Betsy Calabaza

On the shore


Wave, wave, wave

Jagged rock losing its edge over iteration

Round pearls washing ashore

Reflecting the also round moon

My cigarette also without edge

A custom started thousand of years ago

In a hut with bush leaves and shamans

Until the iteration concentrated

Into a filtered cylinder

Iterations washing ashore a round consciousness

Edges on the rise



While probable that I am wrong, while does not discount the idea that I am

I am neither less or more whether I am right or wrong

In either case I am

To be seems controversial to some, yet to be is

And continues

A change of opinion does not cease being

Being continues to be

In any instance, there is is

Is continues to be

From this it follows that semantics

Do not get in the way of metaphysics

The physical being be’s

And being is problematic



To grant trivialization,

To ignore the poor, downtrodden, intellectually incapable, mentally unwell, those in need of support, those without resource

We laugh and merry in our preference and privilege

It’s sad, and we shouldn’t laugh in their face

Behind them, we might giggle, or merely shed crocodile tears

But within, inside, this private language

Cheers all around as the toasts clink throughout the rich hall

Let’s trivialize the irrelevant and forget their sorrows

For their sorrows are not ours

Thus trivial

Their real but not important

They happen but nought for us

They lead to global warming, crimes, the degradation of our society

But we can wash our hands and gleen at their pristine nature

We’re royalty and they are trivial



While a foreseeable future a bit blurry,

Immediately made clear with some squinting

The strain on the eyes itself shows a game of sorts

In the strain we have hands that can be tipped

Play it close to the vest because

The squinting strain shows potential stress

Made less severe by our savviness

If we don’t strain, the stress don’t appear

The threats less clear, less real

We play it differently

Aloof, jovially childish

The foreseeable future is a bit blurry



Long ago, when the minuscule population meant all tribes huddled around the same fire

We told each other our ambitions and desires

Long ago greeted us now, under the same fire

All stories told for all to hear

All tribes returning to being one in the warmth

All signals must be signaled before recognizing the signal

If I misspell a word yet you arrive at the intended signal

What does it matter if the word was misspelled?

In CS Peirce’s name, amen

There is no outside text

Only what’s in a name

A signifying thing

Pointing towards a bare experience

Limited by its own depth

Explored through art

Measured by sobriety

Self awareness created but not experienced

Until it’s made one own’s taste



From afar

The immediate, undenialability of reality

Pushes against a non-resisting element

Defined by a persistent defiance

A defiance made real by an imaginary creation

Of what non-resistance should be

The immediateness becomes a piece of glass lost at sea

In angles, the interruption of the glass creates conspiracies

Behind the immediate there is intention

Intention reveals a predestinated relation between

The immediateness and the angles that create a gap

In what is already known

The conspiracy turns into a wine tasting

The interpretations swish then swash then is sput out

For the next

In the while, the immediateness does not relent

Always there

We ask if our conspiracies amount to anything

Or if there no thing that conspires others than our interpretations



Betsy Calabaza

Betsy Calabaza

blooms — crazy rants masked as abstract experimental philosophy. s/o CS Peirce