied, some having occurred concurrently with others and some that are still ongoing.
Details of these epochs would require a separate posting altogether, one for each in fact, but to give just two examples: The first, nebulously put: I have come to appreciate the power in infusing oneself with a fear-depriving "blood-fire"—in other words, the value in destroying fear. And the second: What love means to me and what makes love, "love", as in the singular kind of love. (This one is definitely labelled "work in progress".) The first is personal and social, perhaps even political. The second is more philosophical, emotional, psychological—definitely more complex. But regardless of what the epochs in themselves are, the common factor is that they are characterised by extended periods of time (being developed, contemplated, wrestled with, engendered, etc.) and, most importantly, that they are integral facets of the person who I have been becoming, have become and will become.
Stagnation is something I have come to resist in my life; this resistance has become a part of my essential make-up. This is perhaps what I am concluding from this present contemplation. This, and relatedly, that "growing up" is something that does not have a terminal point. Most of us will likely have changed as we grow or grew out of adolescence, but I do not believe the journey ends once we have "grown up" in the typical sense. The whole affair is like a can of paint constantly being mixed with a variety of colours being added every now and then. And even if the paint were to turn black, as would eventually happen with the inclusion of all colours, the mix itself would be dumped from the can and the constant mixing begun anew with the order of addition of colours simply altered.
M.M. — 30-May-2013
26 May 2013
Boxes
Quiet conversations alone are nurtured
in this, the smallest of rooms;
a six-sided cell
sealed tight by the clamouring voices of
those of the outside world,
aliens to her own World.
Ten years of outgrowing and
subsuming
the box
when the realisation eventually
hits,
like a sledgehammer
to a house of discolouring glass,
that she has always held the room
in the palm of her ever strengthening hand.
And that just
a breath,
a word
—whatever, but of her own—
could disintegrate
this enclosure
to dust.
A death
leading to a
birth.
The box, the room—
a womb to escape.
Poem XXXV
M.M. — 26-May-2013
in this, the smallest of rooms;
a six-sided cell
sealed tight by the clamouring voices of
those of the outside world,
aliens to her own World.
Ten years of outgrowing and
subsuming
the box
when the realisation eventually
hits,
like a sledgehammer
to a house of discolouring glass,
that she has always held the room
in the palm of her ever strengthening hand.
And that just
a breath,
a word
—whatever, but of her own—
could disintegrate
this enclosure
to dust.
A death
leading to a
birth.
The box, the room—
a womb to escape.
Poem XXXV
M.M. — 26-May-2013
05 May 2013
The Artist
I feared there was no stopping it once it had begun to set in me. The first incision split open my mind like an orchid entering its bloom. Everything suddenly became so clear, suddenly became so...real. I scarcely even knew what to call it, all that was happening to me: An epiphany, a revelation, inspiration—love? An electro-firestorm had let itself loose upon every one of the mindscapes in my head, and it ravaged everything it came across. But there was nothing I could have done about it. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I put forward no protestations and presented no opposition. The only thing I did was pick up my brush, prepare my paints and approach the blank canvas. If this was some craft of Madness's making then I wholly and willingly tendered my sanity and my mind to it. And then I began to paint.
29 April 2013
"Sundown"
Sundown in the city
and all the pace
seems to turn to a sway.
Is it the dying of the light
that steadies the erratic beat?
or is it perhaps the fading
that reminds the forgetful dwellers
that the dying is ever in them,
gestating?
But these things are too sombre
for the sun,
as it ought to be for us diurnally kissed
by fire.
The fall of an eternal—
it happens at every sunset
but occurs not with a quickened breath
or a desire for finality;
it descends at its own pace,
on its own terms,
and with such great colour and fanfare and dignity.
It is sundown in the city
and the pace turns to a sway.
Ex Tempore XLVI
M.M. — 29-Apr-2013
and all the pace
seems to turn to a sway.
Is it the dying of the light
that steadies the erratic beat?
or is it perhaps the fading
that reminds the forgetful dwellers
that the dying is ever in them,
gestating?
But these things are too sombre
for the sun,
as it ought to be for us diurnally kissed
by fire.
The fall of an eternal—
it happens at every sunset
but occurs not with a quickened breath
or a desire for finality;
it descends at its own pace,
on its own terms,
and with such great colour and fanfare and dignity.
It is sundown in the city
and the pace turns to a sway.
Ex Tempore XLVI
M.M. — 29-Apr-2013
10 April 2013
Prose VIII
Sitting down gracefully, the implements are all counted and put in their place on the desk. Scalpel, chisel, a small hammer, pliers for the wires and a screwdriver. All of them built so finely and now ready for a fine purpose. The mirror—a glassy soul—reflects the image, the masterwork, which is illumined so brightly by the in-built lights that the horror-beauty of the image astonishes and appals in equal measure.
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
28 March 2013
Courage
We love to idealise virtues like honesty, humility and kindness. However, take courage: I wager that for your average Joe and Joanne, being "courageous" probably sounds foreign, as if courage is something for the hero of a fantasy film or novel. It might even seem a little silly. But why should it be an unlikely thing that one could stand face to face with fear and topple over that wall by virtue of one's courage? Make no mistake, even everyday, mundane life can be scary; it may not involve battling hordes of orcs or slaying dragons or what have you, but it is still scary enough to warrant moments when you have to display uncommon bravery. We shouldn't forget that courage is as human as being afraid. Let us not belittle it, or laud it as some impossible ideal. Let us instead be courageous in our own lives when it is needed, when even just a little courage would change a turn of events.
21 March 2013
"Out in the storm"
Out in the storm
Out in the field
Alone I stood
In the rain
In the wind
Keenly I listened
Under the sky
Under the clouds
Deeply I breathed
With the earth
With the grass
Slowly I fell
On the ground
On the plain
Softly I thought
At the last
At the end
Quietly I died
Ex Tempore XLV
M.M. — 21-Mar-2013
Out in the field
Alone I stood
In the rain
In the wind
Keenly I listened
Under the sky
Under the clouds
Deeply I breathed
With the earth
With the grass
Slowly I fell
On the ground
On the plain
Softly I thought
At the last
At the end
Quietly I died
Ex Tempore XLV
M.M. — 21-Mar-2013
18 March 2013
"Where are they?"
Where are they?
the creators and makers
of the beautiful things?
They that twist and turn and weave
life into art, art into life.
And the dreamers and perceivers,
they for whom the hum and drum
is much too hum
and not enough
drum.
I would have their names
but their names are
Colour, Motion and Melody
—things I cannot speak.
I could say that
I lust
after them,
but lust always turns to jade
and I could never become
tired of that which is
created, made, dreamt and perceived.
Ex Tempore XLIV
M.M. — 18-Mar-2013
the creators and makers
of the beautiful things?
They that twist and turn and weave
life into art, art into life.
And the dreamers and perceivers,
they for whom the hum and drum
is much too hum
and not enough
drum.
I would have their names
but their names are
Colour, Motion and Melody
—things I cannot speak.
I could say that
I lust
after them,
but lust always turns to jade
and I could never become
tired of that which is
created, made, dreamt and perceived.
Ex Tempore XLIV
M.M. — 18-Mar-2013
It is quite terrifying...
It is quite terrifying to realise just how easy it is to fall into utter despair. To think about it—really think about it—to question one's position and purpose in life, to reason away all arguments for there being any meaning to existence—it is terrifying. Entertain this train of thought with some conviction for but a moment and you will lose yourself in the abyss. Contextualise your life among the infinity of the universe and it soon becomes horrifyingly clear that you are a dust speck to a dust speck. This could scare one to emotional and psychological death, I dare venture. I do not think many people realise that a fine, imperceptible line exists between self-deceiving bliss and this pit out of which you cannot climb.
So how then can we stand up to this? Why is it that we do not all just relent and simply give up? That would be the easy and arguably reasonable option. Some would say there is nothing to avail us when confronted with this despair. But what say I? I do not know which scares me more: that I contemplate this horror in the first place or that I have no incontrovertible rebuttal to offer as a reply.
But perhaps this is not as great a catastrophe as it would seem. I have and continue to kindle the blazing beacon inside of me, the light I nurture that is positioned at the nexus of my entire being. This is what drives me, what makes me want to fight for tomorrow. My dreams, fantasies, imagination, hopes, ambitions and love flow from here. I believe in it; I place all my faith in it. In the face of the almighty adversity of complete hopelessness I hold onto, with dear, brightest life, myself. I am my own anchor, the stars by which I navigate the treacherous seas of existence.
The fear, then, the fear that can overcome me, I continually repulse. How do I kill the abyss in every dreaded epiphanous moment of my life? With the strength that I know is as strong, if not stronger, than the emptiness.
So how then can we stand up to this? Why is it that we do not all just relent and simply give up? That would be the easy and arguably reasonable option. Some would say there is nothing to avail us when confronted with this despair. But what say I? I do not know which scares me more: that I contemplate this horror in the first place or that I have no incontrovertible rebuttal to offer as a reply.
But perhaps this is not as great a catastrophe as it would seem. I have and continue to kindle the blazing beacon inside of me, the light I nurture that is positioned at the nexus of my entire being. This is what drives me, what makes me want to fight for tomorrow. My dreams, fantasies, imagination, hopes, ambitions and love flow from here. I believe in it; I place all my faith in it. In the face of the almighty adversity of complete hopelessness I hold onto, with dear, brightest life, myself. I am my own anchor, the stars by which I navigate the treacherous seas of existence.
The fear, then, the fear that can overcome me, I continually repulse. How do I kill the abyss in every dreaded epiphanous moment of my life? With the strength that I know is as strong, if not stronger, than the emptiness.
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