the story of my death, part 3

She was a scared little girl, alone and confused in this big bustling hurly burly of a world. Peering out at the boisterous marketplace below her gaze, an eerie and desperate look of bewilderment appeared upon her face, causing her striking and dramatic features to take on character and drama beyond their usual pensive presentation. It was the look of a confused and frustrated student, who reading the work of some great master of antiquity pulls her nose out of the book for air, as she comes face to face with the realization that it seems this esteemed and enlightened leader may not shape up to her fancy after all. It was a look of shock, of disgust, abhorrence and above all else betrayal. This betrayed look seemed to appear so often that it almost took on a life of its own and slowly came to signature her persona.
A poignant awareness perpetually trailed after the girl, sometimes invading her artificially erected barriers and enveloping her completely. It was the awareness of chaos, the chaos that hovered over every electron cloud, chaos that saturated, no, that was the very stuff of existence itself. There were moments when this chaos seemed inescapable, as if the constant linger that she was always passively aware of somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind was in fact unavoidable, ontological perhaps. The gnawing sense of confusion resided permanently within her, some might even say stemmed from her, and it was because it seemed to have truly been born into her very flesh and innards, she could in truth never escape it.
It was the sense that frustrated her so, the simultaneous sense of nothingness and absolute truth; the notion that all the world was truly hevel, including herself, and yet at the same time, the nagging sense that cosmic significance of monumental magnitude lay within her grasp, waiting for her to uncover; lay within her very self.
The self; a dual, visceral sense of terror and ecstasy both surged through and sprung up from the depths of her hollow stomach every time she considered the reality of the self. It was all she had, and yet it was indeed so indefinable, a mere fluctuating combination of fleeting urges and whims that all seemed so undependable, unpredictable, unstable. At times she felt herself lost in the chaos of the black hole deep in the middle of her hollow stomach. The moments of space time slowed infinitely as she crossed over the event horizon and, stretching down into the unknown, broached upon the universe of The Other. And falling endlessly into the pipeline to this yet undiscovered plane of existence, she would lose herself, completely…to the powerful X-rays that would surge through her frail form of flesh, destroying her entirely. This was the expensive price that she was fully aware of, at times even felt herself coerced into paying. For without destruction we will never truly get outside of ourselves, never truly discover the truth that is grander than us, yet paradoxically resides within us at once.

the story of my death poetry interruption: Glassed In

Endless groping
through the dense hollow vacuum of
nothing where everything lies
but cannot be reached, ceaseless
perpetual ventures into the beyond
just beside us, just outside
our grasp, outside
of the thick
glass boxes that protect
and divide, that instantly,
will shatter into trillions of
infinitesimal splinters and specks at the
slightest breach; a house of cards, yet
a shelter nonetheless.
And all these, the cells of
safety, our very own dainty
glass menagerie, pretty, perfect
and sterile to the untouch
of the human condition, keep us steady,
and stagnant, and stoic, as we
suffocate inside ourselves,
our scrupulously sculpted glass rooms,
less we shatter their sublime structure
and risk exposure
to the breath of
the other.

the story of my death part 2

The story of my death is a complex one, yet not one without order and structure. There are periods in one’s life that are so impacting and effective that one never truly recovers from their force. Sometimes the blow is so hard and so low that its mark remains permanent and indestructible, its imprint forever lingering. For experiences do affect, and sometimes the penetration is truly real. These experiences cannot be shaken off for they have penetrated too deeply into the very grain of our being and consciousness. That is simply the truth of the matter. I had reached the point of no return. A chord had been struck, a paradigm shift truly achieved and I had been forever changed.

the story of my death

It was as if someone had reached out in front of me, out from the vast hullabaloo of nothingness all around me, had entered my intimate space and shattered the fragile bit of hope that lingered; as if a sudden single hand had reached out directly before me, grabbed my fleshy throat and choked all the breath of desire and comfort without my even knowing it; as if an earthquake had thrust the foundations of my innards open and swallowed all sense of passion that had burned within me. The powerful words emanated from his mouth, gliding on a straight and direct line of airy breath like the sharp arrow of death, blowing across my face and bombarding its way into my soul, casting a frozen chill over all that was once warm. The wisp grew large and at once became suffocating, like a tornado that with its forceful wisp swept away the warm love from my heart and left my soul chilled and naked, shamed and embarrassed. I had been robbed of these, my most precious possessions, and left bare and empty, I felt myself begin to shrivel up, like a dried fig, or an autumn leaf that had lost all its vibrancy and pigment to the harsh calling of the seasons. And there on the bustling street corner, I was dead.

There are moments in time that are defining moments, defining of character, of sentiment and of the future. The eras in one’s life are formed by these individual moments and these epochal eras string together to create the dramatic structure of the life of the individual. This moment was particular in the sense that it struck the end note of the epoch, the end note which essentially formed the very epoch itself; for it is only the end which creates and defines the beginning, creates and defines the set, and which is in that sense the single most defining moment of all.

Drastic Poetic Imagery in Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh

hello all. i sincerely apologize for my lack of writing, but truthfully, i jsut have not been compelled of late. i seem to have lost that urge to regurgitate my thoughts into cyberspace. RR put it best when she said, "girls like Shira are no more". i would add, it is shira who is no more and with her, the rest of her ilk have ceased to exist. it is tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. and a new era has seemingly begun without our even knowing it.

my dear friend and literary companion aliza, who sticks by me during even the most exhausting of disagreements with a certain IJL (true name shall remain hidden for obvious reasons...we'd have to take the J out then wouldn't we?) particularly pertaining to the relationship between mathematics and poetry (see David Berlinski, beginning of A Tour of the Calculus for an eloquent and articulate argument for my side) forwarded this lovely piece from Elizabeth B. B.'s Aurora Leigh, a work that was quite innovative and perhaps one might even venture to say daring, for her time period. I hope you enjoy it!

" I played at art, made thrusts with a toy-sword,
Amused the lads and maidens.
Came a sigh
Deep, hoarse with resolution,–I would work
To better ends, or play in earnest. 'Heavens,
I think I should be almost popular
If this went on !'–I ripped my verses up,
And found no blood upon the rapier's point:
The heart in them was just an embryo's heart,
Which never yet had beat, that it should die:
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life;
Mere tones, inorganised to any tune. " (Elizabeth Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh)

"The Academy": Nursing Home for the Academic-Aged

Sorry for being so meager in the posting area...I dont' know why but for some reason it jsut hasn't been in me to write of late...That's actually a lie. I do know why. I would like to first make note of the wonderful, albeit anonymous, comment that was left on my last post. I really enjoyed reading it, of course relating to much of it. And it had a nice tone. I only wish I knew who posted it... And you know it's extremely annoying because I can't figure out how to start a new paragraph on this blog. So consider a new parapgraph begun. I often feel like I have been alive forever and at my young age I feel like I have already experienced a multitude of movements in thought and experience. I was sitting in my natural philosophy class today with an eclectic bunch of american college students and it struck me poignantly how old I have gotten. I mockingly chuckled inside silently at the eager student next to me who showed interest in picking the prof.'s brain for knowledge for he has yet to hold his own position and value his own thought more. He still pathetically approaches the educator like a lost sheep, a man possessing a thirst of which only someone who actually knows something could quench. He still views the world in a systematic catalogue of course-categories, his entire perception of knowledge reflected in the courses he has taken that he proudly mentions as a way to provide a sense of stability and validity for his thought and opinion, for himself. He thinks himself intelligent because he can take classes at expensive universities, because he can tell the prof. that he took a class that discussed the relationship between science and art and that the conclusion was that art is ultimately based on perception while science is ultimately based on a clear fact, to which the prof. responded, "well at least that's supposed to be the plan. And how did I appreciate her well-worded response. It was encouraging yet undermining and cynical simultaneously. And I liked her. It was the perfect blend of empathy with the human condition and appreciation and respect for all members of humanity since we are all specks of stardust (as my astronomy prof. likes us to recall often) and the protective and sweet facade of a serious, interested, and engaged thinker who has thought and negated and thoguht many times more all of the thoughts in the head of the 20 yr old standing in front of her. It was perfectly respectful all the while protecting her secrets. And I was struck by her persona. I think she did a good job. She gets an A. You see because I was mocking him. It struck me how uinversity is the time where people begin to think, and some don't start until the end, some never at all. (I don't know why but this was a novel concept to me...again-I do know why, bc that's me, but whatever, you get it.) And at some point later in life, after they have all entertained a multitude of ideas and drawn conclusions and correlations, after Aritstotle, Copernicus, Bruno, Galileo, Newton and Einstein, after the pomp and flair of academica has subsided and having risen themselves, the cloud of glory dissipates, they will get to the point of realization that all serious academics have to get to when they realize the lack of intense significance attached to anything and the pathetic-ness of position and formal academia. That all knowledge is somewhat trite, that thought occurs in patterns and that originality is perhaps nonexistent. And at best they just hopelessly continue, at worst, madly cast themselves into the basement on some arbitrary shelf with the Book of Sand, or escape into the cosmos, mentally or physically into some unknown blackhole. But that is not supposed to happen until later, after one is an accomplished academic. It hit me that my fellow students are in the beginning of the "discovery process", that many of them have not even begun it, and I stand on the other side next to my prof. annoyed by simplicity and simple passion and I feel old. Like this shuldn't be happening for another 20 yrs or something. And I only wonder, what comes next? Is it jsut a grander, richer experience of some previous stage of mine, or is there perhaps, maybe, something somewhere waiting for me that is new? I can't concieve of it, dont' believe it, but hope, just hope it is there, somewhere. In other news, my ankle is hurting in a new place and I'm nervous I injured a different tendon...shhh! Don't tell!! I started choreographing (wiht my coach that is) a new program to "Man in the Iron Mask". It's lovely if I may say so myself. And I want to get a telescope...except my parents are already getting me new blades for my birthday so I don't know how I'm going to work that one out...especially because if I'm going to get one I want to get a good one, otherwise I'll jsut end up getting another one later and that's a waste of money. Alright-over and out.

the proportions of crisis: in reaction to "art school confidential"

so i just got back from this incredible independent film in this quaint theatre i recently discovered, with my friend. its called art school confidential, the film that is. i would have appreciated it no matter what but it definitely affected my experience, the fact that i just took a class called art and literature last semester, in which we really covered a lot of literature regarding art and watched the interpretation of two of the novels we read into film. so there was an additional cerebral layer added to my viewing of the film...which was both enriching, and yet exhausting, i was forced to see the film analytically, forced to filter it through my previous knowledge of the subject, forced to understand the exact relationship of ideas being portrayed through the characters and events. add to that my own artistic flair and a common sense of desperation with the main character, it was intense. as most things in my life are. i would say that the film essentially is about originality/creativity and the natural self as most films/literature about art are. and i must say it just served to highlight and accentuate my current state of futility...if that makes sense grammatically. as the film opens up and the main character's voice is heard stating that he is the greatest artist of the century...so it turns out he was acting out picasso in a school presentation. but regardless, in truth, this is how the boy feels, and when he grows up he honestly wants to be the greatest artist of the century. but the truth is, so what. so what if i indeed reached that apex of creativity in any of my areas of interest, if i maxed out and tapped into something unique. would it really be unique? its possible that someone else could get to the same point as well. and even if not, what is the point of uniqueness anyway? why is it so qualitatively better than the regular? why do we have this desire to be original? why do i carry this perpetual nagging sense of angst over my need to be significant, unique, a one time occurrence? i know i do, and the cliche-ness and triteness of even the most unique of things drives me mad. but why does it drive me mad? what is so qualitatively better about being a monumental artist? there are inevitably more than one, as each revolution brings on new ideas. and even if i was "the one", why does that matter? why do i need perfection and truth anyway? what would it matter if i produced a piece of writing that achieved literary excellence in a way never done before, or a film that was gripping, emotive and technically brilliant. what would it matter if i tapped into a musical world that was as close to pure thought as humanly conceivable? what would any of it matter? and at this moment the words that keep resonating in my head are the opening lines to Lonely Man: an awareness that often assumes the proportions of crisis. perhaps if i didnt have a bazillion abilities and the stark awareness that i will never ever ever actualize all of my creative capacity even in a single area because i am involved in so many...sometimes i think it is so much healthier when you only have one thing that you are good at. then you can focus and accomplish and live. but when creativity and meaning, when the truth it self, is pulling at you from 18 different directions, each one attempting to win you over to dedicate yourself to it. and maybe none of it is important and all that matters is thought...and maybe thought doesnt matter and all that matters if the sensual experience of the present...and maybe even that is futile and all that matters is love...but is that even achievable?