Tag Archives: knowledge

IN CELEBRATION OF IGNORANCE

 

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source: angrylearnerr.com

You may choose to build an altar in my name

And sing eulogies as you get drunk all day long

Or follow my blog and all social media accounts

Secretly harbouring admiration for me

Having abandoned your own work and family

Doing these totally at your own peril

 

Coz I won’t be waking up chanting “oms” or burning incense

Reading the stars and ancient manuscripts at night

Writing long philosophies and moral codes

Or walking down the street followed by a picking of spiritual seekers

Carrying myself like someone who really knows what he is doing

And that that thing he is doing is nothing

 

What do I know of divinity

What do I know of hatred

What do I know of love

What do I know of weakness

What do I know of happiness

What do I know of knowledge

What do I know of art

What do I know of prostitution

What do I know of hunger

Maybe if you wait long enough

Burning the midnight oil in cyberspace

You might have the pleasure of being the first

To see another work of my art

To see another grand expression

Of the depth of my ignorance

Of the richness of my shallowness

Maybe you will then finally see

In that precious midnight moment

That there is really nothing new

To learn from another human

Who is just a stuttering mere mortal like you

Trying to say stale things in great ways

Sounding like he knows anything about nothing

And actually saying nothing about anything

 

And

Whilst countless shamelessly beg

At the doorstep of knowledge

Priding themselves as masters

Of art and science and law and philosophy

 

I will turn myself in bed

And continue snoring

As I dream on

Laughing in my sleep

At those who thought I had something grand to say

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The Apprentice

 

As-a-human-being-one-has-been-endowed-with-just-enough-intelligence-to-be-able-to-see-clearly-how-utterly-inadequate-that...-Albert-Einstein.jpg

Come humbly and cautiously before my face

Avoiding the awe and terror in this space

As I stare any Jack in the eye

Damning your status low or high

 

Some call him a madman

Others a magician and charlatan

Wielding a dangerous weapon

To whom the minds of the crowd bend and open

 

I’ve got the power of art

To touch the shadows in anyone’s heart

Stabbing them recklessly with my pen

Coz I’m a righteous monster from heaven’s den

 

He eats locusts and honey

He’s no prophet looney over money

Dressed in sweater made of woolly things

No mere gangster enslaved with gold rings and blings

 

Been years walking among those fakes

Who ain’t got no real idea what it takes

To confidently state the spiritual ain’t for real

Coz they ain’t seen the real deal

 

They shamelessly blurt and pontificate

Parading themselves as scientifically literate

They haven’t searched half the world or their souls

Packaging theories and philosophies featuring holes

 

I grew wise in the wild

Saw the supernatural as a child

Compelled to consider how this reality

Intertwines with the spiritual in totality

 

The acid-test for prophecy is fulfilment

Heard about Him when I was sent

So when out of the blues Christ appeared

I knew the spiritual was to be feared

I happen to feel that the degree of a person's intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting attitudes she can bring to bear on the same topic. Lisa Alther

some would argue differently though.

EPILOGUE

The report of John the Baptist (the apprentice): I repeat, I know nothing about him except this: The One who authorized me to baptize with water told me, ‘The One on whom you see the Spirit come down and stay, this One will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ That’s exactly what I saw happen, and I’m telling you, there’s no question about it: This is the Son of God.” Matthew chapter 3 verses 1-17; John chapter 1 verses 29-34

 

a song for my itch

Say the words
Speak these words NOW
You can choose to read them
Or sing them like an acapella
You may even spice them up with a rock guitar
But please let out these words like you mean them
Read these lines to me just as I am writing them
Just like I have written them
Only then can I cry

 

https://i0.wp.com/0.tqn.com/d/space/1/S/G/9/1/EarthBallBlack.jpg.jpg

Who knew a lot could happen inside such a small round ball! (Source: http://0.tqn.com)

 

Listening to these reflections of my pain
Hearing these echoes of my frustrations
Will be the magic to unlocking the floodgates
Then I will cry
Then I will let it all out
These words are the ones that can cut into me
And start the bloodletting
Say them just as I have written them
Miss no line or cue or punctuation
Every letter has been put here with care
Every letter symbolizing every day I have lived with pain
Every word symbolizing the different sorrows that plague me
Every line symbolizing the years I have bottled up within
These words I could never get to say out
I have no means of release
Even as I write these lines
I feel minimal pain

From the times I have shaken my head
At the person of the Browne
The masks we humans use

From the days I have meditated
Upon the ironic portrayals of the Trent of the planet
The collective tragedies of our race

From the moments I have wondered
At the Tango’s stories of the family
The seasons of our lives

From the eternities I have sighed
At the Shard’s dirges of personal dilemmas
And the fight between humanity and divinity

And who’s to say how far we know or lack
When Julien keeps speaking from his abundance of knowledge
About how useless man’s knowledge largely is

The dark and cloudy days

Take it in step
Don’t rush the moment
Don’t drag it
Let me hear the words gradually
Let it escalate patiently kindly
Remind me of the sad state of humanity
Tell me something I didn’t know
About the depths we are exploring
Newer depths we might sink into
Deceiving ourselves it is the search for knowledge
Truth and liberation
Has the bar ever been lower
Remind me of the ridiculous drama
We all have been auditioned for
A game between fate and choice
How pathetically ironic
That we should quarrel over those two
Don’t rush it
In fact, this is where you take a pause
Avoid a premature climax
Break the progression to the peak
You’ll take it up later again

Things I see and hear at night

image

That scene was actually lovely. Not scary as the picture seems. My nights are like that!

Do you mean to tell me you are this old and don’t know this
You have not tasted of the spicy fruit
Those top-quality clinical-grade hallucinations
Which someone like me makes money off

I see shadows and forms
I see patterns
They speak to me these people
They tell me how life will be
They teach me wisdom and experience about existence
They teach me without using punishment
They understand me
And I hear them and listen
They teach me on my own terms
They speak with soothing voices
Like that of a virgin seductress
Good blend of innocence and sultriness
They tell me of the fragile nature of life
And of how beautiful it could be
Like a perfectly delicate thing of high value
Something as delicate as these visions themselves
Visions that could easily fade
And details that couldn’t be validated
Because they change every time I attempt to recollect them
Visions so beautiful and precious
Visions that will fade when I sleep
The beauty of that short moment of insanity that will fade
After all, beauty fades
They tell me so
These voices
They tell me beauty is temporary and fluctuating
They tell me nothing lasts forever
And I trust them because I have confirmed this in reality
And for this same reason
I also believe these same wise people
When they tell me that the neurons of my brain
All defaecate semisolid gold
And so I have to explore my mind and dig for treasures
Breaking through my rock-thick skull with a dagger
I believe them when they tell me
There is a generator working in my brain
And creative sparks fly everywhere from the neural activity
And where there is no electricity
I’ll let people connect wires to my skull
I believed them because they have proven true time and again
These same voices led me through medical school
All my good ideas have come in similar way
The voices tell me I am radioactive
They tell me I am alien
And so should not allow others see how unique I am
That I can find release by hiding in plain sight
Writing things like this
Things which could easily pass for just another regular dribble of a mad mind
And how I believe these voices
I love them
These wise people
They speak to me
In that place, that time
Between being awake and being asleep
Which some don’t know of, as old as they are
And they have never had it as real and magical
As I have them, as young as I am
These beautiful moments just before sleeping

P.S. Maybe it’s just the special ones like me who have these moments.

Thoughts Of The Constipated Writer

image

(Source: online)

Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts

 
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/

 
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas

He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena

He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision

(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)

Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do

Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.

image

(Source: online)
 
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.

 
__________________________________

BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.

P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.