I promised a while back to share my repeating word-phrases in my head when they make themselves available to my grasping mind.
I've had this bouncing around my head most days for the last few weeks:
Albert Ross.
That is, as in, an Albatross. An Albatross around one's neck.
I think, constantly, An Albert Ross Around One's Neck. Sometimes I say it outloud. People look, and comment about the funny word. They don't know what I was thinking. I don't know why.
5.30.2009
Us Normals
When looking at the world I like to take a strong, contrary-Mary stance.
Wait, Hold on. The Drifters came on the stereo, Under the Board Walk. The tone has changed. I can't go on in the same vein.
Us normals. We fight the good fight, by mediocrity and the like; Against the Scummies, the Nanny-livers, the Snidely-Joes, Rich Johnnys, French Stuarts, Malcolm Middles, Teletubbies, Rubber Duckies, Snuggly Snuggles the Cleanest Bear.
The Law of Averages rules in the town, Bub.
That's silly nincompoopery if you ask me: We're all different, just like everone else.
Wait, Hold on. The Drifters came on the stereo, Under the Board Walk. The tone has changed. I can't go on in the same vein.
Us normals. We fight the good fight, by mediocrity and the like; Against the Scummies, the Nanny-livers, the Snidely-Joes, Rich Johnnys, French Stuarts, Malcolm Middles, Teletubbies, Rubber Duckies, Snuggly Snuggles the Cleanest Bear.
The Law of Averages rules in the town, Bub.
That's silly nincompoopery if you ask me: We're all different, just like everone else.
Words Like Reciprocation
Reciprocation, Words are like, turned and cyclical.
My sister told me she saw something. It was remembered by me in such a way as it went into the gross generalization category. In fact it was grossly generalized so well, that I had a difficult time even remembering which sister, in fact, had told me of aforementioned "something." This is a problem.
The line was, "Metaphors are, like, similes."
That is great. Beyond American that line is exceptionally nationalistic. Sorry, those lines are likely to be construed as strange, uncomprehendable. In fact what I mean by "American" is great. And by "exceptionally nationalistic," I mean even greater. Whole-hearted embracing of ones country as the supreme was never anything but the best idea ever.
Hole-hearted.
Now that's a good insult to tell a poet.
"Hey Poet! You've got a Hole for a Heart, by which I mean you're unfeeling despite your profession's emphasis on just that, feeling. Please don't construe my phrase hole-hearted to mean some literary depth. It not multilayer despite the multiple reading which may imply that it was over feeling that caused immense pressure to build up and consume your heart. Actually, I reverse my previous statement and now multilayer my analogy by saying your heart is in fact Black-Hole-Hearted. Consumed at once by an overabundance of emotion it collapsed on itself and is now unfeeling as well as absent. The point being, your profession by definition is self-serving and selfish. There is an unavoidable egoistism in what you do. You are a prostitute of the deepest feelings of humankind! Huzzah."
My sister told me she saw something. It was remembered by me in such a way as it went into the gross generalization category. In fact it was grossly generalized so well, that I had a difficult time even remembering which sister, in fact, had told me of aforementioned "something." This is a problem.
The line was, "Metaphors are, like, similes."
That is great. Beyond American that line is exceptionally nationalistic. Sorry, those lines are likely to be construed as strange, uncomprehendable. In fact what I mean by "American" is great. And by "exceptionally nationalistic," I mean even greater. Whole-hearted embracing of ones country as the supreme was never anything but the best idea ever.
Hole-hearted.
Now that's a good insult to tell a poet.
"Hey Poet! You've got a Hole for a Heart, by which I mean you're unfeeling despite your profession's emphasis on just that, feeling. Please don't construe my phrase hole-hearted to mean some literary depth. It not multilayer despite the multiple reading which may imply that it was over feeling that caused immense pressure to build up and consume your heart. Actually, I reverse my previous statement and now multilayer my analogy by saying your heart is in fact Black-Hole-Hearted. Consumed at once by an overabundance of emotion it collapsed on itself and is now unfeeling as well as absent. The point being, your profession by definition is self-serving and selfish. There is an unavoidable egoistism in what you do. You are a prostitute of the deepest feelings of humankind! Huzzah."
5.29.2009
When I Like
The internet is complaining.
Or The Internet is for Porn, so says Avenue Q.
But I really like driving. I don't do it very often. Tonight I took the car out, to get some Ginger Ale. It felt nice in the car, a good temperature. Ever since I had new tires put on and the alignment adjusted it feels so smooth. My car is a stick shift, I shift quickly, but I don't accelerate fast; it's the transitions that matter; the transmissions that matter; the matter that transitions.
British people were on the radio. There was some learning and some discussion of the European Union.
Or The Internet is for Porn, so says Avenue Q.
But I really like driving. I don't do it very often. Tonight I took the car out, to get some Ginger Ale. It felt nice in the car, a good temperature. Ever since I had new tires put on and the alignment adjusted it feels so smooth. My car is a stick shift, I shift quickly, but I don't accelerate fast; it's the transitions that matter; the transmissions that matter; the matter that transitions.
British people were on the radio. There was some learning and some discussion of the European Union.
Grappling with Griping
I had nothing to say and I decided, "Today there will be no discussion of anything." Then I had sparked for me a particular annoyance of mine, which I have come into greater understanding of in just the last few weeks.
I dislike the use and embracing of the terms "hippie," "patchouli," and "incense" in a way to describe a person or place. Being exposed to places like Eugene, Oregon and Santa Cruz, California these words are ubiquitous.
The voice is typically from that of an "outsider" who needs to differentiate themselves from a subculture that they do not understand. Sometimes the outsider becomes an adopter of these words, an embraces their own perception of that community. This is an even more troubling issue. Now the bastardized version of what that outside felt the terms meant has come to fruition and actually exists for others to emulate.
But my gripe is not with those being described. My gripe is with the describer. Mainly, the unoriginality of the terms. The mass generalization that groups many together. The result of these generalizations in my experience has been that the describer is wrong. While they may have an idea of a town as being liberal, or a bastion for aging 60's and 70's radicals, these people actually exist only as a small population.
So when a town, a region, or a hangout is generalized by an outsider, unwilling to examine the people and place further, or with a closer eye there is a schism created which only leads to more of the same.
I dislike the use and embracing of the terms "hippie," "patchouli," and "incense" in a way to describe a person or place. Being exposed to places like Eugene, Oregon and Santa Cruz, California these words are ubiquitous.
The voice is typically from that of an "outsider" who needs to differentiate themselves from a subculture that they do not understand. Sometimes the outsider becomes an adopter of these words, an embraces their own perception of that community. This is an even more troubling issue. Now the bastardized version of what that outside felt the terms meant has come to fruition and actually exists for others to emulate.
But my gripe is not with those being described. My gripe is with the describer. Mainly, the unoriginality of the terms. The mass generalization that groups many together. The result of these generalizations in my experience has been that the describer is wrong. While they may have an idea of a town as being liberal, or a bastion for aging 60's and 70's radicals, these people actually exist only as a small population.
So when a town, a region, or a hangout is generalized by an outsider, unwilling to examine the people and place further, or with a closer eye there is a schism created which only leads to more of the same.
5.28.2009
On Trying to Form a Bias
Cutting on the bias has something to do with diagonals. Somehow this prevents fray, and lends itself to covering seams.
I've been reading an Ayn Rand novel. This is painful to admit, having spoken poorly of the novelist for years. There is some obscure sense of bias held toward this author that I held, for no justified reason of my own.
Prove it. The novel will end at some point; Maybe. There will be thoughts perhaps. A critique even. Too much has been said already. This is an assessment of my own. To share my opinion, unnecessary.
I've been reading an Ayn Rand novel. This is painful to admit, having spoken poorly of the novelist for years. There is some obscure sense of bias held toward this author that I held, for no justified reason of my own.
Prove it. The novel will end at some point; Maybe. There will be thoughts perhaps. A critique even. Too much has been said already. This is an assessment of my own. To share my opinion, unnecessary.
5.25.2009
The Unremarkable Guest
I've always wanted to advertise myself to the major entertainment industries as the unremarkable guest.
"Please," I would ask, "Make me a guest on your program."
Our interviews would consist of little more than a summation of my parts. Who am I? What do I do? Where is my life and career going?
Would I be an incredible success, or an awkward and uncomfortable figure when placed in front of the camera. Can an average, unremarkable young man launch himself into super stardom by a simple publicity blitz?
What if I were Conan's first guest on the Late Show, or wherever he's moving to? Awkward sells, but is it calculated. Can a natural be good or better. Entertaining. Money-making. Isn't that what they want?
Perhaps the bubble is a little too off plumb.
"Please," I would ask, "Make me a guest on your program."
Our interviews would consist of little more than a summation of my parts. Who am I? What do I do? Where is my life and career going?
Would I be an incredible success, or an awkward and uncomfortable figure when placed in front of the camera. Can an average, unremarkable young man launch himself into super stardom by a simple publicity blitz?
What if I were Conan's first guest on the Late Show, or wherever he's moving to? Awkward sells, but is it calculated. Can a natural be good or better. Entertaining. Money-making. Isn't that what they want?
Perhaps the bubble is a little too off plumb.
Hot Fun with Words
In Connecticut, it would be 10 years ago. I think this is possible if the world orbited slower. Each year that passed would take somewhere around 500 days, instead of the three-six-five we're used to.
I assume that the result of this motion would be slower aging. Tonight I imagine, I would have chosen this course of action; A bike ride on the rails to trails, a drive way sweep, a car wash, and a chicken coup cleaning.
Most of these tasks are illuminated by the Big D One "O" Three. It's motown Monday night. The humidity is turning to dew. Finally there is some reprieve from the oppressive swelt. Not much though. The chickens are mouth-breathing.
The likes of The Four Tops and Diana Ross are resounding from the Sony Removable speaker boombox, of which we have two. Sunburns are likely; the days are long, but no longer than our days, now. There are more of them. We can milk the changes for all they have.
"I'm working my way back to you babe, and the happiness inside."
"Think it o-o-over."
"This magic moment, will last forever."
I assume that the result of this motion would be slower aging. Tonight I imagine, I would have chosen this course of action; A bike ride on the rails to trails, a drive way sweep, a car wash, and a chicken coup cleaning.
Most of these tasks are illuminated by the Big D One "O" Three. It's motown Monday night. The humidity is turning to dew. Finally there is some reprieve from the oppressive swelt. Not much though. The chickens are mouth-breathing.
The likes of The Four Tops and Diana Ross are resounding from the Sony Removable speaker boombox, of which we have two. Sunburns are likely; the days are long, but no longer than our days, now. There are more of them. We can milk the changes for all they have.
"I'm working my way back to you babe, and the happiness inside."
"Think it o-o-over."
"This magic moment, will last forever."
5.21.2009
Milestones Are Marked with New Found Debt
A band,
Moxy Fruvous.
What do you call them?
Canadian.
That's the simple explanation.
There was a tape,
As in,
Yes, as in a audio tape,
It some how made its way into my collection.
A grubby hand reached under the car seat,
Or maybe it was the hand made grubby
And not a car seat,
But the box beneath the Red Pickup's Bench seat.
It was there all along.
Ressurrected by me.
Passed along as a copy.
I think one side said
Sad Side
The other said
Not So Sad Side.
I'd name a band that.
In homage to the Fru.
Came 10 years too late.
And not in Canada.
I've always felt I'm probably more at home with Canadians.
I've always felt I'd probably fit better in the '80s.
Weren't they a dreadful time.
Violent movies.
Terms like "race-riots" and "race-wars."
"Womens-lib."
Isn't that term outdated before it was even uttered?
Wasn't there.
100 posts
Moxy Fruvous.
What do you call them?
Canadian.
That's the simple explanation.
There was a tape,
As in,
Yes, as in a audio tape,
It some how made its way into my collection.
A grubby hand reached under the car seat,
Or maybe it was the hand made grubby
And not a car seat,
But the box beneath the Red Pickup's Bench seat.
It was there all along.
Ressurrected by me.
Passed along as a copy.
I think one side said
Sad Side
The other said
Not So Sad Side.
I'd name a band that.
In homage to the Fru.
Came 10 years too late.
And not in Canada.
I've always felt I'm probably more at home with Canadians.
I've always felt I'd probably fit better in the '80s.
Weren't they a dreadful time.
Violent movies.
Terms like "race-riots" and "race-wars."
"Womens-lib."
Isn't that term outdated before it was even uttered?
Wasn't there.
100 posts
Hairs
I was having a slightly perverse look at my legs today. You see I made my own underwear a while back, they're working out great by the way, and I happened to have my pants off while I was eating dinner. Turns out I don't look at my legs that often. I was looking at my legs close up as I pressed the plat between my chest and my legs to create a makeshift human table.
My legs are hairy. Or to some, blurry. That's one side-effect of being a redhairing, body hair is often not detectable from a distance, but oh hey now, it's there.
The perverse aspect of my thought was in that I liked the hairs. They were comforting, despite being precipitously close to my dinner. How gross can you get a bean an cheese burrito anyway? If we count middle school as the top of the scale for eating gross things, then nothing has even come close to the upper echelons since then.
As a side note, I once ate a Swedish fish in the 7th grade. It had been on the floor for, some time.
My legs are hairy. Or to some, blurry. That's one side-effect of being a redhairing, body hair is often not detectable from a distance, but oh hey now, it's there.
The perverse aspect of my thought was in that I liked the hairs. They were comforting, despite being precipitously close to my dinner. How gross can you get a bean an cheese burrito anyway? If we count middle school as the top of the scale for eating gross things, then nothing has even come close to the upper echelons since then.
As a side note, I once ate a Swedish fish in the 7th grade. It had been on the floor for, some time.
5.20.2009
Taste the Lossed Knowledge
I just noticed that eating curbs the brains enthusiasm towards for thought.
Then I paused for 5 minutes and continued to write.
It must be something along the lines of the blood flow to the stomach.
Oh heavens.
A salad.
Annie's Mac and Cheese.
The Avocados here are spectacularly ripe.
The Tomatoes cherry.
Salad lettuce was some sort of Oak Red Leaf,
Or at least that is what the ultra hot co-op girl said it was.
Then I paused for 5 minutes and continued to write.
It must be something along the lines of the blood flow to the stomach.
Oh heavens.
A salad.
Annie's Mac and Cheese.
The Avocados here are spectacularly ripe.
The Tomatoes cherry.
Salad lettuce was some sort of Oak Red Leaf,
Or at least that is what the ultra hot co-op girl said it was.
5.18.2009
#8
1.
Having seen what I would call Brownstones
even though, they are not,
they still should be called Brownstones,
since they are Brown
and made of stone.
2.
More recently we recounted,
together,
a story I told you in the past
and told you again
more recently
3.
Even more recently I recounted,
through emphatic comma splice,
an episode of
reconcentration
about aforementioned story
that was of course about
a before mentioned story.
4.
At the time of origination
the story was told soon after.
A bridge we said,
on what would perhaps be called
"a rafter"
were it not actually a trestle
painted in 12 spaces beneath
the rails
"B E A V E R F E V E R"
5.
Prunes.
Nobody told me
That dried plums are
Prunes,
Until after I had eaten
Ten dried plums
Which
Were actually Ten Prunes.
Having seen what I would call Brownstones
even though, they are not,
they still should be called Brownstones,
since they are Brown
and made of stone.
2.
More recently we recounted,
together,
a story I told you in the past
and told you again
more recently
3.
Even more recently I recounted,
through emphatic comma splice,
an episode of
reconcentration
about aforementioned story
that was of course about
a before mentioned story.
4.
At the time of origination
the story was told soon after.
A bridge we said,
on what would perhaps be called
"a rafter"
were it not actually a trestle
painted in 12 spaces beneath
the rails
"B E A V E R F E V E R"
5.
Prunes.
Nobody told me
That dried plums are
Prunes,
Until after I had eaten
Ten dried plums
Which
Were actually Ten Prunes.
The Active Mind is a Thing; Rewind Or Spanakopita
I have two concurrent ideas. Dualism in thought and opinion. These are values of mine. I have often argued to dismissive sorts that a person has every right to hold completely contradictory opinions.
It's really simple. Sometimes there are maybe two big ways of looking at most issues. Let's say a belief in God. Well then you either do or you don't. To me saying maybe is an admission of belief, ultimately. But so how do people justify their religious upbringings with their internal beliefs if the two happen to contradict. Easy; Just believe both.
But hey, enough about religion. In fact, I'm angry that a discussion of Gord arose at all. This is about Spanakopita and how I make decisions, sometimes. This is about life and all it's frivolities, like buzz-cuts and high fives and highways and water-soccer.
During one summer during College I was working an early morning job on campus, and having run out of coffee decided to stop by a bakery near my workshop. Being the only thing open and having not had any coffee that morning, I entered in a jumble breathlessly from the speedy bicycle commute. "Hey there, what can I get for you?" or some facsimile probably was said to me as I responded in a typical New England mumble, "Just a small black coffee please." The girl behind the counter likely much more tired than me since bakeries open at ungodly hours reached into the front case and asked, "Do you want to eat that here or to go?" Having suddenly realized her misunderstanding my judgment said to not correct her and just get that dang Spanakopita towards which she gestured. At work everyone commented that it looked delicious, and wondered where I got it. I never drank coffee that morning. The coffee was irrelevant. Apparently I was eating Spanakopita.
I somehow heard about Daoism when I was young. Probably in a William Gibson book, or some other type of avant-garde, Neo-punk futuristic Sci-fi that the 12 year old mind swallows whole. Actually, it was me, I was probably more like 10 or 11. Early readers are trouble. Anyway, I've had this echo in my head from some piece of literature about "intuiting the Dao," as in a sense that we all have the capability to so thoroughly navigate an understanding of the universe that things just work out right, or at least in a way in which we percieve them to be right.
It's kind of like a pseudo kung-fu philosophy. I never really studied any martial arts, and didn't pay particular attention in my Eastern Religions class, but I caught this idea of minimal effort and efficience of movement.
I'm remembering now the Dishwasher at my old Connecticut house. Unload the dishwasher. Unload the dishwasher. Sort of a mantra when I was younger. The younger of all siblings combined. One hand would have a dish in the cupboard, the other already clutching the next, still in the dishwasher. The goal was a sort of fluid tranquility applied to sorting and stacking dishes and silverware. Silverware is harder to be fluid with, that's the truth.
The drawers would occasionally get caught on my belt loops and follow me out of the room as ever utensil known to Victorian England and Scandinavia combined clattered to the floor like the orchestrations of a John Cage score.
It's really simple. Sometimes there are maybe two big ways of looking at most issues. Let's say a belief in God. Well then you either do or you don't. To me saying maybe is an admission of belief, ultimately. But so how do people justify their religious upbringings with their internal beliefs if the two happen to contradict. Easy; Just believe both.
But hey, enough about religion. In fact, I'm angry that a discussion of Gord arose at all. This is about Spanakopita and how I make decisions, sometimes. This is about life and all it's frivolities, like buzz-cuts and high fives and highways and water-soccer.
During one summer during College I was working an early morning job on campus, and having run out of coffee decided to stop by a bakery near my workshop. Being the only thing open and having not had any coffee that morning, I entered in a jumble breathlessly from the speedy bicycle commute. "Hey there, what can I get for you?" or some facsimile probably was said to me as I responded in a typical New England mumble, "Just a small black coffee please." The girl behind the counter likely much more tired than me since bakeries open at ungodly hours reached into the front case and asked, "Do you want to eat that here or to go?" Having suddenly realized her misunderstanding my judgment said to not correct her and just get that dang Spanakopita towards which she gestured. At work everyone commented that it looked delicious, and wondered where I got it. I never drank coffee that morning. The coffee was irrelevant. Apparently I was eating Spanakopita.
I somehow heard about Daoism when I was young. Probably in a William Gibson book, or some other type of avant-garde, Neo-punk futuristic Sci-fi that the 12 year old mind swallows whole. Actually, it was me, I was probably more like 10 or 11. Early readers are trouble. Anyway, I've had this echo in my head from some piece of literature about "intuiting the Dao," as in a sense that we all have the capability to so thoroughly navigate an understanding of the universe that things just work out right, or at least in a way in which we percieve them to be right.
It's kind of like a pseudo kung-fu philosophy. I never really studied any martial arts, and didn't pay particular attention in my Eastern Religions class, but I caught this idea of minimal effort and efficience of movement.
I'm remembering now the Dishwasher at my old Connecticut house. Unload the dishwasher. Unload the dishwasher. Sort of a mantra when I was younger. The younger of all siblings combined. One hand would have a dish in the cupboard, the other already clutching the next, still in the dishwasher. The goal was a sort of fluid tranquility applied to sorting and stacking dishes and silverware. Silverware is harder to be fluid with, that's the truth.
The drawers would occasionally get caught on my belt loops and follow me out of the room as ever utensil known to Victorian England and Scandinavia combined clattered to the floor like the orchestrations of a John Cage score.
5.15.2009
If You Can't Stand The Heat, You're Me.
Holy winter babies. I hate hot weather. Summer is a bummer.
Well, to be frank. It's ok. I'm a challenge man, and 100 degree days are not challenging. They are stifling and deadly. Headaches and sunburns. These are things not easily prevented, if at all for a man of my constitution.
Now try and freeze me -It's not going to happen.
I've had stage one hypothermia. It's fine. No big deal.
But I turn into Dr. Veins when it gets this hot. I have no motivations. My brain hurts.
I chose too low a latitude. My blood is too thick. I've got the winter oil.
Well, to be frank. It's ok. I'm a challenge man, and 100 degree days are not challenging. They are stifling and deadly. Headaches and sunburns. These are things not easily prevented, if at all for a man of my constitution.
Now try and freeze me -It's not going to happen.
I've had stage one hypothermia. It's fine. No big deal.
But I turn into Dr. Veins when it gets this hot. I have no motivations. My brain hurts.
I chose too low a latitude. My blood is too thick. I've got the winter oil.
5.14.2009
Endive Held this Unjust Prejudice for Years
So, And, But.
I start bunches upon bunches of paraquips with these terms. I love it. I admit it.
What I've come to embrace today, is that I had a unattuned dislike of The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand's beast of a bollocks of a book.
But why?
And so, to the library it was.
The Lye-berry as it were.
So now I must set the record straight.
Give that book an honest chance, then make a decree. Excellent or para-execelante.
Para-execelante means bad.
I discovered in the first three pages that the first character introduced is colored with hair the same as mine. I may like this book.
Time will tale, the tale will take time.
I start bunches upon bunches of paraquips with these terms. I love it. I admit it.
What I've come to embrace today, is that I had a unattuned dislike of The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand's beast of a bollocks of a book.
But why?
And so, to the library it was.
The Lye-berry as it were.
So now I must set the record straight.
Give that book an honest chance, then make a decree. Excellent or para-execelante.
Para-execelante means bad.
I discovered in the first three pages that the first character introduced is colored with hair the same as mine. I may like this book.
Time will tale, the tale will take time.
5.13.2009
Ah, the Gretch. Oh, the Gretch. I love the Gretch.
That titulation, a veiled reference to Hair that counter-culture musical of yestermorrow, was poorly arrived at. It was a bad reference as well, if you're unfamiliar with the song "The Bed," it's the least of many much greater songs including "Age of Aquarius" and "Good Morning Starshine."
And so that brings us to our topic. The G-R-E-T-C-H.
It's a word, ein mot plus magnifaux. The explanation of the germanofranche is of course unnecessary. Spelling can be so trying.
The Gretch is of course, as far as I can tell, a word created new. It means the space between your index finger and your thumb. Specifically the space that is somewhat membranous, sometimes taut, and always webbed-like.
Even more specifically, the gretch is in reference to you. A word designed solely to describe the area between your thumb and forefinger. This is where gretch stands out among the dictionary. As far as my ludicrominous falsifactomator can tell, gretch as a second person referential noun is completely unique. Novel.
To bring this creation around I must share. Gretch is my novel. Not my novel book, but my novel word. "Why yes," I'll say to the huddled masses, "My novel has been published, but it's just not selling well."
Words these days, have lost their market value.
Pound for pound, they're going metric.
And so that brings us to our topic. The G-R-E-T-C-H.
It's a word, ein mot plus magnifaux. The explanation of the germanofranche is of course unnecessary. Spelling can be so trying.
The Gretch is of course, as far as I can tell, a word created new. It means the space between your index finger and your thumb. Specifically the space that is somewhat membranous, sometimes taut, and always webbed-like.
Even more specifically, the gretch is in reference to you. A word designed solely to describe the area between your thumb and forefinger. This is where gretch stands out among the dictionary. As far as my ludicrominous falsifactomator can tell, gretch as a second person referential noun is completely unique. Novel.
To bring this creation around I must share. Gretch is my novel. Not my novel book, but my novel word. "Why yes," I'll say to the huddled masses, "My novel has been published, but it's just not selling well."
Words these days, have lost their market value.
Pound for pound, they're going metric.
5.12.2009
Lunch for Dinner
There was an apology to be made about the last post. Unfortunately I don't believe in apologizing for things written. Actually I have no policy on that matter. In fact apology is important.
But what is odd is that nobody ever talks about lunch for dinner. I had pasta for dinner and rice balls for lunch.
I'm hyper-mediating at the minute. Watching Bones on Hulu. The only things that would make this post more technologically more topical would be a mention of Twitter and Facebook for the slower masses.
But deconstruction of these matters is essential. Just like how some claim that transparent racism is important, as in sharing and repeating just exactly what horrible things some person said. These new things might lose their power after being said aloud. Put in the open.
So maybe new media, or hypermedia won't die in the sun like a vampire or a human sperms. Maybe it will be a raisin. A raisin is a bad example, since I know of people not fond of the little dehydrates. Dried blueberries, a better example.
During my long car ride from Oregon, I went through stages of thought which i don't give much credence. The brain left unattended convinces itself that it's unchecked machinations are good ideas. It also forgets those ideas the next day, during tired run down of the road. The tired day is over now. Coherent thought comes again tomorrow.
But what is odd is that nobody ever talks about lunch for dinner. I had pasta for dinner and rice balls for lunch.
I'm hyper-mediating at the minute. Watching Bones on Hulu. The only things that would make this post more technologically more topical would be a mention of Twitter and Facebook for the slower masses.
But deconstruction of these matters is essential. Just like how some claim that transparent racism is important, as in sharing and repeating just exactly what horrible things some person said. These new things might lose their power after being said aloud. Put in the open.
So maybe new media, or hypermedia won't die in the sun like a vampire or a human sperms. Maybe it will be a raisin. A raisin is a bad example, since I know of people not fond of the little dehydrates. Dried blueberries, a better example.
During my long car ride from Oregon, I went through stages of thought which i don't give much credence. The brain left unattended convinces itself that it's unchecked machinations are good ideas. It also forgets those ideas the next day, during tired run down of the road. The tired day is over now. Coherent thought comes again tomorrow.
5.08.2009
When friends become one with...
I am frustrated by religion. That is as good a way as any to get to the point of this matter, the point of which is obfuscation. A common trend that I have experienced with religious peoples is a sense of close-mouthedness, a holding of tongues. There is an openness with their spirituality only expressed aloud when in the company of others spiritually sensitive.
My own undisguised atheism causes this wall between myself and religious friends. I used to share a sentiment occasionally about arguments in which both sides believe that they are correct. I would suggest that the problem arose from my belief that I was correct and my opponents belief that he was correct, the difference between the two sides being that I was actually the only one justified in believing in my own correctness. Now this may seem bull-headed, but at times it must necessarily be true that in an argument one side is wrong, and the other right. Some one's anger is unjustified.
But he lies that problem. My realization has slowly become the fact that people, friends will believe whatever they want spiritually. I know this, I have come to my own decisions this way, and will not be swayed by argument. I believe this to be true for most others. Yet still it would be unfair to say that when I find a friend gravitating towards religion or even spirituality, I put up a wall. I believe that they put up a wall as well. Of course most well meaning people leave you to your own beliefs. Some are aggressive in their prosthelation, which is frustration. But I find infuriating, passive imposition of belief. Discovering perhaps that a recent medical or family tragedy was prayed for by a friend or a friends church. To me, offensive even is the phrase, "You'll be in our prayers."
And so as we youngsters in our low twenties gravitate towards whatever spectrum of spiritual involvement we choose, there are consequences for everyone. There is not benign force behind spiritual involvement of our nonreligious friends. For me, the expression and open practice of spirituality is akin to placing a member of a non-christian religion in a christian church ceremony. Would we make special accommodations for our friends of different faith? Yes, indubitably we would at least be mindful of their sensitivities. But for atheists, there is at least some taste of what it feels like to be marginalized and ignored by the dominant culture. Not as if my complaining is really justified on this front, but I feel at the least this is a growing, yet untended to population.
My final issue with spirituality and religion is this inward looking behavior. Praying and meditating can both be valuable tools, but I find their principle issues to be selfishness. Even a group in which a communal spirituality is felt, i.e. holding hands in a circle for either prayer or some other ceremony, this is selfishness of a group. For me a more valuable exercise would be an admittance of our singularity, our individualism. We are not special, because there is nothing to value us besides ourselves. In that realisation we must embrace our individualism, and look outward and embrace the individualism of those around us. They exist by chance, are fleeting and for some reason we find value in them. Do I need more? No. I've never thought that Occam's razor had much worth since it is so people-centric, but I like the fact that simple is the overriding rule for the universe. It illustrates my final point; the questions we ask are wrong. Why are we here? It can be answered with a simple inversion, because we are here. If we think about the times in our experiences that questions are answered so simply that they provide no valuable information, then perhaps the question itself is valueless.
I believe there is a creative exercise, or if there isn't there should be, in which there is a leader who has no goal in mind for a story and allows the responders to create it on their own. So if the leader begins with a question like "What happened?" and the responders are only allowed to respond with statement questions like, "He got caught?" then you begin to see a story of questions created. If someone were to ask, "There is a God?" then now there is. Someone else says, "He looks like us?" I guess that's true too then. Or perhaps a non-theistic view could be expressed by someone saying "I am one with the universe?" and "I am the sound of the trees rustling on a spring day?"
I believe in very little except what I believe in.
My own undisguised atheism causes this wall between myself and religious friends. I used to share a sentiment occasionally about arguments in which both sides believe that they are correct. I would suggest that the problem arose from my belief that I was correct and my opponents belief that he was correct, the difference between the two sides being that I was actually the only one justified in believing in my own correctness. Now this may seem bull-headed, but at times it must necessarily be true that in an argument one side is wrong, and the other right. Some one's anger is unjustified.
But he lies that problem. My realization has slowly become the fact that people, friends will believe whatever they want spiritually. I know this, I have come to my own decisions this way, and will not be swayed by argument. I believe this to be true for most others. Yet still it would be unfair to say that when I find a friend gravitating towards religion or even spirituality, I put up a wall. I believe that they put up a wall as well. Of course most well meaning people leave you to your own beliefs. Some are aggressive in their prosthelation, which is frustration. But I find infuriating, passive imposition of belief. Discovering perhaps that a recent medical or family tragedy was prayed for by a friend or a friends church. To me, offensive even is the phrase, "You'll be in our prayers."
And so as we youngsters in our low twenties gravitate towards whatever spectrum of spiritual involvement we choose, there are consequences for everyone. There is not benign force behind spiritual involvement of our nonreligious friends. For me, the expression and open practice of spirituality is akin to placing a member of a non-christian religion in a christian church ceremony. Would we make special accommodations for our friends of different faith? Yes, indubitably we would at least be mindful of their sensitivities. But for atheists, there is at least some taste of what it feels like to be marginalized and ignored by the dominant culture. Not as if my complaining is really justified on this front, but I feel at the least this is a growing, yet untended to population.
My final issue with spirituality and religion is this inward looking behavior. Praying and meditating can both be valuable tools, but I find their principle issues to be selfishness. Even a group in which a communal spirituality is felt, i.e. holding hands in a circle for either prayer or some other ceremony, this is selfishness of a group. For me a more valuable exercise would be an admittance of our singularity, our individualism. We are not special, because there is nothing to value us besides ourselves. In that realisation we must embrace our individualism, and look outward and embrace the individualism of those around us. They exist by chance, are fleeting and for some reason we find value in them. Do I need more? No. I've never thought that Occam's razor had much worth since it is so people-centric, but I like the fact that simple is the overriding rule for the universe. It illustrates my final point; the questions we ask are wrong. Why are we here? It can be answered with a simple inversion, because we are here. If we think about the times in our experiences that questions are answered so simply that they provide no valuable information, then perhaps the question itself is valueless.
I believe there is a creative exercise, or if there isn't there should be, in which there is a leader who has no goal in mind for a story and allows the responders to create it on their own. So if the leader begins with a question like "What happened?" and the responders are only allowed to respond with statement questions like, "He got caught?" then you begin to see a story of questions created. If someone were to ask, "There is a God?" then now there is. Someone else says, "He looks like us?" I guess that's true too then. Or perhaps a non-theistic view could be expressed by someone saying "I am one with the universe?" and "I am the sound of the trees rustling on a spring day?"
I believe in very little except what I believe in.
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