On the meaning of friendship

In slight disagreement with the much-circulated definitions, I think that it is a mistake to see true friendship as the occasion where – in the presence of another person – “one can be oneself”. In my opinion, such an account mischaracterises the realities of self and being because nothing, be it person or thing, is ever really stable enough to know who or what they are, as if they were a single unit resistant to change, spontaneity and the general chaos of difference. Instead, I prefer to see friendship in its strongest sense as marked by a time and space, shared between two or more people, in which one is allowed to be no-one because, there, one is not obliged to be some-one. Basically, where and when the all-consuming stress of self-stabilisation – which preoccupies most social relations – is relieved rather than resumed in the presence of another person, the self has found a friend in that person, indeed.

In a world where most social relations demand specific identities at specific times and castigate deviations from those, surely the greatest social relation, friendship of the highest type, must be the doing away of such demands, the clearing away of the need to be someone or something distinct. It is not so much that each person has one true identity which is constantly being suffocated by all the social roles that have to be performed, but that, in reality, a person is just a cacophonous mess of different, all in all uncategorisable, people, sporadically, spontaneously spurting from the same body, and friendship becomes the vital opening of a gap within the quasi-oppressive social whole, not so that the one true self can be whatever it thinks it should be (which more or less sounds like yet another imposition of the same oppressive whole), but actually so that this complicated body of self can finally, freely sing out of all tune and trust the audience to dance, in the special harmony that comes from shared atonality.

21 twenty times already and something even more eternal before that

and the distance-catchers. (who are they?)

 

A triangle as tall

as the rain has to fall.

 

(in brackets) does that mean

they are caught in this, too?

does It mean

this cannot be caught, either?

 

there is us

hand-tied until

we have learnt

how to fly

 

If only the weather                    more                                      Something clearer

could be worn                             comfortable                         than this hole

like a tie                                        lasso                                      in my face

 

First place is everything on time

 

And that exactly to ask what of happiness of being happy

hands-free signal of meaning different from meaning

of happiness

in the thoughts of that which

is not happy

 

“that which is”

witch of Which, again

which spares the middle;

 

the mean cuts

more than it enjoins

 

I might enjoyn-ow

but then, the same time of time as before

what time is it “then”?

and half of the time

so at least half of everything else.

 

As wide as a rectangle of sleep.

 

Contender two                         whence                               and even in the

for worst                                    all                                        spillage of all

defender of                               distinction                          things into one

history mystery                       religious                              another,

 

it probably did not have to get as bad as me being as bad as myself

 

but really

who really

knows?

 

The distance catchers.

who are They?

 

Hole whole symmetry.

It probably.

 

the first page has been unicorn

Salting over things peppercorn

All very forlorn

Most of the time,

so pretty much all of the time.

 

A variety of rainbow

made up from part-visions

of a suspected unified existence

but not yet seen all-in-one.

 

The Greater things are born

of either scorn, porn or bore-dom

(not-one-but-two is such a beautiful fucking whore)

therefore, there are no greater things [sic]

 

Just peppering

which does not get justice

but perhaps for-gets justice

witch I fail to understand

which might be the point

of the triangle or the rain

 

does not get jusTice: but spiCes: Up sensation

from

parameters of unicorn self-justification

to

unicornification of self-same parameters

 

like a rhythm to be found inside a proper shuffle

(in brackets)

 

the distance to be caught

is the measurement of all distance catching,

until we learn flight

 

everything in sun-dye

 

the whole of the hole in my face

is

the hole of the whole of my face

 

symmetry probably

 

if only it could be drawn on

as the weather draws on

the water

to walk and talk

at the same time

 

You see it now, do you not?

Something in between; something missing

Tied hands, bloodshot eyes, sky of a fire

Hell.

Almost.

But again, not quite.

The peak of the peak, or the equator

[For better context of this poem, please look at: The peak (1st of Dec)]

 

Suppose that

experience can indeed be drawn

and counted in triangular form

 

and each person lives out their own geometric range,

where the angles and heights measure differently,

being of varied extension and sharpness

 

and, in that, even similar experiences

for people who are not the same person

will triangulate dissimilarly

 

so, each person’s going-about

is unique yet geometrically comparable

distinct yet always set out mountain-like;

 

Now, if all these individual and idiosyncratic textures of

experience were to be collated, put together as they have to be,

to make a single shape, a totally indicative form, would this

 

object of the experience of experience be one giant Triangle or, rather,

something more obvious: like a Sphere, marked by a unifying Equator

brining every high and every low to the same finishing line?

The year of Paralysis

In the year of paralysis

where the world is reduced,

there is one endless winter

that stunts the common growth,

it freezes the known paths

and subsumes the old currents,

not just halting new life

but the seasoned one, too.

 

In that year of paralysis

where meaning is seduced,

there is one endless night

that closes the horizon,

it saps space of its colour

and shuts out all perspective,

not just starving time now

but the one to come, too.

 

In this year of paralysis

when our hope was traduced,

the summer and the day

did not come from without

but from those we clung to

who in turn clung to us,

which was all that was left:

the core of what we are.

 

So, the year of renewal

when the world starts to thaw

and the roots spread again

the light have other sources

and clocks can count more,

let none of that forget

the darkness of this year

and how it was all fought.

 

For Mum, Dad and Nick, who will

forever be at the centre of

my existence

This is the end

A river

ends / in

more water;

 

there, a

Sea-son

is born.

 

The difference,

sweet water

salt water

 

a difference

of water,

still water,

 

from still

to less

still, but

 

still water,

and waves

goodbye

 

and waves

hello

again.

 

It waves

because

the weather

 

because

the season;

because

 

of the

sea-son

it means

 

the weather

can carry

the sun

 

the sun

will carry

the water

 

and then

like always

again

 

it ends

in tears,

it ends

 

in tears

again.

The river

 

is born

from then;

Sea-son,

 

fruit of

the same

but then

 

is neither

sea nor

sun nor

 

son of

those, but

a thing

 

both more

and less

than all

 

of them

together

again.

 

And ends /

in more

and less

 

and so

does not

end. But

 

it goes

again;

the tears

 

do not

wait for

the end,

 

they are

the end

beginning

 

again.

The seasons

the weather

 

the sun

the water

the river

 

are just

themselves

Sea-born,

 

torn from

the tears

of what

 

already

was, in

the end.

 

A river

ends, there

a Sea

 

is born,

will end

in tears

 

again.

Will end

in tears

 

again.

Will end

and end…

 

will end

and end,

again.

 

But the

fruit of

this rain

 

will be

more and

less, will

 

be more

and less

again.

 

Yes and No [The Contradictions]

The positive need

of commitment is

such that it must learn

not only how to say

Yes, but altogether

fashion Yes out of

saying No, too. Hence,

commitment to something

is onetime Yes and

then everytime No

to all else of equal

or similar possibility,

thereafter. Those who

fail to learn the positive

power of No, are

doomed, likewise, in their

chances of attaining

mastery of the

strongest sense of Yes.

The economy of value II [The Contradictions]

Because the value of something

rises if coveted by

those who go without it; where

the greater the force of their

desire, the greater must

happen to be the valuation

attributed; and, where, too

a transgression of the moral

law, however ill-advised,

in consequence shunning, proves

beyond all apparent doubt

the force of actual desire;

because of this odd economy,

when that of which we are in

possession is purloined, the

thing itself we mourn the loss

of, is mourned as a more valuable

item then than it had been

before leaving our keep, and

perhaps, this alone, should draw

from us some despair, not only

at that enhanced difference of

value that cannot be properly

owned, but more so at this negative

meaning of possession, overall,

where more is had if desired

by those who accept they have

less, and even more so, yet not

if violently dispossessed.

The economy of value [The Contradictions]

Take care of your secrets

for the only thing

worse than the betrayal

of trust when they are

revealed beyond

consent, is the harsher

revelation of

them not being worthy

enough to risk that

violation of

the one-to-one intimacy

of mutually shared

moral understanding.

The economy of the sun [The Contradictions]

If vivid and full

like a petalled sun

does a flower come

before the eye, then

what sun is it that

reproaches the eye –

when it reaches up –

much like a cactus

to a fingertip?

The haunting

Just as there is an order of time

to be observed

between the birth of something and its eventual end

there is another order

in equal merit of respect and time

extending between the end of something and a new beginning.

 

For those whose dreams of the new

demand

the destruction of the old

beware that there is no expedient removal of the wreckage

and the form which it had held, badly or not

must also be buried, be mourned.

 

But in special awareness be that each

and every dream

is put together on a fresh slate

but to land, take root, encumbered must it become with

the eternal effort of holding ideal shape

alongside the ecstatic Ghost of history.

 

So, just as a seed takes its time

to grow

and show what it will be

does an end

insist on a similar patience, too

before it is understood what exactly might take its place.