A couple of weeks ago I drove to work in the rain and my little Toyota struggled (the nearly bald tires again) to make it up the freeway on-ramp, sending the check engine light into spasms. Frankly, I got scared and almost made the decision to turn around and go home, call out from work. I carried on, however, bravely continuing to the salt mines of wage slavery. I went the long way home after work that afternoon, preferring to avoid the steep grade of the short path, even thought the rain had ceased hours before.
And now, here's our musical director, Harvey Calico, with this Sunday's music. Take it away, Harv!
Locked Out
Locked
out
cold but
not alone
I have
myself
a fading image
pounding
opening shutters
on windows
that are
not there
they
were never
installed
I break glass
anyway
and return
to despair
Touch
I miss touch
but how
can I miss
something
I've never had?
And I have never
had touch
except from myself
in auto-erotic
emptiness
does she count
when she never cared?
Death
Death
is not a planet
it is
a small
and unimportant
satellite
bellowing into existence
for a moment
in shameless sorrow
then gone
unnoticed
a disappearing
magician's egg
swallowed
by time
and the
brief sojourn
of
loved ones
Death (expanded edition): The Flooded Heart
Death is not a planet. It is a small and unimportant satellite, exploding into existence as it takes existence away. Remaining for a moment of shameless sorrow, then gone, unnoticed, it is a disappearing magician's egg, swallowed by time and the brief sojourn of left behind loved ones.
My chest is a pond of blood and my dying heart floats upon it, flooded. I declare, in that moment, my desire to live, to be, to accomplish. All my waking hours I spend with the opposite obsession, the dreadful dream of desirable death.
What brings me to this contemplation, to this suicidal mindset? Is it the physical organ or the emotional one? It must be the second, which is really the first. The incorporeal heart, which resides within the matter of the painless brain and yet is the instigator of so much torment, is the only reality that can lead a human soul to the dirty water of the death wish.
I eat my own will. I consume it in large lumps. I allow it to pass through my unstable intestines and finally release it as a waste product. It can no longer sustain me. But it is me, I realize now; I am shit.
Mind arises from matter, but matter gets its meaning from mind. Neither is supreme. Both have always existed in non-existence. Not in the mind of "God", but rather as perfect platonic forms. Their relation to each other is the exact balance, the most exciting example, of a symbiotic relationship. One is not before the other. Even in chronology matter and energy do not come first. Only in the most pedestrian interpretations or sense, is this true.
Matter and then mind. Yes, of course. But matter did not have a name nor know of its own presence until the emergence of consciousness. Thus Mind is first in time, for it acknowledges and interprets matter. But then we are back to the obvious. Matter came first in time and Mind second. But both can be true. It is not one before the other or over the other. The existence of intelligent self-aware beings in the universe is not enough to infer that mind has its perfect incarnation in a deity who exists outside of space and time. As far as we know, and as far as we will probably ever know, mind has its pinnacle of expression in the human race.
And now, Harvey, would you please close out the Sunday post? Thank you! See you next week everybody!
Good Night is the final song by The Beatles on the White Album. It is sung by Ringo Starr, the only Beatle to appear on the song. The music is provided by an orchestra conducted by George Martin. John Lennon wrote this song as a lullaby for Julian Lennon.-http://youtu.be/tCh2TNStcnc
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