Saturday, June 12, 2004

Hindutism

Hindutism is the ultimate art, the highest form of human expression. It is an experience which enables the mind to go beyond the physical senses; becomes eternal in the ocean of knowledge. The art of uniting the souls does not require practice, instead knowledge: understanding the souls to be able to quench its thirst which is infinite; to know pleasure beyond tissues and muscles; to bare the mind of thought and lay the naked soul yearning to be exploited. Hindutism is not the art of sexual intercourse: unlike the Kama Sutra; it is a culture of sexuality and awareness. Defining an idea of such enormity, that of Hindutism, can be made easier by constricting its totality with the ideas that envelop its dimensions; by first understanding the definitions of what it is not, just before it becomes what it is. The following are the Gates of Hindutism: theories that are just beyond the borders of its realm. These theories are models of sexual behavior, faith, and reality.

The Glorious Fuck has only one intended purpose - to relieve urgency; of the hormones through physical torture until it submits (becomes dormant, until it erupts again). Coition here is deliberate: a mere slapping of two pelvises screaming for release and so lacking in expression (or sincerity) since the only purpose of the exercise is to be rid of the agonizing lust. It is abrupt and foreplay – either completely skipped or executed in haste, causing the ripping of clothes and lost underwear. It is a brush of fate - it should be exercised right on the spot or it never happens at all. It is so fragile, that the smallest amount of idea interjecting the thought can kill it – posthumously, since ideas bear more thought and much more ideas. It is a real accident which is in fact a sincere act of volition: it always is, never meant to happen but, more than that; it is always hoped to happen. The concise intent makes the whole procedure clinical. With a partner, it is economical and efficient: it is a synchronized exchange of services which benefit all parties, but without any promised delivery or satisfaction. The experience itself is completely forgettable because the sensation is insignificant and abstracted among memories of roller coaster rides and bicycle accidents. Regarded as a novelty, the event is only memorized due to the circumstance with which it occurred: “we fucked on the kitchen table”; “I fucked the 3rd floor receptionist”; “I noticed that the ceiling was leaking”. The event can be epileptic; embarrassing or self-deprecating (as the urgency to bathe afterwards or vowed to be kept secret); or therapeutic like a workout in the gym or a breath of fresh air. The nature of the Fuck is not defined by its calisthenics, but of the crisp purpose which it shrewdly serves. The Glorious Fuck can be as simple as masturbation, or sophisticated as a threesome, but in any form it is gloriously gratifying and brings to attention the genius of sex, which is: there will always be more of it while it is shared.

Institutionalized Sex (IS) is no different from the process of taking out the garbage or washing the dishes. It’s a chore that may come with some formulation - in most cases developed from practice or that which diminuated from the lack of intuition. It is a religious practice whose rituals are applied to create effects which are only perceived but not actually experienced as intended. It is a drama performed; in most cases, as a celebration of tenderness, in as much as anniversaries and birthdays have to be recounted, not for the need to be joyful, but for the expectation. The whole operation, including the foreplay which is assumed more like an introduction; has been designed, tested and proven by an institution and has the usual characteristic which is: thematic, comprehensive, sequenced and finite.
Unlike the Glorious Fuck, which terminates itself, Institutionalized Sex must be provided with a resolution: orgasm by one or many; and of behaviors resulting from post-coital-lassitude (smoking, eating, performance assessment, discussing budgets and weather) for the activity to be complete. Though the exercise shows naturalness, the application does not intentionally address the need for any fulfillment, instead pre-supposes it; all actions and their respective response, even in absence, are scrutinized by the performers and in totality, determines the significance of the ritual - as the ritual itself is a signification of a pre-defined purpose. The need to have this kind of sex results from the need for a gauge which can assess: fitness, potency, empathy or even love; hence the reason for its regularity such as of a maintenance devise. For instance: an insecure partner requiring affirmation, would gauge affection and reiterates the same question through a monotonous sexual pattern; the performance of oral-sex, which could symbolize a sacrificial love: for the sake of the drama, a self-deprecation. The Acts of this sex is very giving; not physically selfish like a Glorious Fuck, but the Plot is not: as the provider’s means is only performed to seek information or create an impression, to be able to act accordingly on the results for a greater objective.

Friday, June 11, 2004

The Night, the Moon and the Mountain

(6-22-1997)

It was a night filled with stars that seemed to glow than shine,
peering through the clouds that bring the mist after the rain.
The cool breeze, with its soft soothing scent, brushes the deep green
foliage of the nearby hills. In its softest light, the moon reveals the
heaven’s purplish hue and it’s long before dusk. The clouds glide
through the sky creating an arousing sense of space.
I stare at them and begin to float deep or high, among them, unaware
that my skin is being brushed by her lips.

The Mountain, standing majestic with just enough light to show her
figure; blending, fading away at the foot while her breasts
reach for the stars as the clouds caress her velvet silhouette and I
wonder if she’s awake. In this darkness, all I hear is the silence of the
bow after it hums a note while my soul is afloat and my back is on the grass.

I’m still jaded from the love we’ve just made, perhaps too weary to
hallucinate. It’s still Maureen I’m hearing. The breeze is whispering
her desires; panting, gasping, the heavy breaths of her exhiliration –
lost and drowning in the deep pleasures I once gave her this very
same drizzly night; but it has always been somebody else
for the past four years tonight.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

A Perfect Day

(12 - 22 - 2001 4 - 1 - 2004)

It's almost quarter to five in the afternoon - the sun glooms over the horizon.

I'm looking out through the relatively dim veranda. Framing my view like watching a silver screen, a pair of sliding capiz doors underneath satin curtains. The waxed wooden floor slabs mirrors the retreating light glowing from the clouds. A dazzling tangerine brushing through the distant purple hills. The horizon is a blaze of fire cutting through the deepening blue of the ocean and sky.

The tide is just calming down after its noontime rage. Everything seems to be waning after the days exuberation but the water's final act - from the distance, countless sparks are rushing to the shore. Bogs, the dog, seems to be having a hard time chasing them away while the rest of the family frolicks on the graying sand constantly caressed by the sea.

I've finally finished my perfect chair. Instead of making precise measurements of my ass, I found that comfort can only be made by allowing for everything to change. I've never sat so comfortably in my life until today on this chair that i've built myself. As if my back was one with the universe behind it - and I am only my two seeing eyes.

I lit up a cigarette just as i noticed a faint music playing behind my ear. The soft airy voice is almost lulling me to sleep while the percussions perking me up into a light samba. I try to figure out why there is so much passion in the silence within the song while solace in its cries. In my youth, I tried to capture the simplicity of a calm refrain - the essence of a well crafted music, and always found myself looking at incomprehensible measures of infinity. The lover's whisper, is then, also just a distant battlecry.

I retreat from my thoughts with a great reward. My whole life can be capped such that everything begun and ended with a cup of coffee. Although my wife knows perfectly well how to make my coffee, this time she made it exceptionally. I lay down my cigarette on the ashtray in exchange for my cup of coffee. As i drew the cup nearer to my mouth, the aroma fills my nostrils - a warm and woody scent. The warm liquid slides inside me as the gentle breeze brushes from my toes to my hands and then my face. The air is warm and humid but not enough to sweat and the whispering breeze is like soothing mint slowly seeping through my body. Just before I shiver, I felt a different warmth behind me.

Laying down my cup, I felt the warmth on my right shoulder - sliding towards my neck, crawling to my ear.
Just before her hand covered my cheeck, she sat on the armchair and leaned her breast to my side.
She smells so gentle, the scent of butterflies fluttering through the air. Warmer still contrasting with the cool breeze . I felt my left ear awaken like it was coming to life, feeling for the first time. Nothing is as soft as her lips breathing warmth on my cold skin. She placed her hand over mine as I began to close my eyes. Slowly as the dimming night, I try to catch the last light. A bird has found the last fruits of the day and flutters back home with a song. Without motion, I felt her fingers start to slide away but my hands are already weak - unable to hold on. Instead, I feel with all my feelings as I slowly drift away, all the life that's left in me collected slowly to the tip of my fingers, meekly pressing while my skin brushing out of grip - and at last tip to tip. With a gust from the night, the last warmth that I felt faded away into the cold silence of inexistence.



Cry of Achilleus

(5 - 12 - 2004)

How do you shut up the echoes from the walls,
bouncing infinitesimally in the rooms of your head?
Nagging, slapping, spitting, relentlessly mocking,
a haunting from my infinite past.
Even these chains are able to crawl up to my hair
while pulled down into my bleeding throat.
It’s not the pain with which I suffer,
but the suffused yearning for demise I have eternally been deprived.
I am bereft of death, its satisfaction and absolute freedom.

This ‘waking up in springtime’ is utterly insignificant
for the hundred twenty thousandth time.
While my spirit is reduced into a dreamless state,
to spare me from the unseen nightmare of reality,
it is my soul that has befallen grace.
My admonition to life’s bitterness
is to redeem its author with the absence of a subject.
Change - the author of the universe,
dreams are of the soul,
and my life began when these two fucked up.

Saturday, May 15, 2004

Time Travels

(6 - 28 - 2003)

I recall the moments in my life hanging around the high school building with friends on a Sunday afternoon. I try to put myself in that memory and relive the exact state I was eleven years ago. Those were the times I groaned in boredom and just curse the day away whenever I had the chance. I'd have just enough money to pay fare to get there and a few sticks of cigarette and I never saved for the trip back home. We start to show up one by one, we didn't talk about meeting there and nobody asks what about. Each of us cheered like a war hero coming home, as the pack grows more and more hoping that more will come. We just spend the day as it happens and nobody bothers to ask about tomorrow. We start little by little, to talk about the day before and then complain that this one's not better. Every Sunday back in those days, I used to think, was the most boring day I ever had and we had to brainstorm what to do next. Now I reckon, what we tried to do was to make the most of the day so we'll have something nice to talk about next week. Little did we know that what we have done was to change the past in the future looking back. In a way, we have cheated the laws of time. Those were the best days of my life.

A Beautiful Woman

(2 - 4 - 2003)

You don't look at a beautiful woman but you will surely see her
dressed up in nothing but her worned down ancient principles.
You won't hear her voice; you listen when she speaks.
Her presence does not burst in fragrance;
it is when she's gone that her pleasance lingers.
You will love everything about her
but she will love for no reason at all.