Satori in the lavatory...

Last night, I was taking care of an expensive piss, when I saw my shadow on the wall in front of me. Physics came along and made the split between the umbra and the antumbra. For a non-point source of light, the umbra happens to be the darkest part of the shadow, while the antumbra is the region from which the occulting body appears entirely contained within the disc of the light source. Whatever that means.

It looked like a second skin of electricity and at that instant from my room, DJ Shadow started spinning, What does your Soul look Like? (Part IV)

so I was wondering about the lack of self-reflection that characterizes Facebook posts. They, over time - are at odds with their own etiological context, given the ever evolving, self-organizing social (in a very real sense) connections that exist between the different users. However since we haven't introduced *thinking* to the technology, Facebook posts have no way of gracefully committing seppukku - instead they just sit their making fools of their CreaTORS.

cheeky bastards.

Xaero:

He meditates in cryogenic bliss, until the signs appear. His incubation chamber triggers off a series of optical beams that reflect off of a network of emerald glass mirrors and fall incident upon spherechuckers. These floating spherechuckers start humming with ancient celestial harmony.

Xaero awakens.

Sound manifests as miniaturized globes of radiant energy, and Xaero begins to dance. Furiously he weaves these globes into pulsating threads which come alive. He calls these conscious threads of golden globules Funkinogens. Aeons pass, as Xaero performs the dance of creation and destruction. Some of these Funkinogens become deceased and the globules start projecting obsidian crystalline tentacles which disintegrate the healthy Funkinogens upon contact. These abominations of his creation, or Wankers as he refers to them threaten to upset the state of grooving that Xaero is in, with his Funkinogens. He therefore subsequently has to catch these Wankers and shaft them, so to speak.

He usually legitimizes his actions citing something about some instruction his Creator gave him regarding Wankers who refused to get groovy with the whole scene.

But apart from that bit of nastiness, Xaero and the Funkinogens groove for eternities, until Xaero decides its time for him to meditate upon his work until his Creator sends him the signs again. And so Xaero brings his great dance to a close, and just before he retreats into his inner sanctum within the Incubation chamber - he energizes the Funkinogens and turns them into a glowing web of light and pulsating strings, which reorganizes itself into a silouhette of Michael Jackson before warping away into infinity.

Happy with his work, Xaero sits and meditates.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday our ocean
Will find its shore.

So I`ll leave the ways that are making me be
What I really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making me love
What I really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You came with the dawn
A soul with no footprint
A rose with no thorn.

Your tears they tell me
There's really no way
Of ending your troubles
With things you can say.

And time will tell you
To stay by my side
To keep on trying
'til there's no more to hide.

So leave the ways that are making you be
What you really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making you love
What you really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For some day our ocean
Will find its shore.

every phenomenon (external or internal) that manifests itself within an individual's collective experiences; whether it be a raging storm, the gentle caress of the soft rain, the highest high and the lowest low, the silent gasps of hidden pleasures... or the blood flowing from an open wound - each lives out its natural course and fades away into the nothingness that gave birth to it.

the only things we will be left with, is the cross-chatter of words unspoken, memories locked away, secrets hidden and feelings sacrificed -

these are the intangible things left to us with which we are inevitably and maddeningly pushed to give shape to the story of our life, and the means by which we are driven to tell that story -

and even though the stories will be forgotten, pages of music misplaced, writing burned into ash, photographs discolored and technique and ability lost... the traces will survive, just like the scars we accumulate (seen and unseen).

Even as form and structure are broken, the ink will spill out of the page and color your fingers - and some where, some place you'll find a blind blues man with no name, playing that old guitar (maybe your guitar) - strings too rusted, tuning barely held - whispering a prayer that you had written in a time that you cannot recollect.

and somewhere, some place, all our stories; yours and mine too, will be washed upon a vast beach of virgin white - words, symbols, signs, notes, oaths of love, cries of rage, laughter and tears, scattered and thrown into each other's presence, until they crystallize into grains of sand... serene, melancholic and timeless, bathed in the light of an undying star -
that is until their eternal return to the womb, when they are forevermore swallowed by the sea.

As the full moon appears from the night, so appears her face amid the tresses.
From sorrow comes the perception of her: the eyes crying on the cheek; like black narcissus shedding tears upon a rose.
Mere beauties are silenced: her fair quality is overwhelming.

Even to think of her, harms her subtlety (thought is too coarse a thing to perceive her). If this be so, how can she correctly be seen by such a clumsy organ as the eye?

Her fleeting wonder eludes thought. She is beyond the spectrum of sight.

When description tried to explain her, she overcame it. Whenever such an attempt is made, description is put to flight.

Because it is trying to circumscribe.

If someone seeking her lowers his aspirations (to feel in terms of ordinary love), - there are always others who will not do so.

- Ibn El-Arabi (Sufi mystic, circa 1200)

This song leaks out onto the pavement
It could be a joke, it could be a statement.
The more that I fake it and pretend I don't care
The more you can read in to what isn't there.

Maybe it's time to stop swimming
Maybe it's time to find out where I'm at
What I should do and where I should be, but no one will give me a map

I'll leave now this can't continue
But I forget which door I came through.
And I know that the lift can be painfully slow,
So I think I'll leave through the window