did i eat

to those who would
feed on me
I ask only
that you feast on
living flesh
there is no taste
among the dead and
dreaming
there before a moonless night
I close my eyes
and walk
burning my
hut to the ground
where is reflection?
where are the ripples that
become children
on a moonless
deathless
dreamless
night?

wolftufts

Recently we visited Hamilton's Pool in Dripping Springs, Texas to each bury a bit of hair from a fallen friend however we saw fit. I buried my share under some rocks at the base of an old tree next to a cool stream. Here are the pictures I took:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/54504506@N06/sets/72157624972506959/

tootootoot

the only kind of
death I ever understood
in a primal blues hound sort of way
in a musky psychedelic grace sort of way
is a blameless eternal hunger
pressing into the backs
of the youth
gently
as they face the fires that
hold up the only moon
beyond the cat's quiet night
a bearded wisdom of cold empty space
a house held in the chest
as ash mixes with dirt

these children who animate
themselves with bright black feathers
they see themselves as werewolves
not the phosphorescent machines
their parents saw
glowing behind dreaming tubes
all hung up on bones
no
the thought presses into their backs
gently

Tales from the kitchen of Thailand’s most gruesome baker

Artist Kittiwat Unarrom bakes bread in the shape of bloody body parts to portray his religious beliefs, and they taste really good too.

Article here: http://www.cnngo.com/bangkok/play/tales-kitchen-thailands-goriest-baker-510619

Death and food are, after all, intimately related.

a sad clown riseth

i woke early
to dress as a mountain
with Parsifal's grinning vaporous
skull as my cap
walking only in valleys
my stillness dancing on magician's
purple shadows breathing
puffing chaos pipes with
flower maidens behind rocks shaped
like kings of another world
a world vivid as dirt

oh what a feast of fools
unconscious and magnetic
chewing to a brilliant pulp
those who forgot how to
love their own death
to laugh and riverrun
toward the snuff of holy discord
sun and moon sinking into travel
staining void with clarity
breathing in a man
in circles that protect
dragonflies in a rippling
textured magick whole

i wake early
before bristling housecats lose
interest in their
own gnostic poetry
i wake to power in
lakes' sunken depths
where life and death are one
dressing for the day
affixing wings of earth
a skull of clay

Carl Jung's Life/Death Parabola

Carl Jung:

"Life is an energy process. Like every energy-process, it is in principle irreversible and is therefore directed towards a goal. That goal is a state of rest. [...] The end of every process is its goal.

"With the attainment of maturity and at the zenith of biological existence, life's drive towards a goal in no wise halts. With the same intensity and irresistibility with which it strove upward before middle age, life now descends; for the goal no longer lies on the summit, but in the valley where the ascent began. The curve of life is like the parabola of a projectile which, disturbed from its initial state of rest, rises and then returns to a state of repose.

"The psychological curve of life, however, refuses to conform to this law of nature. Sometimes the lack of accord begins early in the ascent. The projectile ascends biologically, but psychologically it lags behind. [...] Our psychology then loses its natural basis. Consciousness stays up in the air, while the curve of the parabola sinks downward with ever-increasing speed.

"Natural life is the nourishing soil of the soul. Anyone who fails to go along with life remains suspended, stiff and rigid in midair. [...] From the middle of life onward, only he remains vitally alive who is ready to die with life. For in the secret hour of life's midday the parabola is reversed, death is born. The second half of life does not signify ascent, unfolding, increase, exuberance, but death, since the end is its goal. The negation of life's fulfilment is synonymous with the refusal to accept its ending. Both mean not wanting to live, and not wanting to live is identical with not wanting to die. Waxing and waning make one curve.

[...]

"Like a projectile flying to its goal, life ends in death. Even its ascent and its zenith are only steps and means to this goal."

Carl Jung, "The Soul and Death", pp. 405-408, from Volume 8 of the Collected Works of C.G. Jung: The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche

It will be okay.

Lucidity ov Ebert

Roger Ebert refuses further surgery if his cancer comes back. He has this to say in his journal:

I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. What I am grateful for is the gift of intelligence, and for life, love, wonder, and laughter. You can't say it wasn't interesting. My lifetime's memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris.