The Art of Knowing

I know there should be no motivation, no lust for acceptance. Art has to be pure, I know that there should be no reason why. It is just a happening thing, it shouldn't seek reward. Art itself is the reward, and there are different facets of the reward. To understand you need to be in humility, and then again, there is no cause for trying to understand. There is nothing to even attempt to understand, and any way, that kind of thing belongs to dumb intellect. This is the place of delusion, and if you are not aware, it will attempt to suck you in to its deception, to its being removed from truth, to its bullshit, to its lie. Mind so enjoys having an opinion of itself, sometimes it is afraid to just stand still and relax an just be. There is a kind of knowing, that is far removed from intellect, not that intellect can ever really know. Feeling knows, although it will not speak a word. Love knows and it deals in feeling too. This is higher knowledge, and I believe to even suggest knowledge in relation to them is a great insult. So then, there is no real knowledge except for the feelings in the heart. So I guess, to be in touch with the purity of the heart is to know as much as you can know for yourself.

Forsaken angels, and their angelic kind of love, which isn't really any kind of love. And right now in this moment is such a good place to be. There is violence in the love, and all that it asks for is more. It doesn't accept some easy and therefore some kind of phoney kind of love. And we stand here in all of this weakness, nothing speaks of truth, it wanders and it sways, and it deceives, after it has tantalised, it is not to be trusted, it is a liar. And then, love with its particular violence stands apart, and it turns from judgement and it is real. Love has its own aggression and its own violence, it does not stand in a passive place, Its eyes are searching for a place that is further on. Right here, in this moment, nothing seems to live, there is a waiting for the day to change or a waiting for tomorrow. And angels, are drifting, and all they ever seem to do is wing. I know an angel, and she is love

The Question Within the Silence

That sweet taste, both mellow and poignant, where the impossibility that you had imagined, glares back at you and questions the soundness of your mind. You stand helpless in a corner, your movement is all within the changes of your mind. You turn into yourself, looking for inward guilt. And inside of you, recognises the challenge just as you have suggested it, and in the silence dwell your feelings. They bob back and forth, on the horizon of decision. Beauty would appear to be intact, and colours your silence, and this perceived beauty has nothing to say for itself, but to speak to you. And you discover that you have to open your ears, to give yourself the chance of understanding, and the challenge is to understand the question within the silence, and to answer with both heart and mind.

Farewell and Adios

I never realised when I listened to those old Folk songs, that 'Farewell my own true love' actually meant, 'fare well my own true love' just like I never knew that 'adieu and adios' meant 'To God'

The Truth

The truth is what comes from out of you, when you explode. You sit comfortably within yourself, in a tired ease, unquestioned by the self, and you don't realise it, and you don't see it, but you subside. You become like a lesser self, a pretending, lesser self. Prudence is a straightjacket, it will take you into its noose, and it will leave you hanging there. Truth is when you wipe the tears from your eyes and you give them your own fire. And the fiery eyes will seek direction, and they will explore outside of the parameters that you had originally had imposed on them. And then perhaps in some kind of seeking to bring a distance closer, you embrace somewhere outside of your own personal world. And then two worlds collide, and a greater truth emerges, if everything is real and keeps to truth.

Evening

Perhaps I needed it then, but it means little to me now. I wonder though, where she was headed to. she, and her false affection, I am alive in this moment, and my memory doesn't love. So there was the rape of love in the place where the angels sing, and she was apart from the angels although somehow, she was on high. And she had urged me to remember her, and in this moment, all I can do is consider the moment. And today, I saw what I perceived to be beauty, and I addressed it and I told it so. And this beauty, thanked me for my appreciation, and then the beauty was gone. And the evening is crazy and it envelopes, it is helpless within itself, it doesn't know, it is lost in itself. I wonder if evening is easy with itself>?

Looking for Truth

These are ideas they are not statements of fact, as if they even could be. They are attempts at truth, I guess that they are attempts to get into touch with truth. And then the attempt at truth takes us to different places. I don't know anything, I haven't been informed of truth, I am yet, in the dark. So in the evening, I look into the eyes. I don't know which way to turn, no-one has told me, where I should go. I am lost within my life, and it would seem to be the only place that I can go.

Art

James Dean was right, the highest point of creation is in its creation, and then it is over, it is a memory, and there is a choice to be made for anyone who cares to make a choice, would like to place some value upon its head. A song or a poem or a physical piece of art cannot live again, because essentially, the creation involves the feeling. and the feeling is temporary will change when you don't even want to consider it. Some people understand how to feel toward art, and some people dont, some people are artists and some are understanding of artists and to some, it is all just foreign to them. And the artist and the ones who appreciate art are also lost in understanding the ways of others, they are unknowing too. So there are two types of people, the artist and his appreciators and the ones outside of art, but who dwell in another kind of world of art. And we all criticise so readily, as if there is no other way but ours, or at least, that ours is the only credible way. I guess that art is a bigger word than we imagine.

The Dream Within the Real

A moment turns to magic without forewarning, a demon escapes to its freedom in a nether place. And the clock is yet warning of routine, lust for compliance, but alas, no-one cares. And the moment of the magic, withdraws to itself, It seeks its own solitude within its own beauty. Definition howls in frustration, with opposition of rye smiles. And definition can now turn to the clock to gain comfort, it is all that is left for them, in their mathematical world. Nothing makes sense, and that is what makes the most sense. Eyes collide and recognise, theirs is the only knowing around, and crazy is this reality within dream, and real is this dream within reality. And today was the only time in life's history, although it sidles into its shyness. The clock is on fire and the only time is now.

The River Tolka and its Added Attractions

So I'm walking along the East Wall Road this morning, minding my own business as usual, and happen to look at the River Tolka which runs lateral to it, and I see a burned out Motor Car at the side of the river, just above the water, and I'm wondering to myself 'how the hell did that get there?' so i continue on, to do a bit of shopping in Aldi, and on my way back I happen to look in the direction of the river again, and now, there's a Motor Bike.

The Search

Crazily dancing on the eye on the window of living. Back and forth, twisting and turning, looking into the memory and the dreams of the future, and then stilling oneself to to alone with the present. Everywhere is a departure and an escape from the present reality, that teases and wants to beguile. So, without certainty, that insecure feeling visits, is the companion. And you can either accept it, or run from it in some kind of fear of reality. And then reality stands before you, naked in itself, without prejudice, dwelling in an apparently neutral place. So fear is the enemy of the understanding of reality, of an acceptance of a present truth. And you walk out of yourself to gaze at a picture of life outside of the self, and suddenly you have changed to a bigger self. It all takes courage, and has to be looked in the eye, sometimes even, in an unpleasant eye. There are comforts of course, like the kiss of another lost soul, but the greatest kiss, is the kiss of truth, and the kiss of truth lives within God. And God has to be perceived in selflessness, in humility, and then I believe he will grant understanding, when you are aligned to the search.