A small piece of childhood

Growing up as a child in the nineties, I was, rather unknowingly, subjected to acts of behaviour by my peers that I truly believe would, by today’s standards, be considered as none other than racist. These were not isolated events, and I do not assume I was alone in this, but rather, that I found myself in a situation quite ubiquitous where any non-Caucasian child were to be considered.

By myself and also, my peer group, these acts were never until later conceived as being ‘racist’, because the acts had occurred for so long, and often, so subversively, that any ideological alternative (that is, to be free of such queries, accusations and belittling) was, itself, never conceived. An example of this behaviour would be that once, in my youth, I was informed that I was sure to have to marry a near mute (by her own choice- and one she could hardly be blamed for) Indian girl from another class, because our skin tones were the most alike. The other children were all curious- I suppose, and mis- or rather- never informed otherwise by their parents, (and we were failed by the establishments supposed to teach and protect us) because it was taken much for granted that they were at an age, or a destination in life, where such information was necessary or relevant.

These children, and their misdemeanours in relation to others, were all products of a supremely racist society that had tried (often in vain) to hide its feelings. The children were a product of the up-bringing’s of adults- now parents- who, when they were children, were the product of a racist, or otherwise ignorant (which is the true origin) parentage. And so on, and so on, and so it is.

The Romanticists...

...they believed the act of writing poetry to be a calculated act of spontaneous inspiration. To have some truth or beauty illuminated to them, and so, with a careful hand and keen mind; depict the vision they had received so that it could be better shared with others. I often find myself acting 'spontaneously', and equally so, with a disposition of calculation. But rarely can one be said to act upon instinct of both.
   Whilst I acted upon a meditative, fleeting, patience- I conjured this:

This virtue that we share

by nature of being

patient,

makes our most sincere

thoughts

be alive with desire.

This beguilement of ours

is so pure:

Sanctimonious,

as the pleasure of

virgin lovers

Something about sleep

It's a peculiar thing how time appears to be the overlord of all that exists within the scope of mortal existence. Time is how we govern all that is to be done, we do this by creating deadlines, or else, hours in which all work is to be abided by, and these become set like the word of the Lord into tablets. Perhaps it is to make our own 'deadline' seem less sufficient; it becomes but one of many, as opposed to the, theoretically, only.
   I find I was once very punctual. Very good at 'keeping' time. I suppose, perhaps, in time, I had ironically learned that time cannot be kept, but simply passes along in the way we have attempted to make it do so, best. Now time escapes me. Constantly. Time travels without my noticing, and before I am asleep, I must be up; similarly to the situation I find myself in now.
   There are ways to better handle time, or at least, to manipulate our perception of it's movement. Drugs, 'fun', etc. We can slow down or speed up how often we choose to take notice of time, but never time itself.
   As I lay, attempting to sleep, in the late afternoon, my father said a few simple things to me. I did not reply, but his words, to me, (which were of a considerate and indelible  nature) provoked some thought, and a framed recital of what had passed...

You need sleep, Jez

if you don’t

it leads to depression,

anxiety and anger.

How do I tell my father

how many sleepless nights

I have had…

The last of today...

...Until some other time when I remember my self perpetuated dreams and obligations, here is another piece of writing for your (and my own) enjoyment or displeasure.
   A situation befell me, partly by my own hand, that left me in such a predicament I could have felt, in utmost vanity, it was the cause for a word such as 'irony' to be invented. 'Dramatic Irony' is the term coined for a situation where one such audience becomes aware of the details that will despair a third party, caused by a second. The God(s), then, must be the greatest spectator(s) and contributor(s) of such an irony. I, and all involved parties (other than you, God, if you exist) were unaware of the ensuing details, and so, my case was one of regular irony; but its method of delivery was justifiably poetic as any.

The poet suffers from poetry!

Cruel metaphor and the twisting irony.

The humour of Gods;

our tragedy’s their comedy.

Through dreams and drunkenness

we see their signs;

solve their riddles

and accept to be belittled

so we might make something of it all

where others refuse to look.

Where others have more sense,

than to be the instrument

of their own guileless destruction

Because I am, like all of you; greedy

As a favour to the anybody(s) who may never visit here, and because I've so much to share and never be seen, I'm going to post some more work that was written, probably, long ago and is still waiting to feel the hot press of the publisher. This piece, particularly, I wrote after reading De Quincey's Confessions. It's marvellously written, and through the beautiful lyricism, that borrows both from the Romantic and Gothic conventions, one can see how the opiates affected De Quincey; intensifying his most irrational fears and fascinations of the Asiatic. If I could only dream and write as well as he...

De Quincey had his crocodiles;

Alligators and the asiatic.

How sublime!

How silly, then,

what should I fear?

The contemporary scholar,

lacking prejudice (in vain)

I have my existential crisis.

Am I living?

What is life?

I cannot know it

if I’ve recourse to know it.

O! I have suffered.

I suffer myself.

I suffer the history of all

of those who came before me

I suffer for those

who are yet to be.

I suffer for death;

that it has not come for me.

And so,

I suffer yet.

Fernando Pessoa; how unkowingly you are loved...

It's been a long time since the last time I had written anything on here. In truth, it's been a long time since I last wrote anything of much substance. I had recently spent some time typing up my collection of poems that had filled one of the many books I have. The content of which varies in tone, and style, voice and content.
   While reading a book of Pessoa's, and admittedly, one that had most highly influenced my own creative process with regards to this 'blog', (its title, especially) I had come to fall 'in love' with his own visionary process and methods. As a man, with many facets of character, I find him quite fascinating. As a writer, I find him captivating. Here is an ode to Pessoa...

Love has struck,

No, not love,

it is deeper than a union

forged and fused

by the chemicals within

two bodies.

And how I am compelled

to admit the physical properties

that beckon my heart.

My love is genderless-

it is no woman,

no man,

it is a mind made known

by the appeal to consciousness.

Pessoa wrote his book

and as I read

I read myself,

know my soul,

bound by an intellect

greater than my own.

I read my thoughts,

my words,

as I may never know the truth

and wisdom to write them.

But I know love.

Two persons, overcome with solitary nature,

the greatness of everything, and greater still,

our loneliness. We know this both,

the each of us,

and though we will never meet,

never know one another,

I feel the harmony of our souls

which will always

never exist.