matches wasn't going to buy a bonsai cherry blossom tree, because they only flourish for like one month a year, and how silly would that be? but then he realized that these dark red trees (which he likes) happen to sit in precisely the same places that he remembers there being cherry blossoms four months ago. it gradually begins to dawn upon him that they are, in fact, the same trees.
the dog sitting in front of antimatter is large and black, a lab. he seems to be doing alright, though pining now and again for his 'master', who presumably resides somewhere behind m in coffee time's cavernous indoor seating section. the dog seems to be content, aside from having to inhale all the clove smoke coming from the teenagers over yonder (matches feels your pain, black lab). and every time m looks at this dog in particular, it snaps its head to meet his gaze, as if it were somehow attuned to his mind's prerogatives. it watched the girl in the green dress as well. but mostly this paragraph is to say, that this dog is a little downtrodden since its master, the constant which channels meaning and empowerment into said pooch's life, is tragically absent. the dog sits chained, waiting, waiting. he interacts with other people, minimally, because they happen across his way and pet him, or make noises, or what have you. but he is tethered to the person inside the cafe, and is dissatisfied in the absence.
mattress wonders, if he made a hasty and surreptitious exit with this dog in tow, if the owner would notice. would the dog be happy for the companionship, if he took it home and called it his own? would the dog become eventually as content with m as with the previous, or would it always feel that something was lacking, some intangible in the back of its mind? it looks expectantly at everyone who passes. it just wants comfort, companionship. probably food as well. let's assume the dog is not presently hungry.
m is technically in the market for a dog, since he has decided that he wants to get one whenever he moves out of the apartment he is currently in, and hey, maybe even before then. but this question has come up, of how one chooses a dog. is it like transformers, where the car salesman indicates that the car chooses the person, not the other way around? there are so many differences, so many separate personalities; anything living is not so malleable as we might think. companions intertwine with one another; they become something unified in some shared ghost-space between them. a flickering of understandings and impasses. his dog will determine also his personality, in an as-of-yet undetermined capacity. he imagines, though, that it could potentially be a large one. isn't that a tricky thing to just toss a dart at? he guesses that sometimes, in the moment, one must just trust to one's caprices....but he has always been a somewhat cautious thinker~
would any dog be just as likely to form as strong a bond with him as possible? certainly not. choosing a dog is almost like a whole 'nother relationship process. he guesses that it comes down to a question, of how one soul speaks to another. in some instances you simply must trust to that first impression, that incredibly-barriered and yet somehow also completely defenseless moment of 'hello'. how does one puzzle piece fit with another? can we feel the merging and mending of those ridges, somehow, instantaneously? or is that a lifelong process? do we somehow know, and then only later find out the how?
how much of life do we actually have control over, anyway?
apparat - 'you don't know me'
July 16, 2008
July 15, 2008
undertow
weekends come and weekends go
would that they could slow their mo
troll dallyingly, and produce that growth
which week work feigns but never knows
would that they could slow their mo
troll dallyingly, and produce that growth
which week work feigns but never knows
July 6, 2008
independence days
a delightful set of days; good memories though perhaps not much has been 'accomplished'. friday consisted of an afternoon drive to vancouver, to acquire some fireworks of illegal proportions. it was a successful venture, but also an experience to be had....a veritable mall of fireworks stands and tents, all along one singular stretch of land, but with heated competition sparking left and right. the advertisements were circus-esque. the hired goons on the side of the road, twirling signs with names, confusing arrows, and vague promises of discounts. and this was actually a ferocious bunch; not the sorts of people whom one would want to encounter in a dark alley. they cursed at each other and made hostile gestures, trying to rope in the most sales to their respective stands, and screamed imperatives to the customers rambling down the dirt road in automobiles. when we arrived at the decided-upon stand (dr. seuss hats were the deciding factor), we unsaddled and made our way towards what was soon to be described to us as "a short line". a rather conspiratorial and misleading term. people were exiting the other side with large boxes. everyone had large boxes. matches thought to himself, what, do they have bikini-clad saleswomen touting the explosives?....but no, not the case. they just had an arsenal that would probably rival the militant forces of third-world countries, is what they had inside that tent.
so, made some obligatory purchases and enthralled the masses later on that evening with quite a display of harnessed elemental force. very much surprised, actually, that the cops did not swarm us, considering that we were blatantly firing illegal varieties of explosions over one of the more major intersections in southeast portland~ m guesses they must have had their hands full with drunk drivers or something of the sort. either way, it turned out to be the most active sort of day, if going from state-to-state, attending three barbecues, dismantling the darkness with bright colors, and enjoying the down-home old-timey musical stylings of a large group of banjo, washboard, mandolin, guitar, violin, and cello players can be considered active. upon arriving home exhausted but exhilarated, the both terrible and fantastic decision to watch the extended fellowship of the ring was put into motion.
it is a thing of extreme value to know many different people, all of varying personalities and temperaments. it does tax one's energy and time, now and again....but good company is, as of this point in antimatter's life, one of the most important and wonderful things he has known to exist. an observation: it is intoxicating to be a focii; one of the dynamic personalities which brings a crowd together and to which they entrust their energies. everyone has had, previously or currently in their lives, times when the dominant social instinct has caused them, their own unspun energies, to wilt like a wallflower. of course this would still happen in situations where one has no previous context....but what is interesting is the growing courage of older, wiser age; the heightened sense of being and validity. m can make his own context out of an uncontextualized situation, which is new as of the past, say, seven years, in a slowly skyward and flourishing flora form. this is exciting, this not bending to the wills of powerful personalities, this stasis and equilibrium of self that, instead of becoming defeated, deflated...instead becomes expectant, quickens and becomes vibrant. the mind is no longer a sponge, soggy and sloth-like when full....it is a battery, charged with current and direct, purposeful; yet playful, unpredictable.
"there is nothing we need to do in order to be ourselves."
so, made some obligatory purchases and enthralled the masses later on that evening with quite a display of harnessed elemental force. very much surprised, actually, that the cops did not swarm us, considering that we were blatantly firing illegal varieties of explosions over one of the more major intersections in southeast portland~ m guesses they must have had their hands full with drunk drivers or something of the sort. either way, it turned out to be the most active sort of day, if going from state-to-state, attending three barbecues, dismantling the darkness with bright colors, and enjoying the down-home old-timey musical stylings of a large group of banjo, washboard, mandolin, guitar, violin, and cello players can be considered active. upon arriving home exhausted but exhilarated, the both terrible and fantastic decision to watch the extended fellowship of the ring was put into motion.
it is a thing of extreme value to know many different people, all of varying personalities and temperaments. it does tax one's energy and time, now and again....but good company is, as of this point in antimatter's life, one of the most important and wonderful things he has known to exist. an observation: it is intoxicating to be a focii; one of the dynamic personalities which brings a crowd together and to which they entrust their energies. everyone has had, previously or currently in their lives, times when the dominant social instinct has caused them, their own unspun energies, to wilt like a wallflower. of course this would still happen in situations where one has no previous context....but what is interesting is the growing courage of older, wiser age; the heightened sense of being and validity. m can make his own context out of an uncontextualized situation, which is new as of the past, say, seven years, in a slowly skyward and flourishing flora form. this is exciting, this not bending to the wills of powerful personalities, this stasis and equilibrium of self that, instead of becoming defeated, deflated...instead becomes expectant, quickens and becomes vibrant. the mind is no longer a sponge, soggy and sloth-like when full....it is a battery, charged with current and direct, purposeful; yet playful, unpredictable.
"there is nothing we need to do in order to be ourselves."
July 2, 2008
time is relative
what is something, when it's in your heart and not your eyes? when those are elsewhere?
anyway.
mattress needs to work on developing thoughts, instead of just grabbing at those which may happen to pass by in the moment. he had a long bout of actual thought-development last night while lying in bed, and perhaps it is easier than one would think to pursue an individual line, to be baited and caught, instead of dabbling around with all the floating particulate matter which obeys the volatile currents. there is this sense that pursuance is difficult; that it necessitates training your mind not to wander, and to fight its way through struggles as they appear, instead of dodging them until it becomes absolutely necessary to tussle. but perhaps this isn't training, so much as it is a force of habit to look the other way.
is it necessarily 'training', to gain a perspective which allows you to forge your way through situations, instead of bending to allow them to pass? m deals every day with his own phalanx of problems, neuroses, and annoyances....we all do. these things we have come to consider as standard fare and are almost expectant to encounter so that we can move on to greener greens *hem*. but at a certain point we draw the line, whether from lack of personal obligation, tiredness, depression....what have you. we flail wildly at the world, so that it keeps its distance from our personal bubble. we will not admit responsibility for the sorts of problems and ponderances which truly bury themselves and burn in the spirit of humanity. instead we occupy our minds otherwise, feign an air of nonchalance, and stave them off to further reaches of the future.
hm. no battery.
and, back, days later. if the ubermensch were to exist in pure form, there would be no dodges, no spins - he would tackle head on. the only way to maintain the momentum of mental industry, ultimately, seems like it is to deal with something as it is dealt to you. in small portions, these things do not seem to add up...certainly it is easier to focus on a task by ignoring all the tangents that your brain will slide in front of your eyes. but how genuine is our committal to the task, if it is so easily assailed by interruption? isn't that a sign that something is off? sometimes things start to stack up, and then one feels guilty when they just want to have a moment of peace with no priorities. additionally, the mathematics of mental images are more tricky than one would at first surmise. it's the old adage of pulling on a string, until the whole thing uncoils - everything in the mind is linked, and you never know how deep the rabbit hole will go until you actually devote some time to spelunking it~ it is a good thing to map out one's territory, and make a laundry list of things which need to be mulled over in more heightened and attentive detail. if nothing else, it generates a surge of validation and euphoria just to cross something off, and be done with it. if only life were ever just that simple.
anyway.
mattress needs to work on developing thoughts, instead of just grabbing at those which may happen to pass by in the moment. he had a long bout of actual thought-development last night while lying in bed, and perhaps it is easier than one would think to pursue an individual line, to be baited and caught, instead of dabbling around with all the floating particulate matter which obeys the volatile currents. there is this sense that pursuance is difficult; that it necessitates training your mind not to wander, and to fight its way through struggles as they appear, instead of dodging them until it becomes absolutely necessary to tussle. but perhaps this isn't training, so much as it is a force of habit to look the other way.
is it necessarily 'training', to gain a perspective which allows you to forge your way through situations, instead of bending to allow them to pass? m deals every day with his own phalanx of problems, neuroses, and annoyances....we all do. these things we have come to consider as standard fare and are almost expectant to encounter so that we can move on to greener greens *hem*. but at a certain point we draw the line, whether from lack of personal obligation, tiredness, depression....what have you. we flail wildly at the world, so that it keeps its distance from our personal bubble. we will not admit responsibility for the sorts of problems and ponderances which truly bury themselves and burn in the spirit of humanity. instead we occupy our minds otherwise, feign an air of nonchalance, and stave them off to further reaches of the future.
hm. no battery.
and, back, days later. if the ubermensch were to exist in pure form, there would be no dodges, no spins - he would tackle head on. the only way to maintain the momentum of mental industry, ultimately, seems like it is to deal with something as it is dealt to you. in small portions, these things do not seem to add up...certainly it is easier to focus on a task by ignoring all the tangents that your brain will slide in front of your eyes. but how genuine is our committal to the task, if it is so easily assailed by interruption? isn't that a sign that something is off? sometimes things start to stack up, and then one feels guilty when they just want to have a moment of peace with no priorities. additionally, the mathematics of mental images are more tricky than one would at first surmise. it's the old adage of pulling on a string, until the whole thing uncoils - everything in the mind is linked, and you never know how deep the rabbit hole will go until you actually devote some time to spelunking it~ it is a good thing to map out one's territory, and make a laundry list of things which need to be mulled over in more heightened and attentive detail. if nothing else, it generates a surge of validation and euphoria just to cross something off, and be done with it. if only life were ever just that simple.
June 24, 2008
a velveteen rabbit
is there a key to happiness in a style of living? in a mode or pattern or rhythm, in a focused or unfocused impulse? m feels like there are sheets that steal over him, lucid ones, that somehow allow him to capture a purity or joy that is simply innate in all existence. ever-present. he can bring down his walls, seemingly all of his own volition (and yet also, definitively elusive in its recurrences), and let the sunshine stream down inward, deep, warming those most cavernous pools of thought lost within him and giving them a chance to cultivate all varieties of shadowed jungle plants, hidden subspecies of potential energy that can coil skyward until the thoughts find their way to the edges of his conscious streams, a nip of interest and absurdity, a tiny hand tugging at coattails.
he can do this; summon some monstrous and overwhelming excitement for the transition and passing of every moment, conjure a sparkly spell, a vivacious cloud of bees that dances around everything he can see. it is intensely engaging and he often reels, tilted whichways by the effects. but it seems to him to be, although immersed, also very disconnected in a crucial way from reality. it is potent and blissful, but it misses something....or does it? he isn't quite certain just yet. when he analyzes his idea of it recently, it appears thusly:
imagine a perfectly contented farmer, living peacefully and in harmony with his own quaint environment. his horses and strong and intelligent; his sheep are baa complacently as they bathe in warm sunbeams, never bristled by anything more menacing than a crisp breeze. his crops flourish; obviously he knows what he is doing, and nature approves. he crackles a thistle in between his teeth, twirling it now against his tongue, tasting the earth inside of it, and gazes over the rolling green meadows. he knows his place, he feels firm in his tradition and his foundations. he lives a peaceful life and listens to the music of the hills.
the farmer doesn't ask any questions...he knows what he knows. but one day, while he is sitting at the pub enjoying a rather sizable and frosty mug of spirits, he meets a traveler rollicking through the area. they talk warmly and become friends, though the traveler spends a good deal of time talking what the farmer considers to be nonsense about the 'meaning of it all' and such. the traveler shows him his paintings, his books, his music (radically divergent from the old-timey tunes the farmer's ear is accustomed to); everything of him in its due turn. the traveler unfolds a cassette tape and a crude set of paints from his red-spotted knapsack, and makes a gift of them to the farmer for his cordial company. they part ways after the night, and never see each other again.
the farmer ambles back to his farmhouse, and sleeps off the night. he goes to work in the morning, and the next day, and the next. on the fourth day, however, his sleep is stirred by a strange nightmare. he wakes in a daze, and spies the moon staring him down, sizing him up, from a lofted window in the heights of his house. draped in moonbeams, compelled by unknowns, he listens to the tape and dabbles vaguely with the paints, eerily absent of pigment in the nighttime shade. the music is modern, troubled; it is a mixtape composed mostly of progressive art rock and sprinkled with experimental instrumentals, the origins of whose sounds he cannot guess at for the life of him. he drifts off to sleep with the paintbrush in his hand and dark chords echoing in the hollows of his room.
things are never the same for the farmer. he cannot decipher the strange melodies or the significance of the colors and strokes, but he feels irresistibly drawn to them, to the ultimate detriment of his old way of life, his once-time peaceful mindstate. things are fine for him; his farm still flourishes though perhaps has more untended weeds than before, and perhaps the sheep complain of heat every so often because one or three have swollen up to the size of fuzzy haybales without the keen attention of his shears on a seasonally-watchful schedule as before. by most appearances, he is the same person, though perhaps seen a bit less in provisions marketplace of town and is often said to have a candle burning in his window 'til the midnight hours.
we know what has changed, though, don't we? he was struck by the thunder of humanity, of art, of the beautiful struggle. and mattress can say definitively (since he is acquainted with said farmer) that he is somewhat tormented, if not also invigorated and accelerated, by the teachings of the traveler.
so, m is elated to say that he feels he has the gift (or curse) of the farmer's previous life, but it would be a choice he would have to make...he is more naturally swayed towards the latter perspective, the artistic intervention. but, he could fight his nature and live an extraordinarily docile, naive, and complacent life. the tools are in his hands right now, these words; all he has to do is to toss them away without a second glance and be free of their burden forever. doesn't that seem on some level like an appealing prospect? to absolve oneself of responsibility for difficult philosophies, intricate sciences, emotional discoveries and upheavals, and again discoveries and again upheavals?
and obviously, he is reducing this to absurdity...nobody can really choose to go entirely in one direction. but it seems to him that so, so many people choose the route of 'today, and then tomorrow, and then tuesday', a day-to-day as it were. gleaming shards and fragments of deeper thoughts either when forced to, or when forced by boredom; not entirely by free will, in fact almost avoidant by nature of these concepts. and yes, please ride on him for generalizing about this, because no, it really isn't a fair judgment without knowing them well.
but he doesn't feel like he can turn back at this point; he would feel utterly useless and much like he betrayed his true self if he buried his head in the sand and gave up on digging both archaeologically and inventively through those sediments, choosing to be caved in, but restricted in transcendental dimensions of movement. he wants to be able to move his mind, his intangible perceptions, through that matter....even if his body may be cemented into place by them in its utter unfamiliarity with more spiritual natures. there is an antenna, or a whirling compass needle, somewhere inside of us...just waiting to be known by feelings and words instead of science.
this mind/body dichotomy is burly. lend the wisdom to know the difference~
he can do this; summon some monstrous and overwhelming excitement for the transition and passing of every moment, conjure a sparkly spell, a vivacious cloud of bees that dances around everything he can see. it is intensely engaging and he often reels, tilted whichways by the effects. but it seems to him to be, although immersed, also very disconnected in a crucial way from reality. it is potent and blissful, but it misses something....or does it? he isn't quite certain just yet. when he analyzes his idea of it recently, it appears thusly:
imagine a perfectly contented farmer, living peacefully and in harmony with his own quaint environment. his horses and strong and intelligent; his sheep are baa complacently as they bathe in warm sunbeams, never bristled by anything more menacing than a crisp breeze. his crops flourish; obviously he knows what he is doing, and nature approves. he crackles a thistle in between his teeth, twirling it now against his tongue, tasting the earth inside of it, and gazes over the rolling green meadows. he knows his place, he feels firm in his tradition and his foundations. he lives a peaceful life and listens to the music of the hills.
the farmer doesn't ask any questions...he knows what he knows. but one day, while he is sitting at the pub enjoying a rather sizable and frosty mug of spirits, he meets a traveler rollicking through the area. they talk warmly and become friends, though the traveler spends a good deal of time talking what the farmer considers to be nonsense about the 'meaning of it all' and such. the traveler shows him his paintings, his books, his music (radically divergent from the old-timey tunes the farmer's ear is accustomed to); everything of him in its due turn. the traveler unfolds a cassette tape and a crude set of paints from his red-spotted knapsack, and makes a gift of them to the farmer for his cordial company. they part ways after the night, and never see each other again.
the farmer ambles back to his farmhouse, and sleeps off the night. he goes to work in the morning, and the next day, and the next. on the fourth day, however, his sleep is stirred by a strange nightmare. he wakes in a daze, and spies the moon staring him down, sizing him up, from a lofted window in the heights of his house. draped in moonbeams, compelled by unknowns, he listens to the tape and dabbles vaguely with the paints, eerily absent of pigment in the nighttime shade. the music is modern, troubled; it is a mixtape composed mostly of progressive art rock and sprinkled with experimental instrumentals, the origins of whose sounds he cannot guess at for the life of him. he drifts off to sleep with the paintbrush in his hand and dark chords echoing in the hollows of his room.
things are never the same for the farmer. he cannot decipher the strange melodies or the significance of the colors and strokes, but he feels irresistibly drawn to them, to the ultimate detriment of his old way of life, his once-time peaceful mindstate. things are fine for him; his farm still flourishes though perhaps has more untended weeds than before, and perhaps the sheep complain of heat every so often because one or three have swollen up to the size of fuzzy haybales without the keen attention of his shears on a seasonally-watchful schedule as before. by most appearances, he is the same person, though perhaps seen a bit less in provisions marketplace of town and is often said to have a candle burning in his window 'til the midnight hours.
we know what has changed, though, don't we? he was struck by the thunder of humanity, of art, of the beautiful struggle. and mattress can say definitively (since he is acquainted with said farmer) that he is somewhat tormented, if not also invigorated and accelerated, by the teachings of the traveler.
so, m is elated to say that he feels he has the gift (or curse) of the farmer's previous life, but it would be a choice he would have to make...he is more naturally swayed towards the latter perspective, the artistic intervention. but, he could fight his nature and live an extraordinarily docile, naive, and complacent life. the tools are in his hands right now, these words; all he has to do is to toss them away without a second glance and be free of their burden forever. doesn't that seem on some level like an appealing prospect? to absolve oneself of responsibility for difficult philosophies, intricate sciences, emotional discoveries and upheavals, and again discoveries and again upheavals?
and obviously, he is reducing this to absurdity...nobody can really choose to go entirely in one direction. but it seems to him that so, so many people choose the route of 'today, and then tomorrow, and then tuesday', a day-to-day as it were. gleaming shards and fragments of deeper thoughts either when forced to, or when forced by boredom; not entirely by free will, in fact almost avoidant by nature of these concepts. and yes, please ride on him for generalizing about this, because no, it really isn't a fair judgment without knowing them well.
but he doesn't feel like he can turn back at this point; he would feel utterly useless and much like he betrayed his true self if he buried his head in the sand and gave up on digging both archaeologically and inventively through those sediments, choosing to be caved in, but restricted in transcendental dimensions of movement. he wants to be able to move his mind, his intangible perceptions, through that matter....even if his body may be cemented into place by them in its utter unfamiliarity with more spiritual natures. there is an antenna, or a whirling compass needle, somewhere inside of us...just waiting to be known by feelings and words instead of science.
this mind/body dichotomy is burly. lend the wisdom to know the difference~
June 21, 2008
"okay, dr. seuss"
it is an intensely exciting thing to be, to feel like a person outside of society while still within its confines. someone fundamentally disconnected and admissibly, wholeheartedly, desirably undefined. one of the greatest thrills, for matches, comes at any time, in any place, sitting and contemplating this distinction amidst a collection of persons whom he does not know. it is somehow exceedingly liberating to be able to say "i am this, i am that", and conversely to acknowledge that shape-shifting and chimeric tendencies are twisted somewhere around our very roots, deepest in our nourishing soil, and that they they assist us immeasurably in extracting the energy and intrigue from a liberated life. our preconceptions are seasonings, and they will alter appropriately the raw ingredients which providence provides, the most basic senses and combinations thereof, such as a sleepily geometric intricacy.
realize that one's purpose is separate; that each person has a mission and a set of experiences completely unique to their muddled and meddlesome mind. there is no need to find oneself snared in the seaweeds of lower ambitions....we can swim to higher places where we may see with more clarity, and breath with both less and more concentrated effort (depending upon the concentration. think about it). everyone at some point feels the spin, the pivot of a real ambition sneaking up on them. if programmed to defend well, then you might turn it away without questioning the real purpose of the game....but if you are open to another outcome, happily unfocused, then you might let it slip by, and find out that losing one game was the best thing to ever happen (and the start of something completely new).
happily unfocused. this might be a good definition for the mindstate of m over the past few years. dazed, disillusioned and again re-illusioned, but open, welcome and accommodating. antimatter believes that life naturally behooves us to stay, at least in some proportion, in this state....constantly off-balance, switchfoot, preparing for another potential or possible. focus is wonderful - it creates a thought-space where one can truly fine-tune an aspect of themselves, and dig deep to find out what can be known or said about something that drives them. but life is a balancing act, and to build a sandcastle higher than one's own height can mean two things: bridging toward the sky, and allowing a perspective that attains and projects vast complexities upon the surrounding world, or blocking one's view, distancing you from the natural freedom and chaos which comprises the lurching waves of life, of experience. which is an apt metaphor, because life has this tendency of eroding away what you have built when you become too focused; whittling away at the base while the top tier totters, imperceptible to one clinging onto it.
how does one struggle with meaning? tune in for more next time.
colin and m have just now decided upon the metric: for a dollar to still be spendable, there must still be at least 87.7% of it there. it would be inconceivable to chop a $20 in half and all of a sudden have forty spendables. the economy would crash.
realize that one's purpose is separate; that each person has a mission and a set of experiences completely unique to their muddled and meddlesome mind. there is no need to find oneself snared in the seaweeds of lower ambitions....we can swim to higher places where we may see with more clarity, and breath with both less and more concentrated effort (depending upon the concentration. think about it). everyone at some point feels the spin, the pivot of a real ambition sneaking up on them. if programmed to defend well, then you might turn it away without questioning the real purpose of the game....but if you are open to another outcome, happily unfocused, then you might let it slip by, and find out that losing one game was the best thing to ever happen (and the start of something completely new).
happily unfocused. this might be a good definition for the mindstate of m over the past few years. dazed, disillusioned and again re-illusioned, but open, welcome and accommodating. antimatter believes that life naturally behooves us to stay, at least in some proportion, in this state....constantly off-balance, switchfoot, preparing for another potential or possible. focus is wonderful - it creates a thought-space where one can truly fine-tune an aspect of themselves, and dig deep to find out what can be known or said about something that drives them. but life is a balancing act, and to build a sandcastle higher than one's own height can mean two things: bridging toward the sky, and allowing a perspective that attains and projects vast complexities upon the surrounding world, or blocking one's view, distancing you from the natural freedom and chaos which comprises the lurching waves of life, of experience. which is an apt metaphor, because life has this tendency of eroding away what you have built when you become too focused; whittling away at the base while the top tier totters, imperceptible to one clinging onto it.
how does one struggle with meaning? tune in for more next time.
colin and m have just now decided upon the metric: for a dollar to still be spendable, there must still be at least 87.7% of it there. it would be inconceivable to chop a $20 in half and all of a sudden have forty spendables. the economy would crash.
June 16, 2008
flounder found
found a list on the ground. found a scrap of paper. found a bit of someone's life, similar to mine. but really, how much sameness does it take to be similar? i'm a person, bret's a person; you're a person. that person over there is a person. and when you're feeling lonesome, hopefully you can remember that. we could be roaming an earth, or another planet, that houses 6 billion persons who aren't persons at all; we could be swimming in differences and difficulties. it would be extraordinarily hard to progress through even a day if there were no medium of connection, no 'humanity', upon which to anchor ourselves.
even so, it seems like the general tendency is to distance oneself from the crowd of unknowns. and we're not talking separate or sub-species here, we are talking about an individual meeting another individual. we've got more barriers than we know what to do with; they are overwhelming and end up gripping up even though they are the means for a grip upon our worlds. is it such a bad thing to be a fluctuating entity? to alter with every moment?
m. feel incredibly lame for not updating these writings in the past few weeks. where are one's priorities? should have (hoping for) a slow weekend this time around though....it looks promising.
even so, it seems like the general tendency is to distance oneself from the crowd of unknowns. and we're not talking separate or sub-species here, we are talking about an individual meeting another individual. we've got more barriers than we know what to do with; they are overwhelming and end up gripping up even though they are the means for a grip upon our worlds. is it such a bad thing to be a fluctuating entity? to alter with every moment?
m. feel incredibly lame for not updating these writings in the past few weeks. where are one's priorities? should have (hoping for) a slow weekend this time around though....it looks promising.
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