afrorise

when I write this you are sleeping or talking or both

and while I write this you are planning your future.

perhaps your ink is more effective than mine.



because here I lay upon fabrics of the bourgeois

candles of the religious

and scents of unknown essences

thinking of you.



and still while I write someone dies

as I finish my thought.

in the few seconds before pen meets paper

and my self-indulgence,

another woman is raped.



but still I write in vanity longing to

understand rather than know

how to stop thinking of you only.



when I write this you are sleeping or talking or both.

yet here I betray the world when I think of you.

some things I simply cannot say to you.

trust me when I write because

when I speak,

we will both wish I hadn’t.

the details of language compare

not to the feeling of your touch

or the sound of your voice.

my slight appreciation:

silent laughter, rolling eyes

should indicate the intensity of my

feelings for you.

I am not desensitized

just limited with language.

I am not bored of you

only tired of linguistics.

(It is just that I love you

and do not know how to say it.)

this first night alone is a poetic moment
at home with the silence of my thoughts
unbearable sounds of streetcars seem melodious
Beeping taxi’s are the sound of a healthy night.

my first night alone would be better, though,
if you were here to share these sounds of
solitudes with me.
If you could be my second ear, my companion.

novelty sustains human life.

in any form it comes- whether the novel object is another human being, a book, a mathematical equation. There are questions that arise with each novel thing and from second to second the question incarnates into another novel object.

there is a continuum that is consistent with the questions that arise, and with the question, with the continuum, the problem is resoved bit by little bit. Second by second.

the differences in people are not in the absence or presence of novelty but the passion with which they accept it.

Maybe acknowledgement of it is a slow self-destruction. The faster we are capable to answer our own questions, the closer we are to death? Perhaps it is not just the old who are wise but also those who die slowly in their youth.

———————————————————

One thing I ABSOLUTELY LOVE is when a good philosopher basically affirms something I’ve already thought about. These connections help me feel confident that I am in the right direction because most times thinking is such a solitary activity. Here is a quote by Gilles Deleuze (1925-95) and Felix Guattari (1930-92) that pretty much sums up my peice above:

“Thought proceeds via problems, but problems are not chosen; they impinge on thought, inducing involuntary movements of disequilibrium. Both thought and the thinker emerge in a field of unfolding, self-differentiating differences, the problem that instigates thought being one with a specific configuration of multiple discursive and nondiscursive circuits of activity. […] In short, the thinker does not select the thought so much as the problem-world selects the thinker and the thought.”

Brilliant! I am so excited to have found this connection. Novelty is the “problem-world” for Deleuze and Guattari. Ahhh…(for now)

chill.  

gorgeous afro. 

some battles are unending

yet with sleep comes pretending

and so we continue with words.

with one eye open -just a token-

of resistance, we witness.

some battles are real and what can we feel

with a scholars tongue?

Borrowed words never answer

instead, like a cancer, they spread.

(Disguising lies and diatribes)

some battles are unending

yet with sleep comes pretending.

so with one eye open we continue

to bear witness.

sometimes the centre breaks, unravels

and then all things resist harmony

tending rather toward confusion, disunity and strife

and in vain, with my duct tape, a worn-out adhesive

I try and I try to put the centre back together

somehow.



the part I fix seems only a minor detail in all of the rubble.

It is always in vanity, all of it.

Now, when the centre breaks, I just let it.

I watch from afar, like a bemused spectator

who smiles with the better answer,

although it is nowhere to be found.



letting the centre break shifts my perspective;

a new centre, that is not the same, has not yet been broken.

it waits.



my role has changed from putting the pieces together

to breaking them all apart.



It is simply simpler to deconstruct.



however, I do miss the consistency, steadfastness

and arrogance of the centre.

herein lies the postmodern paradox:

to create or deconstruct? appollonia, dionysus?



how is it we choose one yet remember to resist the view

that they are all the same?