Opaque Pristine

Lifting sun, angry clouds across the noon sky, life unknown. Dry yellow fields contrast with the sharp blue sky; a shining white house sits amongst the rolling grass. The significance of actions become mingled, all recreated into the simplicity of the most meaningful existence -at its purest form. Aside from all that really exists, there is an undefinable shape to the crash colours, a caress removing all conscient thought from reality.

Bred into the most basic level of our conscience, they are unknown, unrecognizable. Sadly, to encouter them is a matter of luck. Timeless, they remain mysterious in their nature to claiming souls and praying hands; congruous to life, exaltation begets the attached.

Integrating Leadership

Figuring a good time as any to clarify conceptions.

Being a good leader is not only being able to make effective decisions tactfully. It is, rather, being humble enough to ask and accept help from others while managing information and considering, integrating possibilities. Finally, a good leader is invested --or learn, in most cases-- with the ability to admit mistakes, while being able to correct them with pose and preciseness.

I choose that picture not because I define leadership as a male-dominant trait, but because I thought the figure simply yelled a congruous pride (arrogance!) not unlike my own.

Waiting for Tide

The Wild Swans at Coole, W.B. Yeats
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Finally Revealed

This is a link to incriminating pictures of myself, as well as my ego.

With What You Have

Goebbels: "We do not talk to simply say something, but to receive a certain reaction."

My conversational topics are spiced with tact to have the greatest effect, to leave the best impression with my audience. Alas, I lose all interest in proper communication, whose purpose is to convey ideas and meaning, not entertainment.

Nightbound Macrophobia

Deadliest , it enthralls and decomposes minds complete. Most fearful mirror, I confess: the walls I've built around and between are fast unraveling, nylon of the day grotesquely grinding the images of youth and of conception alike in brutal velocity. Inconsequential elements of pure inconsciousness, greatness and damnation becoming, one at a time, epic and distinct in their paroxysm of confused perceptions.

To claim indifference, to raise the walls once again, is far more demanding than it once was.

Smiling Catatonic

Ending relationships is a recurrent theme in my life so far. I don't know why. The funny thing is that I don't know why not either. To consider romance a relative term would be to me the most accurate definition, although experiencing it would never incur the previous correlation -far from it. It's much more enjoyable to remain isolated from a during romance, because as we know change is on one hand much in demand, but it is also reviled by the same people. By that, I mean the pleasure of living in misery, of enjoying the pernicious pity that we lather on ourselves; some sort of emotional masturbation.

Le plus grand problème de l'amour c'est d'avoir la certitude de sa faillabilité, de son caractère éphémère et chimèrique, de son temps compté. De la craque qui grandie, sous l'oeil anxieux. Comme pensais Lamartine et ses contemporains, les moments les plus beaux sont aussi les plus douloureux. C'est peut-être la peur du changement, de la perte -pas simplement de l'amour lui-même, mais aussi de ce qui nous rend individuel- qui nous prévient d'apprécier la saveur de l'amour.

Hearts, Spades and Blue Lines

At the risk.

Of all the words of the English language, none are more dooming than "love". More haunting is the knowledge that to keep faith in hope is the fastest catalyst to its' agonizing debacle.

According to an ancient Greek philosopher -I forget which one-, men and women were physically fused together at the back a very long time ago, in an age forgotten by men. Of course, it wasn't always a man and a woman together: the three possible combinations were equal in number. In a spur of anger, the gods separated them, ending their happiness of constant copulation. The separated, dying, inspired the pity of the gods, who realigned the genitalia, which ended the episode. The hypothesis, for an ancient one, is keenly distinctive today.

The man who helped in the creation of the first Oxford English Dictionary by submitting more than ten thousand definitions, an American named Dr. W.C. Minor, surgically removed his own penis.

Harrowing, it is, to have the certitude that the pale reality of love can be empty, bland, uncoloured, fleeting, inconsequential, fragmented, diffused, accelerated or decelerated, unpromising. Yet, nothing is more surprising and hopeful than the promise of uncertainty.