Stuffed

With snot pouring from me as

vessels burst from the pressure of my blows.

I feel less together, stitched with

soft tissue in and out.

Stuffed like a swollen foot,

like a water soaked doll,

the fabric surrendering to mildew;

rather than shrivelling under dust and death to ash.

I am filled with the battle of life.

The blood and pus just

inconveniences not filling my breath,

not touching my throat or filling my chest

but for small fits.

I am stuffed with war on the most important front.

I blow and blow to bury the dead.

Then I slumber to pass the battles in time.

For at least the battlefield can rest while its soldiers die.

Stuffed

Spring Whistle

It is in the cold moments I write. Kindle for a creaking furnace, which be my heart. To Barbara, my keeper and great-great-mother. She tricked me into thinking she got her scalp scratched open by the cat at 6 am. It took me a minute to realize it was ketchup. Here’s the poem:


 

I open rusted windows, with the metal mesh and frame bent from removals and mistakes, and feel the cool spring breeze hit me. The fetal winds of warmth wandering the withering veins of a dead winter, it has lost its bitter resolve in the face of change. The striking touch and licks of cool warmth wash my wounds with a wondrous swirl and I feel healing.

I feel healing.

The moments of whispers, of sweet subtle melodies screamed through deep mental passages to be echoed in thought and felt by brush and seen through effect. The first touch the world was given. Touch. Not burn, or slow erosion of the surface be, but the entwined forces of convection be-gin a dance. The notes of storms, the slashes of cold, and the reminders of relief in heat. Let my flesh catch your symbols, let your wisdom flow through me so I can remember. Remember the healing of the spring air telling me to see past my woes. Sorrow be but a traveling foul carried by your sweet songs, it learns them soft, it mimics your tongue. Though a cover it be, taking tune and forging false memory. Mark me hard, let thought not betray, pleasure.

Pleasure.

Of this soft spring day.

Spring Whistle

Here’s a Speech I preformed today

It’s the outline, an argument of sorts. I hope you all enjoy it.

“In the darkest depths of memory”

Mitchell Toye

Introduction

I. You may have been told you imagined it, the feeling of being watched while completely alone. Perhaps in the back of your head you can see the image from countless TV shows and moves you see flash through your head; red, glowing eyes slowly opening up in front of you or worse glowing, huge white teeth from behind.

II. The shade of darkness acts as a blanket of the unknown, and the glowing, scant seen eyes and/or teeth, the inevitable danger of the unknown, of nature herself. Trying to find this imagery, this visual staple of fear and the unknown was actually more difficult to find examples of than I ever thought!

III.  The image always fascinated me, sticking out so prominently and so often. It always followed me, seeing just how easily and effectively it fit into the fears of myself and so many others. For darkness in any place, to stare back, is fear.

IV. The imagery of eyes staring through shadow, thus, is one of the greatest abstractions of human fear in media.

V. I will now delve into why and where this trope evolved from. Finally, I will close with how this fine phenomena is one of the most important cultural artifacts of the past in regards to our current artistic climate.

Body

  1. You may have heard, be it sci-fi or even religiously, of the idea of past lives.
  2. There have been cases of children, with no prior interaction with this imagery, having violent nightmares about monsters with gnashing teeth and glowing eyes. These children have never seen a wolf or a predator and are extremely young. Around 2 to 4 years old.
  3.  Scientists have been experimenting with rats to see if phobias inflicted to one generation will be inherited by the next even without any interaction with their predecessors. This research has yielded remarkable results: automatic suspicion and fear reactions to the imagery that was a fear for the previous generation without conditioning.
  4.  This leads us with some interesting questions. Do human beings, with our cognizant understanding of our surroundings and very biology have genetic fears? The answer seems to be maybe. Some people exhibit these inherent and primal fear responses to darkness and fears of teeth and monsters while others do not.

 

Transition:

An ancient and powerful fear of the unseen predator only being able to see the light reflected in its eyes seems like an image that’s good to fear inherently.

 

  1.  We see what we fear and our stomachs grow knotted and our blood cold. For if anger is the heart of the battle, fear is the soul of survival.
  2. : Humanity bends our fears to parody.

Art allows for us to subvert our expectations and channel our emotions. The rationality and realization of our dark fears allows us to express and harness them in a feat of artistic logic, such as how the dangerous may lurk in the dark and have glowing eyes. A character in complete darkness is only their eyes as well. Our awareness of our fear and of our abstraction of the world around us allows us to portray and communicate smaller, larger, and deeper concerns with further symbolic language. The darkness staring at us not only represents the very real threat of a predator, but the existential conflict of death incarnate and existential dread as expressed by Nietzsche’s famous quote “..[W]hen you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you”. Our imagery allows to craft and portray concepts that may get lost through simple language alone. That might need to be seen from some to be felt.

 This leads to the concept of the cultural artifact. I feel that the imagery of the concealed threat is one universal to all cultures. An artifact from a time not easily forgotten, a time forced upon some and welcomed by others. A fear in the blood of children and the mind of the old. A great artifact grafted to the soul of the people. One that will persist, and will be reborn, with ourselves.

Transition

Through the maze, I see your etches, I see your fears. The blood as your ink, I know of your serious art.

Conclusion

I hope I properly articulated the origins of the eyes of the dark and its importance as a cultural artifact.

Our genetic memory, visual language, and visceral feeling of fear all add together into a wonderful construct of our primal history and the depth of our portrayals.

And I hope you all remember to always be cautious of the dark for it may be waiting for you…

 

 

 

References:

Gray, R. (Dec 1st, 2013). Phobias may be memories passed down in genes from ancestors. The Telegraph. Web. Accessed Feb. 18th 2016. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/science/science-news/10486479/Phobias-may-be-memories-passed-down-in-genes-from-ancestors.html

Kase, A. (Febuary 20th, 2015). Science Is Proving Some Memories Are Passed Down From Our Ancestors. Reset.Me. Web. Accessed Feb. 18th 2016. http://reset.me/story/science-proving-memories-passed-ancestors/

Here’s a Speech I preformed today

Stiff

He walked with an uncomfortable stiffness

His limbs fused by the mistakes of the past,

Yet pride emanates from his words

And his scars are draped in fine silk.

His eyes are dry, red, and quick

His wit is as irritated.

 

May his legs be broken

And weakness and love reset his growth

And the dried lard casting his soul shatter

And Age go proper

Crawling in agony through the proper channels

And subtle strength restored.

 

Weep, child, weep

For thou hast been reborn

Stiff

Di/ Beat

“The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, A misogynistic syphilitic mad philosopher broke down the cultural views of his time and de-constructing morality in comparison with reality. For what do we follow but mantras set by ourselves of self-doubt or self-aggrandizing, for what self-actualization achieves it unravels in most. What we look for in the world simplifies itself in the desperation of fulfillment. We grasp at what seems feasible, we deny structures and pain and hatred or we use them to fuel a maniac climb to the top of the shit stack. We devalue, oversaturate, and cycle through, for what do humans do? Plasticity works in many ways, it seems to be the word of the day for this round of 366 days, shaping, breaking, and taking its lay of your environment. Kipper up, simmer down, power through, or stay down and catch your breath. Is life a battle? Is it a test? Life is mostly emptiness, breaths of nothingness into subway windows, feelings of plastic, glass, metal and cats as time passes and you eat, drink, sleep, shit, and once in awhile communicate. For which to rate what you do and how you see, really it is quite dear to me. A bitter man I may be, but for the shit I eat, the grin suits me. I love you all, I must admit, but to take it out and polish it off, when is time for blast off? Where are we going on ‘spaceship earth’ as we soar into an 3-billion year plunge and are flung right back, seems a bit tight and we take a bit of flak. To get a bit abstract with this, I must recollect an absurd feeling of bliss from the comparison of nebulas to neurons as silly as it seems. We seem to be self-aware atoms forming mystic meat machines.

So don’t try to win; but to sharpen, don’t worry about the sin; but the sufferin, and the buffering of ideals and the squeaky wheels of overpriced shiny automobiles. Get real, take a feel, and steal an empty moment back. Track the tacks of pain to the source, while humming a soulful refrain, and remain in mind;open to the rain,wind,and sleet blowing through you, clear the dead leaves from your gutters kids, relax and shift. You can make your own waves, sure, but tsunamis are group efforts. Society is a hivemind. One for the better, it is something forming deeper than simple letters on census’ and land deeds, it is tied in the rings of our hearts as they beat. Do not dehumanize your kin as you see, our thoughts, actions, and voices are key. Answers are built from pacts of mutually beneficial action, research and passion, rational distraction to keep us sane. Bottle your rage into a fermented passion, drink deep with your kin within a small hut, old fashioned. Sticks and bones, forming glass domes. Your evil is forgotten inside your soul. Rest and rise out of your ideology fishbowl.

Good evening, to you all.

Di/ Beat