I wait for the stories who seek my nurturing.
Yet the stories unfold within me and before me.
Yet the stories of others decay and destroy me.
Yet the memories of uselessness rot and annoy me.
Yet the memories of perfection enlighten and enliven me.
And the stories of the ancients excite and remind me.
And the memories of my past, they teach and they guide me.
And the reflections of my words, they entice and ignite me.
What has been inciting as of lately?
Wouldn’t you like to know?
As much as I would like to know you?
Who is the reader?
The one who takes the time to entrain their mind’s eye with that of the writer?
And what writer writes the words that are worth reading?
Just as much as the speaker who speaks their tongue into the ether?
Isn’t it all the same, just at another layer of thinking?
Our thoughts like quieter words,
A train that doesn’t always depart nor land,
A call that doesn’t always connect nor leave a message,
Lyrics without a melody.
There is lacking at times in the timelessness of two-dimensional writing.
It is but one color upon another, a series of glyphs meant to share something.
I’m waiting for my writing to be profound, to be sharing something significant.
I think it will be once the topic is clear.
For now, it’s just an exploration of the art, the act and the music.
Who’s my audience?
What do they want from me?
I am my attention seeker.
I am the one in need.
Who gains from my knowledge?
What is the point of my suffering?
If I am so different,
I have to find my uniqueness.
Then the God in me will reveal
The truth of me.
For so long, I’ve actively sought
The self, the courage, community.
If I am closer, are my readers also?
If you’re reading this now,
How did you find me?
Something in you convinced me
To spend this very moment
Writing to you.
It is perhaps, at worst
My own masturbatory experience
Of channeling thoughts into words
This language appears so easily now with
Clicks of buttons,
(As opposed to being chiseled in stone).
It’s too easy, but alas
So is the flow of consciousness.
Always flowing, ever growing
Moving through here to there.
Following the sounds of the mind, and
The resonance of words of others,
I believe in something over nothing.
Consciousness is always
Explaining itself to you.
So in the ways I find myself writing
Or typing, letting my thoughts
Move into the written word,
I contemplate ever deeper
On the experience of the reader,
Who is essentially connecting to me,
The writer, the scribe, the note-taker.
I have to surrender
To the other, the you,
The one reading what I’ve written.
I have to allow the vulnerability
Of my truth to pervade through this text
And into the minds and hearts of others.
Because I feel myself connected and centered
In this process,
So I have to imagine the reading process
Produces a similar result.
I have often wondered
Whether or not people like to read,
Whether or not they want to take the time
To be quiet, and watch words flow
Across the pages of their minds.
I find myself observing my own eyes,
Scanning pages, hoping for information,
Hoping for hope, hoping for absorption.
I have to trust
That those who find me,
Have been seeking me.
The separation between us
Is the medium of the art itself.
The disconnection seems so obvious,
But the vulnerability isn’t.
Everything produced becomes
Available for judgment, critique, etc.
It’s all about the filter,
Which is essentially the ego.
People don’t necessarily have the same definitions
For the “invisible” concepts like ego or subconscious.
Nor do people understand when I say authority
It is though, because you can’t see it.
However, it’s understood;
it reaches tangibility from the realm of the invisible.
Our thoughts-forms and beliefs are invisible,
But they can be so strong,
They become tangible.
And while in a literal sense,
I’ve written what feels like a lot,
I am the painter who repaints the same canvas
Because materials are valuable
And time shouldn’t be wasted.
I’ve spent years
Distilling and refining words
Into some perfect
Works of art.
The shadow is always there,
If the light is.
I felt that if I could respect the poems,
They would empower me
And my consciousness
To be worth replicating
But I didn’t feel good about paper,
Using so much paper is too easy these days.
As if it doesn’t come from trees?
It does and there’s no getting around that.
Provides so much for us filthy humans.
So even though
Hundreds of pages
Written about myself
Seemed like a good idea
(And it was)
It’s really the poems
That are worth the energy
Of being shared.
My personal story:
I spent a lot of the time writing,
And a lot of the time editing.
I finished the entire piece
and decided it was useless.
And it’s trashy.
Alas, I’m obviously still connected to the project.
I think about editing it more,
Making it more readable, or enjoyable.
Because yeah sure,
I’m sure some people would be interested
In reading about sex and death kind of shit.
But really, that and this
Are just the mind pissing out memories
Absorbed by you and the elements.
Wonderment fills up
wanting to not wait
for strings to be plucked,
Faithful; I hesitate,
unlike a pup
going at a quick rate,
while wonderment fills up.
Sipping the top of my cup,
rushed but not late,
vulnerably, I hiccup
from wanting to not wait.
Win, check mate.
Nobody messed up.
Singing as they prayed,
four strings being plucked.
Enough is enough.
Done with the hate.
Tell me what's up;
determine our fate.
We're here to relate
through ancestors' cups.
While they rumenate,
wonderment fills up.
There are many ideas that I have. A piece of advice I am tuning into at this moment is the one that requests of me to continuously channel my purpose, intentions, and to “Download All Of It.”
It is always swimming in my mind, anyways. And it is true that when I write out the cosmic fragrances of ideas, there is a healing that happens within me. I feel that describing my mind, enables it to understand itself. My desire is to be understood. That is why I go so far. That is why I am hard to find. My mind is always with me, and therefore so are you.
One of my motivations as a compositional writer is the reconciling not only of alternative forms of tuning, but the way that our acoustic atmosphere is coinciding with the digital programs of electronic music. This experimental song was written forwards and is first played backwards; around nine minutes in, the subtle shift is observed as the rhythmic melodies are reversed. This experimental work in my style of bridging electronic with acoustic sounds is held together by the constant steady background of chirping crickets and a singing bowl. I really wanted to bring in natural elements in contrast to the simulated instruments provided by my software. It is my singing heard in the background.
>>> soundcloud.com/user-908682027/compositional-work-cielo-1 <<<
This musical piece of accompaniment coincides with the work of the Just Intonation Chart. It begins with a scale in A 432HZ in equal temperament. I would suggest that only few people can attest that this scale is for some reason discordant because its variation from more harmonious integers is quite close and easily ignored. However, when compared to the second variation of the scale, the scale in 432HZ with just intonation, those same few can agree that this version is much more pleasant. The second part of this scalar piece begins with the equal temperament chromatic scale built upon itself in major triads. This is noticeably discordant. The second chordal scale is with the same notes from the just intonation scale, and in harmony with one another, this scale is clearly more cohesive.
>>> soundcloud.com/user-908682027/432-ji-and-et-scalar-comparison-piece <<<
Hello dear friend,
This particular platform of mine, Make Like It All, is designed to be centered around art, especially music and poetry. I would like to become a publisher for those two mediums, and maybe others as well. Please let me know how I can support you, especially in those regards.