The Human Condition


Our cozy little planet is presumed to have existed for over four and a half billion years. In the most recent three of those, it has been teeming with life. They come and go, and more than we will ever know of. The truth is there have been many species of fascinating creatures that crawled, squirmed, floated, swam, galloped, trotted, scurried, walked, ran and flown throughout our ever changing environment called Earth. Each had its mechanism for being. Each had the means with which to move about, perpetuate and thrive; the means with which to process some form of cognition, or maybe at the very least the means with which to perceive. Each had within it the mechanism responsible for ending the inadequate; the unnecessary; the obsolete. Some of these creatures persisted for millions of years before the mechanism within them led them down that narrowing path. To appear as if they never existed or at best to forever sequel into a display at the Smithsonian. To be something to learn from. We humans, the latest upgrade model of hominid, are no different. We have our own mechanism of survival, perpetuation, and ultimately, our own demise, “The Human Condition.”

The human condition, it mars the soul, and burdens the spirit. It is the initiating tool, cycle and grand culmination of all of societies mistakes and undoings. Whether you think of it as sin, failure, shortcomings, ethical or moral turpitude, or unhealthy normal reactions to abnormal stress. It divides us from harmony. It unites us in doleful conspiracy. It diminishes our value as a species. It threatens to resolve our issues with finality. To cure the infection we fester upon this planet by allowing us to render ourselves onto the path of extinction. We can learn to heal the wounds of the human condition. Treat the symptoms, and practice good preventative care, and we will prevail. Cure the human condition and we will evolve to something better; something truly amazing.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Nada Mas, Nada Menos


Nada Mas, Nada Menos

WRITTEN BY PATRICK B OVIEDO JR. NOVEMBER 7TH, 2013



Susurros del viento en este espacio de reposo

Sin piedad me despierta a una batalla de emociones, confundido, desorientado

Invade llevando el humo de algún lugar del fuego lejano

No puedo oler el humo, sólo la esencia de piel en esa lisa curva desde su cuello a su hombro

La resonancia de su voz me persigue sin descanso

En mis recuerdos la veo caminar hacia mí.  Se acerca, más cerca, más cerca

Su rostro radiante con una cautelosa mirada, su risa, evocaciones  que son imborrables

Recuerdo la vista cuando ella se alejó caminando despacito

Que me inspira es innegable

En un momento sin dudarlo me dejó nada más que hacer

Anhelando ella, se llena este pecho palpitante al punto de reventar

Ella desesperadamente busca santuario y valorización silencioso

Por ella y su ternura no se puede tolerar cualquier dolor ni un momento más

Dice que no puedo ser su hombre, para ella solamente 

Y así es que la quiero, desde una distancia tan vasto como el Universo y la eternidad, inacapable, con respeto, con dignidad, en silencio.

Porque hay nada más que pueda hacer y simplemente puedo hacer nada menos




Sunday, October 6, 2013

NOT KNOWING

Not Knowing...
written by Moralygray 10/06/2013


Humbled... I retreat to that pseudo sanctuary now...
I admit a place not so genuine as one should expect...
What might others think of it?  I can not say, not knowing...

Dwelling there, are one perhaps two appreciable pieces of art...
One sketched by a brave young Artist, who is ebbing towards blindness everyday...
Afflicted by a deteriorating inherited condition...
The piece... An image of his good eye...
A clear example of tremendous vision and he not having sight... Could he see it once finished?
I bought it years ago... For eighty bucs... Obviously, I ripped the poor guy off... It's all I had...
Has he finally lost all of his sight?  Does his vision persist?  I can not say, not knowing...

The other piece, cracking on a stretched canvas...
Eighties era political satire somehow still poignant...
The style, passé possibly...
Rescued from a shelter for drug addicts... It had been abuse... Had things thrown at it...
It was painted by some unknown junky that may have died...
Died years ago... Died?  I can not say, not knowing...

All else on these red wood walls, emboldened unsophisticated efforts to mimic those other dabblers of the medium who went first...
Styles contrived... Californication... A synonym for that impotent sybaritism...
Fake... Lauded... Praised... Highly valued by tacky people... From that LA Milieu...
Bargain basin crap at the discount crafts supply store...
Might there have been some actual intrinsic heart felt meaning to those that praise it...
I just can't get into their heads... I can not say, not knowing...

A Haiku scribbled onto the remanence of a cardboard box that was once a case of Irish whiskey...
It clings to a cheap balsa wood covered door with a push pin... Prominent, crooked, askew, perfect...
Written by a new found friend; brilliant poet Derrick Selb...
"EVENTUALLY SISYPHUS LEARNED TO LOVE CRUSHED FLOWERS."
I'm certain of it's poignancy... A sentiment relevant to a cathartic exit from his own unique tribulations...
Others will see it and be affected so... They will weep and cheer...
A cracked wooden handled ice pick against a colossal block of ice...
I find it now, an epitaph to the pertinence of my guileful, ever so aloof, irreverent muse...
Someone once said, "What you refuse yourself in this world, you will be denied in the next."
I regret my past lives...
My love, a soft scented sandalwood Mala bead on a string of one hundred and eight unrequited loves...
She gave up on me... I've been here before... Unfulfilled, aroused, erect, this side of nirvana...
Each time I am told... I am to be spared pain, But it is the same at the beginning, the middle or the end...
The pain persist... She doesn't want me... She never has, never did... truly...
How could she not have seen that we are one and the same...
I dare not ask her for fear of that dreadful reaffirmation... Nothing...
I can only walk away now... I simply can not say... Not knowing ~




Saturday, October 5, 2013

The Day I Wish I Slept In





THE DAY I WISH I SLEPT IN
BY MORALYGRAY WRITTEN 10-05-2013



I AM YOUR FORGOTTEN BROKEN TOY AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BOX...

DROPPED RIGHT BACK INTO THAT BARGAIN BASIN, LIKE A PAIR OF CHEAP, COOL LOOKING SUNGLASSES THAT FIT YOUR FACE CROOKED...

I JUST KEEP RAMBLING ON INTO OBLIVION...

WHEELS TURNING IN THE MUD, KICKING UP NOTHING...

DESTINED TO GO NOWHERE...

SENTIMENTS LOST LIKE A HARSH WHISPER INTO A HOWLING WIND...

I WAS WERE NEVER THERE...

COMPARTMENTALIZED...

RENDERED BENIGNANT...

A FAMILIAR STRANGER...

COMMON...

MEANINGLESS...

NONESSENTIAL...

RESOLVED...

A PAIR NAMELESS HAZEL EYES IN A FOG OF UNWANTED MEMORIES...

EFFETE



Tuesday, April 2, 2013

While she remains distant, I dream.


Every Moment ~ Each Day
Patrick B Oviedo Jr
Circa The Fading Winter of 2013

I picture with every moment's passage of each day I command ~ Your presence
I picture your busy toil. Adhering to responsibilities with an empirical will, honest, sincere

Enthralled with your intellect
Enamored with your watchful sensitivity and discernment

I imagine listening intently as you counsel those less fortunate, expounding grace and wisdom

Your voice fill every open space of my heart
It threatens to burst it and then fill all else that is me

Each peer into that thoughtful gaze engages and enslaves my wonder

I imagine what it would be to feel the quiescent touch of your hand on my chest

I imagine your deep restful exhale across my shoulder and ruff

I imaging the warmth of your supple form pressed upon me ~ Eyes closed ~ In celestial sleep

And I would give up my very next breath and every other there after
To fully realize all of your aspirations, those childhood promises fulfilled
To fully entail your happiness whole
Life replete, at peace ~ Complete

And in a waking dream I cherish the aroma of your hair caressing my face
And the delicate taste of my lips softly placed upon that tiny scar that has long since faded
Faded along with the angst from which it was so created long ago

I picture this ~ With every moment's passage of each day ~ I command