Plog

DecaFolio

miquaelgaio — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 09:17:36 GMT

I have just completed a major upgrade of my web portfolio! It had not been updated in 7 years (since 2001)!!! I now have a full decade of concentrated web accomplishments of nearly 100 projects to show: http://www.michaelgaio.com/portfolio The Flash splash page is also updated in hypercosmic brilliance as well: http://www.michaelgaio.com

The One Who had Made It All (the poem body before Aion)

miquaelgaio — Wed, 28 Feb 2007 10:18:43 GMT

My good friend Greg Wendt (http://wakeupdream.blogspot.com/2007/01/dawning-of-age-of-aquarius-20.html ), showed me this Kabir poem, which is interestingly remeniscent of the "Body of Aion" poem I wrote and posted here last month (see in blog below): Student, do the simple purification. You know that the seed is inside the horse-chestnut tree, And inside the seed there are blossoms of the tree, and the chestnuts, and the shade. So inside the human body there is the seed, and inside the seed there is the body again. Fire, air, earth, water, and space - if you don't want the secret one, you cannot have these either. Thinkers listen, tell me what you know of that is not in the soul? A pitcher full of water is set down on the water - Now it has water inside and water outside. We mustn't give it a name, lest silly people start talking again about the body and the soul. If you want the truth, I'll tell you the truth; Listen to the secret sound, the real sound, which is inside you. The one no one talks of speaks the secret sound to himself, And he is the one who has made it all. - Kabir

World Wide Web of Life

miquaelgaio — Wed, 28 Feb 2007 07:13:11 GMT

Crack the (Bio) DaVersity Code! See a cool Flash cartoon and map about the importance of biodiversity that I helped create in collaboration with Harvard University, the Buckminster Fuller Institute, and Free Range Graphics. http://www.daversitycode.com http://www.daversitycode.com/earthscope So interesting that we just happened to launch this on National Polar Bear day. (Also be sure to see the Species Alliance film preview: http://www.speciesalliance.org/video.php ) ~ Michael

Body of Aion

miquaelgaio — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 22:29:33 GMT

History has been her dream breath while she tossed and turned the veils in sleep. The goddess of pearls in darkness wears a necklace of falling stars. Planet bound, revolutions spun solar dust into lizard cells, chopped the gene strand into persons who do a circus of heartaches and memories: the lineage of bone, skin, and hair passing from earth to air to flames ... Forget the old future. Though the world was made of virgin poems who's figures dance now like shadow snakes upon the temple of city walls, those heart sluts are coiled with original tears ready to bless the wounds inside of you. Your hearts ride to them like stallions teeming with a thousand other pregnant horses over fragrant crests upon tomorrow: the seed relics of an ancient, thunderous stride. So moves the primal force thought wound into the womb bomb of time. Wet births splash little pains and bigger joys, an ocean of breathing fishes swimming thru each other's eyes, looking thru something like water: the liquid we drank ... We who are thirsty as all gods. We who pour our volumes of soul into the cups of little mouths. Into the eyes that behold the glistening arch of sky.

seeking Burning Man ticket -- will trade for happiness.

miquaelgaio — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 07:45:37 GMT

hello. i am seeking a Burning Man ticket. i will pay money, or trade for secrets to a life time of happiness. 415-662-2372

Language of Life

miquaelgaio — Mon, 03 Apr 2006 01:42:53 GMT

There is a certain language of life that speaks through the weave of experience only. This language has no particular syntax or rules of formulation. When it is communicated, we hear it loud and clear by a voice that appears to understand something about soul. It speaks through the openings in our hearts, and tells a story that inspires our spirits to soar. Sometimes, this language emerges through concentrated instances of phenomenological synchronicity. Other times, this language may write itself into our lives through more potent, articulated, and developed time spans of experience--where entire days, months, or even years interweave in a kind of poetic revery that can ignite our very awakening. In these types of meta-linguistic musings, symbolism becomes syntax, repetition is rhythm, meaning is measure--and ultimately, awe and wonder become punctuation marks at the end of the message delivery ... !

THERE IT IS!

miquaelgaio — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 04:15:36 GMT

i took this photo at a Cell Space party in about 2004. notice how the implied motion of the hula loop goddess perfectly matches with the dynamic physical forces of torque and self-sufficiency that are inherent in the toroid, the increadable hyper-referencial, multi-colored geometry that many speculate is at the quitessential center of centers (of which the hula hoop is a mini version of). also notice how, in the fraction of an instant that this shot was captured, the hula hoop is completely free of touching the goddess' body -- and she is free of the hoop. and yet they are each so necessary for the motions of the other. finally, notice the large rectangle of a projection screen behind her. it is square, orthangonal, and somewhat stark and rigid -- not unlike the brutish male who stands at the DJ booth beneath her. the screen appears to press one corner into her heart from the back, and pronounce through her nipple. she is so colorful, dynamic, and expressed before the backdrop of the flat, dark, and linear masculine paradigm. the really increadible thing is that -- the day of the night this photo was taken, i was attending the first day of an all weekend art workshop with Alex Grey. i had been doing sketches of multi-colored toroids, and interior torus-based vortex geometries (some of which you see in Grey's work), and was inquiring openly in class what i would mix into the geometric matrix. that night i took that single flash photo of the hooper, amongst a blazing sea of party goers and performance artists, and then realized the next day (showing the photo in class) that i had recieved an answer. the goddess. the heart of the goddess is at the center of the vortex. THERE IT IS! center yourself and then bite in! and so henceforth, this loop is rooted in another of my pre-millenium (1991) poems: Pastaierie Mystic Life was brought to you fresh, warm, and glazed: a deep-fried fritter, a doughnut for dunking. You should have kissed it then, while it was still soft, powdered by sweet perfection. But in celebration of all complete circles, desire took a mouthful, and the gaps between your teeth have made the mark of a beginning and an end. Since that crispy bite through crust, pure sweetness has sifted away with the past. Now only a dust of lesser joy remains, clinging in far corners, teasing your tongue to seek that first sublime taste. Well now you know: only a number of nibbles and this short snack is done. And like any mystery, truth lies near the center: a doughnut cannot be whole without its hole. Swallow it down like empty air, or fill it up, like the jelly in your soul.

The Heiress Reborn

miquaelgaio — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 09:05:33 GMT

Today, following fifteen years after it's original creation, I re-write my quintessential, auto-mythic poem by re-scripting, and adding two new lines to the end: The Heiress My daughter lit the wick of the sun. The sky was blind, but I saw her do it. She held the candle like a crayon. Those clouds moving along the horizon: she put them there with her fingers. They are cumulus, and full of puff. That was only my imagination. I have no daughter born, really. A princess. My kingdom for a princess. Poetry, music, and other smooth rhythms gallop like horses, unbridled over slope and plain. In pastures, ideas graze like plump heifers. Royal orchards are ripe with words like apricot, persimmon, and lime. But there is no child for the kingdom's devotion. What is the king doing confined in the dungeon? His hands are shackled. His eyes stare into the wall. Perhaps he was blinded trying to see too far, like the Cyclops who squints at the bulging sun. The king, once pregnant and waiting, births a spectral rememberance of himself, as heir to the supernova of the solar within.

Time Machine (an Orchestra of Trumpeting Ears)

miquaelgaio — Fri, 03 Mar 2006 01:39:25 GMT

don't let my ears fool you: this is a poem. when i play the piano so loud (like the finale to last night's thunderstorm), it is an inspired act of compensation for the hushed voice of my soul that was quieted by the behemoth gait of society which so rudely crossed my life path with the foot stomp of a million wandering eyes. when my finger digits tinker with the black and the white keys, i am tinkering with ying and yang spinning the ultimate paradox into a sonic vortex vehicle. sound familiar? i told you this is a poem. now i spend my spare time making this time machine that delivers the present moment to a place where lightening strikes the same soft spot a billion times in silence.

Coal Miner’s Soothsayer

miquaelgaio — Fri, 17 Jun 2005 20:57:33 GMT

Soot, patience, and the dim whirling of stars make a destiny for even you, the sole heir to all of histories sunken steam ships, tomorrow’s breaking sunshine, and from darkness, a diamond cut to the inward shape of mystery: so clear, brilliant, rare. Indestructible soul kaleidoscope. Upon the anvil, the hammering hand of fortune casts an oroborus of tergiversation, binding your lucky hand to giving all away. One sun, and even you, blazing upon a horizon of no facet: so clear, brilliant, rare. And caverns of diamonds above.