Love, Respect, and Dexterity

Dear Brother,

It pleases me intensely to see you so strong, so balanced and coordinated. For the moment we have traded roles. I, in my bandaged and partially immobile state can only admire the simple freedoms in you, that not too long ago were not only my right but also my identity. Dexterity is such a difference between us--as all our lives, it has been me that has lead, that has taken charge, that has lifted and maintained most of the burdens, selfishly but also arrogantly. I was always proud of you though and secretly wished for you to be as strong and reliable as me, if you recall moments when I was put aside and you were then placed on the spot--I watched as you held your own for as long as you could. And now, when I look over and see you with this new speed and confidence of motion so familiar and nostalgic to me, it is as if I were being shown footage of myself through a glass mirror. It shall be a while before I fully recover dearest twin, but you have made it that a new dexterity may exist now between us. A combined power and coordination that, when I return to top form, shall give us a wider range of control.

I am eager to escape this cage of a splint, to remove the gauze and bandage. Look at how dirty and dry I've become--at times swollen and darkened with dirt. I can neither lean forward nor back. Between my thumb, index and middle finger is shared the mobility and synergy meant for five fingers--is it any wonder, Brother, that they at times become plump with the strain of attempting to compensate for the two, completely immobilized. Look too, Brother, upon my arm and compare it to yours. The muscle is gone loose and an overall thinness now starves it. Clench a fist and see the difference for yourself. With your thumb and middle finger as a clamp you can observe that on my side, your fingers are closer to meeting than mine on yours, when they attempt to girth the forearm.

You are beautiful and unique even with a twin. Stretch and grip, shake and writhe, all with the beauty of activity. Even typing this I look over to you, resting over the keyboard and finding the letters with such an ease and shy grace, that I am humbled into myself with a numbness that folds me still and silent until I am, for the moment, unfelt---as if I have been cut off and am complete with in you twin.

That is all.

Your ever admiring and loving brother,

Right.

My Brother and My Sister Don't Speak to Me--But I Don't Blame Them

AND IT MIGHT GO ON FOREVER UNSAID

Do I care? I think others wonder that of me. I think the few individuals for whom I truly, genuinely do care for, even they aren't sure. How closed up am I? How introverted that they can't tell. I wonder if maybe just one among them understands--Can see pass my code and read me as I am. Because I do care, in my own way. However, I don't blame them if they can't see, it because I don't show it. Like all things that mean anything to me, I like to keep them, selfishly, inside to myself. But maybe my definition isn't valid. Perhaps there is no care if it is not visible. Its action v. thought, which one is real? Are we who we think we are or what we do, what and how others see us.

I don't have answers. I am only locked in my mind and from there, see things as I am accustomed to making sense of them. Though true, that with age and its accompanied experience the faculty for making sense of these things expands but for the most part questions answered lead to newer questions asked.

I wish the people I care for could know that but maybe since I don't want to change the way I express myself, then maybe its true, that I really don't care. Maybe thats the action confessing the truth about thought.

A Pervert is Touching Me

On Perversion

Every artist has to be a pervert. The beauty of Art, or what makes Art special, is that its a perversion. A twist of the norm altered into exceptionality. Even a renaissance painting, even a still life of fruits on a table, focuses on a perversion of attention, for why take note of such a thing as a fruit bowl enough to paint it? Should we spare ideas for the preservation of comfort and conformity? Should there be a respect for the norm? I believe nothing is normal, there is only the strange we are used to and the strange we aren't used to. In a forum-lecture on cognition I once attended, it was said that consciousness is attention. We become accustomed to forms and ideas and they take on a comfortable familiarity in the background of the blur we call "everyday life". The perversion of these forms and ideas is what challenges us, what expands our understanding of the relationship between us and them. If the universe is wanting to become information as Terence McKenna has stated, if all points are in fact seeking to connect to one another, then perversion of what has been temporarily installed as "established" is universal stimulation to this penultimate goal.

While Facing a Broken Tune

Iron & Fur

You woke up with a knife in your mouth, you woke up and it was heaviness to talk. Your wooden thoughts creak and crack, you carve them into unassuming shapes--the seeking of warmth and cold simultaneously; a blurring picture in the back of your eyes. The burning silence of life and its only condolences have forgotten how to speak, thus muted by memory.

there are times you belong in a bottle; there are times you belong in a cargo moonship. I dive blindly into ramparts of waves; the ones that static the surface, glisten the brow while episodal moods pale your smiles and dry out your depths. I seek coolness as my body overheats easily; my mouth bleeds with aborted words--useful as ink, in it, the knife does dip and marks on flesh what a voice will not.

Motion as Noise

SLOW MOTION WATCHERS

My new neighborhood being the tame, domestic corpse that it is, there isn't much by way of variables. Things seem pretty constant, and that constant is a still collection of quiet moments; the deafening absence of energy that by comparison makes ones most minute spark of excitement seem a cambrian explosion of living, raging plasma. Against this canvas of silence, every sudden deviation from normal seems supernatural. Which is why in the mornings, while walking to the train station, I sometimes am relief to see a certain young man...you may call him challenged...Retarded, is the word I really want to use but everyone is so PC and generally overly sensitive. Retarded, and yet Accelerated would better fit to describe this, either young looking man or old looking teen. His head jerks around and he looks about as if just let out for the first time. He slaps leaves on branches and runs across the street even when he has the light. There is a parking lot everyone cuts through to sneak some seconds off their morning walk to the station, there's a sharp corner that hides the coming from the going--and at this twilight, I noticed he seems to rev himself up for the stage at this isolated parenthesis. He runs, jumps, spins, dances, really lets loose. Its great to watch and I, as well as others observe, timid and jealous, wishing we were as accelerated as he.

The Age of Apocalypse

APR-27 When one googles the word "apocalypse" the first result is the Wikipedia entry for Apocalypse. According to our Wikifriends, it is, and I quote: "a disclosure of something hidden from the majority of mankind in an era dominated by falsehood and misconception." Ironically we live in the information age.

What happens when everything is available? When memory is more important for your electronic gadgets than your mind?When people can go on for months socializing through an online social network, and when not socializing, occasionally dropping in unseen, to catch up by viewing photos, or reading statuses. Classes on youtube, forums for any topic imaginable, downloadable PDFs, pirated books and documentaries. When instead of remembering, you simply refer to google or bing via your pc, laptop, or phone. What happens when we have all the info yet we still don't know anything.

I had forgotten that Apocalypse means Revelation. Its very easy to forget this when Apocalypse has become synonymous with the end of the world. One imagines destruction, chaos, fire and avenging angels, seven-headed serpents, and other biblical cartoons--But the truth is simple and far more powerful, it means revelation. The revealing of Truth, the revealing of The Real. Its more Catharsis than Doomsday.

I am not religious or even spiritual. I will die and I am absolutely comfortable with that being that. I belief in individuals, I belief in the universe of the individual. Each person will have their catharsis, their day of reckoning with The Truth, every individual will one day face an Apocalypse. Maybe you'll read this and fight it, scoff and laugh on the outside. But within, internally, a spark has been ignited--one, you immediately recognize, in that dark side of your brain's moon, where you hide all the things inconvenient.

For some, this cleansing is a marvelous opus of relief, however painful or overwhelming--for others, it might as well be the end of the world. For the insecure, for the weak, for the leeches and vultures, for whom confidence never dresses, for whom happiness is never independent--for these, the Truth is plague, revelation is a burning mirror that snaps off their flesh entirely in one bite. They fight the Apocalypse until they die and they still lose. They are fragments, never whole.

Soft Scream

And my eyes say:

This is a very lovely video. The focus, quite matching the reverb and color, similarly complimenting the minimalism of the track. Its the first time we've seen or heard Mr. Blake, we are somewhat pleased with the impression this video has given us.