Introduction

For the love and passion of words. Send me a poem or prose and I will post it here. Send your words to tj@tjginn.com Words are all we have.

One can be stifled and intimidated by the magnanimous mind and never feel accomplished enough to express oneself.

That is the design of the masters of the glass bead game who at the pinnacle of their narcissism are found hanging another piece of paper on the wall to award their accomplishment.

I do not disrespect certification but only dream of a world where licensing did not equate to a right to life or opportunity. I only dream to be free from corruption, nepotism, and the clandestine passage of rights granted to the privileged.

You cannot learn enough, study enough, work enough or try hard enough to avoid the next critic lurking to prove you unworthy.

Critics are as numerous as roaches in garbage.

Just get rid of the garbage and your metaphysical solipsism is complete. It is not enough that Van gogh was ridiculed by the contemporaries and is quoted to say, "I wish they would only take me as I am." People even to this day must comment on his work rather than just look at it and with the greatest respect and say nothing.


Friday, January 27, 2012

The Incomprehensible Beauty of the Differential


The Incomprehensible Beauty of the Differential

So let us think about it in the simple physical realm.
Simple does not mean simplistic but rather not complex which in itself is a differential.

The Cognitive simple physical differentiations by the animal species…

One should recognize that the animal species includes all cellular incarnations from virus to complex protein manipulated complexes. They are…

Light vs. Dark
Hard vs. Soft
Hot vs. Cold
Fast vs. Slow
Macro vs. Micro

The Complex metaphysical differentials by the animal species

One should note that the physical differentials do not exist without the essential animal, the observer, whom existentially places the metaphysical differential realities juxtaposed to raw matter physicality with its cognitive interpretation.

Love vs. Hate
Joy vs. Grief
Fear vs. Peace
Jealousy vs. Grace
Empathetic vs. Indifference
Right vs. Wrong
Just vs. Unjust
Hate vs. Love

Existential Theory / Philosophy

Deal with what is real!
Existential activism - recognize physical vs. metaphysical.

This is not in defense of irrational thinking and this is a rhetorical statement.

There is no separation from the physical and metaphysical.

There is no escape

YOU ARE WHAT IT IS, WHICH MEANS YOU WANT THIS:
LIFE
GOOD NOT BAD
RIGHT NOT WRONG
UP NOT DOWN
FAIR NOT UNJUST

THE POWER IS INEVITABLE

ARISTOCRATIC MEGALOMANIA IS A HUMAN LUST

COMMUNISTIC FASCISM IS A NATURAL EXISTENTIAL RESPONSE

CHOSE COOPERATIVE EGALITARIAN SOCIETAL SENTIMENTALITY

OR CHOSE NARCISSISM … AND UNBRIDLED WANT

You think it won’t happen?

IT ALREADY HAS HAPPENED.

HATE KNOWS NO BOUNDS UNTIL ALL IS LOST

AND THE REMNANTS LEARN ‘LOVE’ FROM THE DEAD

TAKING WITHOUT GIVING DRAINS US ALL

The greatest differential is “To be or not to Be”

“You won’t get this until you are at deaths door.”

So why wait, forgive and love someone NOW!
Before they are dead to tomorrow and the only tragedy is that
'you are not listening.'

Read “Children of the Seven Hills”
A novel by TJ Ginn
“It all makes sense in the end”
Available on Amazon.com

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Evening


I whistled a little tune on the sunset of this day.
I whistled a little tune for my dreams had gone astray.
I whistled a little tune for my spirit was light and gay.
I whistled a little tune in the hopes that you would stay.

The light is slowly dimming and your face is slightly gray.
My love for you is brimming and I beg for you to play.
I know your songs and hymning, signs that you're going away.
This day I’m left foreboding, a due, the sun and crimson ray.  Ω

Share the sunset with a friend, and give time for silence, a sweet sound.

  

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Take a chance on me

Give it a try. Try your hand with a little prose. Send me a quip at tj@tjginn.com I will post it with or without your name. Take a chance on me and have a little fun with words.


Monday, January 9, 2012

Puerile

             One is drawn to the base to gain definition, who am I, what am I, where am I and what is right and what is wrong or rather what can I do and what is contemptible.

            Perhaps contemptible is too erudite for one must consider the differential.

You would do nothing unless you must.

What does this mean?

You would not get out of bed unless the coals on the fire were not warming you enough.

I do digress to an earlier age when one had to stoke the fire for warmth.

Misanthropic delusions of this age of ease, you merely turn up the thermostat on your gas fired furnace and digitally control your comfort.  

What is worse is that you are too ignorant to understand how the computer integration of your digitally controlled thermostat works.

This is the isolation and separation. You do not understand your realm. You click and paste and play the surface of what is completely manipulated beneath you.

You have allowed it. It is increasing in complexity and no one is responsible.

Try and find someone who will take responsibility.

Come home and plant some seeds and grow real food. You can’t eat a digital phone and video games get boring.

TJ Ginn
For the love of real life.




Free to Fly by Michael Vires


Sunday, January 8, 2012

Your Garden


I am enjoying your garden and it causes me verse because I have not one of my own.

Don’t you know that the best we can be is the labor of our own hand and this is lost?

True knowledge of the cultivar and the seed that springs forth is relegated to the dead.

I do not think it is intentional, this dumbing down of our species.

Our children have been coddled away through laziness and shiny toys.

They built the coliseum for gladiator games on the bones of ignorance.

I herald your garden and planting of seed and the treasure of the knowledge it expounds.

Simple times, simple people is not condescension, it is lament.

Let us be thankful that we knew them, these simple times, these simple people and me.



     

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Hate


Misanthropic, Misogynistic and Misandry require contemplation even for the erudite elitist on a quest of intellectual pursuit to be sure that they were not deficient in their studies, for even they must pause.

Misanthropic is the hatred of humans of all ilks, while Misogyny is the hatred of women and Misandry is the hatred of the male.

Consider self loathing before any contemptuous considerations. In order to hate something you must be something so all of these become self loathing.

You animal. You defecator. You wash and polish your appearance with perfume to cover your inadequacy and then purport to express your disgust of the existence of others.

Loneliness is you prescription, isolation and separation till you cry for conversation.

And out of the darkness came want. The primal scream to be and not be alone.

And then you hate no one or anything and love is all that is.

  

    

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Appreciation

Click to enlarge




Poɛm Noir



I dream in color and passion red with shadows of black and white.

It’s a simple thing that marks my rise from films and histories fight.

It is not a pretty picture though they want to make it so.

The stories are the lecture, on the screens in theaters glow.

They shape the moral ideologue with judgment of the crime.

And we the jury of the dialogue, our opinion is valued prime.

Film noir is dark and brooding, with questions for us all.

It poses lusts and criminal goading, will our social temple fall.

What darkness lurks in the viewers mind as murderous scenes unfurl.

Do they find they are of the villain’s kind as their hair begins to uncurl?

Or is it rather a rapturous plot when the evil villain is caught?

And the lovers swoon in the evening moon with a moral lesson Taught.  

 Ω

Film Noir has a vague definition. Is it a certain type of film that has a dark romanticism?
Look up the definition and you will find it means different things to different people.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Aphorism of Agape


Greek has four words for love…
Storge – affection
Philia – friendship
Eros – passionate/sexual
Agape – brotherly/parental also denoted as true love.

All of these types of love except Eros require no reciprocation i.e. you give love because you want to, while expecting nothing in return. Eros is selfish. Eros needs. Eros wants.
Eros is a lie, lose it. I love the Hibiscus flower; it has no capacity to love me in return.

Great expectations of love suffer only the searcher in vain and when discovered, my fickle nature, I loved only the idea of you loving me. I shroud this in a drape of images in my mind, your lovely face, your statures casual lean, your distinctive voice and your unique demeanor. I have this all wrapped up in a neat little package which are all the things I love about you. It was subtle and cautious as we tip toed into love, both willing and wanton to hear those words come from the lips. I love you.

And now that you have fallen into my lovers trap, I expect you to be the person I have imaged you to be. Familiar, unchanging and sure to respond with the words, I love you, when I beckon with the words of the same. And on the day that you don’t respond to my call for a love assured, I don’t love you, I don’t want you, I don’t need you, anymore. Because, short of your adorable aura, it was me loving me through the eyes of you, and like the true narcissists we are, you were only in the way of my greatest love which is me.

Now when you are done abusing yourself searching for that one true love, give yourself the greatest gift of agape the brotherly love. You love someone just because you love them with nothing in return. All else is wanton and lustful and vain and truly the God Eros is teasing you to fail at the price of your foolish heart. And when you catch them or you are caught, the lust will be done and what love have you, but none.

Eros


            This is a poesy for your curiosity, a quip to quench your thirst, a symposium for Socratic honor to the God Eros. Perhaps the encomium belongs to Plato whose stewardship led to script. A script past down through ages, it leaves us not alone, in the contemplation of Eros and the mysteries of love.

Scarred and bruised and broken, youth leaves us all so vain, for love is truly fickle when beauty is on the wane. You never lose your wanton eyes and loving of the fair. You did not choose a lovers lies, nor the graying of your hair.
Seeking and learning and knowing, wise sayings from the past. Praises hale to our God Eros whose love eternal lasts. With beauty gone none ring your bell your time is all alone. A well springs forth and time will tell the magic you have sown.
A child came forth, a product of your youthful need to sire, a shallow love of visceral want and object of your desire. A passion not of first request with needs they do require, of spirit and reason and intellect of you they do inquire.
The bell rings a beautiful sound as you answer Eros’ call. A love so strong came raining down bestowed upon us all. Agape love, a giving love, God Eros he had smiled, for there is no greater love, as a parent’s for a child.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Malaise


            Out of the darkness comes fear, the evil, the cold and the cruel. Eyes stare hard in the remembrance of sight but no light is at hand to see. A presence is sensed and quickly I turn to face the direction of my fear, but I am an entity without members, no limbs, no arms and no legs.
            I exist for I am thinking and remembrance of tutor Descartes. What manor of being here am I. What mind, in what body do I think. No windows no doors, am I up, am I down, I dream a horrible dream, a dream whose end I beseech.
            Be done with me, now you let me go, you dastardly cognition, you horrible clutch, you dark and fearful dream of the evil, the cold and the cruel. Stare hard, can you see, can you see stare hard, but no light is there, no light to see. There is no light for me.
            Again I feel a sense of fear, and turn with no limbs to see. Who is there, who is there, I think to yell but no mouth portends to speak. What am I, who am I, where am I, I think that I think to think.
Weeping ensues, or the remembrance of such, I would if I could have eyes. I thrash and I fight in thoughts I take flight or remembrance of such an act.
What am I, who am I, where am I, I dream that I think that I think to think.

The Well of Souls

The boy asked Merlin, “How deep is the well of souls?” Merlin replies,

"Miles and piles of devils trials with Jupiter on the wane, I once began to count the stars, my efforts were all in vain.

I counseled Venus and then Mars their answers were the same, there’s a hundred thousand million souls in every drop of rain."


I Dream of You


I stood up in my little boat and gazed a mile to shore. No paper in hand and still I wrote a song and little score.

Calm seas and peace surround my way; sun setting on the main. I raise my arm to wave to her on land and in the sane.

I won’t be long my nets are full I hail to her in song. I hoist the sail and make the turn; the day has been so long.

Pulling tight the sail to heal and tack I race my boat to shore. Your loving face and warm embrace a thing I so adore.

I’m dreaming verse and words so sweet, to tell you of my heart. The breaking waves on rocky reef my boat she broke apart. Ω

I would survive but the image of you faded and I awoke from a dream a sad but lovely dream. I knew her, I loved her but she was just a dream.

The Anvil


This thing is a block of iron hammered to a tapered point on one end. It is bolted to a wooden stump to place it at a working height so the black smith or smithy can place glowing hunks of iron upon it to pound and shape the metal to something useful.

Fashioned are hammers, saws, shovels, plows; nails and screws and rings and chains.

Iron is a most malleable metal when heated and crushingly powerful when drawn into cold hard steel.

Its strength builds skyscrapers and bridges and ships the size of cities. Its forms are infinite and its compounds blend even to such a necessity that our own blood is red because of it.

Formed into a triangle and hung on a string it rings with a resonance that only it can produce, but the sound I am most consumed by is the sound of a hammer driving down to collide with the anvil.

This clank, driving clank of metal to metal is haunting me now.

I want to be the hammer. I want to pound. I want to drive the metal into a shape that I desire and can use, I want. I need. But, when I swing the hammer I can’t find the anvil. Like swinging in the dark with zeal and missing. No anvil to connect with. The hammer in its ark continues down only to find my shin and in agony I yell, then fall to the ground and cry in disgust till the pain subsides.

I want to hear the clank of the hammer against the anvil because it is my desire to form the metal, I must form the metal; I must.

I’m hammering and in reality, I’m hammering this life, to form it into what I want but my hammer only strikes air leaving me broken at the shin. What else can I do but try again; so I will. I will try again. One day I may hear the clank of my hammer striking the anvil and my life may become what I want you see, my life might become what I want; for what I want is you.

Pensive Rain


On this day I woke to decide a necessary change, a welcome change, a relief.

Gray sky’s and cool morning dew foretell of light rain, a welcome rain; a rain that is due.

Clouds shroud the earth and make the world go away, leaves glisten with a spattering sound.

The agenda of tasks gives way, no work will be done today, no work will be done day.

I can hear birds bustle to rest in the trees away from this welcome rain and the leaves glisten with a spattering sound.

A breeze now and then brushes past my soul and I feel rest, no tasks just rest.

Subtly a sadness is present, just there, not deep but there none the less; none the less it is there.

Is this lovely rain sad? Is this welcome rain a rain of sorrow, a weeping rain, a needed weeping rain?

Washing clean the forest, rinsing down the dust, quenching all the thirst, this rain, this pensive rain, this weeping pensive rain; this needed weeping pensive rain.

A time of sorrow, this time of sorrow, your time of sorrow will pass, it will pass but for now my love let it rain. Your tears, let it rain, this beautiful cleansing pensive rain that glistens on the leaves with a spattering sound, a weeping sound, a restful sound this rain, this pensive rain.

Air

Consider the air, the substance, the thing we know so well but never see.

Air rushes through our fingers and blusters in our hair; it is soft, just soft as soft can only be.

Upon the air rides the fragrance of floral seduction that bees cannot resist, nor humming birds, nor butterfly nor me.

When speeding to the lungs air signals a gasp, desperate breath; could be fright; could be delight; that gasp before ecstasy.

The air welled up by the heat of a day blows ships, pushes waves, makes storms and takes lives.

The air pumped up fills balloons, whistles tunes, and at times puts rings around moons.

It’s just air, never seen, always there, always there, thanks be, always there.

But just yesterday I saw the air. This thing you cannot see.

You were walking toward me and your dress and your hair were swimming. You were the breeze. You were the soft breeze. It could not be separated from you. It could not be separated from you. The air; you were the air don’t you see? Don’t you see?

And with my eyes I breathed you in. I breathed you in.