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primordial drivel
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saturday, october 31, 2015
tuesday, august 18, 2015
wednesday, august 12, 2015
friday, august 7, 2015
wednesday, july 29, 2015
friday, july 24, 2015
sunday, july 19, 2015
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thursday, july 9, 2015
search google
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journal xx - banshees and unrestrained liberty
journal 84 - gettier and the knowledge of the moon
journal 83 - sound of a bloody sunday
journal 82 - dylan understood revolutions per minute
journal 81 - time wraps mathematical models
journal 80 - word games on bourbon street
journal 79 - serial killers and conformism
journal 78 - forged dreams and rotten teeth
journal 77 - music in starry nights
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primordial drivel this blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. margins are the same as the journal. these are exercises, not finished products. other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point. saturday, october 31, 2015 journal xx - banshees and unrestrained liberty the clouds are falling out of the sky with the screams of the banshee leading the wind. the screams don't scare me at night behind the camellias. the wind though. it blows. people don't believe in the banshee but they do demons. it shouldn't surprise. the bible talks about demons but not banshees. yeats does though. he was a believer. i'm a believer. you are a believer. we are all believers. we believe in rainbows but not in their meaning. we believe in laughter but not in its medicine. we believe in beauty but not that it's real. colors aren't real, they say. mental constructs. like the matrix. i have a mental construct of a scientist being honest with the ancients. i have a mental construct of a philosopher being open to religion. storms are distant and dark and beautiful and destructive, filled with shades and gradations and heavy with the weight of the earth, tough love for the growth and cleanliness of the world. sometimes i see animals in the sky. trees like people dancing a harvest dance, little pine arms turned upward and sideways, swirling around in browns and reds and greens and fifty shades of grey in between. i see a girl, a beautiful blond-haired girl standing in fifty shades of grey. fifty beautiful shades of black and white and the half-light of a charcoal morning. i want to take my eraser and wipe away the words i said that made her stop twirling her hair when we talked. stop staring at me with dilated eyes. i want to erase my eyes and my nose and my hairs, but leave by big belly. my swelling belly reminds me that i am in need of restraint. unrestrained liberty is death to the body and soul. yes, give me unrestrained liberty and you will give me death. my liberty is swallowing me, chewing me like a bird being tossed about between various rocks like in an alligators stomach - she stares and watches with sympathetic eyes and a compassionate brow, while laughing with her friends at my ridiculous confession from the wet street, standing in the rain with a white shirt plastered to my skin - no longer white. her vintage round sunglasses hang from her nose hovering over a smile that says so much to anyone who has the ears to hear. i alas am deaf to the incalcitrant sirenic songs of women. i am deaf to the words coming out of her eyes and her smile, her fingers and her hair. i am deaf even to the song of the cardinal singing high in the bare tree in winter, snow covering the land like a giant down comforter, soft and silent and almost even warm looking. the cardinal sings a song like something her eyes might sing if one knows the way to look and listen. my left eye is empty. my right is dying. i am trying to listen, to listen to the voices of my past and my present to decipher my future. she hangs in the balance. any minute could mean bliss or torture, depending on a language i don't speak or follow. the language of eyes and brows and smiles and head tilts and hair and leanings in and out. crossed legs can say so much. i want to break the wind and push the clouds back into the sky, stop the swelling of the rain in the streets. i want to end the storm that has crashed into my life, spinning me round and around, saturating my soul with its uncertainty and lack of direction and predicability. the storm in my soul can have been the work of eros only. you may know of him as cupid. he isn't a sweet cherub. he's a demonic asshole. ready to drop you in the eye of the hurricane and laugh at you as you are ripped apart while stuffing his mouth with popcorn. what can calm a storm? who? there is a story i've heard about peace and stillness. peace. still. dreams that visit at night and vanish before you can wake up with a realized smile of still peace. 3.22.2015 posted by duluk at 3:33 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal tuesday, august 18, 2015 journal 84 - gettier and the knowledge of the moon i discovered the moon late in life, and late at night. the red moon hanging over a swamp at night, hearing the critters and the creatures singing in your imagination the dissonant sounds of heir swampy minor songs, rough and rhythmic in their passionate cries. the moon hangs there reflected in the water still but for the moccasin slithering through the water with a tongue tasting the air and the swamp, the cottonmouth swimming side to side in the redness of the rising moon, preyful and cocky as it shifts its weight around in the starry night. stars shine through time but the snakes and the rut-less deer and the other nocturnal creatures don't notice or acknowledge this ancient miracles of mathematical models; they eat about their business happily ignorant of any questions of art, induction, knowledge, warrant, fundamentalism (whether physics or protestantism) or justified true belief. or justifiable true belief - or gettier's knowledge of luck - ignorance is bliss is not a negative insight - regardless of a dissatisfied socrates. three pages of gettier thus confounded the philosophical world...of epistemology, and yet how many happy people smile happily day to day and pool to pool, knowing full well they are happy and that they smile, the wet smile on their wet child's face as she jumps into the pool in a solid cannonball, splashing all the other kids with true and justified laughter, is a smile spread across many thousands of people throughout the blue marshy world - smiles known to be true and justified despite gettier's or plantinga's attempts at falsifying or affirming this ubiquitous sample of natural human knowledge. but can we trace the source of this glad expenditure of commonality, this common human nature - can we trace it to god our ontological father or the cold mixture of chemicals, accidental in their appearance of predictability and spontaneity. civil wars come and go in word and song but each day we feel the presence of those who gave their lives for their word and those who see the civil wars as a metaphor for ourselves - our relationships with each other and our proclivity for conflict despite our oh-so-knowledgeable age. 12.5.2012 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal wednesday, august 12, 2015 journal 83 - sound of a bloody sunday the moment in the evening when there is a general feeling that everything is all right and good, when you smile at the thoughts of the kids in the yard spraying each other with green garden hoses is a june bug in november - a quiet harbinger from heaven, fleeting except to those whose nose she files into. my nose hurts only on some spectacular rare occasions. these occasions of visits from heaven- painful as other-worldly visits are apt to be - slip in under my eyelids while my eyes rae back and forth with red blood vessels swelling into scary rivulets of overflowing panic, and they (those extra-terrestrial parakletes) blow back the bloody waters, to my surprise, as angels and gods should instill despair, right? my despair is my comfort and my vice. my depression is a yellow wildflower in october- beautiful and in days dead. i sometimes wonder if depression is a sin or a blanket draped over a child at night in december - shielding an onslaught of cold sickles assaulting what is left bare in the openness of our over- heating world. contradictions are sometimes, it seems, all we have to lead us to the hint, to the whisper, of the share of truth - the sand(?) of shepherd's pie & fish & chips. that which is fast is fast, and that which is slow, slow. and in the end it is we who are fast and slow, not food. a shaved head & glasses for some reason says disciplined intelligence, but my stats say intelligence is common but discipline a relic discovered by a swift spelunker. the sound of a bloody sunday should mean so much to the world but i think it's just the quaint refrain of a familiar song. btw - my pen rests when my thoughts sink. why do we have to swelter here on earth in constant question of that which is and that which isn't, craving like a drug addict for god's response- only to have more questions with the answers in the bible while walking in fear of the sweltering threat of never-ending hell itself? why is the sirenic call of the walking dead so sirenic? paul cried out with a loud mega cry: i would that i had three years alone with jesus, immanuel, he that which none greater could be conceived - though no lesser excuse could be conceived. 11.11.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal friday, august 7, 2015 journal 82 - dylan understood revolutions per minute the cold rain slipped in like a thief in the night to save us from the perdition of summer. it is cold and wet and the leaves glisten in the fallen moonlight and ik now no deeper thought. my eyes are bothered by this slippery beauty, burning in the windy night, crying reluctant tears at all those who have fallen in this beautiful wet world, like boxers struggling in the last round of their last fight; like matriarchs who lie to dance and shuffle their feet with a wonderfully wrinkled smile and fought for twinkle in her wizened eyes, who passes through this wet world with hymns and hugs and prayers and squeezing hands. a hand squeezed can make the venom in a grin grown sweet like a six year old at her birthday party when that one certain person arrives ful of warmth and smiling laughter conquers all anxiety. red wine is so good outside at night in the cold. cold is a state of being and my being tells me i'm cold. i see the lights strung around the small white fence around my deck reflected in a semi-circle in my wine glass like the lights on a runway (were they in a semi-circle) or the pegs of guitar strings on a giant 27-string guitar; or the illuminated connectors of a memory board stick, maybe sodimm;- and it is good. it is good to see no matter how or what the method or what the content, no matter the comparison - it is good to be aware. it is easy to judge and to correct but to understand is a gift of god. to drink is not to understand. but still dylan understood. life is a record player and most of us are on the wrong speed, the wrong revolutions per minutes - we are too fast. thirty-three is good. life is a slow revolution of punctuated equilibrium that settles at the bottom of someone's dirty ocean. life is cycled seasons of laughter. life is learning ephemeral contemporary thoughts of you and me and technology too, knowing too late these thoughts are dark like a whore who has a trust fund in 3 banks. life is a song full of warmth and heartache on a record with a scratch that keeps repeating itself over and over, always finding a new audience with the birth of another credulous generation who finds itself enlightened with the spirit of man. a child's laugh is caulk for the scratches and cracks in this broken world. the world may be a teetering pivot in a silent cold vacuum but i hear the music in the dark spheres and i feel the heat in the distant emptiness of our blank verse. 10.8.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal wednesday, july 29, 2015 journal 81 - time wraps mathematical models time wraps around my space the way a snake wraps around a wet rat, wriggling but unable to scream. soon the clouds bellow with their water world and grimace in anger, dropping their wet weight down upon our hairy heads. i raise my head and poke out my tongue to taste the moisture and absorb it into my overheated self, hoping it would surge me like brown bourbon on labor day...or any day really. water means so much to our hot world. my kids and i dance in the rain and the rain puddles in the gutters in the street stomping on time like a child's beach ball, waiting for it to explode and sing its exhausted dilated tune for the leftover observers in this virtually unobserved world of ontologically suspicious elements - but who doubts explanatory models really but the foolish? i do. that's who do. i laugh at the beryon who briefly appears and then exits like an actor who enters before her cue. time is brief but it's matter in the end, wrapped in a warped singular nothing that pops in and out of existence in reported symmetry - nothing being re-defined as something becoming nothing close to being. i see the stars and i hear the music of the spheres, the land of darkness and the helping phriendly book; i see the elements burning and recombining; i see the dust and i see the black decay. i see the stars and i see the heavens. i hear the angelic host singing their angelic song to the creator. i hear the chorus of man and lizards and i laugh heartily at god our father, the warm laugh a friend laughs upon seeing a long-lost friend emerge from a snow storm. i see the pink on god's cheeks and know he cares. he cares about waves and particles and music and words and symbols and love and hate and all our lovely labels. he smiles at our incomplete mathematical models, no matter how well they predict and account for our observations. there is an order and there is a mystery. there is music to the subatomic spheres, bending the laws of our words as we have described them. particle physics doesn't know it but it's a blues scale, bending reality in 3rds and 5ths trying to reflect the experience of our rational minds in an irrational world. 9.1.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal friday, july 24, 2015 journal 80 - word games on bourbon street words are games the philosophers say. words are games and games we play, but words as games leave nothing to say. words may not mean much and words may be sophomoric games but beautiful women in the distance, blond and tan and wearing a yellow sundress and smoking a cigarette in the rising moon light mean something. and it isn't naughty. i cough when the wind blows beauty my way. the world is wrapped in beauty like in a child's worn blanket, and the world throws rhythmic fits of coughing like a james brown hit - levelling knees and leaving smiles and rainbow eyes. the night bugs click behind me in some natural motown accompaniment. they make their music and they make their itchy presence known. beauty itches when it moves your blood. dragons live inside of slender flies; they are the color of ready-to-burst soap bubbles outside gilead i hear. beauty pops as beauty should, if the buddhists have their way. i think beauty should stay and play and dance the simple pentatonic jig with all our southern souls. beauty paraded is beauty unbraided and decomposed in a cold pedantic distinction of atomic parts, atonal splatters of night-time blood on a warm hand. bloodletting is an ancient practice of god's mosquitoes, desperate in their desire to appropriate your life for their insignificant symphonies. the symphonies of nefarious bugs pale in comparison to their larger cousins. there is no metaphor for us. i know it's been long but i had a little break you see. (stolen) i stumble across beauty on bourbon streets and wet humid sidewalks shifting and swinging in a warped nocturnal dance with the streetlights of our present universe. despite diesel i still love our world and those who drive. i wish i was a rain drop falling from the black sky, consorting with my siblings to assimilate ourselves into some large slung stream of water to clean and nurture the world, slung as though from the large water pale of god - smiling as he knocks us backward in our dehydrated comfort. i would slide down the stalk and nestle in the nutrient filled earth, while others slapped the smiling homeless soul man across the cheek, drenching him in cleanliness while the self-rinsed rich man cursed me for disintegrating his rich "do." i would leap up and slap him one last time from my sharp flagellum. 8.7.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal sunday, july 19, 2015 journal 79 - serial killers and conformism i caught a glimpse of two lovers sneaking a kiss behind the trees on the other side of the art building. i found a virgin furtively watching from a nearby car, rubbing her hands together but not smiling, studying like a sexual anthropologist. i wanted to open the door to her car and grab her and bring her head to mine, kissing her with longing and remembrance, kissing through her into that reticence yet no further. i wanted to kiss her on her lusty wet lips then smile and say, "you're right. it's better when it matters." then thank her for re- giving me my lapsed youth, my lapsed youth spent chewing nicotine gum, staring at pointillistic dots on my computer screen - green dots of distinct individuality, before the virtue of the technological beauty and superiority of conformism, at least regarding visual artistry. i think conformism is under- rated. conformism can be good, like the computer screen, or the serial killer. serial killers are bad but to succeed is to conform. hiding in plain sight. of course i'm always suspicious of the non-conformist. the tattooed, pierced vamps who make me wonder if there is any substance underneath the makeup, the painful makeup of black and more black clothes. screaming children screaming "look at me, i'm different and i matter, i promise; can't you see? don't judge a book by its cover but don't ask to open me." forcing me to see you as different leads me to believe there isn't much there to see. but surprises rise from the steam of the gutters and the cabins in the dark lovely woods. it's frost i hear. i want to walk the path most travelled and still make it mater, versus the easy way of the path less travelled where anything you do (shit in the woods) or say (there are ghosts in the machine) catapults you to original infamy. anyone can be original when it's never been done. give me blue jeans and suvs and corporate jobs, then make an original work of art so i can shove it up your outcast ass. i of course am not me, but some other similar who actually is original and actually can shove it up your vampiric ass. originality is personalised, infused derivation of those personalized copyists before you who also stand on the shoulders of their original peers. that which has been done is that which will be done. no new sun. 8.4.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  1 comment: labels: journal sunday, july 12, 2015 journal 78 - forged dreams and rotten teeth i wonder where dreams are forged, in molten imaginary lava to spur on the inquisitive dreamer. i wonder who thinks these dream thoughts of unicorns and iron-clad monkeys, parading around the circle like two storm clouds hovering over a zoo with their broad brooding wings of circumspect clouds. just as a car needs wiping for its windshield eyes in the thick of an august storm, so my eyes need a passing wipe of their reconjugated vision of a modern heaven and hell. hell is so blase in this post-everything world. we live for tolerance of everyone but always exempt ourselves as mere satirists satirizing such unenlightened traditional nightmares inculcated by our evolving and devolving times, our post intellectual pasture is littered with the bird shit of yesterday's "dire portents." premonitions aunt our western sub- conscious like a wolf in the shade of the evergreen mountain shades his hunt for the procreating jack-rabbit. we hunt our prey from the pedestal of enlightened tolerance aiming beady eyes and eagle fingers at our subordinates to shhh and suppress their bigoted outcry with our satirical holier- than-thou spittle flying through the vapid void separating us in some wet attempt to reconstruct our parched ways of communication with winks and smiles, hugs and light pats on the back saying "yes" and "no" but i'm hearing you not mocking you with my sardonic puerile gapped teeth - my teeth are clean and it takes work to make teeth clean. ideas are like teeth. rot, molded with colored rubber-bands they are born and nurtured until unwieldy and coached to truth by some b- doctor who forgets that grades matter. we don't like our judges to judge us in public with marks that could walk the line too far to the right or the left - we who think with laughter in our thoughts and red wine on our teeth want our thoughts to blend two realms of faulty lore - the liberal with her satire and her wit with the rigter and his certainty even when the shit of words covered in tradition's blankets lands on tongues wiped without a working blade. i try to navigate these wave-worn words with oars on both sides and eyes in front and behind - but pulled on each side by the undercurrent of their venom - i gulp and yelp with water drowning every thought i give them. 8.1.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal thursday, july 9, 2015 journal 77 - music in starry nights i'm quick to ramble about sad themes and sad stories of sad people crying in the bathtub at night with their wine or bourbon, but what of the beautiful happy joy that envelopes each day? what of the hug of a friend just returned from some dreadful trip? (see how i snuck that minor mode juxtaposition in there?) what of sunsets on the beach with bacchi ball and volleyballs and surfing and beer and dogs, laughs saturated with the sound of the waves and the music? music keeps the world from imploding or bursting into flames. music is our world and our sustenance the way water is to the colorful fish swimming in that undiscovered land of wet joy. music is our life and our breath in it we live and move and have our meaning. music is the breath of god, the soul of our creator - the creative (and saving) force that holds the very strings of our being together in their never- ending dance of ecstasy and survival. what drives dance but music, and what are we but dancing strings? again, music is our life and our marrow. i've got to get away to where men don't wear masks or hide their out-of-tune motives. discordance drives the mad man. tolkien knew the creative force of music, and the power of dissonance. how many people were conceived to the prompting joy of the notes of the guitar or piano or violin? lyrics are second fiddle to the swaying motion of the drums and the bass. it ain't over till it's over. music is the seed that grows the purple flower and the yellow bird and the magenta clouds and the green frog and the red lady-bug and the blue-black starry night; the green algae on the wet gutter is beautiful as it glistens in the soft distance rays of the moon. the moon patrols the undeserted streets at night, or so i've heard. i don't want to get away, but i do want to fly high with the eagle and the red- tailed hawk. my friend the slug draws silver streaks of snail art on my floor - gross and beautiful in its turn of shiny nastiness. music watches from the cheap seats and laughs a hilarious laugh at those jaunty folk fighting over a front row seat to the show. she closes her happy eyes and soaks in the art defecated by the magisterial flies. 7.21.12 posted by duluk at 3:30 am reactions:  no comments: labels: journal older posts home subscribe to: posts (atom) search google custom search good videos loading... subscribe to primordial drivel random book from my library browse subject labels journal (86) poetry (22) story excerpts (1) about me duluk wayward poser, waiting for something ... feel free to e-mail me: duluk at primordialdrivel dot com all original ideas and work are the sole property of the author. © 2009-11. but don't worry, i don't have any original ideas. view my complete profile primordial drivel by duluk is licensed under a creative commons attribution-share alike 3.0 united states license. blog archive ▼  2015 (38) ▼  october (1) journal xx - banshees and unrestrained liberty ►  august (3) ►  july (6) ►  june (3) ►  may (7) ►  april (11) ►  march (7) ►  2012 (11) ►  august (1) ►  july (10) ►  2011 (2) ►  january (2) ►  2009 (58) ►  july (13) ►  june (16) ►  may (27) ►  april (2) awesome inc. template. powered by blogger.


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