Wolves With Guns

I have waited for you day and night

You find a way to creep around my sight

You fill the outer edges of my retina

Is it a dark ring or is it full of light?

I can't tell between what's wrong or right

Leave me in trouble now, I will be alright

I am waiting for the wolves to yell

to take the prisoner's will with my own might,

I am waiting for the wolves to yell

To kill the queen and have a story to tell

Broken windows, just to get to you

I am running, I am hiding from the truth

You won't touch me, you won't kiss me anymore

Who is gonna love me when I'm lying dead on the floor?

I am only one of many queens

Behind every throne is a treachery

I am only one of many kinds

Of foolish lovers that will steal and taint your mind

When in the dark, there is no shame

Another hope lost with every story gained

When losing sparks, no one's to blame

Another love lost with every story gained

The others think I'm crazy, they think I'm having fun

They don't see past the fire, that I'm not the only one

I sold myself to freedom, and now I'm done

No one is gonna love me with my head stuck to my gun

i don't want to be in love, i wan't to be in sadness

i don't want to be in love
i want to be in sadness
an only space that has no place
surrounded by my madness

how will you feel when i touch?
my weary eyes that stole your badness
let me discover you, sullen boy
so that i may hide in you my crassness

not the brilliance of a thousand slivers

not the brilliance of a thousand slivers
of silver and gold
of bright things and bold,
not the last rose
in it's loneliest pose,
with its bittersweet poise,
making its covetous noise
could take my eyes off of you.  

The Discourse of Power & The Fabricated Self

(A short clip of a longer essay by Christina Issa)


Based on the ideas presented by Foucault in his book "Disciplinary Power," it can be argued that our identities are highly fabricated products of an invisible grid of power-relations, which constitutes the mechanism through which disciplinary power operates. In the greater sense, this is the basis for our inescapable arrest to which Kafka so subtly alludes in "The Trial." As our lives and identities are threaded through this lattice of power-relations, we perpetually reinforce ourselves as effects of power. We are systematically bound to a machine, which we ourselves fabricate and inadvertently attach ourselves to. We do this through, among many other things, awareness and ‘self-consciousness." Ergo, ‘The Self’ is a function of disciplinary power and we are just effects of this power. 


How do we break this? We cannot. It is impossible. For as long as the techniques of disciplinary power continue operating through our conscious and even unconscious awareness - through our struggle to assert and re-assert our identities, through our struggle to give meaning and definition to the world, through institutional operations and their assertion of power over the people pressed into the service and ‘improvement’ of the many - no one can avoid the grasp of power, and no one will ever be freed from the grasp of power. In this way ‘The Self’ will never cease being an endless subject of power perpetually being organized, examined, and observed. Moreover, as the individual reacts to these techniques of disciplinary power ‘The Self’ will never own itself and be its own justification; (To Nietzsche's disappointment...) it will only be owned, as a function of another operation. 


Among other things, this reality is why revolution is hopeless. This is why rebellion is just as absurd as the dictatorship in which it seeks to overthrow. As one attempts to reverse the dominant discourse they merely re-establishes another discourse under which he will be bound and existentially contingent. As one redefines, they merely re-subject. The most he can do is hope to have more power than others, so that he may enjoy the power of domination more and experience the effect of subjection less. 


Despite the transference of more power into the individual’s hands, we will always remain caught in the webbing of power-relations. Accordingly, our identity will always remain a figment of our imagination, evading us more and more, escaping us quicker as we tighten our grasp on it. Identity is hugely fabricated in this way, and exists as just an afterthought; in the present we remain to be effects of power.

when neurons are fleeting, Neruda never fails me.

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

coin-slot eyes

Coin-slot eyes steal glances in the still of dawn,
sometimes tender, sometimes bare.
We sleep with windows wide open.
Light falling on freckles and you trace my arms, my neck, my back.
Waking takes eternity, if ever we are not in dreams.
Rolling skin to skin feels brand new every time, like the baby’s first cry at the first chance.
And your baby-face profile can be drawn with charcoals of reds and blue - somehow I forget too much, to say, that I love everything about you.
Waiting for a new moment, or just the same one again. Waiting brings me alive when it’s your thoughts I’m waiting in.
Waiting for the right second to steal looks or smiles.
Saving them for when your far away, many lonely miles.

throbbing loud and hard with fervor

Throbbing loud and hard with fervor
making risky ripples inside
Do we at once, turn and walk away
or stay and take the ride?
A risky endeavor
that cannot be measured
but in leaps and bounds of selfless action
feelings are crisp
like edges of aged leaves
poking through our feet, providing traction
certainly indescribable,
for lack of better or worser words
which seeking for would be as fruitless as the sinners' tree
and as isolating as Kafka's absurd
Writing in colors without definition
in books without binding or edges
filling it with songs absent their rhymes
hanging it off hundred-story ledges
On the tide of tricky desire
burning up gems of blue and gold
bars and flakes and hearts that break
riding as brilliantly as the bejeweled we behold
Swimming steadily in our emotions
through endless lakes, we wail and swallow
loving from belly to thigh, from drunken eye to eye
inciting physical sensations, within we wallow
Grasping the electric while we are able
leaving behind the stable but useless words that restrain
rather we ride the current throbbing cable
since what we are together, is what love is to pain

truth-less reality

For his project in Chandigarh, Le Corbusier asked his head engineer “What is the truth really?” Then he drew two parallel lines, with a wavy line in between. “Truth is like a river,” he said, “it flows continuously, changing course, modifying itself, without ever touching either bank”.

Hafez on Selflessness

A Persian poet once said...

"Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
You owe Me.'

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky"

(Hafez)

soul feels older

soul feels older
while heart feels young
i crave your breath
to fill my lungs

winds push forward
loves sink west
burning in the suns set
feels like our very best

laughing is so easy
when secrets are concealed
between apologies and flattery
only in haste ever revealed

like paper through the wind
truth flows through the wicked lyre
steady paths will light the flame
and words set them on fire

backs turned to light
a hardened steel glow
still we press on with might
lingering only in shadows

big hearts or bust

Why is it that having a big heart is what always gets me into the most trouble?

So counter-intuitive.

Dionysus & Apollo

complex minds rotting with love
how they struggle to stay above
cursing while the world is burning
an eternal agon filled with yearning

deep red ocean - minds run free
in this obscurity both remain to be
driven by the dark roaming around
sometimes lost and sometimes found

and reason seems incongruous with passion
they move violently in a gallant fashion
together afflicted with so much pain
the lover loves to dream in vain

sometimes sex
sometimes fornication
undercover masters of imitation
lovers test their limitation
by somersaults of the imagination

inescapable doubles are
lovers who love to dream
in vain while every kiss
bleeds death the same

Build, Break, Bloom: Some Very Unorganized Thoughts About Architecture

(Written weeks ago)

Contingency itself is the only condition of life and all things in existence pivot around a point of contingency. I am contingent. You are contingent. Life is contingent.

Time and space are the constants under which we manipulate our reality and define things. Our physical environment sits unassumingly as the culprit of Apollonian violence. Quite literally, architecture is the pinnacle of the Apollonian-Dionysian struggle. The violence is unbearable sometimes. Existing within a vacancy of meaning while warped by a Dionysian chaos, this time-space experiment remains defined by mathematical boundaries, points and lines. Mastery of it is elusive in the sense that ‘truths’ are only as figured out as we determine them to be. It is only through formal manipulation that we build upon contingencies and thus assign definition and form.

Architecture, as a formal act of construction, is the wildest form of creative destruction, as well as the most tangible expression of the Apollonian and Dionysian struggle. As you build you are systemically assaulting nature and assigning meaning to the inherently meaningless. In the process of building you are destroying all else. Physically you destroy and create while conceptually you are deconstructing the definition of what it means to be and to dwell at one point in time and space. By virtue of its process, the language of architecture is an attempt to control chaos and grant form to the formless.

stillness

still as you were
watching for moving lights from down below
waiting
exhaling
above our heads leaves hang low
reach up to touch the sky-ceiling
but not too far off the dirt ground
in a state of limbo
incredible peace is found
cradling you like the
w i d e o p e n a i r
wrapping arms around
holding you even after you're not there
feelings still tightly bound
still as you were
i'm still as I was
still as you keep changing
be still just because

all things exist only in passing

All things exist only in passing,
nothing is truly ever-lasting
the impermanence of life
moves with dangerous quickness
always open
shifty swiftness

and as soon as we think that we can control
the thunders from above begin to roar
reminding us that freedom is a folklore
and life is just what we do while we wait for more

every object in space dives into our eyes
moving at an uncontrollable pace
aimlessly through the skies
paints for us the tragedy that we all die trying
waiting, rushing, wishing, pushing
never knowing that while we are living
we are just dying

instead of making life from flames
the fire that rages as we pour out our hearts
we douse with lies to keep it tame
so that we do not fall apart

and withholding our very own swells of breath
we slash throbbing hearts that are the soul
doing so, still burning
to find answers that will make us whole

paper into ashes
dust from coal
the fire lay weeping
at our weary core

time

move too slow
move too quick
as we fall
time will tick

closer to you
further from me
from your eyes
I can see

sometimes how you're
stuck inside
all the time how you
desperately try

still as we float
falling upwards
to pass the time I write
in frozen words

tomorrow is not far
when i can write
in scribbles of motion
waiting just to cross that ocean

The beauty that is Baba.

March 01, 1957.

The day Souhail Khalil Issa was brought into the world. My Baba. My Daddy.

I got my middle name from him. I also got a lot of my good looks from him. My hands-on attitude and wild love for exploration. Digging through the dirt, building and assembling, seeing and fixing, it's all from my Baba. My unassuming curiosity that leads me to try new things, I know it's also from him. My technical mannerisms, and my even more technical mind. In a strange way, even the creativity somehow stems from this man of practicality and simplicity.

With the good always comes some bad, and I certainly get my fair share of imperfection from him. The temper is my Baba. The feisty attitude, that is my Baba. But even those imperfections are what make the good so good. I get from him my ability to let it all go, to move the soul onwards and upwards, towards better things.

That is the beauty that is my Baba.

He's taught me to become infused with all that is meaningful, beautiful, and valuable in the world - to have the courage to know when it has all run it's course and the strength to know how to let it all go.

He is gracious and kind. A man who even if he wanted, wouldn't know how to use the word "no". He would never turn his back on the people he loves and never refuses a single friend. Even a stranger on the side of the road, he will go above and beyond to help. He always greets the world with a smile so big, no matter what he's been through. He is a man with enough heart that if captured and let out to sea, could overflow the oceans from here to India.

My father is an amazing person. A beautiful human being inside and out. He has so much love to give to the world, and like me, he also doesn't always know what to do with that love. It is in his imperfections that he is one of the most incredible people I have ever known. Not only because he is my father, and to whom I owe my life. But he has the ability to live his life with strength and courage, never letting the ups and downs of the external world change how much love he is willing to give back.

greatness of friendship

I would rather have the greatness of your friendship for as long as humanly possible, than the sweetness of a single moment of passion, which I fear would last only as long as emotionally possible.

Sadness

Can we be blessed with sadness?

Sadness, like all other things, is a state of mind. It's a place that we, ourselves, place who we are and who we think we should be, within. It's a place. It's a stage. I might be blessed with sadness only so far as it inspires me to create. Only so far as it moves me to progress as an individual who strives to master her own existence. I can manipulate that which I think is sadness, or those things that I believe to be sadness, but sadness has no inherent goodness or badness, it's just a state of mind that really, in the end, means absolutely nothing at all.

So, no. No Matthew. I am not blessed with sadness. I don't see it in that way, at least. In my own peculiar little world, sadness is the cessation of a struggle; the struggle is for a doomed-happiness, which I will never deny myself. The struggle to be real with myself and to be truthful to who I am. That is what you lose when you wallow and dwell in sadness. Like all other states of mind, sadness is just a human creation, a construct that which we bury our true selves under. Just as easily as I can create it, I can destroy it (realizing that it is slightly more difficult to destroy).

(Thanks to Matt Stangle, for inspiring me and succeeding, yet again, in distracting me from the "real" things I should be doing like studying for class and writing a paper on NAFTA...)

La Caída

Parece que acoba de nos encontramos,
algunos momentos pasado,
y a la misma tiempo
me siento que hemos conocido por mucho tiempo

te dejé atrás
salé en Cercanía

cada segundo que pasa
la distancia crece
es una sensación maduro
inexplicable

cada palabra
demasiado sentido
y a veces palabras no estan bastante

para que quiero significar,
para que quiero dignificar,
los sentimientos
es una pérdida, cuando traducimos
compensamos en exceso para llegar al destino,
usando el gesto
del mano
de la cara
del ojos
miramos
pero entendemos?

todo el tiempo en exceso para llegar a la cresta
y nos caemos como uno maremeto,
caemos en uno maremeto
uno maremeto de gestos


(July 2009, Madrid, Spain. Escribé esto poema cuando estuve en España y conocí alguien muy especial...)

coffee's bitter-sweetness

i loved
i loved
the freshness of you
cold side of my pillow
case, your hands (do tremble)
they touched me
blood pumped
feeble mind raced

illusion of you
death strong i couldn't erase
it, after you'd left
so long ago,
too much space wasted

still skin feels how when you left it, so
brand new

awakened her quiet
feels like she loved you
in seconds not hours
feels like time measured her intimate powers

she fit you, she did
into mine she devoured

your breakdown
your weakness
she's speechless
she's speechless
like
coffee's
bitter-sweetness

danger, us

never has the brimming mind
felt so dangerously inspired

elusive moments sting like wired, thoughts
grow wings atop dead-letter spires

we want to move in leaps and bounds, but
do so cautiously from here to there,
carefully not to expose our care, we satiate
our roaring appetites

andallthewhile
loving your stories,
themed childhood-places,
affirming your heroic glory
like footprints, you leave the past
behind paints and strides
doused in bitter wines
in deconstructed angry lines
hidden dirty appetite, that which
you have covered in streaks of light

going home
slender limbs graze my thigh
a blush i cannot hide,
must resist it so i try

and this will soon fade away
let's not get attached
you say
deepening curiosity is strong, but
do not let me forget
how this is wrong

Oh how I wish to sing
to you,
too much, much love could bring to you
the death of you and I (merely mortals)
into an afterlife

don't you know?
you leave many breaths behind
the moving heavy-passion kind
they cross oceans from your lips
to
my
mind

(for which you need a floating device)

wild looks I catch in your eyes
make it hard
to make-up lies

so

maybe i will trace your youth
and down it with a splash of vermouth
a simple mixed-up drink
or would it be uncouth?

stillness on the fringes instances
carries us for quiet distances
dark colors and places melt with our behaviors
pull the sky over honest smiles, it might save us

to want this with so much eagerness, stuck in
self-effacing bliss

many earnest words we spill
to overcome this will, this
box bleeds red and wheat
leave the sugar, we
don't need that which is sweet

tomorrow you'll wake up in the sky
and eat the ocean with your eyes
like the King, you'll steal the sun
in this world of disappearing fun

today i am Simone
in the shadows of wits my own,
you lived in me,
this day was never known

Language is war.

It is impossible to truly understand what another person is ever saying. Impossible to figure out another's concept or perspective born in their mind. It is impossible because no matter what we do and how we try, the only way for us as humans with cognitive activity, to learn, is through language. Through asking questions and attaching meaning to words (which will invariably be diverse and distinct in different minds), we taint the original meaning of words, of messages, of statements. The only thing that is guaranteed is that we humans will interpret things as we see fit, and in this process we will build and destroy. Language is war. Language is a problem. The question is now, how do we live with language?

Agreement in dialogue is technical. More than anything else it is technical. Agreement comes when my use of a set of terms and my chosen vocabulary reflects and triggers in your mind, the same associations by which you linked your original thought. That original thought you probably expressed using a different set of terms, different adjectives and subjects and verbs. Unique to you. Not until we have exhausted our ways of conversation, not until we find a point where I can say what I want and how I perceive what we are discussing to exist, and when that expression of my perception through careful use of language aligns with the idea in your mind, not until then, have we met agreement. Again, which can only occur when the words I have chosen to use to explain myself, happen to mean either the same or relatively the same things to you, in your mind, as you know and use them. And neither of us will ever know the true discord in existence, that lies between the shadows of our words, since we cannot feel it, since we strive for agreement, for peace. We will never really know how different our thoughts really are because we will always be striving to be in harmony. This duality is deadly but beautiful.

I recognize in this process that language and meaning is also always recycled. Social relation and communicative activity encourages the development of meaning by relying on other meaning. This is not important to me here.

It seems the only way for us humans to overcome this "problem" of language, to ever really see eye-to-eye, to ever truly see one thing from the exact same place in space and time, is to not speak. To not communicate. To not question. To not articulate. It is in translation that words will always lose their meaning, their associations, their histories. As we assign them meaning relative to ourselves, we destroy what they meant to another. As they pass from ones lips to another's ears, they morph into something new. That is why we as the carriers of the meanings of our words, are the ones to blame for the consequences.

True peace is silence. Pure peace is blackness and emptiness. Might as well be dead. If language is conflict, I don't ever want to be peaceful. Bring on the heartache.

Sedmikrásky (1966)

Joan Jonas

Brilliant.

Kahn's Exeter Short Film from Alex Roman on Vimeo.