Choas, Fury, Grace
~
2007.08.07 22:51 CST (EST + 12 hrs): Beijing, People's Republic of China
Appreciative head-nods and ethereal hugs and handshakes from across the Pacific, brothers and sisters. I have recently returned from delicious lunch -- Sichuan malatang (literally 'spicy soup') with ample fresh greens, sliced spuds, cauliflower, quail eggs and a variety of spiced oils and salts, splayed across warm rice. Easily my new favourite meal.
Understandably, I have to grown to love the world's various bowled offerings: from dokk-mandu-guk -- Korean rice cake soup with dumplings, to spicy, mysterious, healthy yet filling malatang, all the way from the sultry, temperamental miso with its sunken seaweed, to the thick richness of hearty pea soup or the cleansing simplicity of broth, not forgetting the amalgamated and cleansing phò. Population, permutations and time have given heed to the multitude of things to be boiled, simmered, sautéed and assembled. This, adeptly, found its niche in the bowl: the raised receptacle into which all threads finally find themselves, to be consumed and completed, rejected or restrained.
I am enjoying the throes of being in love: I had yet to experience its fullness, complexity, security and warmth. These are each precious and reflections better understood once articulated by the self, either prior or simultaneously. Luckily, I have established a significant emotional base and am familiar enough with blue to recognize red when I see purple; green when touching yellow. The resounding lesson -- if the latter term can be (ever) used to describe such a transient non-state -- is that journeys are continual, progressive, often regressive, but all the time passages of awareness from stagnations of dark. This begs the question: are light and motion addictive? And secondly, are grey processes (and 'states') necessary to feel the flux of up, down, aware and asleep?
Over time, we become increasingly conscious that answers are not always ours and as such grow comfortable with times of inner discussion, outer debate and the mingling of these two, unknown thirds and unforeseen perpendicularities. Being is no longer a thing or place to name or be: it simply is. Shining with the security of this assurance, we seek higher, less assured routes: off we trod, spanning and scanning the transitions there between.
From there to here,
S*
"I seen the demons/But they didn't make a sound/They tried to reach me/But I lay upon the ground."
2007.08.07 22:51 CST (EST + 12 hrs): Beijing, People's Republic of China
Appreciative head-nods and ethereal hugs and handshakes from across the Pacific, brothers and sisters. I have recently returned from delicious lunch -- Sichuan malatang (literally 'spicy soup') with ample fresh greens, sliced spuds, cauliflower, quail eggs and a variety of spiced oils and salts, splayed across warm rice. Easily my new favourite meal.
Understandably, I have to grown to love the world's various bowled offerings: from dokk-mandu-guk -- Korean rice cake soup with dumplings, to spicy, mysterious, healthy yet filling malatang, all the way from the sultry, temperamental miso with its sunken seaweed, to the thick richness of hearty pea soup or the cleansing simplicity of broth, not forgetting the amalgamated and cleansing phò. Population, permutations and time have given heed to the multitude of things to be boiled, simmered, sautéed and assembled. This, adeptly, found its niche in the bowl: the raised receptacle into which all threads finally find themselves, to be consumed and completed, rejected or restrained.
I am enjoying the throes of being in love: I had yet to experience its fullness, complexity, security and warmth. These are each precious and reflections better understood once articulated by the self, either prior or simultaneously. Luckily, I have established a significant emotional base and am familiar enough with blue to recognize red when I see purple; green when touching yellow. The resounding lesson -- if the latter term can be (ever) used to describe such a transient non-state -- is that journeys are continual, progressive, often regressive, but all the time passages of awareness from stagnations of dark. This begs the question: are light and motion addictive? And secondly, are grey processes (and 'states') necessary to feel the flux of up, down, aware and asleep?
Over time, we become increasingly conscious that answers are not always ours and as such grow comfortable with times of inner discussion, outer debate and the mingling of these two, unknown thirds and unforeseen perpendicularities. Being is no longer a thing or place to name or be: it simply is. Shining with the security of this assurance, we seek higher, less assured routes: off we trod, spanning and scanning the transitions there between.
From there to here,
S*
"I seen the demons/But they didn't make a sound/They tried to reach me/But I lay upon the ground."
free hit counter
