too much of the fake life is closing in all around us
like the caress of a lover unwanted our skin recoils
but there is no escape it embalms us it sticks in layers
until we cannot distinguish anymore the perfect dream
from the destitute reality
day by day we continue to pretend that this is it
we tell ourselves that there is strength in numbers
we catalogue every meaningless moment as if in so doing
we could convince ourselves that interaction is everything
and there is nothing more
then we see for a moment a light gleaming from somewhere
we struggle we blink to understand to recognize
but the soldiers of nicety the legions of taboo
chain us down so we can only wonder what would happen
if we could escape and go on
go on to take our dream wherever it may be found
go on to disdain the judgment of a million fake people
that matter not as much as a single real person
go on to adventure into the unknown the uncharted
the last real place
03/27/2011
There is really no difference between a person with an exaggerated self-esteem and a person with a severe deficiency of self-esteem. Both originate from an obsessive infatuation with the self, and, in so doing, both elevate the self to a position of importance greater than that afforded to others, whether it be society, acquaintances, friends, family, or even loved ones that are thus held in secret contempt.
A person of true humility, true selflessness, will almost necessarily pass through life unnoticed, except it be by the deeds he performs for others, and then, these will only be remembered by those few.
A person of true humility, true selflessness, will almost necessarily pass through life unnoticed, except it be by the deeds he performs for others, and then, these will only be remembered by those few.
03/26/2011
At first I did not realize
What others seemed to know
That summers weren't forever
And life was but a show
That time is ever turning
And quickly hastes the day
When all our toil ceases
As darkness carries us away.
I was young and I recalled
A simple year ago
My play-days had felt longer
It hit me like a blow
For years beyond this moment
I raced to find a way
To learn all that I ever dreamed
Before my summer fades to gray.
What others seemed to know
That summers weren't forever
And life was but a show
That time is ever turning
And quickly hastes the day
When all our toil ceases
As darkness carries us away.
I was young and I recalled
A simple year ago
My play-days had felt longer
It hit me like a blow
For years beyond this moment
I raced to find a way
To learn all that I ever dreamed
Before my summer fades to gray.
03/25/2011
I'll tell you why I loved you.
It really is more simple than I think you could imagine.
It was not what we believed or didn't.
It was not your beauty or your happiness, though these things I admired.
It was not your interests, your character, or your dreams, though even with these things you outshone many.
It was not any of the normal things people look for.
There were moments that I looked into your eyes and saw your soul.
That was it. That was all there was to it.
I have never before and never since experienced such a thing.
I doubt I ever will.
It really is more simple than I think you could imagine.
It was not what we believed or didn't.
It was not your beauty or your happiness, though these things I admired.
It was not your interests, your character, or your dreams, though even with these things you outshone many.
It was not any of the normal things people look for.
There were moments that I looked into your eyes and saw your soul.
That was it. That was all there was to it.
I have never before and never since experienced such a thing.
I doubt I ever will.
03/23/2011
mmm... chinese take-out
it's the little things isn't it?
it always amazes me how happy good food can make me feel... for all the thought that has gone into the concept of happiness throughout the ages... by all the great philosophers... and I can feel happy just because I am putting egg foo young in my mouth and chewing it... lol
it's the little things isn't it?
it always amazes me how happy good food can make me feel... for all the thought that has gone into the concept of happiness throughout the ages... by all the great philosophers... and I can feel happy just because I am putting egg foo young in my mouth and chewing it... lol
03/22/2011
I am lost in the crowd of centuries.
We are marching onward but none can tell the way.
I catch glimpses of something, a mirage?
In the distance at times.
But for the most part my vision is obscured
By those that throng about me
Marching as I do, but without concern
As to where we go.
We are marching onward but none can tell the way.
I catch glimpses of something, a mirage?
In the distance at times.
But for the most part my vision is obscured
By those that throng about me
Marching as I do, but without concern
As to where we go.
03/21/2011
"For centuries Daedalus has represented the type of the artist-scientist: that curiously disinterested, almost diabolic human phenomenon, beyond the normal bounds of social judgment, dedicated to the morals not of his time but of his art. He is the hero of the way of thought--singlehearted, courageous, and full of faith that the truth, as he finds it, shall make us free.
And so now we may turn to him, as did Ariadne. The flax for the linen of his thread he has gathered from the fields of the human imagination. Centuries of husbandry, decades of diligent culling, the work of numerous hearts and hands, have gone into the hackling, sorting, and spinning of this tightly twisted yarn. Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world."
-The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell
And so now we may turn to him, as did Ariadne. The flax for the linen of his thread he has gathered from the fields of the human imagination. Centuries of husbandry, decades of diligent culling, the work of numerous hearts and hands, have gone into the hackling, sorting, and spinning of this tightly twisted yarn. Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world."
-The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell
03/19/2011
Response to this post by my former professor, Grant Horner, on his very interesting blog. Check it out!
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."
I've often thought about the idea of people who confess by words a religious conviction also promoting tolerance, and how absurd it truly is. On the one hand, any correctly reasoning individual should understand that it is impossible to assert one objective case while also admitting the potential validity of another. On the other, any individual who has any experience discerning the subtleties of human emotion will recognize that tolerance is but a cheap, easy, bastardized, and perverted form of a more ideal method of relation--empathy. Yet Christians, and in fact the entire religious community of the world, do not want to admit the fact that they only have two honest options: either they can entirely assert the objective, isolate themselves from the rest of society, consider any that will not join their cause as an enemy, engage in warfare to promote their dominance, and eventually either conquer or fall, in either case becoming ineffable; or, they can entirely commit to empathy, propagate their own paradigms, assimilate the paradigms of all around them, and eventually sacrifice their individuality to become a corporate entity. In my own opinion, this is a basic psychological (and perhaps spiritual) dilemma, and exists in shadow prior to the many issues that have arisen within human society to provide it with a corporeal cloak. Most humans witness this looming figure and respond with an understandable measure of cowardice, self-delusion, and outright terror. This is why they cannot permit themselves to come to an honest decision between the two, and instead must cling to the fence, even if doing so renders their actions absurd. They must constantly sway back and forth, and if they lose their balance for a moment, in a moment of excessive conviction or exceptional doubt, they must hop back upon the fence as fast as they can possibly manage.
So I suppose I agree with your assessment. Rob Bell is promoting a concept of heaven and of the divine plan that is essentially opposite of an orthodox Christian interpretation. Under an orthodox Christian interpretation, heaven is a place/thing/reality of ultimate ineffability. It is the culmination of Christian societies' separation with the rest of humanity and of their fusion with the objective concept that they assert. Heaven under this interpretation is the epitome of exclusivity, and it is no wonder, if we were to examine the issue from a psychological perspective, that John speaks of those attaining this state as being given new names. Under this paradigm, it is absolutely unthinkable that any other, any outsider, any heretic could be admitted into this holy, ineffable reality. Yet this is precisely what Rob Bell promotes as a concept of heaven, a place where all are welcome, where all are desired, where all shall find acceptance and peace, regardless. Rob Bell probably is honestly talking about heaven, but it is the heaven of a very different type of human, one that has swayed a little too far to one side of the fence, and it happens to be the wrong side for him to sway to if you're an orthodox Christian. Rob Bell believes that the future of humanity lies not in ineffability but in assimilation, even if he isn't conscious of this basic distinction. And he isn't alone:
So, only a few things left to say. Either we must commit to the fence and the delusion and absurdity we find there, or commit to integrity and the ineffability that it brings, or commit to assimilation and the loss of self that it brings, or discover a way to transcend the bounds of this apparent dilemma.
But in the meantime, what I am curious about is, which are you? A fence rider? A believer in Grant Horner's heaven? Or a believer in Rob Bell's heaven?
And why?
"The greatest trick man ever pulled was convincing himself that god exists."
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."
I've often thought about the idea of people who confess by words a religious conviction also promoting tolerance, and how absurd it truly is. On the one hand, any correctly reasoning individual should understand that it is impossible to assert one objective case while also admitting the potential validity of another. On the other, any individual who has any experience discerning the subtleties of human emotion will recognize that tolerance is but a cheap, easy, bastardized, and perverted form of a more ideal method of relation--empathy. Yet Christians, and in fact the entire religious community of the world, do not want to admit the fact that they only have two honest options: either they can entirely assert the objective, isolate themselves from the rest of society, consider any that will not join their cause as an enemy, engage in warfare to promote their dominance, and eventually either conquer or fall, in either case becoming ineffable; or, they can entirely commit to empathy, propagate their own paradigms, assimilate the paradigms of all around them, and eventually sacrifice their individuality to become a corporate entity. In my own opinion, this is a basic psychological (and perhaps spiritual) dilemma, and exists in shadow prior to the many issues that have arisen within human society to provide it with a corporeal cloak. Most humans witness this looming figure and respond with an understandable measure of cowardice, self-delusion, and outright terror. This is why they cannot permit themselves to come to an honest decision between the two, and instead must cling to the fence, even if doing so renders their actions absurd. They must constantly sway back and forth, and if they lose their balance for a moment, in a moment of excessive conviction or exceptional doubt, they must hop back upon the fence as fast as they can possibly manage.
So I suppose I agree with your assessment. Rob Bell is promoting a concept of heaven and of the divine plan that is essentially opposite of an orthodox Christian interpretation. Under an orthodox Christian interpretation, heaven is a place/thing/reality of ultimate ineffability. It is the culmination of Christian societies' separation with the rest of humanity and of their fusion with the objective concept that they assert. Heaven under this interpretation is the epitome of exclusivity, and it is no wonder, if we were to examine the issue from a psychological perspective, that John speaks of those attaining this state as being given new names. Under this paradigm, it is absolutely unthinkable that any other, any outsider, any heretic could be admitted into this holy, ineffable reality. Yet this is precisely what Rob Bell promotes as a concept of heaven, a place where all are welcome, where all are desired, where all shall find acceptance and peace, regardless. Rob Bell probably is honestly talking about heaven, but it is the heaven of a very different type of human, one that has swayed a little too far to one side of the fence, and it happens to be the wrong side for him to sway to if you're an orthodox Christian. Rob Bell believes that the future of humanity lies not in ineffability but in assimilation, even if he isn't conscious of this basic distinction. And he isn't alone:
So, only a few things left to say. Either we must commit to the fence and the delusion and absurdity we find there, or commit to integrity and the ineffability that it brings, or commit to assimilation and the loss of self that it brings, or discover a way to transcend the bounds of this apparent dilemma.
But in the meantime, what I am curious about is, which are you? A fence rider? A believer in Grant Horner's heaven? Or a believer in Rob Bell's heaven?
And why?
"The greatest trick man ever pulled was convincing himself that god exists."
03/18/2011
Just started watching a new tv show called "V" and so far it's pretty interesting. Not perfect, not as good as Fringe, but still, interesting.
03/17/2011
Wasted
I swept years like soggy leaves--
Stubborn in their clinging--
Of of my porch; I must have some
Cleanliness some,
Measure some, space of
My own some,
Means to begin anew.
It is, not yet, certainly,
Certainly not yet time
For my works to be complete.
This time, this space, this
Clean, new, uncluttered space--
This I shall not waste.
I swept years like soggy leaves--
Stubborn in their clinging--
Of of my porch; I must have some
Cleanliness some,
Measure some, space of
My own some,
Means to begin anew.
It is, not yet, certainly,
Certainly not yet time
For my works to be complete.
This time, this space, this
Clean, new, uncluttered space--
This I shall not waste.
03/16/2011
Having just read this, and the accompanying comments, I began considering the concept of artistic creation. Perhaps, I feel, it is a delicate balance, between two equally depriving extremes. We could call these two 'germination' and 'growth,' or 'internal construction' and 'external expression,' or any other such combination of terms as we might like; the point is that both are equally necessary for artistic creation to occur, but neither can overwhelm the other. If internal construction, germination, the muse begins to overwhelm the artistic process, then its successful expression in an external medium is jeopardized or even excluded altogether. If external expression, growth, the creation begins to overwhelm the artistic process, then the very expression itself suffers from a lack of inspired content and ultimately becomes an exercise not in art at all but only in a learned craft.
03/15/2011
Having just watched the movie Hannibal again, I had a thought I decided to share.
The particular aspect of the character of Hannibal Lecter that renders him so terrifying is that he is a manifestation and embodiment of a far more abstract concept--the horror of ironic fate. A few examples should suffice to elucidate this point.
Just as Macbeth's own struggle against his fate predicted of the three witches ironically resulted in his demise, or as Minos' substitution of the sacrificial bull was repaid by divine justice with his queen's conception of the Minotaur, or as Icarus and Phaëton's hubris despite the warnings of their associates resulted in their deaths, so too Renaldo Pazzi is persuaded by his own avarice, Mason Verger by his lust for vengeance, Paul Krendler by his penchant for rudeness, and Frederick Chilton by his psychological vampirism, all unto their own ironic destinies which are both preconceived and fulfilled by Lecter. Lecter's particular attention to the case of Renaldo Pazzi is of interest, as the irony in this situation is compounded both by the prior event of Francesco de'Pazzi's identical hanging and by the presence of Renaldo Pazzi at Lecter's lecture on the ancient imperative of an association between avarice and hanging, Judas Iscariot and Pier della Vigna serving as examples of the syntax. Even in situations in which Lecter's murder of another does not seem to be preceded by an ironic circumstance, Lecter often creates one following the murder, as evidenced in the cases of Benjamin Raspail, who was fed to his own board of directors, and Officer Pembry, the security guard whose corpse served in Lecter's escape to freedom. Thus, in every case, Lecter assumes, in the mantle and guise of human form and human action, that dreaded function elsewhere ascribed to witches, deities, or the cosmos itself.
The intriguing thing about Lecter's portrayal as the determinant of ironic fate is that, although his power in this regard seems limitless in the consideration of those cases in which his victims attempt to flee or overcome their fate through external actions, yet he is apparently powerless to influence the internal resolve and willpower of Clarice Starling.
At least, such is the case in the film. I shall have to read the novel at some point to compare this function of Lecter's mythos to its counterpart therein, or perhaps I should say its original form therein. I suspect it may even render his character more disturbing in a particular sense--the monster that is master even over individual will or conviction; the monster that is at once infallibly lethal and irresistibly mesmerizing.
The particular aspect of the character of Hannibal Lecter that renders him so terrifying is that he is a manifestation and embodiment of a far more abstract concept--the horror of ironic fate. A few examples should suffice to elucidate this point.
Just as Macbeth's own struggle against his fate predicted of the three witches ironically resulted in his demise, or as Minos' substitution of the sacrificial bull was repaid by divine justice with his queen's conception of the Minotaur, or as Icarus and Phaëton's hubris despite the warnings of their associates resulted in their deaths, so too Renaldo Pazzi is persuaded by his own avarice, Mason Verger by his lust for vengeance, Paul Krendler by his penchant for rudeness, and Frederick Chilton by his psychological vampirism, all unto their own ironic destinies which are both preconceived and fulfilled by Lecter. Lecter's particular attention to the case of Renaldo Pazzi is of interest, as the irony in this situation is compounded both by the prior event of Francesco de'Pazzi's identical hanging and by the presence of Renaldo Pazzi at Lecter's lecture on the ancient imperative of an association between avarice and hanging, Judas Iscariot and Pier della Vigna serving as examples of the syntax. Even in situations in which Lecter's murder of another does not seem to be preceded by an ironic circumstance, Lecter often creates one following the murder, as evidenced in the cases of Benjamin Raspail, who was fed to his own board of directors, and Officer Pembry, the security guard whose corpse served in Lecter's escape to freedom. Thus, in every case, Lecter assumes, in the mantle and guise of human form and human action, that dreaded function elsewhere ascribed to witches, deities, or the cosmos itself.
The intriguing thing about Lecter's portrayal as the determinant of ironic fate is that, although his power in this regard seems limitless in the consideration of those cases in which his victims attempt to flee or overcome their fate through external actions, yet he is apparently powerless to influence the internal resolve and willpower of Clarice Starling.
At least, such is the case in the film. I shall have to read the novel at some point to compare this function of Lecter's mythos to its counterpart therein, or perhaps I should say its original form therein. I suspect it may even render his character more disturbing in a particular sense--the monster that is master even over individual will or conviction; the monster that is at once infallibly lethal and irresistibly mesmerizing.
03/14/2011
There is an infinite expanse of unspokenness separating you and I.
You do not know my nightmares; I do not know your dreams.
We send oddly-worded letters out into the void,
And attempt to assemble a single puzzle from pieces
Stolen out of many different boxes.
I form a picture of you:
-- -- --
And you of me:
-- -- --
But we cannot say what that is.
It is perhaps, words like
interesting
aware
unique
vivid
alluring
captivating
beautiful
but
They are all just pieces,
Stolen out of many different
experiences.
You do not know my nightmares; I do not know your dreams.
We send oddly-worded letters out into the void,
And attempt to assemble a single puzzle from pieces
Stolen out of many different boxes.
I form a picture of you:
-- -- --
And you of me:
-- -- --
But we cannot say what that is.
It is perhaps, words like
interesting
aware
unique
vivid
alluring
captivating
beautiful
but
They are all just pieces,
Stolen out of many different
experiences.
03/13/2011
If my posts here are somewhat sporadic and untruthful about the dates of their posting, it is because I no longer have internet at work, thanks to an unspecified colleague of mine who was storing his/her personal files on the office computer. So, these posts are actually being written (by hand I know!) at the time noted in their titles, but I'm only getting them online when I have the opportunity at home.
This should all change soon though as I plan to finally buy a laptop, something I should have done a while ago but have been putting off.
Oh, and obviously my bosses don't know anything about live GNU's because I hacked into both the regular office computer and the management computer without so much as a hiccup. Kept them offline though. Wouldn't want to attract attention. Shhh!
This should all change soon though as I plan to finally buy a laptop, something I should have done a while ago but have been putting off.
Oh, and obviously my bosses don't know anything about live GNU's because I hacked into both the regular office computer and the management computer without so much as a hiccup. Kept them offline though. Wouldn't want to attract attention. Shhh!
03/12/2011
"Sigmund Freud stresses in his writings the passages and difficulties of the first half of the human cycle of life--those of our infancy and adolescence, when our sun is mounting toward its zenith. C.G. Jung, on the other hand, has emphasized the crises of the second portion--when, in order to advance, the shining sphere must submit to descend and disappear, at last, into the night-womb of the grave. The normal symbols of our desires and fears become converted, in this afternoon of the biography, into their opposites; for it is then no longer life but death that is the challenge. What is difficult to leave, then, is not the womb but the phallus--unless, indeed, the life-weariness has already seized the heart, when it will be death that calls with the promise of bliss that formerly was the lure of love. Full circle, from the tomb of the womb to the womb of the tomb, we come: an ambiguous, enigmatical incursion into a world of solid matter that is soon to melt from us, like the substance of a dream."
-from The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell
-from The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell
03/11/2011
Just bought an Argosy 2TB external hard drive. So far I'm really satisfied with it. It would be nice if it were USB 3.0 but other than that I have no complaints, and it goes for a great price considering everything else it can do. Currently downloading all of X-Files to it (69GB worth) which should give me something to do at work for the next few weeks.
03/08/2011
I remember a moment escalated in intensity by the dawning of a revelation, a moment transcendent into mythical experience, and frozen as such within the mind of young boy.
A tree, thin like an engorged stick, was waving violently, back and forth, back and forth, in the howl of a Gaelic-speaking storm. The wind was hands and fingers, pressing and stroking, exploratory, penetrating. Uneven drafts of rain were flung upon recoiling skin, in intermittent and unpredicted patterns. The world seemed to be searching for a means of expressing something horrible.
There was a man standing atop stone steps, calling to the wind. His pleas fell back down his throat and washed out through his eyes, never to be heard.
Thunder quaked at last, the voice of some awful deity promising justice. I knew then, as I have ever known, that death was upon us all.
A tree, thin like an engorged stick, was waving violently, back and forth, back and forth, in the howl of a Gaelic-speaking storm. The wind was hands and fingers, pressing and stroking, exploratory, penetrating. Uneven drafts of rain were flung upon recoiling skin, in intermittent and unpredicted patterns. The world seemed to be searching for a means of expressing something horrible.
There was a man standing atop stone steps, calling to the wind. His pleas fell back down his throat and washed out through his eyes, never to be heard.
Thunder quaked at last, the voice of some awful deity promising justice. I knew then, as I have ever known, that death was upon us all.
03/07/2011
We take
What we are given
And not a moment more
We follow
After the love
Is but a distant rapport
We circle round
Till we crash and burn
Upon a desert ground
We build sand castles
Armed with grudges
And fortified with apathy
We condense everything
To one phrase oft' repeated
And never intended
We drift aloft
On the wings of sin
Or such as it has been called
We justify
Feigning indignation
When actually it is relief
We go on
Pretending what we will
While we plot a war
We give
Only what we must
For we, in love, are poor.
What we are given
And not a moment more
We follow
After the love
Is but a distant rapport
We circle round
Till we crash and burn
Upon a desert ground
We build sand castles
Armed with grudges
And fortified with apathy
We condense everything
To one phrase oft' repeated
And never intended
We drift aloft
On the wings of sin
Or such as it has been called
We justify
Feigning indignation
When actually it is relief
We go on
Pretending what we will
While we plot a war
We give
Only what we must
For we, in love, are poor.
03/06/2011
Odd.
Apparently moving from LA to SA and working night shifts is a pretty popular thing to do.
All three of my coworkers who work nights at the hotel I work at all came from LA as well.
lol
Apparently moving from LA to SA and working night shifts is a pretty popular thing to do.
All three of my coworkers who work nights at the hotel I work at all came from LA as well.
lol
03/05/2011
I desire to face my enemy.
These little ants are gnawing away at the foundations of my mask,
Thinking it is my face they bring to ruin--
By subterfuge, by implication,
By slander and by silence--
These are the jaws of the ants
And, for creatures, they are strong indeed!
I desire to lift my mask,
To unearth it from its foundations,
To gaze into the eyes of the ants--
Truth is my weapon, and directness,
Poignancy and disdain the small things
That they consider great--
No ant god shall be a god over me.
No ant king shall dictate my behavior.
No and lord shall pass judgment!
Flee my wrath, tiny creatures.
I shall break apart your chains and highways.
I shall disrupt your order with but a single motion.
I shall tear down your fortresses
And scatter you to the winds!
These little ants are gnawing away at the foundations of my mask,
Thinking it is my face they bring to ruin--
By subterfuge, by implication,
By slander and by silence--
These are the jaws of the ants
And, for creatures, they are strong indeed!
I desire to lift my mask,
To unearth it from its foundations,
To gaze into the eyes of the ants--
Truth is my weapon, and directness,
Poignancy and disdain the small things
That they consider great--
No ant god shall be a god over me.
No ant king shall dictate my behavior.
No and lord shall pass judgment!
Flee my wrath, tiny creatures.
I shall break apart your chains and highways.
I shall disrupt your order with but a single motion.
I shall tear down your fortresses
And scatter you to the winds!
03/04/2011
I need empty space.
I need solitude, isolation.
I need freedom.
Too much busywork consuming my time.
Too much dealing with other people.
Too much appeasing their unprofitable needs.
Too much of a mess around me, a mess not my own.
Too much cleaning up after my roommates.
I need to escape this.
I need to formulate a perfect plan.
I need to execute it soon.
I need solitude, isolation.
I need freedom.
Too much busywork consuming my time.
Too much dealing with other people.
Too much appeasing their unprofitable needs.
Too much of a mess around me, a mess not my own.
Too much cleaning up after my roommates.
I need to escape this.
I need to formulate a perfect plan.
I need to execute it soon.
03/03/2011
Winter has passed.
It is a season of things waiting
For a time that they can live again.
It is a season of survival
In the absence of light and warmth.
Now the spring begins,
Heralded by morning birds
And green shoots.
Yet winter remains.
Within me,
Here, I know
I am in the season of winter.
My life has had its hopeful springs,
Its blissful summers, its sighing autumns,
And they have passed into memory.
Shades have come and lived with me a while.
Shadows and silhouettes have carried my name away.
My name has been carried away, into my night.
Perhaps it is their day.
A boy breathed my name as if it were a word he knew well,
A word full of connotation and experience,
A word rich with meaning and significance.
I met this boy once, I spoke to him once, he seemed
Young, and content with what he had.
What he had is something I might envy
If I still could.
Some of these shadows have spoken of me in distant lands.
I have heard their reports, carried to me on the wings of a falcon.
I hear them as if hearing of some distant memory,
Some long-forgotten falsehood,
Some magnificent lie; not as if
They had spoken of me.
I could dissect my heart.
I could say thing like "this is my sorrow"
"This is my wrath"
"This is my contempt"
"This is my hope"
"This is my will"
I could do this, but I do not.
During winter, all things huddle;
They turn inward, they implode.
They survive off the warmth of their own beating flesh.
They await spring.
It is a season of things waiting
For a time that they can live again.
It is a season of survival
In the absence of light and warmth.
Now the spring begins,
Heralded by morning birds
And green shoots.
Yet winter remains.
Within me,
Here, I know
I am in the season of winter.
My life has had its hopeful springs,
Its blissful summers, its sighing autumns,
And they have passed into memory.
Shades have come and lived with me a while.
Shadows and silhouettes have carried my name away.
My name has been carried away, into my night.
Perhaps it is their day.
A boy breathed my name as if it were a word he knew well,
A word full of connotation and experience,
A word rich with meaning and significance.
I met this boy once, I spoke to him once, he seemed
Young, and content with what he had.
What he had is something I might envy
If I still could.
Some of these shadows have spoken of me in distant lands.
I have heard their reports, carried to me on the wings of a falcon.
I hear them as if hearing of some distant memory,
Some long-forgotten falsehood,
Some magnificent lie; not as if
They had spoken of me.
I could dissect my heart.
I could say thing like "this is my sorrow"
"This is my wrath"
"This is my contempt"
"This is my hope"
"This is my will"
I could do this, but I do not.
During winter, all things huddle;
They turn inward, they implode.
They survive off the warmth of their own beating flesh.
They await spring.
03/02/2011
There was a moment that I lay on the top of a grassy hill, on my back, at night. There were no lights anywhere, and the hill was high enough that nothing was in my field of vision but the sky. I lay there and stared up at the stars, and suddenly, a strange thing happened, something I had never experienced before and never have since.
I felt as though, in that moment, I perceived the universe from a perspective that was actually accurate, in terms of scale. I was a micron gazing at the immense ALL. I could feel myself moving through the universe so slowly that time almost seemed to cease existing.
I was looking at the stars today, at the constellation Orion mostly. It is my favorite. I was wondering if anyone in the thousands of years that humanity has existed had ever felt before what I felt. If a more primitive mind could still, from that same experience, derive the interpretation that I came to, even without any knowledge of astronomy.
I felt as though, in that moment, I perceived the universe from a perspective that was actually accurate, in terms of scale. I was a micron gazing at the immense ALL. I could feel myself moving through the universe so slowly that time almost seemed to cease existing.
I was looking at the stars today, at the constellation Orion mostly. It is my favorite. I was wondering if anyone in the thousands of years that humanity has existed had ever felt before what I felt. If a more primitive mind could still, from that same experience, derive the interpretation that I came to, even without any knowledge of astronomy.
03/01/2011
"There is something slow and soothing and gradual about the word and even about the idea [of evolution]. As a matter of fact, it is not, touching these primary things, a very practical word or a very profitable idea. Nobody can imagine how nothing could turn into something. Nobody can get an inch nearer to it by explaining how something could turn into something else. It is really far more logical to start by saying 'In the beginning God created heaven and earth' even if you only mean 'In the beginning some unthinkable power began some unthinkable process.' For God is by its nature a name of mystery, and nobody ever supposed that man could imagine how a world was created any more than he could create one. But evolution really is mistaken for explanation. It has the fatal quality of leaving on many minds the impression that they do understand it and everything else; just as many of them live under a sort of illusion that they have read the Origin of Species." -Chesterton from "Everlasting Man"
Chesterton equivocates here the idea of evolution with that of the creation myth, and uses this supposition to a great extent following this statement to deride the efforts of non-Christian scientists and anthropologists. However, this equivocation is completely illogical. Evolution is not a theory of how "nothing could turn into something" at all, in fact it is almost explicit that such it not the case. If Chesterton wanted to compare two equivocal things, he should have compared the creation myth to the big bang theory. That is a theory that states not much more than "in the beginning some unthinkable power began some unthinkable process." The idea that the theory of evolution and all the valuable insight is has provided into the history of human evolution, is rendered invalid simply because it does not append to its structure any explanation of how the process it describes began--that idea--is not only ridiculous, but obviously an exercise in bigotry.
Chesterton equivocates here the idea of evolution with that of the creation myth, and uses this supposition to a great extent following this statement to deride the efforts of non-Christian scientists and anthropologists. However, this equivocation is completely illogical. Evolution is not a theory of how "nothing could turn into something" at all, in fact it is almost explicit that such it not the case. If Chesterton wanted to compare two equivocal things, he should have compared the creation myth to the big bang theory. That is a theory that states not much more than "in the beginning some unthinkable power began some unthinkable process." The idea that the theory of evolution and all the valuable insight is has provided into the history of human evolution, is rendered invalid simply because it does not append to its structure any explanation of how the process it describes began--that idea--is not only ridiculous, but obviously an exercise in bigotry.
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