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Amber Paulen

The Unearthed and Revived

The following is an excerpt. Extracted from one of my many pieces of fragmented works, writing I poured myself into, but could not weave my way out of.

Oh, yes, my germ is more then a germ. For all the obstacles miscellaneously tossed in my way its only pure lesson has been how to live life, that is, once I have ceased getting the two confused. That is, once I have allowed them to rattle on in their natural course. It is our own individual germs and their expression which unites us as humans, teaching us how to be human. I am sitting cross legged on a slab of concrete, the beaten river far below and the sun dipping behind architectural anomalies in a halo of ricochetted orange while all the floods of herds continuously ripple by. They speak with foriegn tongues, their gestures annoy me, the maps and shopping bags they carry fill me with disgust, I believe their eyes are vacuous and their babbling pointless, I find it difficult to convince myself that there is some reason for these masses of ignorance. I draw a thick line between me and them. ‘Separate yet equal,’ someone must have been laughing themselves sick with that one. An impossiblity right from the start of which most are guilty. To erase that thick etched-in line? The germ is a good place to start. I sit wondering about those blank eyes, pairs and pairs of eyes, trying to convince myself that they too have a powerful life force within, if only they would listen. If only. Though I still glimpse their egotistical plunders, my own blindness disperses me.

Whatever the world (read humans) have accomplished up to this point does not impress me. There is more hidden behind this incessant clutter. Shelves lined with books, walls heavy with paintings, minds stuffed with ideas all growing dusty with banality. We have come to the point of utilization. The tyrants of the world know this, they are building bigger and faster bombs to keep our mouths sealed, they are creating larger urgencies out of apparent nothings, their materialism is clenching its greedy fist around the whole planet. It is not only the fools who buy into these lies, but the desperate for the old way of the world is dying fast and with it every comfort that has been falsely implied. A new global civilization is rising though waiting for America to commit its suicide. “The sooner, the better,” I say and it shouldn’t be too long now as that bastard of a puppet has been re-elected.

There always seems to be that cataract clouding the vision, seeing what angers me, focusing on destruction, wrongs and inequalities. A fatalism arises, the feeling of being chained to a predetermined sequence of events and hence out of control. This is wrong and if one stays on the chain long enough, it will be discovered onto itself, for we are never tied by anything outside of ourselves. Hope is not merely a device to encourage our survival nor a naive belief that everything will work out in the end. It is a necessary principle needed for movement and change, beginning within oneself, as it always has. Hope is individual, shared through expression, understood through art. There is poetry in everything.

Coming down from my induced flight, slowly and subtly, my head weighted with thoughts from an obscure origin. Drifting to and fro, a jelly fish hanging limp on the surface for there is no solidity, just this back and forth of what I have barely started learning. My body weightless and gliding, it is useless to push myself any further. I will get there, eventually. This the can-opener applied to my totality, no wonder some nights I wake up screaming.

Seville, Spain
January 2005


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