Saturday, August 28, 2010

Diotima of Mantinea

Diotima of Mantinea

In Plato's Symposium, Socrates relates how Diotima of Mantinea, a wise woman, a seer, a mystic, a priestess, taught him the Mysteries of Eros. Socrates explains how these Mysteries shatter the philosophy of Dualism. Diotima taught him that love, and life, cannot be experienced in an either-or situation. Life is more than that. Life is the experience of Be-ing some Thing other than mortal or immortal, base or divine, physical or spirit. It is the realization of a flourishing reality that is much more than a simplistic and naively mistaken paradigm of dualities. It is the realization of the infinite possibilities between polar opposites. More than that, it is the realization that the poles can never be experienced, only the ever-blossoming spectrum of experiences between the poles. Denying the abundant realm between opposites suffocates our humanity, utterly corrupts our morals, and ultimately dooms us to failure in every endeavor.

Almost 2,500 years ago Diotima revealed to Socrates that humans live wholly between the end points on every scale, and we are still chasing shadows on the cave wall instead of living life and loving the beauty of it all.

Imagine That!

Imagine That!

What is the meaning of life
for a dog?
for a deer?
for a dandelion?

It is violence to presume
human life
has more meaning.

Imagine an alien race
that perceives
from the same arrogance
perceive other life.

Imagine being bred to
perform simple tasks
of servitude,
kept on a leash
and made to do tricks.

Imagine being managed
for our own well being,
with hunting quotas to achieve
optimum population density.

Imagine being labeled
an invasive or undesirable
and ruthlessly exterminated.

Imagine being bred and caged
to provide meat and milk,
hung up by the heels, bled out,
and slaughtered by the thousands
every day.

Imagine karma.
(PHOTO: A river of blood from a slaughterhouse)

Friday, August 27, 2010

25 Cents

25 Cents
For a quarter
I bought
The Tales & Poems Of
Edgar Allan Poe.

For a quarter
I wandered
"from grief to groan
to a golden throne".

For a quarter
I traded
a bit of metal
for endless wonder.

For a quarter
I gave up nothing
to caress the sound
the poet heard.



Sky blue pink
paint the cracks
of a new day.

Fleeting magickal moments
laden with
a silent muse
and haunting beauty.

Torn and bloodied
by the angry roar
of a combustion engine.

Endless War

Endless War

Love lies dying
while hate thrives
on greed and lust
the Muses extol
the softness
of the rose petal
beneath the hammer
of Haephestes.

Moving Away

Moving Away

Lightning flashes fill the sky
under night looming clouds
that threaten to fall.

Fog rolls in
and everything disappears,
and it strikes me:

my life is the same
as this geometry.

Never again will I look at
a yellow Penske
the same.

Little By Little

Little By Little

There's nothing we can do
to change what has been.

Too many broken dreams,
too many angry words,
too many unsaid smiles,
too many not-enoughs,
too many too-manys.

Too many to bear.

Our hearts have broken
under the burden
of nothing-to-be-done.

Nothing to be done
to change what has been
that made what is now.

Looking back it all seems
so little, so weak, so nothing,
simply a web of
minor misunderstandings.

Our love has been
trapped by spite,
bled dry by discontent,
blown away by resentment,
and left to dangle
in the wind
of selfish and petty

There's nothing left

No Option

No Option

Leaving you is
too much to bear,
but staying on is
too much to hold.

Leaving means lonely nights
of crying and wondering why,
staying means long days
of anger and shouting why.

What is this love
that is not love?

Wednesday, August 25, 2010



One day,
on my walks,
through rocky forest and ridged glens,
I was visited.

That day
my heart, was weak,
and my blood, slowed, to a sluggish crawl.
I was dying.

Each step,
took greater effort,
and though, there was no sitting place,
sit, I did.

Each thought,
came through a fog,
that grew, ever thicker, until I was lost,
for a moment.

My spirit,
cried out, in silence,
for I had, no breath, to speak,
please, not now.

Why not?
Came the questioning answer,
why not now, amid the plants, rocks, animals?
No better place.

For that,
I had, only one answer,
because I love life, and I have, not yet, lived,
enough, not yet.

I saw,
then, a flash, of black and white,
with one happy eye brown, and one, ice blue,
tail a'wagging.

Zorah Dog,
my last canine companion,
who loved life, and died, much too soon,
came to me.

Get up,
she nudged, with silent smile,
get up, and run, for a walk, with me,
around the bend.

Over there.
let's go see, what is there,
something new, is over there, get up,
let's go see.

Very old,
I felt, cracked and broken,
fragile, any second, an end and a beginning.
So I stood.

Follow me,
she danced, I took a step,
and, one became many, as I followed her ghost,
up a ridge.

And down,
to the other side,
to begin, anew, another path, ridge, glen,
and still another.

Pleasant memories,
the two of us, happy,
living exploring lives, going here, and there,
wherever we cared.

Together again,
I gained in strength,
and walked the sun down, once more, with her.
No other care.

At last,
faced with another climb,
and a parting, the sun and day, Zorah and me.
She did turn.

Happy laugh,
come, one more ridge,
let's go, one more, let's go see, one more,
always one more.

With you,
Zorah Dog, yes, one more.
And so, I struggled, the steepest climb,
and, we stood.

Breathing heavy,
breath that, just a while back,
I thought, I would never breath, never be.
I was glad.

And so,
we parted, again, for a bit,
Zorah continued on, always on, ever on.
I went back.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010


At the end of the day
the goal of life
is to be satisfied
with your decisions.

Recognize good, accept good,
enjoy good.

Time is not relevant.
The month of the year.
The week of the month.
The day of the week.
The hour of the day.

Within each moment lies eternity,
each is a miracle
no less than another.
Look for what is new
in every moment,
for no matter how short or long,
every moment is new, always and ever.

Be aware.
Recognize good.
Accept good.
Enjoy good.


Sanity is a fluid definition
depending upon the insanity
of the dominating class.

Civilizations fall when the
insanity of the ruling class
has entirely dominated
all other social classes.

We look back at these
failed civilizations
and from the fog of
our own cultural sanity
wonder how those people
could have been so crazy.

The current (in)sanity
is to amass as many
brightly colored strips of paper
as possible by converting
the natural wonder of the planet
into mountains of dangerous garbage
and pretending our workaday lives
have no direct correlation to
the mass destruction of the planet.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Silent Rage

Silent Rage

We live in a society,
a system,
that dehumanizes us
by attacking our core

amongst ourselves
relieves the frustration,
of having an enemy
that has no body
but is

The Rapist

The Rapist
The interpretation of a myth becomes an instinct
in the subconscious of the individual
and externalized in tradition, which is naught but ritual,
and through reenactment a culture is formed
that becomes the rules of the society at large
and in that way we can discern the true definition
of a specific society in the interpretations of their myths.

Modern civilizations were birthed with myths of gods and men
raping and enslaving goddesses and women
and in the fabric of these societies rape is tolerated,
albeit with token admonishment in public speeches,
and even condoned if done behind closed doors
and done to those of lesser social standing,
or to those who have been subjugated by the ring,
so much so that victims fear revealing the crimes
done to them because of the further crimes
their societies, their families and friends, will impose upon them.

Everywhere I have gone I have encountered
men who rape and men who protect the men who rape,
and women who suffer in suffocating silence,
even other women shield the men in hopes of evading
the same brutal treatment their sisters have undergone,
because even their fathers will wield the whips
of blame and ridicule against them if their silence breaks.

The culture of rape is so inbred that every religion
of patriarchy denounces sex as filthy and sinful
because the only sex they know are acts of domination,
when sex should be only the pleasure of love
and an exaltation of the sacredness of life,
so they mark the woman with the stigma of sin,
blaming her for every misfortune, real or imagined,
in a vain attempt to wash themselves of the blood
of the innocents they have tortured and murdered.

I shall be clear in what next I say, quick and to the point,
women are sacred, your mother, your sister, your friend,
your lover or a stranger, no matter who, women are sacred,
and it is men who are foul and cowardly, perverse and monstrous,
and men who beat and rob, and men who murder and war,
and men it is who must confess, and men it is to be punished,
and men, only men, must suffer the retribution of their insanity,
for all the evils inflicted upon this world are done by the hands of man.,8599,1546649,00.html,9171,1968110,00.html,9171,1952335,00.html

and more, much too much more.

The Last Unicorn

The Last Unicorn
Beauty defeats pointlessness.
Real beauty, not that inane pop culture dementia,
that insanity that captures and enslaves beauty,
cages it, chains it, numbs it, dumbs it, domesticates it,
in order to fend off our own pointless existence.
We are so frightened of life that we daren't
speak truly of death to one another.

But because we rarely find real beauty
in our insectoid mad, civilized society.
We fool ourselves with illusory beauty
that has less substance than shadows,
and that fuels our insatiable need for more,
ever more because the ache never leaves,
and we never forget the crimes we commit,
but in our cowardice we refuse, we deny
until the blood of the last unicorn, still denied,
runs cold in pools of lost chances, we deny
to the end of it all when it at last is pointless
to realize, apologize, and cry . . . real tears.

For only real beauty satisfies the heart,
and that beauty can only come from within,
and the only way to go within ourselves is
to commune with the universe without.


Those who walk within a circle of light
cannot see out.

Those who walk in the darkness outside the light
can see everywhere.


the unstoppable uncompromising storm
is as much a necessary part of change
as the calm scented breeze of idealistic paradise

Night Walk

Night Walk

starlight on a black loneliness
glimmers of idea and footstep echoes
soft scents of proclamations in the night
black cat loping through wavering shadows
hugging the golden light of torches
fixed to street corner temple poles
between sanctuary of the open heart
and the prison chaos of human reason

Philosophical Rebellion

Philosophical Rebellion
Ideas marched out
great philosophy of the ages
crazy ideas from the fringe
and ramblings
of dreams and nightmares
for the firing squad
at the local laundromat
with the Laundry Lady
eighty years young
with socks older than me
that don't have
as many holes
as I do.

Saturday, August 21, 2010


Crow is the Keeper of the Sacred Law.
Crow bestows a very powerful responsibility.
Personal integrity is uppermost.
Truth to Self is life's guide.
Crow is always on a mission.

Crow is always mindful.
Crow is always aware.
Crow is always realizing.
Crow walks the talk,
and speaks the truth,

Crow is an omen of Change.
Crow lives in the void and has no sense of time,
Crow sees past, present and future simultaneously,
Crow sees Reality.
Crow knows light and dark,
inner and outer,
good and evil,
all dualities,
splits them into Many
and merges them all to become
as the Rainbow
in all its uncountable colors
is One.
Crow is the totem of the Great Mystery.

Crow is the symbol of spiritual strength.
Crow manifests the magick of Life
through the mystery of Death.
Crow is a messenger.
Crow speaks of illusion,
Crow speaks of reality,
Crow speaks of pain,
Crow speaks of love,
Crow speaks of creation,
Crow speaks of destruction,
Crow speaks of magick,
Crow speaks of relativity,
Crow speaks of continuity,
Crow speaks of community,
Crow speaks of The Pattern,
the Web, the Spiral, the Labyrinth,
the Past, the Present, the Future,
all One,
all The Unending Spiral
which is Never and Now and Always.

Crow is vigilant.
Crow is a guardian.
Crow watches over us.
Crow sees what is hidden.
Crow warns of danger.
Crow tells us when it is safe.
Crow announces time to play.

Crow is Trickster,
always turning our wrong-headed plans upside down.
Crow teaches by making a joke of what we think is serious,
by taking away what we think we own.
Crow is the Fool who is Wise.

Crow is adaptable to any situation.
Crow is surrounded by the magic of the Universe.
Crow is free.

Hey, Is That You?

This post I originally found on the Anti-Civ Library on the Web. That site has disappeared. However, I recently found it again on the Animal Liberation Front site, in their ezine "Memories Of Freedom".

What we do to our relatives is abominable. The humans who do this to animals will do this to humans, if given the chance. The soul of these vivisectionists is shriveled, wasted away, barren and polluted. This lament is not just for coyotes, but for all of us. I give it to you, from one Trickster to Another.

Hey, Is That You?
Hey, is that you? Sitting there on the hill? Watching us tonight?
Have you come to let us out of here? We’ve been waiting for you.
Crying every night.
Trying to tell you, hoping you would come.
Have you heard . . . what they are doing to us in here?
Listen, 140 coyote people crying in distress.
Each with their own story
of separation, pain, torture and death.
Listen, they are trying to tell you, enough to break your heart.
All true.
Brother. You got to let us out of here.
Warrior, listen in case you’re questioning your next move.
They starve us in here, then tempt us with sheep,
radioactive poison sheep.
And they watch us die.
Feeding our pain into a computer to study.
Sister-warrior listen, in case you are unsure.
They mate us to have pups,
then steal them,
maim them,
poison them,
we never see them again.
Only sometimes we hear them, only children.
They cut us open, take our wombs, poison us,
see if we can still have pups,
then watch us die.
And when they are done with us,
they dump our bodies by the ton,
in mass toxic grave.
Lightning-womyn sister of mine, let us out.
Thunder-man brother, pay them back.
We are Coyote, and our Medicine is strong, even now.
You and I, we are the same.
You Coyote Warrior, we Coyote.
Spirit healers.
It is our way, always wild, never die.
Morning has come and you are leaving,
our hearts are sad,
and we cry to you.
But we listen to your promise to return.
Hey its you again! You are back!
This time you stand tall, proud,
brave hearts forward as you walk the road.
Not come to watch. To act!
We see you there, cutting fence with your tools.
Coming closer, we sing, coyotes in distress, coyotes excited.
We are sick, and our tribes broken, but tonight some will go free.
We howl. One heart together with you, to give strength to our weak,
love to the ones left behind, hearts break, crying in sorrow.
Run Coyote.
Head to the hills.
Run and be free.
Be Coyote again.
Do not look back.
We hear your warrior cries, you are strong,
and use our Medicine well.
You take heart from us, and we from you.
Still there are some that are our sisters, brothers,
all star soldiers.
Maybe we will make it . . . at least some.
Coyote Warriors where are you tonight?
Today we watched the laboratory burn.
The one where our torturers hide.
We watched the flames as the sun came up,
danced and sang like Coyote again.
Now we must run, and so must you.
But forever, our hearts shall be as one.
Hey Coyote Warriors! Where are you?
We’ve been looking for you.
We need you.
We wait for you in the deserts, mountains, plains,
our home.
You Coyote Warriors belong here too.
Born to the humans, still living among them
in their crazy cities.
The time for you to leave is now. Come home.
There is much to be done.
Many of our wild ones still imprisoned, remember?
Being tortured, killed, destroyed. We never forget.
Yours is to fight, this fight dog soldier.
Keep our wild spirits alive!
Sacred hoop strong, it was never broken.
And your home is here, among us,
your wild sisters and brothers.
We have much to teach you, remind you of our power.
Come home Coyote Warriors. It is time
to reweave the web, the tribe to each other,
all to the Earth Mother.
Build your fires,
and there we will sing to you
Tell you of the days long ago,
when we were all one.
Coyote medicine is your strength.
The earth spirits are strong, and are poised to help you . . .
if you listen.
Warrior societies, your time is now.
Find each other. Come back home.
You should only be among the enemy to raid.
All you warriors, keepers of the dream,
do not let them have you.
Do not go down.
What makes you think you do not have to hide?
We must.
We have Coyote Medicine to help you stay free.
Remember what it is like to live.
Wild. Proud. Together. Free.
Prepare earth warriors.
Trickster is coming.

Monday, August 16, 2010

What Is And What Is Not

What Is And What Is Not
What is sacred to you?
Is it the giggle of an infant?
Is it a mother's reassuring kiss?
Is it the spark of dawn's first light?
Is it the dying ember of Sol's last light?
Is it the sight of Luna protecting the night?

And if these be sacred then what about
the stars in abundance without a moon?
the stormy times that make night of day?
the quiet sleep of mother and child?
the cry of an infant at the passing of a shadow?

All yes, and then I ask, what about
a walk close to home in the woods with birds?
the flight of a butterfly across a wide river?
flowers that surprise unexpectedly around a bend?

Then why, I ask, do we hunt so fiercely
for profit of money from blood and death?
for numbers uncountable in dollars in banks?

And why, I cry,
do we rape Mother Earth for the game of gold?

So now I ask, is anything, to you, a blasphemy?

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Do You Know?

Do You Know?

Do you know where you live?
Do you know where you walk?
Do you know where you sit?
Do you know where you sleep?
Do you know where you eat?
Do you know where you drink?
Do you know where you love?

Do you know the dirt under your feet?
Do you know the air around your head?
Do you know the trees at your back?
Do you know the sun on your belly?

Do you know your neighbors, the birds?
Do you know your neighbors, the mammals?
Do you know your neighbors, the marsupials?
Do you know your neighbors, the reptiles?
Do you know your neighbors, the amphibians?
Do you know your neighbors, the fish?
Do you know your neighbors, the crustaceans?
Do you know your neighbors, the mollusks?
Do you know your neighbors, the insects?
Do you know your neighbors, the arachnids?
Do you know your neighbors, the trees?
Do you know your neighbors, the shrubs?
Do you know your neighbors, the grasses?
Do you know your neighbors, the flowers?
Do you know your neighbors, the fungi?
Do you know your neighbors, the protista?
Do you know your neighbors, the chromista?
Do you know your neighbors, the bacteria?
Do you know your neighbors, the archaea?
Do you know your neighbors, the cnidaria?
Do you know your neighbors, the viruses?
Do you know your neighbors, the crystals?
Do you know your neighbors, the sedimentarys?
Do you know your neighbors, the metamorphics?
Do you know your neighbors, the gases?

Do you know the rivers? the streams? the creeks?
Do you know the rivulets?
Do you know the lakes? the ponds? the pools?
Do you know the puddles?
Do you know the rain? the mist? the fog?
Do you know the dew?
Do you know the arroyos? the washes? the gulches?
Do you know the gulleys?

Do you know the mountains? the hills? the ridges?
Do you know the slopes?
Do you know the gorges? the ravines? the crevasses?
Do you know the hollows?
Do you know the dales, the dells, the glens?
Do you know the dingles?
Do you know the plains? the meadows? the glades?
Do you know clearings?
Do you know the swales? the marshes? the swamps?
Do you know the bogs?

Do you know the weather? the clouds? the winds?
Do you know the storms?

Do you know the stars? the planets? the moons?
Do you know the meteors?

Or do you know only the number of a building on a street in a settlement?

Do you know the sitting rock by the shady tree?
Down by the creek over the ridge past the glen?
Where you can see the stars at night?
Near where the crows roost?
That is where I will be.
Come and talk to me.

The BP Oil Spill Never Happened

The BP Oil Spill Never Happened

Was there an oil spill, around Earth Day this year? Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Actually, I think it never happened. I think we are all sitting around a fire in the woods, entranced by the choreography of flames, and consequently we had a collective vision of being raped and dismembered. The oil spill and its related disasters are all metaphors for human brutality, I suppose.

Was there really an oil spill? Or did my water break and did I give birth to a dead baby? She felt like a giant, bloody, ice cube sliding out of my body who melted away into clumpy ravines as she sobbed down my thighs. Oh right, that never happened, either. The oil spill and the still birth were both nightmares. I must have been under a lot of stress that week.

No. No. It’s true.

We’ve almost shot Mother dead and I’m not sure she will recover. The oil spill did happen, despite my denial.

When I have braved peeking at photos of oil-soaked animals, dead and alive, I sob. What have we done?

What have we done?

What have we done?

What have we done?

I can’t handle this. I feel like I am holding Mother’s hand as she struggles to

Photo Credit: Deep Water Horizon Response

breathe, her lungs pop up like little bursting buttons. I feel like my heart is about to shoot out of my chest like a flurry of F-sharps from a tenor sax as terror engulfs me because a man is about to force himself into me. I feel like I am choking on my own vomit as I wake up from a season of drunken avoidance. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle this.

Sea turtles were burned alive.

About 50 per cent of our bodies is water; cells and billions of subatomic particles swim within us, just like sea life swim in Mother’s oceans. What if your heart were burned alive like the sea turtles? What if someone pried open our mouths to pour millions of gallons of gasoline inside, causing us to suffocate from the evil batter that pushes us down like cinder blocks to the bottom of the Gulf?

Most of us are sorry, I believe — sorry that we have been so terrible to Mother, been so terrible to each other. Mother will live on after we are gone, but we cannot live without her, needless to say.

Photo Credit: The Sierra Club

There are several things that we can do in response to the spill. I cry over spilled cow’s milk and Mother’s milk (oil). I think crying is important. I cry real tears and through paintings, songs, and other art forms. This is how I express myself the best. But it’s not only self-indulgent and self-soothing. The arts are a form of communication to the masses and communication creates awareness and helps others get in touch with their feelings. This is why my arts group, the Tryst Collective, is hosting a one-night event next month (date TBD) about the NYC’s creative community’s response to the spill. Please see the Call for Entries and Musicians for more information if you are interested in participating or attending.

I also encourage getting directly involved with oil spill cleanup. There are a variety of things that we each can do, including donating and advocacy work. Here are two helpful links, both chock full of information:

(c) Jessica Rowshandel, 2010

Friday, August 13, 2010

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Do You Remember?

Do You Remember?

Do you remember what it is to
a human being?

When you push away
. . . your work
. . . your games
. . . your friends
. . . your pets
. . . your family
. . . your enemies
. . . your hopes
. . . your worries
. . . your dreams
. . . your illusions
. . . your cares
. . . your wants
. . . your fears
. . . your desires
. . . your politics
. . . your religion
. . . your laws
. . . your rules
. . . your oaths
. . . your promises
Do you remember?

When you push away
. . . your numbers
. . . your stories
. . . your traditions
. . . your customs
. . . your music
. . . your noise
. . . your trainings
. . . your studies
. . . your events
. . . your compromises
. . . your denials
. . . your prejudices
. . . your inclinations
. . . your notions
. . . your tattoos
. . . your piercings
. . . your trimmings
Do you remember?

When you push away
. . . all the tools
. . . all the machines
. . . all the computers
. . . all the televisions
. . . all the radios
. . . all the contraptions
. . . all the objects
. . . all the houses
. . . all the streets
. . . all the cities
. . . all the cars
. . . all the planes
. . . all the trains
. . . all the cycles
. . . all the wagons
. . . all the boxes
Do you remember?

When you push away
. . . all the money
. . . all the gems
. . . all the silver
. . . all the gold
. . . all the copper
. . . all the iron
. . . all the metal
. . . all the wood
. . . all the stone
. . . all the trinkets
Do you remember?

When you push away
. . . all the fire
. . . all the oil
. . . all the gas
. . . all the coal
. . . all the fuel
. . . all the electricity
Do you remember?

When you push away
every thing
. . .
and stare out into the abyss
. . .
do you remember who you are?
Do you remember what it means
to be
a human being?
. . .
Or are you lost?

Friday, August 06, 2010

What's In A Name?

What's In A Name?

"Have I not in my power to become what I choose? Is there any reason why I should not rather make an effort to gain a respectable livelihood for myself than live in a degrading state of dependence? What is it to me that my ancestors could boast of noble blood? Shall I spend a life of poverty for fear of contaminating their dignity? Would not such meanness be a much greater contamination? Is not honour, virtue, independence the only real dignity? Oh yes, it must be so. I will seek a nobility which monarchs cannot give and which the proudest amongst them shall be taught to respect." -- the character of Edward Mortimer, from Emma Mortimer: A Moral Tale, by Mary Hughs, 1829

Thursday, August 05, 2010

Nine Touchstones

Nine Touchstones
by Carol P. Christ, "Rebirth of the Goddess"

Nurture life.
Walk in love and beauty.
Trust the knowledge that comes through the body.
Speak the truth about conflict, pain, and suffering.
Take only what you need.
Think about the consequences of your actions for seven generations.
Approach the taking of life with great restraint.
Practice great generosity.
Repair the web of life.

Monday, August 02, 2010

Why Capitalism is a Failed Philosophy

Why Capitalism is a Failed Philosophy
Why Objectivism is Insane
Capitalism is based wholly upon materialism. Materialism constructs a reality based wholly upon physical objects. Objects do not have experiences. All living beings have experiences. Experiences are constructed from feelings. Feelings cannot be analyzed using materialist or objectivist language because feelings do not originate from physical objects.

Attempts to define emotions as chemical reactions within a living being cannot determine the originating force that caused the reaction. All they can do is describe the physical reaction caused by the emotion. The emotion itself is undefinable using materialistic language.

Define love. Define pain. Define anger. Define happiness. Define reality without emotion.

All materialist philosophies and sciences, including all forms of mathematics, deny the reality of life. Without emotion there is no sanity. The brain is not the mind just as the body is not the person.

Emotion is the originator of all thought. Emotion is the originator of all creation. Emotion is the universal language. Emotion is unspeakable. Emotion is an action. Emotion is the primary act.

Love is a kiss. Pain is a tear. Anger is a snarl. Happiness is a smile. Reality is experience.