eat drink think sing

Icon

exercises in being according to an existential hedonist

Self-Portrait

Self-Portrait

Filed under: existential, , , ,

Eat, Drink, Speak

Eat, what is raw,
drink, what is clear,
speak, what is true.

Martin Luther (1483 -1546) German Theologian

Filed under: drinking, eating, repercussions, singing, thinking, , , , ,

Political Correctness is an Overall

Political correctness is a white coat, an overall. An overall is usually only worn during the time of work.

Filed under: fake, , ,

If you are a greater listener…

will you hear more truth?

will you hear more lies?

Greater Listener (or big ears)

Filed under: repercussions, , ,

About the Architecture of Love (Part I)

I do not believe that love grows and develops in us. It does not develop thanks to our parents, nor thanks to the woman that comes into our life, nor because of the loving Grandmother. Love does not grow out of reactions and experience. Love is like air: always there.

We do not see the air, neither do we see love. We only see both in the reaction they cause on others whenever the reaction gets transported. Everything reacts to the existence of love and air.

If we do not feel accepted at home, we wait and search, for it is one of our natural tendencies, to desire to have those around us that respond to the signs of love we radiate. And so we search and trust that we will find others that interchange love signs with us, if there are none at home.

Love is an essential quality within our existence and independent of how the world around us might treat us when we are born into it, we search with nose, eyes, ears, skin and hands for something that will agree with the love in us. It might be hard to find it at times, but that seems to be irrelevant for us: we search.

That is perhaps the reason why so many jump, dive and fly in any possible direction, as soon and wherever they suspect or notice signs of what they consider to be love. I also do not think that there is a physical love. That bodily sensation – sex – is, next to the automatism coming from nature, an accompaniment to the soul’s love state, or an impulse, a necessity, very much independent from love. It is however our luck that again and again we meet individuals and are given the opportunity to experience sex with those that we also are willing to give sings of love to. It is also our luck that we might find very clear signs of loving coming from those to whom we fell physically attracted to and wish to take in physically as well.

Some are very sure that love is a feeling. Some are very shure that love is not a feeling.

Everything tells and shows me that it cannot be a feeling, but a perpetual, existential state.

.

Filed under: drinking, eating, existential, repercussions, singing, thinking, , , , , , ,

Marcel Broothaers or Marcel Duchamp or Daniel Spoerri or Dada or Fluxus… somebody was here.

Something is far beyond my understanding. I repeatedly find myself documenting found things and found situations that I find to be aesthetic or that express a statement, enough to be photographed. Strange is that those are situations I would never compose myself, for it would be too wanted, too artificial, too forced, too much of a hole dilettantism, to take it with a seriousness deserving attention. Only those in the Dada and Fluxus movements were daring enough to compose such oddities themselves. Furthermore, found art is a field in itself.

Why are such findings attractive to creative minds? The finding resulted in over 60 images.

We seem to see special value in the things we find and I do not understand why.

As soon as I saw this unusual sight, I had to photograph it. Soon enough I had to turn it into a ‘story’ and dramatize with it a bit. Dramatizing is simple. Give some importance to something of apparent irrelevance. However, the dramatization could be done to bring attention to overseen details, to enhance simplicities, to discover new angles.

We never reach the point where we have seen too much. Never could we see too much. We never see enough angles, never enough life.

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4001 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4007 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4041 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4052 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4056 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4066 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4067 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4072 / Foto: sila blume

Found Cup with Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4082 / Foto: sila blume

Coffee Worker in West New York / Found Coffee Rests 9jun12 / IMG_4108 / Foto: sila blume

.

Filed under: drinking, , , , , , ,

Life (III) / Notes on the Life of Artificial Life

I want to be when I die
I wish to see the whole process.

If dying is indeed a loss,
I wish to see how much to lose I have,
how much to lose I am.

If dying is a gain,
I shall write again.

I recall this as being the very first thoughts I concentrated on – enough to write a composition of words about it – dealing with the process of dying. It seems as though there is no livelier process than to die – for those dying and for those looking onto those dying. Many who had the so called near death experience attest to this and observers of those dying, repeatedly watch close or refuse to look. Thus, which are better moments to be awake?

Some express, as wish of wishes, to die in their sleep. I strongly suspect that a key in life is elevation through knowledge. Thus, if I were to die, I wish to be wide awake through it.

If we thought of dying as just a phase within life and we could experience the dying process and subsequently, just days later, arise with a new experience of states and feelings, we would know less fright in life. If we were given concise instructions that, not reincarnation, but reinsoulation or reinconsciousness is available to us all and death were literally nonexistent, but rather we were submerged in an explosive and satisfying transition onto another state, what would there be to be afraid of?

I consider myself very lucky to have been in the same room at the same time with my father, as he inhaled for the last time, before a nurse pronounced his “passing”. There was no sadness, no joy. I was awake, observing, questioning through a myriad of phrases without question marks, inhaling with him, accepting, wondering, concluding, wanting. And still, after eleven Marches since that ante meridiem at 6:01, I do not see death.

In the last couple of weeks the dying have been screaming around me in body moves – nothing my ears hear. We often do interpret screaming as pain, but I have seen screaming moves which I cannot call pain. They are not very different to the screaming moves many of us know during overpowering ecstasy, especially if love uniquely unites us with the love of another, while body and spirit come together.

One of the screaming bodies I saw was that of a raccoon. A dog passing by, which usually barked by each confrontation with another animal in the park, did not bark. It gave a short look, then continued, quiet. The raccoon turned its head repeatedly, screaming – what a policeman and I kept calling agony, while we spoke. We waited more than an hour, until it ceased to move.

Raccoon

‘Juice’ from Raccoon

I saw a bird, fallen from a tree – so the appearance. The body screamed. Paused. Screamed. Stretched. Screamed and screamed, quiet to my ears. Two days later I returned and saw it again. No moves.

Newly a cat showed an expressive last move. It laid  near lines which clearly said they ought not be crossed. Another one looked on, dared to stride to the middle of the street, slowly, wondering, wanting, aware, solemnly. It stopped at the line and did not cross. The second cat – similar to the dog – knew, and knew what to do.

Cat looking at another Cat

Humans, like no other animal, have managed to combine life and death through unique levels of artificiality. Dogs, cats, squirrels, surely racoons and many other animals, have also their moments dedicated to play, which is often the temporary transformation of real life activities, into make-believe, into artificiality. Humans, however, take it beyond play. Two times now I have seen an older couple walking hand in hand around an artificial pond that has been categorized as a conservation spot for wild life. And there they walk, while carrying a stuffed dog.

Couple on artificial pond for conserved wild life, carrying a stuffed dog

We have now seen millions of Marches and Christianity has seen over 2000 of them, but we have yet to avoid a life without being afraid of it being too short, too long, too painful. We are still afraid that it means ‘to end’ and afraid of being awake. We believe in a truth and call it belief, based on which we die and kill for. We willingly asphyxiate with it. We have created what we call artificial life and artificial intelligence, but we continue to scream.

That classic “to be or not to be” might have helped starting this whole dilemma. Not even to move or not to move seems relevant, nor to scream or not to scream, nor to perceive or not to perceive. We do know, we call it life. Some are sure it must end. Some are sure it must not. Clear is our confusion, and we proceed with glorification, one of the most expressive forms of artificiality, often used in this transition process we die for. We glorify based on religions and cultures or through individually personified acts, like signs of friendship, like the hundreds dedicated to a store owner last month. The store was much to dirty for me to ever enter it, but after he was stabbed to death, days and nights saw customers and passersby glorifying him in notes and symbols, what is often called paying respects, the respect we like to see in the face of those that have died, much more than to the face of those alive.

‘paying respect’

.

Filed under: existential, , , , , , , ,

Either Or

Give me rather impotence sitting by a coffee on an island of beauties – whichever species – than intimacies and orgasms in a state of imprisonment.

Sila Blume

Filed under: drinking, eating, repercussions, thinking, , , , , , ,

Mishima wanted to Sing

I thank Philip Glass for a couple of things in my life. The music he composed for the biographical movie Mishima was one of the poorest compositional ideas I have heard from him, but I am thankful that the movie introduced me to a figure that would become one of my very favorites – as individual, human, artist, writer and thinker.

Yukio Mishima in 1931

Just as an attraction for German things had entered my soul before attending University, something had been pulling me towards the Japanese spheres. One crystallization of this had been the aestheticism in the films of Akira Kurosawa. But that was the only name I could build upon to satisfy my hunger for Japan, until Yukio Mishima came along – though already dead. It was in 1985, fifteen years postmortem. This brought my interest for the Japanese culture into full development.

Through his novel “Confessions of a Mask” I obtained access into his world. His poetic form in word and action expresses much about his attitude towards life, liveliness, sufferings and joys. This is what instigated many questions and thoughts in my mind about the psych and existence of humans in the process of being. About twenty-five years later I saw the film Mishima once more and new thoughts, views and questions arouse, which apparently had not been clear for me back then, especially through two scenes.

Many people seem to carry their faces for identification purposes and as feelings thermometer. Mishima is lying in bed after an act of sexual intercourse – observing his “beautiful legs” after he has decided to train his body through body building – and ponders upon transforming his legs, allowing them to become his face.

Another scene:
It is possible that the quality of this short scene be attributed to the expressive acting of the fine actor Ken Ogata (1937-2008), portraying Yukio Mishima, or to the direction of Schrader, instead of seeing it as the genuine expression of the person Mishima himself in his desire for this long-awaited moment, as it happened on that November 25th in the year 1970. As in his very last minutes Ogata/Mishima looks up to his men, in his face one reads thankfulness, sadness, frustration, love and completeness. Or I see these expressions because his life seems to connect to some of my views on life, especially in reference to the idea of the need of singing, at its best very often, at its very least at life’s end.

Hardly another thought took him and guided him more than dying. As a man of letters, as an intellectual, as a grandson, son, lover, patriot, artist and teacher, all his handling was directed towards dying, be it out a sense of responsibility or out of sheer longing.

An individual is able to grow with his responsibilities and perform these brilliantly. For this purpose people become usually anywhere between 50 and 80 years of life. In the same way an individual might come into this world under particular circumstances, arriving as a victim and in the end, departing as a victim just the same. It seems to me that Mishima lived both possibilities. His intellect, his upbringing – in its better, as in its worse possible execution – his world of emotions, his love, all these aspects united into a creative person that aimed at following through with his responsibilities and visions with passion and dexterity. He wrote no less than 35 novels, about 200 short stories and over 20 essays. In addition there were 18 theater plays written and he contributed to the revival of the Noh-Theater tradition, besides several scripts for films. Beyond all these creative endeavors, he formed and trained the “Tatenokai”, a private army solely responsible for protecting the Emperor. He was dedicated to protect the rich and strict tradition of the Japanese culture of honour. As a result, after just 45 years of life as doer and victim, he departed, instead of living further, daring further and creating from his talent for the rest of the world. His talent and works for the Japanese society – for the elite and for the pop culture – were closely followed and respected.

General Mashita was the Commandant at the Ichigava Camp, where part of the Japanese military trained and lived. This is the compound where Mishima and his men – his closest, most effective from the Tatenokai Members – took Mishita as a hostage in his office, to assure his plan would work. They occupied the main building and the General was instructed as to what was to happen. After he spoke to the men that had been gathered outside and the General had recuperated from his worst assumptions, Mishima went on his knees. General Mashita, nervous, begged with him that there was no need for him to do this. He repeated himself a few times:

“Sensei Mishima, you do not need to do this”

But Mishima had to. He had lived with religious, artistic, elite and political intensity the honour culture of his country. Although the General begged him to change his mind, he could not resign of his role of that very moment. Yukio Mishima, in reality Hiraoka Kimitake, wanted to sing. His whole life he wanted to sing, or better said, he wanted to be singing itself. He had spoken to the Garrison from the balcony and as he finished, he turned to one of his man with the sad conclusion:

“They did not even listen to me”

Married in 1958, but “Confessions of a Mask” confesses also his homosexuality

His look, just seconds before his Seppuku Act, show me an amount of frustration, because had not been able to sing. He wanted to move the soldiers at the Ichigava Camp to fight against the powers of capitalism. He wanted to overthrow the government, in order to give the power back to his Emperor. He wanted to sing for his Japan and his Emperor. In his novels, full of uncommon, elegant rhetoric and soft poetry, he wanted to sing. Even having had such a dominant grandmother, he wanted to sing. He did not understand, why when he told his family about his memories of his birth, all would laugh, admiring his phantasy, but as soon as there were visitors and he started his telling, he would be sent to his room, to avoid shameful moments. He was forced to play with dolls with his cousins, but was not allowed to play with boys of his age outside. His father used to put his face as close as possible to oncoming trains, just to scare him.

Many things must have disgusted him, so that he yearned – among others – for a departure from life. But not before contributing greatness. And perhaps was precisely this, in various forms of expressions, his way of singing.

Singing is a daily and common expression of the soul and of the frame of mind of an individual. Often it is spontaneous, often subconscious, not looking for reaction or even perception from its surroundings, but just an expression that needs to be exhaled. A singer that lives with the title of being a singer and strongly depends professionally from the reaction and perception of its listener, is the only one making music that does not need a constructed instrument to support or enable the intended expression. Singing is the most pure music, its source. For humans, in terms of sound itself, singing is the most archaic thing, the highest what man is able to give from its most inner being, inner self, individually, globally,  working for all. It is language, but unspellable, even lacking the need for a system. It is a poem without the need of poetry. It is therapy without the necessity or intention of curing. It is a symbol for joy and for sadness. It is metaphysical communication. Nothing more than the vibration of bands, but with the destructive power of acoustic.

Singing is redemption.

°

Filed under: repercussions, singing, thinking, , , , , , , , , ,

with Pride

Original content for this post has been revised and reposted here.

Filed under: singing, , , ,

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 141 other followers

Twitter Updates

Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.