Whispers of A Blue Moon: November 2005

Departure of Persephone

Cold

From the moment I stepped out of the doorway, I could feel the chill in the air. The cold bite in the air that snaps at your heels once you are out. The cold bite that heralds the departure of Persephone, otherwise known as Proserpina, back into the arms of Hades. And the mourning of Demeter. What is she possibly doing now, I wonder? In this very age, what form does she take that hides her from the eyes of mortals? An old woman? Or an Alpha female somewhere commanding a legion of subordinates and teleconferencing with eight other CEOs at the same time?

But I digress.

In this place where I reside in currently, there is no spring, no winter. Demeter has no hold over this region of Earth. Over here, only Apollo matters. No disrespect, Demeter. Only the harsh winds of the monsoon, bringing torrential rains over this little island. But tis still cold enough to remind me of the time where I spent a month in a place under the influence of Demeter.

I have fond memories of that place. Very enjoyable it was. The novelty of being under the influence of Demeter seems to have no bounds. The cold air coming out of one's mouth every time one speaks. The hard chill that envelopes the body everytime one steps out, so hard that it warrants a few layers of clothing. The golden warmth of the Sun shining, warm enough to make you appreciate it, and cold enough not to let one sweat either.

It was simply soothing and mesmerizing. Perhaps this warrants a trip to the hinterlands soon. The itch to travel is back...

(C)Image courtesy of Fire Serpent Tantra: Kundalini Mystery School

Epitaph Of Eros

HERE it begins
A purge of everything gained
Those foreign substances in his veins
All associated with pain
Out of the vessel they go
All the things that were once
Good, but the label there another story told
Good, but only for a few months
And herein after that, it expires
No matter, it wasn't him they say
Follow what we say, and you will be free
Those naysayers preached

So he did,
Accordingly to what they say
And dug a very deep hole in a fit
To put in those alien objects treasured most

Up till now, this very day
There lies the hole
"Here lies Eros"
Says the stone
Dead from misadventure
Reads the epitaphios

*****************************************

There we go Elvina. The plan for Ops Purge. Comprehendo?

And on a sidenote,

Eros - Go figure my dear readers. Not someone I would care to elaborate.
Epitaphios - Greek for epitaph

A contrast of some things

Some things, no matter how hard you try to build a wall around them, it keeps coming back to you. One day after the third red wall is up, it just has to be torn down by someone again. One after another, it gets tiring...

Some things, no matter how meaningless or painful, always contained an ounce of delight or remembrance in them. That however meaningless, it was at least something to be treasured. Like the photo ages ago that dropped out (of all places) my calculator manual as I was reading up on linear regression.

Sometimes I am contented ... sometimes I'm not.

Some things are just meant to be the way they are...

Like humanity is simply irritating

Tis time to begin Operation Purge again.

Old ways are definitely better.

Mad Prose

NOW now, that was a pretty long rant. Was it not?
he most fertile plot of land can do wonders
to even the wilting flower. But enough
o'such dreadful stuff. Tis a weekend, a day, a day
for cheerily fluff and for indulging in one's excesses.
Excesses to the contrary, a little drop
-In potency it belongs Dutch courage it's called-
of the potent liquid is enough to do
wonders for numbers as one plus one becomes three
and the the gold seems to be in the midst of the rainbow.
And something for the little narcissist in everyone, including
Aristocrat yours truly.
A dance of magick, twirly and swirly under
the deep dark nights. As we invite the Moon
to come down to earth, lucid dreaming we do.
"Enough enough!" Cries the Other.
"You rant you rant! Bring down the Moon you do say. Bah what rubbish is this! Spits an Other.
"But but..."
"Surely no more buts, young'un. Show them what you truly want
Come on fella, don't be shy. A little always does more good"
Nod nod goes the Other.
"Listen to the wise one you bag of wool for brains fool"
And bit by bit, gingerly tenderly
He took up the sweet little sign which says
"Gracias, Velvet."

****************************

Some weird prose, for the weird Other in an Other.
Some weird prose, for the Night that stands by the Day
At the same time
In the same place
They stood.
The Other's face melted into an Other
And the Night becomes one with Day

Revelations

As I was lying in bed, a relevation suddenly dawned upon me. Perhaps that was why I always couldn't sleep at night. I had said this before, if I remember correctly.

The night is always the time where my mind is the most fertile, the strongest spot has to be my bed. Everytime I lie on it, images of anything and everything will swarm over me. Thoughts will come unasked. Everything becomes a whole mess of information and pictures, and it is always up to me to sort it out. To sift throught this mess.

Usually, I would be too lazy to pen it down, letting my muse slipped away, her persuasions wasted on me. But tonight, I decided not to. It was a huge relevation for me. Probably triggered by Aldous Huxley. By his book, Brave New World. It was mildly disturbing, to say the least.

It was suggested in the book, by Mustapha Mond, one of the World Controllers, that art (and science, but not relevant here) is the nemesis of happiness. Where art exist, happiness will not exist for long. At least, that is my reading of it.

And in a warped sense, it is true.

Art (and science) is the equivalence of knowledge. And what cliched saying comes to mind when the word "knowledge" is mentioned. The more you learn, the more you realised you don't know anything. And when you realise that paradox, what comes next is unhappiness. Is knowledge ever associated with happiness? I only know of instances where it is associated with unhappiness.

The rat race for one. In the quest for the paper chase, are people truly happy doing what they love to do? Only for an elite few who are perhaps rich enough to take the other side of the road. And for some brave ones.

Poetry is another. Now I do realise why I have become what I am today. Perhaps I was shaped by my poetry. The more I wrote, the more sensitive I became. Overtly sensitive to others as well. Perhaps that was part of the deal. I could almost hear Apollo (the god of poetry) saying, "You want to write? Fine, I'll make you more attuned to the emotions of others." If not, maybe I wouldn't be able to bring out the raw emotions in those pieces of work. It would then become another piece of mediocre writing by another mediocre individual who is more suited to numbers than words.

The more I wrote, the more unhappy and melancholic I became. What I wrote, I saw it happening in the world. The unhappiness of it all. Happiness seemed to have vanished. It was entirely insignificant compared to the amount of unhappiness in the world. The words gave me the ability to see the complacency of those people in suits milling in the streets, working from 8 to 5. And after that heading home. Just to get ready for another day that is the same as the rest of the 321 days that had passed before it.

Where is the meaning in that, you tell me? What about all those beautiful things that poetry proclaims? Are those suits really thinking the same thing. The answer is probably a resounding no, unless someone cares to stand up and prove me wrong. Such are the abilities of the art and sciences, the ability to improve our lives, yet they have the ability to destroy it in the happiness quotient as well. A double-edged sword, no less.

And that leads me to think, perhaps I should abandon the arts for now and be like any other robotic individual who studies all day for the grades and does nothing else.

Like the drugged citizens in Brave New World who are misled into believing that they are happy and contented.

Because I want to be happy too, like any other person.

But at the expense of being dumb?

Perhaps...