Meditation, Untrained

I let go of the moment
And my heart raced pensively
Throbbing in unison
With the uncertainty of the universe
Mastering the meditation sequence
As a metaphor of life untrained
Methodical

Silence changes hues
And the colors fill thy soul
One breath at a time
Grasping at the infinitesimal point
That encloses the great all
The eastern breathing in the belly
Was the locus of western reason
The meet
A translation of commodities
Rendezvous la verdad

For the atheist raised to the infinite
In the epiphany of the mathematical trinity
A global enlightenment
Would be the result of some apocalypse
The world's soul locking in its desire for solitude
The great escape artistry
Of some deeply reasoned errancy of a sphere

For me, I remembered the banks of Italy
And the lemon trees
Their meaning escapes me in the errancy,
All things being equal,
But their yellows were mesmerizing
The preconceived resonance
Was the vibration of a former life
Reverberating in the glitches of the present
A passion masquerading the arrhythmia
The heart of the universe is silent
But we are human
Composed of irregular patterns
Approximating formulaic enclosure
But tragically escaping
God's allowance of beauty in all His perfection

For what greater good
Would we return to the great mother's womb
In a veil of light and wisdom?
What cowardice would retreat us
To the apathy of an entropic nirvana?
Letting things slip away into their emptiness
Letting all things fall apart
In the light of some deeply desired absolute
Some great yearning for eternal closure
Contrary the perpetual transience of the universe

Give me all the suffering of the world
And I will hiss like a snake cornered
Fight the overwhelming surge of retreat
To mark just one finite point on the escape from entropy
And clutch
Cling
Grasp dear for life, dear, for LIFE
For the taste of MY humanity
Ego and all
Negate the paradox of existence
Which even emptiness could not withhold from disclosure
Which even wisdom could not bear in silence
As per the direction of the wise
Failing themselves in their intellectual pretension
In their desire for the great solitude and enclosure from the all

'Las the disclosure of your soul
Will mean nothing in the posited end
All things ephemeral
Already empty in the posited will of the future
That is, the predetermined distribution
Of its posthumous possessions
As that which does not yet exist
Nevertheless has a pejorative share in the present moment
And that which comes of that which is yet to be born
Will at consummation of its conception
Already know the deed from which it was handed down
The paper taken from the tree of life
On which its existence was written
In the mathematical codes of universal governance
Despite the uncertainty of the great mother's birthing patterns
That which had FAITH in its becoming
And with a dire grip wrought its perfect order
Out from the shifting forms of world
And doubtful semblances of idea
The master of ITS perfection
Turning from the Nothing to epiphanies of Light, undisclosed
Allowing the mystery recede in its concealment
To attend to that which shows itself
Full frontal nudity

And happily,
This is merely what it is to be ordinary
A master of life untrained


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Chorus of Horns

The silence was a movement

A grand gesture of the moon

To implant the shadows’ womb

We might hide on an eternity

We drove our inspirations to the edge of the cliff

In an eclipse of spirit

And scattered to the sea

Sinking our teeth into the anchors of watery valleys

My heart was glass in her refrain

So that each beat threatened to shatter it

Threatened to cast shadows

On the colors bathed in light

Paled in her refrain

The hesitation to embrace new life

’Las I would we emerge close to resonance

I would have our eyes tied to our manes
Us unicorns

Might we never turn our heads

On that which gives us inspiration

That which gives us birth and a name

We sat quite tense

In the chorus of horns

Moaning of the exorbitance

Consequential to indulging our attentions

In the circles of thought

Which ran bereft the straight shots of reason

Formed lines to order and temper our celebration

I had let the banks of the river give us pause

In a measure of endurance

And discovered a great pit in my gut

That had grown weary of the beautiful sadness

For all its embodiment of evil

In the caws of have nots

The financial district is quiet at night

Empty

An intellectual bankruptcy

Wherein dancing had become a dream

I dreamt of rouge and shadows

I dreamt of whirlwinds in the stars stirring of dawn

Imagine if thy life was like a hurricane

And when the great machine takes a breath

The vultures come out

Subsisting of the shadows

Only distracted into the light by lust

An apocalyptic solitude festering where waves

Of the intellect are bound

The storm had demystified the straight lines

Our course however meandering was more apparent now

We learned to hug the curves

Embrace

The white vultures at last showing themselves

Full frontal nudity

O but,

See they are always out

They just shine in the darkness

Holograms flickering of their resonance

To pay respect their commitment to the ceremony


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

The Concerto, A Manifesto

There is a concert in the graft

Movements of vehicular

Swerving to avoid the idiosyncrasies

Of the people give them motion

Curving to appease their master

I was a vagrant concepteur on the wayside

Reveling in the moment when thee would stare

Into the vast contingency of possibility

And impossibility

Of have and have not

Of life and death

’Las the Concerto had His own plan for me

Remember, I’ve stared into the abyss

I’m hung on the last thread of reason

A puppet of the spheres

And when the pit devours me

It will have a familiar taste on its tongue

That it can’t quite define

Uncanny

An ego that swelled to fill the womb of the universe

And became one

Blood and sinews sewn to the black holes of desire

Reborn to the pop culture communism of the spirit

Clutching at the stray thoughts

I work with the psychological intricacies of human experience

The dogged thoughts that roam the dark alleys of Mind

Would I take them in

Clothe them

Give them shelter and a home

Raise them to believe in the force of their spirit

Against all

And in their abstract consummation

Some great weight was lifted for no reason at all

It vanished

If it weren’t for the capitalist oppression of the spirit

I would be an artist

’Las concepts share the preference of economy

Words are cheap but hold immeasurable weight

And I am all the lighter for it


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com 

The Invisible Hope

Contemplating the post-contemporary political, religious, and artistic climate.

Street Art

A sticker reading 'The Invisible Hope' with an image of a faceless man, indicated by a suit and hat with empty space in between, and in the empty space a series of compact symbols including a Cross, Swastika, Jewish star, Communist sickle, upside down Islamic moon and star, and a kite or diamond.

The sticker is placed in several high profile locations with severe capitalistic symbolism and photographed. (See http://jasongreendyk.blogspot.com/2012/11/amongst-sins-of-freedom-parody.html)

The faceless man with a suit and hat is taken from H.G. Wells' novel, The Invisible Man. Hence 'The Invisible' in the sticker text. 'Hope' in the sticker text is taken from the popular street image from the last election depicting Obama and the word 'Hope.' Accidentally implicit in the reference to H.G. Wells' The Invisible Man, is a reference to Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man.

Ellison's novel is a statement on his disillusion with the Communist party for betraying African Americans and Marxist class politics. The identity of the narrator is an African American man who considers himself invisible due to race and class politics. However, he also considers in his invisibility there is truth and light. In H.G. Wells' novel, the main character uses his invisibility to invoke a 'Reign of Terror.' This juxtaposition between light and dark is indicative of the parody inherent in the symbolisms of the sticker.

Moving forward, the concept of invisibility, especially in terms of race, is juxtaposed with the reference to Obama, to date the epitome of racial political visibility, particularly for African Americans as relevant to Ellison's Invisible Man.

Also incorporated in this reference to Obama and H.G. Wells' instance of 'Reign of Terror.' is the conservative fears of terrorism extending from the media's depiction of Obama as Muslim, and thereby also representing the confounding of racial prejudices in conservative thought. This is further enhanced by the upside down Islamic moon and star, both the confounding and the parody of terrorist fears.

Fitting as well, then, is that the moon of the Islamic symbol is created by what also serves as the Communist sickle, thereby also parodying the conservative fears of socialism in Obama's political approach.

Going deeper on the religious front, the star of the Islamic symbol is confounded as the Jewish star. Further, extending from the cross at the near center of the piece, are lines creating a Swastika. This clear juxtaposition reaches back to the, so to speak, 'Reign of Terror' of Nazi Germany in World War II, also the time setting of Ellison's Invisible Man. These references further exacerbate the American dilettante-esque confounding of religious/racial identities in conservative prejudice, and also intensify the stark juxtapositions present in the work.

Then, embedded in all this symbolism is a symbol that could represent a kite, or a diamond. Insofar as it would be interpreted as a kite, it stems from a line of poetry, 'The cross is a kite in Bohemian skies' and is a reference to the post-contemporary artistic culture which seeks a united existence in artistic expression and is perhaps the epitome, or essence, of 'The Invisible Hope' of contemporary enlightened culture, while the work also allows for the parody of Communist tendencies in this notion of united existence.

Tainting this pure Bohemian interpretation further than a Communist parody, however, is the interpretation of the symbol as a diamond, a representation of wealth, materialism, and ultimately, capitalism. This reference is further solidified in the capitalist settings in which the sticker is placed, like Wall St. This juxtaposition itself demonstrates the difficult reality of addressing the dream of united existence, very present in the capitalism of the arts and the climate of post-contemporary culture, down to the sinews of everyday life.


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

A Letter to the President

November 15, 2010

Mr. Barack Obama

President of the United States of America

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW

Washington, DC 20500

Dear Mr. Obama,

According to a Swiss man in Prague, I, as an American, will never understand what it is to be European.  What is the secret?

I imagine the following scenario.  Perhaps Europe sees itself as the father of America, and looks upon his arrogant son with what would be the laughter of a healthy pride, except that his son has forgotten him and extends his arrogance to him and can no longer be contained condescendingly in concepts of mere youthful rebellion, as he has in fact implemented a global revolution.  And yet the father knows his youthful son is still a child, and sees his own youthful follies in him.  The father fears that the revolution stands on infirm, idealistic grounding, and that it is at this juncture beyond his son’s control, and then that it is even beyond the father’s own control on the off chance that his son were to come home for help.  There would be nothing he could do.  America is a big dog under a chair, hiding.  The son drove deep into the eye of the storm and dragged the whole world with him, but he could not adhere to his idealistic assertions and therefore was by necessity of survival compelled into betrayal and now his own children must bear this legacy, and must take the responsibility of maintaining a firm position in the eye of an erratically shifting economic and political storm, and, as alluded to, the whole world hangs in the balance. 

           

So I presume that, as well, the European can never understand what it is to be American.  The sins of the father visit the son.  Regardless, this is a musing, poetic and perhaps hyperbolic and melodramatic commentary when this is, in fact, no time for poetry.  Yet bear with me.

           

America is a child in western history, a young adult, who has ventured into foreign lands and has become homesick and disillusioned in the experience of utter nihilism.  America needs to come home to regroup, yet it appears that its home has been lost on the sprawling winds of deeply clutched desires.  Then again, perhaps this feeling of loss is simply a stubborn clutching of pride.  Nevertheless, a great sickness of cynicism overtakes the people, a sickness only capable of being alleviated by demonstrating to the people that their struggling yet still existent faith in America has been worthwhile.  Sometimes people having their faith rewarded is more valuable than the objective truth, which, from a philosophical point of view, we would be wary to place undue weight upon regardless. 

From my vantage point in the valley, I see the people hopelessly discussing a politics of which they are painfully, acutely aware they truly have little to no say in, or, for that matter, understanding of.  The perceived knowledge of this ‘objective’ ‘truth’ is morally debilitating, and suddenly, in a regarded estrangement, the people demand honesty from politicians.  It quite appears to be a last gasp. 

Bob Dylan once said, “Destiny is a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does.  The picture you have in your own mind of what you’re about will come true.  It’s a kind of thing you kind of have to keep to your own self, because it’s a fragile feeling, and you put it out there, then someone will kill it.  It’s best to keep that all inside.” That is, Mr. Obama, he who has charted his own blessed path, in the Queen’s English, hypocrisy is freedom of choice, the heart of American ideology – white lies. 

I would be arrogant to presume any political solutions to America’s predicament from my position.  I watch the sun set behind the peaks.  From your vantage point, however, where the sun only finally sets beneath the most distant visible horizons, perhaps these words can find their way home. 

                                                                                    Respectfully,

                                                                                    Jason Greendyk

                                                                                 

                                                                                    Jason Greendyk


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com 

Amongst the Sins of Freedom, Parody

The Invisible Hope


Wall Street, The Temple

The Glass Apple

Red Clouds, Liberty (Freedom) Towers

Fight Terrorism

A Paper Dances on the Wind

Tango on the Pavement

Artistic Freedom

Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com