July

"Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed

Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear..."

-Robert Plant

On Innovation

Not too long ago I was asked to be "more innovative". For once, and you can draw a cross on the kitchen wall to mark this most sacred day, I was too stunned to speak. Innovation, as a term, stems from the Latin word "innovatus", which is the noun form of innovare "to renew and to change". In order to change, or to renew, one needs inspiration, and inspriration is not something in me that cannot be switched on/off by command. There is of course the kind of innovation set in motion by external forces, be it happiness, sorrow, loss, a change in the market place, destruction, annihilation or another threat. However, to me, inspiration in its purest form is something not to be analyzed or understood.

It just arrives.

There are not too many things in this existence I feel so nonchalant about. It is one of the few things that need not to be understood. I think of it, in my understanding, pretty much the same way Robert Fripp feels about (creating) music: music is always present, music is always there, but we have to be able to hear it. We have to be able to receive it. In order to hear this inspiration one must learn how to listen to silence. One has to be silent. When, and if, it arrives, it is another thing completely.  

Anyone who has ever done anything that resembles creative work, knows what I'm talkin' about. The self-feeding cycle of accomplishment and triumph, the overwhelming sensation of creating something that is completely new and something that has not existed before, and breathing life into something subjectively unique. And I dare say "fuck it", if someone has had the same idea before, because the sensation cannot, and will not, be diminished by the discovery of similar structures in this time and space. We all, creatively speaking, draw water from the same well, drink the cosmos therein, and piss the same possibilities. 

If you do not have a single creative cell in the decaying piece of flesh you call "body", then pass on by, stranger, pass on by, for you will not get, understand, and comprehend it in a million cycles of the sun, the stars, or the motherfucking moon.

And, alas, we come a full circle here. Asking someone to be "more creative", getting a "no" for an answer, and then going ballistic about it would be like asking "what time it is", and then getting pissed off about the answer.

A Letter to the Unknown (Part One: Silence)

To whomever it may concern,

The humming of the air-con and the gentle ripple of the aquarium water-pump. The phones remain silent as the holiday season has officially begun. The temperature is rising outside although the sun is playing hide and seek behind snow white fair weather clouds. It seems that the oracles of weather got it right when they prophesied swelter for the rest of the week, and for once, I am more than pleased that they are right.

I cannot escape the feeling of something lurking around the corner. There is an impending potential, like an uninvited guest, sending shivers as it waxes and wanes without pattern and form. Perhaps I am over-sensitive this time of year. Perhaps I've been stigmatized forever, but then, this time I will not seek validity in this from the empty words of gods and men, regardless of the form the manifestation appears, nor will I be hell-bent over some half-assed gut feeling originating in the abyss within. Ah, the dilemma of human condition. Words are absolutely useless, when the meaning and the intent behind verbal communication has to guessed and/or deciphered, or arduously excavated from the layered sub-contexts of what hasn't been said. An Oxford "Silence-English-Silence" Dictionary would come in handy.

But fear not, dear observer, conclusions can be drawn, although they cannot be concise, precise or absolute. Silence, as a part of interaction, is an act of withdrawal. It is ultimately about giving the power of choice away, and letting someone else choose. It is about disregarding the truth as it is, leaving knots untied and hanging in the wind, thus, abandoning the power to object, to intervene and to react. Silence is submission, a prayer at the altar of god of cowardice, and a towel abandoned at the ringside of life. Silence can sometimes be a strategy: a conscious choice, a last resort when played into a metaphysical corner. One should not mistake the silence I speak of to the "Silence" of eternity, that of which is said to be golden, and the source of great strenght. That would be the silence within, this is the silence without. I speak of silence when any form of communication would be imperative. Silence as a form of abuse and violence, and the only way to retaliate is the same. Silence as a weapon.                      

The morning after

Summer Solstice and the town is asleep. Even the birds are quiet. Petrichor lingers as the sky is clearing, and I embrace the sweet silence.

Godlike

The Devin Townsend Project: "Deconstruction"
The Devin Townsend Project: "Ghost"

Geosmin

Petrichor
n. the scent of rain on dry earth

Henry the Great

"Please, act your age, not your shoe size."
--Henry Rollins