under cloudy skies
raindrops become pleasant mist
kissed by rising sun
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
19 April 2007
16 February 2007
damn the eyes of the curious
Damn the eyes of the curious
Searching with clandestine affect
As simple changes wield unexpected results
Adding the hint of unspoken lust to a stolen glance
Choose the retrograde, the rough path
Undauntedly challenging each crag and defile,
Each moment a tangle of the past woven
Into the roiling chaos of next moment's wakening
Steering confidently into the future
All the while grasping for a rain soaked pearl
Peace must be made, the three conjoined
And what emerges; bright gleam on humanity;
mudscraping whore; cannot be foretold
ultima ratio regum. X
interlude - project inferno - "on purpose"
As far as I can put things together, there is no predestined fate, no red thread that you've been dragging behind you all along. Far from unintentionally leading to a way out, to some sort of salvation, this string can become tangled along the way, and get you in far worse trouble than you would be without it.
The damn thing about a sense of purpose is that it is unequally distributed among us. Some possess of it from the start. They inhale it with their first breath. But for some, it must be learned, earned. And in a way, I'm happier for knowing that I must earn it, that it will not be vomited into my lap. Because otherwise, the confidence and drive would be neither so savory, nor so elusive.
Life in this foul, fast world however conveys a false sense of purpose. So easy is it to set your standards to that which you can achieve. But the unattainable must be targeted, must be the apple of your eye. If you reach it, and have got what you desired, and are happy with that, well done and many proud slaps on the back. But at times along the way, something else pops up, and looks more interesting, perhaps even easier. So follow that path, see where it goes, find that trough of muddy gold.
Many troughs lead off of the main way. They promise many things, many nice things that you might very well be happy with. But those paths tend to disappoint.
What happened to the dusty, gritty days of this country's youth? When you had to hammer/shoot/drive your way to the heart of the American dream, your own worst enemy? I say those times haven't gone. The dusty, gritty days are upon us, and you'd best specialize in something, dentistry, hogfarming, CNET IT solutions, whatever. No one wants a jack of all trades. They want someone with a clear set of characteristics that they can understand. but don't give them that luxury. keep them on their toes. send one volley after another of predictable response, then dive off into the utterly insane. be sure to come back, though, quick, so they're not sure if they're going batshit, or if you are.
ulrare. JP
The damn thing about a sense of purpose is that it is unequally distributed among us. Some possess of it from the start. They inhale it with their first breath. But for some, it must be learned, earned. And in a way, I'm happier for knowing that I must earn it, that it will not be vomited into my lap. Because otherwise, the confidence and drive would be neither so savory, nor so elusive.
Life in this foul, fast world however conveys a false sense of purpose. So easy is it to set your standards to that which you can achieve. But the unattainable must be targeted, must be the apple of your eye. If you reach it, and have got what you desired, and are happy with that, well done and many proud slaps on the back. But at times along the way, something else pops up, and looks more interesting, perhaps even easier. So follow that path, see where it goes, find that trough of muddy gold.
Many troughs lead off of the main way. They promise many things, many nice things that you might very well be happy with. But those paths tend to disappoint.
What happened to the dusty, gritty days of this country's youth? When you had to hammer/shoot/drive your way to the heart of the American dream, your own worst enemy? I say those times haven't gone. The dusty, gritty days are upon us, and you'd best specialize in something, dentistry, hogfarming, CNET IT solutions, whatever. No one wants a jack of all trades. They want someone with a clear set of characteristics that they can understand. but don't give them that luxury. keep them on their toes. send one volley after another of predictable response, then dive off into the utterly insane. be sure to come back, though, quick, so they're not sure if they're going batshit, or if you are.
ulrare. JP
03 January 2007
the antediluvian
The Antediluvian
In the land of the pretentious, the humble man stumbles
Upon the need to become self consumed.
Choosing flashy new clothes, he ignores the rumbles
His stomach makes, so as not to be marooned
On an island of discontent.
Blind he seems to other and virtuous paths
That on his death bed would give repose
Instead the easy life beckons, drugs and laughs
Cheat him of a shining glory that once rose
From his presence, when darkness in twain was rent
What far-off goal beckons past the borders of this land
But the sum of his life’s choices, each small path
Running over the next, so any slight of hand
Could one day see him exalted, the other an epitaph
Worn by ages, its message spent
Whence take the guidance to choose a course
If those around make decisions just as rash?
Seek then the primal, like water yearn to sluice
Ever lower, with slow violence down to crash
The flimsy pillars of conviction proven bent
Perhaps he on his white horse will claim you first
And the pains of life will cease for good
Then that patient wrath will cook your blood
And leave the soul to wander, evermore, in constant thirst,
Worn by apathy, its options spent
Stumble then, onward, never admit defeat
Hold ye close of knowledge every bite
And from your idea of self not one step retreat!
Of advice, be it quick, sharp or light
Be wary, for wrong directions it may have lent
So rest now, fain wanderer
For just a moment; look up, search the sky
And give us a newborn’s smile before you die
Mahalo. JPR
In the land of the pretentious, the humble man stumbles
Upon the need to become self consumed.
Choosing flashy new clothes, he ignores the rumbles
His stomach makes, so as not to be marooned
On an island of discontent.
Blind he seems to other and virtuous paths
That on his death bed would give repose
Instead the easy life beckons, drugs and laughs
Cheat him of a shining glory that once rose
From his presence, when darkness in twain was rent
What far-off goal beckons past the borders of this land
But the sum of his life’s choices, each small path
Running over the next, so any slight of hand
Could one day see him exalted, the other an epitaph
Worn by ages, its message spent
Whence take the guidance to choose a course
If those around make decisions just as rash?
Seek then the primal, like water yearn to sluice
Ever lower, with slow violence down to crash
The flimsy pillars of conviction proven bent
Perhaps he on his white horse will claim you first
And the pains of life will cease for good
Then that patient wrath will cook your blood
And leave the soul to wander, evermore, in constant thirst,
Worn by apathy, its options spent
Stumble then, onward, never admit defeat
Hold ye close of knowledge every bite
And from your idea of self not one step retreat!
Of advice, be it quick, sharp or light
Be wary, for wrong directions it may have lent
So rest now, fain wanderer
For just a moment; look up, search the sky
And give us a newborn’s smile before you die
Mahalo. JPR
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