The Smile of the Unvanquished

change is but like the moulting of the snake's skin the core, the elusive blueprint of being, remains intact, patterns and adornments grow or wither, though in the end, what ever was, swims in the ocean of infinity.

slow is the road to wisdom, never bowing for the tyrant time; but should his stark might, crush this body of purpose and volition, and ban it from the face of the earth, then in a swarm of ashes nestling in dew, as tears from the sun, by thirsty tongues tasted, it'll seed many daughters where want is profuse and agony scalds.

Often we delude ourselves as being lost While it requires only a simple nod of the head, To gaze upon the nightly sky And between the silent but festive starry scintillisation To discover Polaris - the North Star -- A model of intransigence and equanimity, An anchor of virtous composure That forces the bacchanale of volatile clamour to shameful surrender And greets the cold smothering hell With its invincible smile.

I often slam my eyes into a direction where's nothing special to look at. A gaze fixed at so many make-believe worlds slain.

Disruptive agents of the blue funk headbanging around the clock in a slurring loop-line; a mood piloting through hyperventilations while stranded peacefully ashore when it would have drown in waters during low tides, yet strangely with no great expectations nor damage passing across untamed frothing waters. Camouflaged are the hatred and apathy, a mouth smiles triumphantly. The eyes look sad and glimmering in a pool of tears unshed, salt and dirt rippling the skin to cover it under a layer of premature aging; the laugh sculpted on the face of people in their hour of death is the foresight of the bare skull yawned in its awe-struck retardism. Sliding in a heavy-wielded pace, wetting the pants while composed and spine erect walking tall, trespassing the surrounding messy indignations uncalled for. Suffering the flock of fools addressing to him off-stage; a centerpiece in a gush of unrest. "Deliver us!", they cry unruly. The freelance confessor indulges in a spr...

As an arrow targets life, a tree brings shelter and yields fruits, so may these two hearts steer valiantly across the troubled waters of Fate, fixed as Polaris, eyes clapped on perennial havens, ashore, and on the far side of eld.

In the ablutionary light of a hiemal Eve, treading over the tapering path of ash and soot, knees buckled, skin splotched and eyes chinked, his shadow is the gun-metal-grey serenity of a fey yonder arced above dormant ivory beaches. His soul is ink and it mutes chapters on the endurance of a cursed legacy and bedevilment pelting the heart into a tomb of disgrace, drown in burning poison; that ink feeds his blood, races his life pump to move on, never surrender, to foil the mirage of mourning with the shield of patience and the dagger of wit.

Seize the day, and you got a captive on your hands. Comes what may, and you may have to run from a mudslide. Organize, schedule and set goals for your day, and there's your life squeezed into a straightjacket. Moral of the story: days are out to put you in shackles, avoid them wholesale!

There is a perplexingly apt authoress out there on Blogger and she happens to be my fiance and this post merely serves to pinpoint all of you to her blog where she publishes her short tales written over the course of years on numerous blogs and forums. She published also poetry in heathen publications. She has a coy but determined nature, and a kind and observant eye for the humble little forgotten children of this earth, in human and animal, or supernatural form. http://highlandtales.blogspot.com/ In her stories one recognizes something of a quiet heroism, the bare flesh exposed to the world's blight but enduring it nonetheless without remorse nor tainted by the temptation of cowardice,though always bandaged in a veil of melancholy and sadness,while characters and plot glint as a hazy sun in the crisp cool air when time is still in doubt to transcend from Winter to Spring... The denouement never fully tumbles into a dark abysmal pit in which the victim is helplessly digest...

An article from the New York Times about how science traps itself into the same corner as religious faith by looking for an external, non-empirical and reasonless agent or laws to explain the universe as it is: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/24/opinion/24davies.html Until science comes up with a testable theory of the laws of the universe, its claim to be free of faith is manifestly bogus. It is just as well possible that orthodox science and faith will eventually be superceded by metaphysics which explores and determines what goes beyond matter, energy, time and space, beyond the observable and all things calculable, but neither needs religious contraptions and ethical tenets to explain the being qua being that such a view would be meaningless as they can't be tested out, gives too much credence that an experiment could such a statement to be fallible or statistically correct, as life is immensely complex and consist of agencies and factors which go beyond our control anywa...

there's a fine haze webbed over the air and growing thinner over the hours, the pendant of my quiet bland spirit. left to consider the market place of options and availbility but contemptious for any devil-may-care allowance and in consistent doubts foreshadowing the outcome of my decisions, i turn myself from mirth and purposefulness, and seek only a reward in a rich harvest, but i haven't start sowing yet. my coffee tastes bitter, not so much as the briny scented red gorge which evaded me in all these sullen years of false promises and empty hypostases, and which my body periodically yearns for. it's one of those jaded, latently tension-filled days, omen-like whirling afloat on a river of irreverence, lucky-bummed avoiding the belt of stony traffic wardens rising from the water, sighing deep in relief that you made it through - crash-proof - til you tumble into a foamy cascade, break down below a pink, yell some expletive and stupidly swallow so much wa...

In the landscape of life lingers always a disquieting whiff of melancholy, and it won't even abate in conditions approaching loosely remembered Elysium. A hidden desire pining for life-more-than-life, a vine of recalcitrant fever rooted in the soul of man,the agent of his contention, that recognizes this world as the conditional and relative, mere the reflection on a mirror, the diminutive shadow to the plentiful of the sun... The child slides from the dark of the womb to the out-of-the-maternal-body's light, through death we move on from the realm of transitoriness to the realm where withering and the blight are forgone in the denial of their echo. We ascend to stars, name Sun and North Star our parents, and in agreement to their nature, we pour solace, hope and protecting affection to whom stays behind til their hour of the sleep chimes. We lift their shades and in our guidance they walk up the palisade through which they shred fear of the volatile tempers of the Demi...

bashful, high-bred animals, these hinds. braving snow and rough terrain alike, sired with a grace interlaced with filigree strength and robust beauty their eyes lock the here and now, iced with the blindness that infinity unfolds their nose pry for menace and green manna nimble legs spirt towards the briar patch, beyond the hill they fill the ranks of lonely statues their brothers, boulders and deadwood.

How does a fanatic express his pietism? By a blood-letting sacrifice. First he spills his blood by an act of transgression that desintegrates his shallow existence, then he bolsters his insensitivity to the hurt of his victims drowning in the pool of their own blood... http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/210021/Muslims-cut-bodies-for-faith Islamic fanatics are mutilating themselves at a British mosque in a bloody ceremony carried out only yards from a busy high street. Shia Muslims use a five-bladed chain called a Zanjeer to whip their own backs and make cuts in their foreheads with razor blades in homage to their faith. Bare-chested men were left bleeding heavily during the ritual known as Matam – self-flagellation – which a witness described as being “like a scene from a horror film”. They may practice in their eyes ascetism, though there are other roads of ascetism to take, without loud demonstrative and violent excess, which feels like a carnaval of pleasures reversed in ...

recalling the man he was now whimpering in a den at the farthest borders of his consciousness an apparition in a vast desolate plain, sleazy like a dustdevil pinning a mistletoe that haggard face forms a gravelled oasis, fertile of turmoiled misemploy black hounds cruise around their ire, dissatisfaction growled in breathless soundbites each step puffs out lachrymose scraps, him outliving premature headstones abandoned by companion stars and spectral votives, dead of night frocks the patriot of adamance pain shared was but the disembowelment of his ghastly virtues.

Unemployed workers will be barred from claiming benefits for up to three years if they repeatedly refuse job offers under radical plans to reform the welfare system, shouts the headline in The Telegraph: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/conservative/8124769/Benefits-shake-up-work-shy-to-lose-benefits-for-three-years.html So Dave, tell us please what about all the smallholders and small trades that in the recession has gone bust and others that hover just above the bread line, Mister Prime Minister. And we hear all about cuts, but what about creating jobs in the first place? Or at least create an economical climate to help out people start new businesses, including the farming trade. Lots of young family are hankering to start farming, but all kind of regulations and the problem of finding a decent croft house are impeded, the latter because such houses are prefered to be let out to tourists who spend a week or two in the country while in the rest of the year those...

Friendship("filia") as envisioned by Epicurus is the antithesis of passion or eros, which erodes the autarky of the individual and wreaks havoc in his serenity of mind and soul, the ataraxia that god-like quality of ultime happiness that makes him disinvolved of the meandering tides of luck and disintegration, success and defeat, praise and scorn... Ataraxia is creating a private cosmic felicity, acknowledging that nothing endures the test of time, everything fill fall apart but also that joy and happiness tempered and shaped by reason is a natural disposition of self-preservation and an act corresponding to the highness, immutuable and unperturbated existence of the gods that merits our respect and as examples should lead our life. Friendship, unlike passion, is a safe haven for our affectionate nature, it delivers unity, solidarity and harmony among people and individuals, between men and women. Passion is in essence a form of discord, unsettling and might be haunting...

A celebration of multiculturalism in Britain... Puke material. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EO46cLABl1c&feature=share Everytime a Brit rambles about their finest hour in the last great war, thye should take a look at this video and meditate a little while and decide whether they leave it by that or do something about it. The past which is here in Britain omnipresent in the media and the minds of people has become a morass where they sink in with pride but which sticks them to in immobilism, while wallowing in nostalgic sentiments, in stead of draining the marshes and build something new, a perspective and determination to overturn the decadence and reclaim their own nation. With sweat, tears and blood, if needed, as they did in the war. This wiggerism is quite a detour from the first generations of Blacks entering Britain, who either with a snouldering grudge that still bore that magmanious respect of the days of chivalry for a worthy opponent or imbued with respect and adm...

In the cacophany of verbage, ready-made fonts and decontextualized quotes salvaged from the wrecks of cultures that crashes against the cliffs of jadedness, there have always come one a soul that took umbrage at those ghosts of thoughts and decides to walk alone in empty streets while the rain pelts heavy on the grey and rubbish-stubbed pavement and dares to look up to the gun-metallic grim sky that screets and howls but for the consequence of its own nature... and realizing one is oneself and the others themselves, a smile of the unvanquished is raised and all sense is bedded in a sudden enlightment that dispels the blue funk hammering the inside of the cranium with loose inquietude...

The wind howls infernally cold in the night its voice hollow and crooked spats the cries of decomposing souls lost in the maze of the past. The living must take their chance, out of the funnel, forcefully, or friable soil under their steps will drag them into the pinning echo of yestertime's horrors, when courage and patience slip. Reduced to slaves once man risks to be no more than troughs for hellspawn while acerbic defiance makes us but eat crow and in illusive hurt lies only the consecration of glorified redundancy.

Some reconstructed quotes by the British monk Pelagius defending man's freedom of will and the place of God in it: http://www.seanmultimedia.com/Pie_Pelagius_Defense_Of_The_Freedom_Of_The_Will.html Replace his Biblical God by the Ultimate Reality, the Logos, the Buddha, Tao, etc and it still make sense and be acceptable. I wonder where we stood today if Pelagianism or Celtic Christianity had prevailed in stead of the teaching of Augustine, which had Middle Eastern dualism and austerity sneak into European culture. For instance, our notion of death and dying would have been so different. Goethe's Stirb, Und Werde (Die and Become) would root out the fright and taboo that surrounds death and in stead, regarded it as a natural process to become more than life bounded by its rules and limitations, yet having them used to a type of existential upbreeding. If one would apply the Indo-european tripartite as context, the Father (Sky, Ultimate Reality, That-Which-Is) quickens us in the w...

'How did I come into this', he told himself in thoughts, munching on a buttered ham sandwich, matter-of-factly, with the air of a man who has seen it all and came to accept the vicissitudes of life, still somewhat grudgingly. Suddenly, unaware that his moody rethoric question would turn out to be an adumbration of his forthcoming brewing imagination,this lama guy materializes close to him, floating saintly above the floor, all rugose leathery skin, all the bearings of sanctity, and all Eastasian insular smugness that comes with those ruddy chaps. It was one of those reincarnistas , who play with words: dharma, karma but sadly no shoarma to salivitate his appetite running asunder. The lama secreted bliss and smiled patronizing. No less like a magician holding all cards and conning the crowd to believe in his tricks. His speech was sheer catechismus,repeated over time til his voice, now shrill and trembling, buckling under all that panache, could no longer mask that his enl...

Loneliness... So often we complain in our daily contacts, in literature or as a form of social criticism, about loneliness, but how spurious and pale it compares to the loneliness only known to the dying before his consciousness is stolen and he surrenders to the night-without-end. The senses extinguish each after the other, reportedly the auditory one last to leave. By then, the consciousness probably has long since burned out. And before this falls to him? Sinking into a dream state, pennants of hallucinations lancing into the shuddering mind or the same mind drifting into an alertness clear as a mountain brook whereas all sensations start to become cloudy, nesting in a large empty hall while fading away like tenuous air that flows in the highest strata of the atmosphere kissing the void of outer space. Or maybe it is not different to a radio, playing music, then suddenly a hand turns the radio off, weaving threads of silence that dance to the drumbeats of loss while eyes veiled cast...

Live frugal in demanding times, but do it always in style.

On meadows and men Only when consciousness and volition interact with matter, the seeds can germinate and warrant that the fields grow hefty in flowers... there are in meadows many flowers and their colours and shapes come manifold, but there are from the same soil and bonded together for time immeasurable, introduce a new variety, all alien to the nature of the local species and environment and while some may disappear, some are hardy but will be few but another might take over, imperious, and all that was full of charm and life may grow in a monocultural devastation... Of course, man tends to break down barriers and resist the pressures put upon him, but why should one go to be in someone else's place, and shift the priorities in that household to oneself? What's the benefit, what's the scope... simply because it can happen, doesn't make it right nor should it be accepted but dealt with... Deem they us so poor that we need enrichment? And if introspection helps the in...

Some sceneries have no reference in time, nor are they exactly bounded by coordinates in space. They could be considered an entity on its own, perhaps even to some degree sentient, born from the waves of musings and the song of birds, consort to a supreme chrystaline SILENCE, and whose name is sculpted in stirring awe: BEAUTY. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TInni-4oCe0