Friday, May 25, 2018
is it a virus?
Laurie Anderson has a song, 'language is a virus from outer space'.
i don't know. say no ,no, no.
humans are the virus, humans enter each other in many ways,
multiply, replicate, take possession until the hosts either die
or drop out or heal , antibodies filling their system, needy of anti, of fighting back, of defence.
humans are the virus.
humans.
not language.
language is a tool like a shovel, a spade, a violin.
what we do with it gives meaning, beauty, dreams, death, boredom,
loneliness or approach.
when we rest our work at hand, we put the shovel to the side-
we fall silent.
language is nothing but a fucking lot of work, slavery, weeding out gardens,
watering and showing our presence in sound and noise. language can hide us or turn us completely naked,
we stand there as fools with our heart on our tongues, it is bleeding and nobody wants to see.
we stand there with a water hose in our hand but the garden has disappeared.
say no, say no.,no.
language is not a virus.
it is just dangerous as everything is.
shovels and words can be weapons.
let us put them down.
we are the virus.
we, us..
can we give another spin to our dna, break patterns in the shining singing spiral,
the scintillating code, can we be happy without killing?
without dominating, without using other humans as our prey?
can we?
can we synchronize with laughter, joy and the dance of life?
can we be calm and let others be, can we grow humour, wisdom and love?
good night.
i don't know. say no ,no, no.
humans are the virus, humans enter each other in many ways,
multiply, replicate, take possession until the hosts either die
or drop out or heal , antibodies filling their system, needy of anti, of fighting back, of defence.
humans are the virus.
humans.
not language.
language is a tool like a shovel, a spade, a violin.
what we do with it gives meaning, beauty, dreams, death, boredom,
loneliness or approach.
when we rest our work at hand, we put the shovel to the side-
we fall silent.
language is nothing but a fucking lot of work, slavery, weeding out gardens,
watering and showing our presence in sound and noise. language can hide us or turn us completely naked,
we stand there as fools with our heart on our tongues, it is bleeding and nobody wants to see.
we stand there with a water hose in our hand but the garden has disappeared.
say no, say no.,no.
language is not a virus.
it is just dangerous as everything is.
shovels and words can be weapons.
let us put them down.
we are the virus.
we, us..
can we give another spin to our dna, break patterns in the shining singing spiral,
the scintillating code, can we be happy without killing?
without dominating, without using other humans as our prey?
can we?
can we synchronize with laughter, joy and the dance of life?
can we be calm and let others be, can we grow humour, wisdom and love?
good night.
communication evokes listening the other way
a few days ago i heard a short part of a comedy show, Nico Semsrott, a German, he stated that he is a demotivation trainer and: joy is nothing but a lack of information.
i don't know for sure, but to a certain extent i can agree.
yes, i find it extremely astonishing that joy can be possible, the joie de vivre is a secret, a wonder, it is
a possibility of life and it looks as happening by itself. just like plants, trees, bushes, flowers can grow out of small seeds. but-it is not all happening 'just' like that.
i guess silence is best.
i cannot see that words, sentences, opinions and wishes and offers mean anything
important at all, neither in speaking nor in writing.
when i'd vomit on the carpet or pour out beautiful poetry, open my soul and heart,
the effect is the same: you'll see what you see and you hear what you hear.
then you'll tie a knot in it, put it in a drawer, and what you do with it has nothing to do with me.
using language words will have left me, they lose their context and if i'd react to what happens after i might lose my integrity. much better not to speak, answer, just maybe much better to talk about the weather, the taste of coffee, send a like or a picture- nothing much can happen, possibly.
anyway, never should i expect to be understood, neither when i talk nor when i am silent.
i cannot correspond to nothing to expect nor to daily reports and greetings, i am not an administrator of niceties, and what appears here light and easy and simple is nothing but an agreement on not being able to solve anything in the deep, to keep it for oneself as nobody wants to know what you feel and think and wish and need. one calls it staying in touch but it is actually very far from touch-and we all know this. just an euphemism for a lack of ability to respond and come to an intimate approach, dangerous closeness. is closeness dangerous?
a lack of love maybe? a fear of attachment?
if i was a studio mixer, i'd put myself on a slow fading out, no hall nor echo.
and then i'd change into a pause.
i am tempted all time.
when i am a pause i can hear the birds sing.
they are wild and free. solace and pain at times,
but first of all to hear and see what 'is' now and what is true and real,
to feel connection to the rhythms of nature, to be near the universal patterns of life and death,
find the fragility and impermanence of all beauty as an essential condition.
i don't care much for inter-action anymore, it appears full with human futility, regression,
sticky stuff, black holes, more and more empty of hope, more a trap than a path.
now i said nothing and too much.
i am not who i was and i cannot go the same ways.
what i used to like i see as poor entertainment, thought being the worst.
i prefer to shut up now, and i only wish i find humans to make me laugh and let me be present in peace.
i try to be kind but it is not an aim in itself. there are no aims and goals.
when i don't want to be kind i will have a reason.
i have the utmost difficulties to motivate myself to find stuff i like to do.
i am flat out, i feel i cannot give more, and i am not going to wait for Godot
nor for anybody at all.
just walking and breathing and sleeping until i heal better.
i am not sad, only reflecting. i like the spring rains, the thunderstorms, the meadows filled with flowers,
the scent of soil and grass.
but communication is not communion.
i don't know for sure, but to a certain extent i can agree.
yes, i find it extremely astonishing that joy can be possible, the joie de vivre is a secret, a wonder, it is
a possibility of life and it looks as happening by itself. just like plants, trees, bushes, flowers can grow out of small seeds. but-it is not all happening 'just' like that.
i guess silence is best.
i cannot see that words, sentences, opinions and wishes and offers mean anything
important at all, neither in speaking nor in writing.
when i'd vomit on the carpet or pour out beautiful poetry, open my soul and heart,
the effect is the same: you'll see what you see and you hear what you hear.
then you'll tie a knot in it, put it in a drawer, and what you do with it has nothing to do with me.
using language words will have left me, they lose their context and if i'd react to what happens after i might lose my integrity. much better not to speak, answer, just maybe much better to talk about the weather, the taste of coffee, send a like or a picture- nothing much can happen, possibly.
anyway, never should i expect to be understood, neither when i talk nor when i am silent.
i cannot correspond to nothing to expect nor to daily reports and greetings, i am not an administrator of niceties, and what appears here light and easy and simple is nothing but an agreement on not being able to solve anything in the deep, to keep it for oneself as nobody wants to know what you feel and think and wish and need. one calls it staying in touch but it is actually very far from touch-and we all know this. just an euphemism for a lack of ability to respond and come to an intimate approach, dangerous closeness. is closeness dangerous?
a lack of love maybe? a fear of attachment?
if i was a studio mixer, i'd put myself on a slow fading out, no hall nor echo.
and then i'd change into a pause.
i am tempted all time.
when i am a pause i can hear the birds sing.
they are wild and free. solace and pain at times,
but first of all to hear and see what 'is' now and what is true and real,
to feel connection to the rhythms of nature, to be near the universal patterns of life and death,
find the fragility and impermanence of all beauty as an essential condition.
i don't care much for inter-action anymore, it appears full with human futility, regression,
sticky stuff, black holes, more and more empty of hope, more a trap than a path.
now i said nothing and too much.
i am not who i was and i cannot go the same ways.
what i used to like i see as poor entertainment, thought being the worst.
i prefer to shut up now, and i only wish i find humans to make me laugh and let me be present in peace.
i try to be kind but it is not an aim in itself. there are no aims and goals.
when i don't want to be kind i will have a reason.
i have the utmost difficulties to motivate myself to find stuff i like to do.
i am flat out, i feel i cannot give more, and i am not going to wait for Godot
nor for anybody at all.
just walking and breathing and sleeping until i heal better.
i am not sad, only reflecting. i like the spring rains, the thunderstorms, the meadows filled with flowers,
the scent of soil and grass.
but communication is not communion.
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