when cogito fails (x-post)

what am I this I
which I
this me that I see that is seen
that is the me you see as you
as I see you
which I
who am I
what am I
why am I
where am I
who is this me an abstract inexact abstraction
from the self that is perceived as me
or as you
if it’s you whose perception is required
for existence of this persistent form
that is the I that I believe to be me
if me is real as I
as you
but real is relative
how relative to relate to the self
to my self
to your self
your reality different to mine
you see me as you
I see you as you and me as me
but this me this self
is ill formed sense of being
belonging to what or where is anybody’s guess
but not mine
I choose not to choose
not to guess or require
suggestion of reality
being that which I would be
or you believe me to be
is enough for some
but for me I don’t know
this me I don’t really know
but exist within this frame of perception
this me that is I
that is the you that you see
is this really the me that I see
are we one
this you in your eyes
this me in my mind
who are we
this I me you conglomeration of perceived beings
forming the self
this self
my self
which defies definition or serious inquisition
as to purpose
without purpose I am adrift
in this sea of self
selflessly see that around me as unreality
questioning all that is perceived
this self then questions it’s perception of self
am I
is me
does my self equate with being
if perception is to exist
and perception is questioned
where I this self
my self
this I that is the I that I see
that is me
the you that you perceive
or do you
do I
is this self perceived
or self deceived
by that which we trust in
to deliver us from void into being
into meaning
in existence we trust
but by perception do we measure
the immeasurable
with fallible translation
of sensation
by the mind
the infallible most foolable tool
able to do so much with so little
must all of it be real
or just that reality which agrees with self perception
of meaning
of being
of that I which is me
that is dissipating
instigating
anticipating
the destruction of the self
this entropic being
going the way of all things thermodynamic
breaking down
returning to null state
apathetically allowed not encouraged
as much as this me appears to do
with excess and stress
I digress from me
follow paths outside the borders of my self
this self
whose existence I begin to question
to doubt
without doubt I do not exist
if unable to question that which is around
do I exist at all or drift
in void and null
but if I exist to question
can I exist without question
of my own existence
but losing track of that
certainty fallacy of modern thought
can I still exist at all
but what is existence
but awareness of self
and what is awareness
if not the need to question
to doubt
but doubting that which is perceived
if I am but perception
am I in fact I
is this me
a me at all
am I at all
or am I not
and if I am not
are you
in that you perceive me
or do I perceive you perceiving me
who is deceived
if you are deceived
or if I am deceived
in that you are not of outside
but within me in my perception
this self deception of being
then reliance on your perception
to give me being
lacks substance
insubstantial this construct that is I
that is this I
that is me
is not to be
all that is believed

to read or not to read

Article I wrote for the DanPoets Zine I was publishing around 2000. Seems to still be relevant given the large number of new poets I see every year.

It starts like this: while on this journey that we call life, you, unlike half the developed world, have your eyes and mind open, observing and experiencing most of what goes on around you. Also, just like the other half of the developed world, you are wont to put pen to page to capture what you see and experience. This is fine, you like writing, and reading over it reminds you of stuff you’ve done and the things you’ve seen. Sometimes it gives you something to think about and helps you with the whole growing thing. And, hey, writing can be the best cathartic activity short of punching people in the head, and other stuff I’m not aloud to say too much about because this is a PG Zine (except for the occasional swearing in the poems, but that’s art, damn it!).

Now comes the turning point. You realise you’ve got some killer stuff here. Wouldn’t it be cool if you could share it with others, but for this you need (insert dramatic music here) an audience.

Gasp!

No big deal, you’ve got friends (my sympathies if I’m wrong), so you show it to them, email them little stories and poems, throw bits of paper at them each time you see them, and generally bug them for opinions on your literary genius. Sooner or later enough of them tell you all this great stuff about your work and you think, “Hey, just maybe I should find a bigger audience. Why don’t I try one of those open stage deals I’ve heard about, I think more people need to hear what I’ve got to say.”

Deciding is the easy part, but a lot of people struggle with the doing. Not because they shouldn’t be there, open stage means just that; they’re for anybody who wants to do their thing. What usually happens is that all of a sudden you realise you are about to stand up in front of a group of people you may not know, and bare yourself in front of them (not literally, of course, although I have seen this done). Reading poetry or other writings to an audience can leave you a bit nervy, I know I still get jumpy a lot of the time, and you wouldn’t be the first to start to talk yourself out of it.

Don’t. Once you’ve decided it’s what you want to do, then do it. It’s not like you can actually die from embarrassment, it’s just a figure of speech, and you’ll probably find that the people in the audience dig it just because you did it. A friend of mine once asked an old hand at the stage thing, “But what if I shake?” The answer of course was, “Then shake. But don’t stop reading.”

That is the real point; don’t stop reading. Or writing. Or sharing your stuff around. Of course, once you hit the stage, you probably won’t stop, it’s rather addictive, and there are plenty of venues around. Holding this little publication in your hand means you’ve already been to at least one of them (or someone wanted you to read this killer article about reading for the first time. Oh, and the wonderful poetry inside.) Have a look inside the back cover for more, or ask the wonderful folks that run the venues you already go to where some of the other gigs are, and what they’re like. There is a wide variety of them around, and we might have a chat about that in the next issue.

See you at the mike!

Whimper

I have seen the finest minds of my generation confused, abused, diffused in the pool of mediocrity in which they swim, the only forum open to their minds their hearts their words

I have seen the finest minds of my generation wasted, rent, shattered on an anvil of diversionary alchemie, their light gone dim in temporary, illusory, expansion of the self

I have seen the finest minds of my generation overlooked, ignored, dismissed, destroyed, annoyed that they do not make a difference, cannot fight indifference, unwanted by the society many of them claim to speak for

Oh, vox populi are not we, but me and mine are kin and kine to those that came before and howled their call for more than ordinary life who lived in strife and took to wife the pain of modern mortal man

For I have heard the finest voices of my generation Sing
Sing songs of wonder, of disgust
Songs of pain and wanderlust
Sing songs of joy and songs of love
Of all down here and up above
They sing of light and sing of dark
They sing of seas, mountains and parks
They sing of cities, playgrounds, streets
They sing the movement of our feet

I have flown with them through futures imagined and pasts elucidated, have flown through hearts and minds and space and time, have flown into brick walls of thought, our irresistible force of hunger in it’s paradoxical clash with the immovable objects of philosophies whose depths we do not fear

I have seen highs and lows, and yeas and noes
And ins and outs and roundabouts

Seen ups and downs, and smiles and frowns
And lives and deaths, and long held breaths

I have danced with dreamers on the heads of pins with a conga line of demons and angels

I have seen and heard and watched and sung and danced and dreamed and flown and howled with the finest minds and voices, hearts and souls of this my multi-generation

AND WE…

oh we…

we have just begun

that'll do, pig-bit...

My mother is one of those people who believe that the proper function of food is to decorate the refrigerator and make it look like there's food in it.

Say, for example, you went to the fridge at my parent's place and saw one last piece of ham or something in there and thought, "Gee, that would make a good sandwich!"

Turn around and say, "Can I have this piece of ham?" Usual reply, "No, that's all there is!"

What does this mean? Is it cruel to this piece of ham to relieve him of his loneliness? Or maybe because he's lasted this long while the other pieces of ham have gone the way that pieces of ham so often do, that last boat ride down the alimentary canal, he has earnt the freedom to grow things and smell up the fridge? Survival of the last to be eaten! Actually, that ain't too far wrong. Darwin would be proud of that smoked pig bit. But what would be the breeding purposes of that last piece of ham? I shudder to think. But with a mind like mine, I often shudder when I think anyway.

Back to the ham. You have been told that you can't have it because that's all there is. Your reply?

"I can see that. How does that translate into me not availing myself of this inviting remnant?"

"You can't have it because then it will all be gone, and somebody might want some."

"Like, Duh! Somebody does want some. That's why I asked for it."

"You can't have it. Now leave me alone."

Stimulating debate, eh? And not surprisingly, one that ends with said survivor of the ravages of hunger being gingerly disposed of a couple of days later. Brave piece of smallgoods that he was. Should give him a medal. Something like 'Avoiding capture by the owners of the fridge while creating the need for vanilla essence and bi-carb in enemy territory.'

Three cheers for the might(il)y smelly ham piece! Hip, Hip...

Don't ask me, I just got here.

true story, but not recent, found in my notepad

Tram time again. Another monotonous trip to my monotonous job that I hold only to pay the rent, keep a roof over my head.
I open my distraction. A comic. Hellblazer volume 1. The collection of the first series where John Constantine had an identity away from Swamp Thing. Jamie Delano’s writing is superb; the art rough, but suited.
I am distracted by a fellow passenger and a card falls out of the book. The commuter who caught my attention retrieves it from the floor; she hands me a postcard and a smile. Must have used it for a bookmark some time before.
It has a photo on it. Old. Black and white. A man at the beach; short cropped hair and a big moustache. He is profiled, looking back over his shoulder at the camera, and is wearing loose knee length and a matching sleeveless top like they used to wear, so many decades ago.
I don’t remember it, but it must have been one of those free ones picked up from the rack at some café or another.
Such a pile of these collectables I have; images of a fridge or door wallpapered in true wish-I-was-still-a-student style.
I turn it over. He is Alfred Deakin, the 2nd, 5th, and 7th Prime Minister of my home country. 1903-04; 1905-08; 1909-10. Brief stints of popularity, and of, one would hope, service. But a man of note, photographed at Point Lonsdale in 1910. Important enough to have a university named after him, among other things.
I smile at the lady across from me. A nod of thanks. I replace the card in my comic, return to the story; pass the time until I reach my stop.
Continue my meaningless employment.
Put food on my solitary table.