"Always I want to be
What others see as the best in me
The reality of a fantasy.
But we are not who we think we are
Even if others think we are better
Than we think we are.

Those who see the best in us
See only an illusion, a mask
Of who we want to be.

But thinking so we think, that
Is only our opinion of ourselves
And behaving as we believe we
Believe others believe us to be
IS the fantasy

Calculating deeds to perceived fantasies
Echoes more on our own beliefs
Than any reflections we have seen
So we act upon our own mind
Becoming who we want to be
And leaving all doubt behind"

2012.

"There are times when
Meeting someone new
Their personality strikes you
And their smile just then
Takes your breath away.

As conversational flowers bloom
Pulses rise, iris dilates
She is all seven shades of lovely
I study her and warmth flows from her joyous being
But now that I think about it
I cannot remember much of what was said and
The warmth is now an iron gone cold."

2011

I don't know what to say

you don't care anyway

Half the point of a blog is to speak to yourself anyway.  We raise the sheet of glass and try and see through to an image of ourselves that is different, all the while we are only talking to ourselves.  The image copies but is as insubstantial as the pixels on the screen.

Matter is energy.  Thoughts power the consciousness. Project the image into the internet and it can become more substantial.  Like any creative output it would seem there is a responsibility involved here as just about anything can blow up into a meme, scandal or fad.

When Dream describes the Corinthian in 'The Sandman':

"A dark mirror. Imagine that you woke in the night and rose, and seemed to see before you another person whom you slowly perceived to be yourself.  Someone had entered in the night and placed a mirror in your sleeping place, made from a black metal. You had been frightened only of your reflection. But then the reflection slowly raised one hand, while your own stayed still....A dark mirror....That was always the intention..."

That image, you but not you.  The You from the distant past, the mask you wore when you posted on the wall.  The writings on the wall address you now and speak in a voice that is not your own.

Be mindful of what you say, do and create both on and offline.

R.

I listen to my Captain's prayer. I wonder how much Trouble I get into. R.

You know I think of you, your picture on the wall...

I will raise my drink to you . But I'll stay sober just for you. Back for more ravings from the black heart of my soul.  Extra helpings of hyperbolic dressing on the salad today.

The nostalgic wall we now look at to see old friends is now a 24 hour rolling news about your life. 'May you live in interesting times', the blessing/curse is now a desperate yearning to mention something worthy of note on that channel and for it to be instantly acknowledged. With social networking the press is towards the positive. How often do we look at other people's profiles and wonder why they are having all the fun? Take a look at your own pictures and from that it looks like a constant stream of parties, weddings and holidays.  Good for you I guess, good for me.  But I have done nostalgia with this blog.  Time for something else.

What is the price of a Now-wave fading into the nostalgic past?  Whenever you look back into the past on these things you see only the sunshine, only the bittersweet.  The present now seems dull in comparison and anything amazing that does happen now is filtered and converted into a broadcast.

The modern pleasure from party or holiday is relating the party to the world, sneering in the faces of those who aren't present.  The pleasure from a holiday is gained afterward with the relating of the tales, the photos, the memory.  Can we live in the moment?  I'm doing it now, ripping thoughts straight from the tidal bile wave at the tip of my tongue and giving them to you.

I know what you are thinking - catharis.  Not all blogs are happy, not all posts are self-congratulatory.  Sure, maybe there is something in sharing sadness, in sharing pain when genuine.  If anything sharing a problem eases it.  But there is something egotistical about constant feeds of drama, the constant self-pitying slurry of a crushing desire for validation.  Something about it feels cathartic, something within the mind enjoys it because of the rush one gets, the relief of others understanding, of comforting you, of saving you from yourself.  Drink too much, gush feelings onto the broadcast via your phone and by the time you get home half your friends will be sending you *hugs*.  This happens to us all.  But repeating this is an issue, either a serious cry for serious help or a reverse ego.  Stamp victim on your forehead.

I guess that in a time when I should feel more connected I often feel more alone, as if the time when all this social networking was new I was actually doing the deeds worth the telling.  But that must be regular nostalgia.

Then you realise what this post is about is not about the vain, self-pitying drunks but about my own chasm of sadness.  Not about the network but about the people in the network.  I could have summed up this entire vile post with four words.

'I miss you guys.'

'Let's meet up soon.'

'Don't forget about me.'

And delete another full post and replace with some enigmatic reference no one would ever get.  Not even you when you look back and wonder what secret meaning you were trying to convey.

From my holiday cottage beside the Abyss.

R.

Night thoughts

Night Call Neil Gaiman wrote that he wrote 'Midnight Tales' when he was staying up late and had no one with whom to talk. I guess this post is about that.

The problem I have is that I think of so many tweets, FB updates, myspace blog posts (Remember them?) and blog posts which I could upload but for one reason or another I don't I guess I want to address that here. If only in some meta-post without mentioning any of the posts I haven't posted up. I have drafted some in my head, articulating some hidden emotion or desire. I have even gone so far as to either draft them on a computer, an email or even write them in the box only to lean on the 'backspace' key like a crutch until the words wash back out to the sea.

Mixed metaphors aside, there are probably some very sensible reasons why these posts never see the light of day. They are incendiary in their revelation. Not the worldwide appeal, just the frank honesty of a drunk or tired mind trying to see with diamond-like clarity. I don't have a devil on my shoulder for this, I have a tiny Spider Jerusalem telling me to shotgun shell truth down people's throats so hard they end up sitting on a bed of verisimilitudant flowers, fed by lush satiric manure.

More rambling mixed metaphors. The longer I type, the less I want to post this.

Anyway. The temptation to flood my feeds with whatever I wash out from my mind and disguising it as 'content' for channel Ram (or those on the Continent CanaleRamlos) is always there. So what holds me back? The interests of maintaining a future decorum about my person and my presence (either in person or online) does. If I bring the deluge of my half-formed thoughts to the world they will simply mix in with the rest of the thought foam, no different from anything else.

So I don't post a lot. Not here, not anywhere unless it meets my standard.

Or unless I am drunk. Or tired like I am now and gripped in a late-night writers frenzy we get. That being said, I am going to make more of an effort to produce decent 'content' for here and elsewhere.

You have been spared my hyperbolic rantings for too long internet.

Expect truthing pains. R.