Thursday, March 29, 2012

My Ineffable, Bête Noire


All of the sudden
It was as if her entire life
Had been a sweet nothing
A beautiful lady
Unwilling to shelter arrogance
By force of principle
To call ineffably the whisper
So many drastic lives ago
Having closely died
On many a posh occasion
The denouement of the only love
That ever bore the silence
Of the matter
There is nothing left to say
Just close our eyes and hold our hearts
And dream our lives
That would have come to be
If culture did not swim
Into our vagrant hypocrisies
How kindly sheltered
In the presence of believers
Strangely silent nights
And Catolic deceipt
Birthing a bête noire
In the resultant fears
Of reasoned cowardice
A necessary precaution
’Las life is not a game of chess
Where we would march our pawns
To their early blessing deaths
In the names of kings
To save the queens of our souls
In whose passions
Tense bursts of romance
Mark the seasons
Cau!
Mother’s veins are throbbing in my heart
I can feel her swoon
All in one or nothing at all
If only you had known
The hollow that was to ensue
The experience of time’s commodification
Where a lover’s cliché
Conceives a sweet nothing
Baring its naked emptiness
Regrettably human
Where a house a home
Becomes a prison
For want of some securities
An open heart’s solitary confinement
Only faith in letting go
I know I’ve walked on Mother Earth before
And crushed her flowers in my steps
So I can always smell the fragrant truth
Before it comes to fruit
A motion to dilute refrain
Into the present tensions of the other
Dancing and insane
It’s all in the air of resonance
Dreamers timing space
To fold unto their opened arms
I left my heart upon her vanity
And rustled in the morning
’Las her touch had grown quite cold
Toward the bitter grips of hope
As faith is a burden to LOVE
We must let go of harvesting results
To proper maintain the blossom
And cultivate the whisper in the garden

Love, don’t ever change
Please
Don’t ever swim, my darling


My heart blushes and I am quiet
Miss faith is whispering
Of a beautiful lady
Breaking the spell
Dancing my old soul away
On through the source of sublime sadness
A loose resemblance
To some ineffable sense of truth
The silent glances commence
Just smiling :)))


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Yareah Magazine, Literary Interview with Jason Greendyk

http://yareah.com/?p=2196


Tango de la Materia by Jason Greendyk
Tango de la Materia by Jason Greendyk
Q- When do you begin to be interested in writing?
I have been writing my thoughtful silences as long as I can remember… a more explicit and aware interest was conceived in young philosophies, nurtured and grew in academic language, and has since perennially borne fruit in vernacular life.
Q- What were your influences?
I am broadly informed by the history of literature and the arts, contemporaries, and by the continuous re-conceptualization of experience in the ongoing course of enlightenment.  Further, some of my deepest influences tend to be the cultural and ideological abstractions of individuals in my personal life.
Q- What do you think about the relationship between literature and other arts?
The transition might be vague, but is seamless… it is a matter of translation, naturally prone to subjectivity, but no more so than the work in its authentic state.  A poem can be a painting if its imagery is so distinct to some person that the visual extension of the language manifests more powerfully than the raw language itself.  Or vice versa, and likewise for any other reasoned category of artistic expression.
Q- … If you were able to find a time machine and to return to the past… What writer would you like to meet with?
Karel Hynek Mácha.  His writing was informed by a young life in Prague, a city which I have found in my travels to be beautiful.  As well, a romantic true to his word, he spoke of endless love, and died young at heart, by accident.
Viennese Waltz, by Jason Greendyk
Viennese Waltz, by Jason Greendyk
Q- Do you use a method? How many hours do you write at day?
I suppose I write continuously, as technology allows for this.  I can gather poems, line by line, as I go about my life, and as some concept begins to congeal psychologically, and demands release, I can take some time to compile and flesh the notes of my experience into a piece, and on and on, ad infinitum.
Q- And how many hours… even weeks… even months did you need to finish your last book?
My latest work, Šariš, is the crystallization of selected writings over the course of five years.  Previous works have ranged from one year to four years, but overlapping, with more than one work occurring simultaneously.
Q- What do you think about the future? Do you believe in the dead of hardcover books?
The future is now… perhaps hardcover books would attain some greater value as explicit pieces of art, that is, for their material being, in addition to the words contained therein.  As for the words alone, they can easily be extracted from the materiality of the book and employed in a variety of digital forms, and be seen off to the seas of the web.  The impetus to create, authenticity, intellectual property in a strict sense, that is, devoid of substantial material interest, and the etiquette of a proper reading environment and the divulgence of attention and ingestion of language are all threatened by this, but nevertheless is engendered the experience of communal egos of expression, a democratic moderation of psychological resonance, and the consensus of differences to be a silent truth, all of which tend to approach more honestly, if fearfully, the united existence sought in the appreciation of the arts, although still limited by the availability and affordability of technology and the restrictions of its use between varying geographic areas.
The appel juice, by Jason Greendyk
The appel juice, by Jason Greendyk
Q- What do you think about new publishing methods like Amazon create space?
They are wonderful for the moment.  They make dreams come true.  They make available on the market the true work of freedom of expression.  They significantly diminish material bars to the completion of a finished product.  Difficulties arise in the volume of availability, which tends to largely eliminate casual browsing.  It becomes increasingly more difficult for any individual’s work to stand out in the digital seas of this volume, hence the experience of communal egos as previously noted.  What is caught by any audience might be only the slightest essence of a work, or conceptual group of works, the branded image, which has had years of passion poured into it, though this escapes in the culminated expression.  Raging, hopeless throes, redundancy of self.  But, at the end of the day, it has to look effortless, even when it’s not.  Somehow, despite the emptiness of the individual in this notion, there is some ineffable beauty to it.  At the least, it brings further question, and on a mass scale, to capitalized democratic processes and the guidance of reason.
Q- Do you have an ebook?
Two of my books, Ontological Intoxication and The Apple Juice, are currently available in eBook formats.  More to come!
Q- And now a personal and difficult question: do you continue reading? What kind of books do you prefer? Have you changed your
Saris, by Jason Greendyk
Saris, by Jason Greendyk
reading after you begin to write?
To some extent I’ve fallen prey at the moment to the advent of digital immediacy, for the reason of time constraint.  I briefly, though not inattentively, peruse a wide selection of various literatures and capture those bits and pieces which resonate to my momentary psychological condition.  Over time, I find these resonances to repeat themselves in various, even distinctly different works, and to follow what might be considered a natural course of development.  That is, natural in the sense that it relies on the fast moving continuity of democratic, digital marketing, for instance, via social networks, and what by force of communal will continues to reach itself out to my attention.  Even so, my attention is steeped in a history of more extensive and detailed reading, which undoubtedly informs my selections and judgments thereof.
Q- How many books do you buy in a year?
The above being said, there still arise works which penetrate my attention so decisively that I am compelled to take a step back from the fronts of immediacy and embark on a slow and entire digestion of the piece.  This results in my purchasing a few select books per year, and subsequently devouring them.  Further, I might purchase and read a book recommended insofar as it will develop some abstraction of and relationship with the recommender in my life.
Q- Talk about your writing… What do you think it’s your best?
My writing is the overcoming, though not the betrayal, of culture, that is, the real expression of philosophy.  My writing forges bridges of class in all its relations.
Ontoligical Intoxication, by Peter Greendyk
Ontoligical Intoxication, by Jason Greendyk
It is best when read J
Q- What adjectives would you use to describe your books?
Romantic, cynical, apathetic, moving with unrest, convicted, mellifluous, inspirational.
Q- Where or how do you find the inspiration?
Inspiration is in relation… of mind to mind, mind to body, body to mind, body to body… of thought to thought, thought to world, world to thought, world to world… in meeting expression, expression of silence, silent expression, silence pure…
It is in the observation and abstracted incorporation of beauty.  Inspiration is life, nothing more, nothing less.  In love with nothing, but in love, always.
Q- Do you think about your next book? Can you talk something about it?
I am in the process of compiling a piece that will serve as a raw, experiential take on the technological.  A philosopher has suggested that humanity did not have to choose the route of technology.  Nevertheless, humanity has democratically made its choice.  The piece will serve in some sense as a take on this choice expressed distinctly in its resultant context, yet as if it had not actually quite been made, merely an imagining, and perhaps suggesting, or distantly praying, that it is an ongoing choice, and not irretractable, a lucid dream that we might wake from whenever we choose.  Immediately, it is the bittersweet tail end of a love story, itself enclosing an empty romance, like a Яйца Фаберже, blossoming with philosophy and poetry carried out in the day to day workings of the digital age.


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, March 22, 2012

My Ineffable, (E-motion) is Beauty


The vultures of charm
Pay homage to the ghetto sunrise
These flames
That burn colors in the moments
And linger in the years to follow
Loving the trot of dogs
And the scent that motions beauty
To bear the coming light
A still march on the ghost cities
Of capital decay, drumming
Caressing some deeper reason
In the billowing palace of a gypsy soul
I’d found my ancestry
Off the shore of the eastern passing
Lost on the light’s traces
And the grips of heavy souls evaded me
I was no more to their submission
No more composed of feigning naïvety
I started to notice again
The putrid odors of chemical waste
Pervading the tasteless fashion
The engagement of consciousness
A most auspicious affair
Pass a moment of silence
For the dry depths of positivity
Having passed our contours
To some force majeure
Praying diligent to carve the motive
A corporate restructuring of the will to power
Many egos invested
In the many rivers gone out to sea
That motion is beauty
Bobbing in and out of love
The swoon of a weathering ocean
The séance of a free moving soul
Connected to the lifeworld
With a breath that escapes expression
In the staggering drifts
Of Technicolor awe
The stark solitude of the waves of crowd
Moving too fast for the moments to be smitten
And shaving the fallen hairs
That lovers leave behind
A dank spring fog hanging
Like willows to the airs
That lean over paths
Once to be covered in playful passes
Once will be wandering
In binary relapse
Posing the still we’ve been imagining
Allured by the cold machinery
Like a sure summer might
In eastern bloc
Unravel the sun in memories
Of the soul’s deepest winter
The incorporated certainty of dark days
A perennial retreat
From some crisp airborne lightness
Beckoning brute kisses out of the beauty
And I was relieved to find
That solitude was much lighter than before
That (e-motive) pain was a dream
To waltz and bear to
And lie like in illusion
The maestro of ghosted mezzanines
Crossing in the heavens
Unbearably
White collars crossing references
And mating at the dawn
Eyes to green eyes
Staving sleep to drag the resonance
My passions were destroying
’Las lest my passions lived to raze the ghost
Vienna’s fingers grip me still
There were shadows in a lover’s eyes
They were dancing on the close
Shadows waltzing beneath the mezzanines
Quite close to a towering reason
Passionately throwing all the light away
Wien’s fingers let me go
Foreign now and having executed our will
What’s to ascend in bluff with
Come the death of the modern woman?
Lightly veiled in her grounded air
Her porous dirt
Hardly covering the squander


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, March 15, 2012

My Ineffable, Self-Fulfilling Prophecies


As the externalized wisdoms having escaped from our voices come around to be spoken to us… and as the product of our outsourcing of the work of the soul is sold to our hollow sentience in the happiness of a soulless existence… and then when a look in the eye comes dancing along…

Look back and hold thy air so that thee might find something inside that not a soul can touch… thy nothing… a soulless revelry needs not the confounding of logic and emotion in the steps of an enlightened being… needs not the wake of a full moon’s musing…

And instead it is the real shallow of culture that convenes at the greatest depths… when the lack of reasonable existence demands no more the choice of happiness but is rather its machine in churning repetition…

We clutch so tight so that we might sense the nothing as another and not allow our joy to kindly touch it and evaporate…

Where was I going?
What times are becoming?
To possess an affinity for etiquette
An intrude upon reason
Gag the intellect
The witchery was a stout
Silver lined indulgence
March winds gesture a death rattle
Full moon disgust
A desperate fellatio
It evaded all reality
It was a pain that became the world
And it was nothing
The sun comes and steals my pain away
I almost felt real for a moment


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, March 8, 2012

My Ineffable, Amerrique


In the beginning… when everything was perfect…

America, the beautiful.  The land of perpetual wind… the valleys of plenty and the ridges of inspiration… a spirit that breathes life incessantly… a river of conviction… like a desert… dry and seemingly neverending… the bed of a once lover… a dust of dead leaves.

The event horizon had passed… passionate extradition and seething expatriation… the migration of the intellect to some far eastern deceit… an alien invasion of ideas… an orchid in the valley of the lilies… assimilation… the lily of the valley of the orchids… cross pollination… an orchid of the lily of the valley…

Refrain.

America does not exist… to carry on a total lack of respect for her freedom and maintain still a model of her desire… transparently as well… we the people are nothing, save in love.  And then it is when we allow for transparency to the reaches of our nothing so direly in love, we come to notice that there is real opacity… solidity encounters in the externalizing of the risk of securities… in the dilution of intellectual property to the winds of inspiration… skating along the concept of an edge…

Cue the violins.

Errancy… the flight from the mystery of the desert to the immediacy of the plenty… solitude saturated with others most precious… this is the most pure moment will ever experience… breathe life and forget… keep moving… though there is nothing left to say in perpetually carrying on… all the same in silence…

And in the distance of the deserts… the dry rivers of America throbbing like the ancient veins of world… there was at last nowhere to run, no forward motion to hide in.  We just stood and listened to ourselves think.  Watched ourselves dance in the hazy cool eyes of Brooklyn hipsters, angel dusted indeed… all of life became foreign.

If we weren’t such lovers we’d be fly, messengers always catching the neverending wind and served on the rocks of a breath of life to the sea… chilling the mystery we’ve flown from.


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Yareah Magazine, Two New Books of Poems by Jason Greendyk

http://yareah.com/?p=1787


Saris by Jason Greendyk
Saris by Jason Greendyk
Šariš
The poems of a child’s reaching hand to brush upon foreign spaces in conception on an open plain… The vain product of an intellectual pregnancy… A profound pleasure… Persistently embrace new life!
Tango de la Materia
Poems of elegance and immediacy… An embrace of materialism, a taste of glass.

About Jason Greendyk
A thinker presenting a philosophical style of writing painting fine lines of the introspective, psychological self into broad strokes of society and culture, and subsequently vice versa, offering a spiraling conceptual tapestry that vibrates according to the whims of the light in which it is read.


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com