On Competence

The next few posts shall be from my portfolio (“Something At My Door”) is included in the list of posts.  

5/14/2017                                             Damp Paint Untouched

 

I’ve thrown myself into an

abyss. Unknown artwork

are hung, detailed. This piece

shows a man painted in the

shadows of the sunlight. His eyes

gaze with a distraught look

on his face and as he looks up as he

decides whether he should

hurl himself over right out

of the picture frame. The colors are

blended dark and gloomy.

There is still the statue of that

still man on the street corner of the

road adjacent to the park. The

stone road can be seen as strokes

of the narrow brush are

so vivid. His mind wonders if we

live in the: “best of all possible

worlds”. I wonder if those in the

picture can hear the faint

music which is the muse. A Bach

Overture plays and I wonder if

The Old Guitarist can hear Bach.

Does Bach bring a teardrop

to your eye?

Amongst only the

slightest of all other

musicians dine. He has

said nothing and yet only needs to

speak with his eyes. The boy leads

the horse as the weeping woman

will worry when wine will

wake wide walls with

white words we wave waves

without meaning Willows bloom

and blossom.    

Only the weak do not worry

and the weak never try

to ask “Why?” and

“How?” Oftentimes the people expect

the words to rhyme; too often

Cliches so seldom lay, dormant. My

eyes are still set on

the desolate museum halls. I

couldn’t help but notice

there were no longer as many

people as there once were. Perhaps

my stories were more torture for

the people to endure. I only stated facts.

Dare I peer at the beach to

watch the waves crash

again? Dare I peer into the

blackness of space? Time

tells tales and the Sun comes

and goes. Trying to tick,

tales tangle. Time

ticks, together tired tricks

trickle. I can hear the trickle

of the water. Time gets

echoed and I can hear

that ancient epic instruct me:

“Find the copper tablet

box, open the... of its

lock of bronze, undo

the fastening of its

secret opening. Take

and read out from the

lapis lazuli tablet

how Gilgamesh went

through every hardship.”¹        

There exist a more precious

treasure than I could

ever discover buried

beneath a sandy beach. A treasure greater

than the yellowish metals buried

in the soil. What is so precious? What

but generic silence remains?

“It is now some years

since I detected how

many were the false beliefs that

I had from my earliest youth

admitted as true, and how

doubtful was everything

I had since constructed

on this basis; and

from that time I was convinced

that I must once

for all seriously

undertake to rid myself

of all the opinions which

I had formerly accepted, and

commence to build anew from the

foundation, if I wanted to

establish any firm and permanent

structure in the sciences.” ²

Yet I am aware of the history which has

been the bedrock for my brush. He told me

That He had not seen any other road but that of history.

““What is the no-thing?”” 3 such that was asked before.

“dasein”! 4

I feel nothing, as if some

sort of thing wants to

crawl on the short hairs on my

forearm. That gadfly

kept away from me. Because I

did not know what I wanted

I could not appreciate it. It is

perfection untouched.    

Yet I am still still as my eyes

widened and as the rain poured

down, the wind howled. More tears slowly dripped

down my face as my memory cannot be

erased. Down that hill I

now roll; I had climbed

it and I am aware that there is no “eye” in “us”.

    

Yet frozen in time there are so many

memories. At night I was young and eye was

tucked tight in my bed. I did not want to die yet

I didn’t know my true desire.

“Because I could not stop for Death –

   He kindly stopped for me –

  The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

  And Immortality.” ⁵

Today we have forgotten facts forged,

failed, frankly for falling feet fleet flee

for feelings. Fierce, frightening fire

flames fret filling for free. Feathers

Fail, famed freaks fly, forever.  However

arbitrary words seem, they

are soon forgotten. After all

they are not real. Memories

fade like a canvas washed; society has

been washed of all value. “Perfection” has no more

meaning.

Back to nature

I can read the

mind of the man

in that painting.

I’ve been staring at

this picture, yet it

has not shouted

one word back.

He was drawn with jaded edges, just

like the world he lives in.

He still thinks colorful thoughts. He is

sad, He has seen the dissent

from the natural world; we have only

spiralled. The irony hurts him

He can only watch. The dark colors are mixed and we

can see the strokes from

The brush, meticulous detail was not

attended to and time

was not put into Detail.

Yet He would inhale under the

veil there was a rail and no bail for

nothing was for sale.

Of the most quant He

still wishes the water would

wash his pains. “Das Man”! 6   

As the man paced up and down in

his mind, to and fro I saw the

gilmour in his wretched eye.

That gilmour was one of hope I hope.  

“he slaved hours upon hours standing

and painting” He said as the clock stops

ticking I lookout to the sea of

possibilities. Reality has yet to be

understood. With a glimpse of the

future near; I can still see the perfection

which has yet to be reached. Yet abstract

thought thinks thoughts of

a continuous stream of uneventful

events, unseen.

Unsurpassed winters because

the era of Communism is before

us. “There was some reaction

to Marx” He said. I

replied by explaining

that the death of a

cynic’s view might free

our modern point of no

return. “What else lies

hidden and unexplained?”

I had an eager look on my face

as I asked, so keenly aware.

Even He could see that the

external world lacked anything

worthwhile. Yet there was no

doubt those Captains of industries ruled

the world. He told me that

the contamination had

gone too far. He said, “I refuse

To stare at that scar from

afar. You are all being robbed.”

So lost I was now, I had not

even took the time to

look. Harmony has

been lost and I can see some

sort of frost. People are long

and forgotten but like a

painter sets the Sun I’m afraid

The final notes have been sung.

Literary References II

1 Kovacs, G. M. (1998). The epic of Gilgamesh. Wolf Carnahan.

2 Descartes, R. (1641). Meditations On First Philosophy

3 Heidegger, M. (1929). What Is Metaphysics?, Translated by by Thomas Sheehan.

4 Heidegger, M. (1962). Being and Time, Translated by John Macquarrie & Edward Robinson.

London: S.C.M. Press.

5  Dickinson, Emily (1890). Because I could not stop for Death

6 Heidegger, M. (1962). Being and Time, Translated by John Macquarrie & Edward Robinson.

London:  S.C.M. Press.