Is melancholy too an affectation? What is sadness? What then is joy?
I feel the true feeling is the unexplained inviolate simmering of primeval angst. we feel, we die and forget. Dying is easy, moment to moment. The remainder is memory. everything is memory. our past, that childhood on an uneasy swing, those selfless thoughts, oh, the pangs of that first love.
Memory resonates with sadness because it is loss, because it is lost. The groundset of memory is painful remembrance.there are no good memories because there is no recreation of past moments.the heart beats, the eyes suffer.everything is visual because everything is lost visually.and yet, we offer to explain sadness.....why?
memory creates desire. and, that, that is not an affectation.
we float again now, now, heavy with heedless hope. yes, hope is an affectation too.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Music
Music creates thoughts. Music also obviates need for thinking . It rises from somewhere I wish knew could be named. The effects that music in different hues can create varies, differs. Yet, sadly, it also depends on the external nature of our existence at that particular point in time.
We are the creatures of circular time. We are the figures chained to memory and sadness.
Sometimes the oppression is painful. Sometimes the pain of this pain is unbearable. Sometimes even music too is so unmusical. Sometimes silence is just such reward. What are we thus, changing chimeras in this unriotous passage from music to unmusic?
We are the creatures of circular time. We are the figures chained to memory and sadness.
Sometimes the oppression is painful. Sometimes the pain of this pain is unbearable. Sometimes even music too is so unmusical. Sometimes silence is just such reward. What are we thus, changing chimeras in this unriotous passage from music to unmusic?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
The First Sin
Jean Baudrillard and hyper reality
Why bother? Why bother with blogging? Why even bother about Baudrillard?
Where do these blogs exist, where indeed? As if we can touch them, feel them. This whole world spawned by the Internet, this real but magical creation only exists out of an effort. In other words, it lacks reality because it is so artificial and so hopelessly contingent.
There are so many other universes, lives, stories that go untouched by this un-necessary world. That they exist in their own right, unhinged and resolute is a testimony to the desert and the sea.
If this activity, this parallel, unparallel world of disparate consciousnesses exists, it lacks music because that can only belong outside the world of the web.
Yet, something seethes inside, where the definitions are......where the tides rise, where the moon shines sometimes. Something inside restless, where the emotions are......where the tides recede, fall back then back away slowly , like in shame, in defense of some anger, some hidden slip of the lips.
The fingers tremor, the heart beats faster, the wind rushes and roars. One assumes this torment might cease after a while. A little later, these words erupt, inspite of their unequal music, inspite of this hyperreality, inspite of Baudrillard.
Why bother? Why bother with blogging? Why even bother about Baudrillard?
Where do these blogs exist, where indeed? As if we can touch them, feel them. This whole world spawned by the Internet, this real but magical creation only exists out of an effort. In other words, it lacks reality because it is so artificial and so hopelessly contingent.
There are so many other universes, lives, stories that go untouched by this un-necessary world. That they exist in their own right, unhinged and resolute is a testimony to the desert and the sea.
If this activity, this parallel, unparallel world of disparate consciousnesses exists, it lacks music because that can only belong outside the world of the web.
Yet, something seethes inside, where the definitions are......where the tides rise, where the moon shines sometimes. Something inside restless, where the emotions are......where the tides recede, fall back then back away slowly , like in shame, in defense of some anger, some hidden slip of the lips.
The fingers tremor, the heart beats faster, the wind rushes and roars. One assumes this torment might cease after a while. A little later, these words erupt, inspite of their unequal music, inspite of this hyperreality, inspite of Baudrillard.