i think it's a different morning today

2006-09-21T16:26:00.000-06:00

Erhu, it's for you. Do it.

2006-08-01T01:01:00.000-06:00

Introduction

It has become apparent that in order for human kind to evolve any farther than they have they require a new consciousness, a drastic change in perspective. I do not assume to know what this change is nor do I propose to prescribe to you a paradigm. I merely intend to introduce a new perspective. To understand the whole of a framework of thought that is inherently alien it is often easiest to first understand its parts; thus, I will begin with the foundation and work upwards and outwards. As esoterically cliché as it sounds, I believe we will start with the nature of reality.

2006-07-31T03:21:00.000-06:00

Wonder is the wisdom to be weaned from childhood.

2006-07-30T00:21:00.000-06:00

Do we know the beauty in what we deem evil?

2006-07-27T02:11:00.000-06:00

Expectation is the mother of frustration.

2006-07-24T23:11:00.000-06:00

On Music

Let us consider the question: What is Music? To begin with, we should strip it of all subjective definitions. All we are left with is mere vibration, a quivering medium. However, anyone that has really listened to music knows it is much more than mere vibration. It inspires tears and smiles; it makes your body stomp and jump and spin; it makes your chest tighten and your abdomen melt. There is something more than vibration here. Music is not the vibration; it is the interpretation of the vibration. One’s mind does it automatically. It picks up a repeating rhythm and the patterns between the frequencies of notes and there is Music! Cold vibration becomes a song or a dirge or a jig. Music does not exist outside of interpretation. To define music as vibration would be inadequate. Vibration is merely an impetus for music, not the music itself. Real music is interpretation. (Notice the lack of our friendly definite article, this is important.) Music is as vibrant or as dull as one makes it.

Now, let us take this one step further: let us apply this to living. Life is essentially a collection of sensory data. These data are meaningless to the conscious human mind until they are interpreted. For the most part this interpretation is automatic, much like the way one’s mind treats sounds; however, also like music, this automatic interpretation only goes so far. The mind will fabricate an image with the necessary properties, little more. It is the emotional interpretation that infuses this image with life. It is what makes one hate and love; it is what makes experiences good or bad, pleasurable or painful. This interpretation is living. Without it there is no real dimension to the image. To define living as merely sensing would be as inadequate as defining music as vibration. This would be merely experiencing rather than living. Living is interpretation; it is the listening rather than the hearing. Real life is music. I suppose you could either dance or insist on changing the station till you found something you could tolerate.

2006-07-21T20:42:00.000-06:00

Where is the cabinet you hide your dreams in?

2006-07-18T21:33:00.000-06:00

Take the average of the probable and consider the possible.

2006-07-15T00:34:00.000-06:00

Telling is directly stating what you intend to convey. Showing is tangentially stating that which leads to what you intend to convey. One is for knowing and the other is for learning. Both are good.

2006-07-12T22:01:00.000-06:00

Genious comes after ambition and stupidity.

2006-07-09T23:56:00.000-06:00

Everything is dependent upon perspective. If you change the lens through which you look, you change everything you see. Depression, joy, good, evil, etc... are all based upon your perspective. You choose to be happy or sad; you choose what is good and what is not. The choice is there for everyone to make, you simply have to choose to make it. There are no victims. It may seem like an easy choice, but being responsible for everything one feels and believes is a difficult thing to accept. Euphoria is no better than agony. Happiness is no better than sadness. You are responsible for your perspective; and, ultimately, you choose what you feel and how you see the world. Either take responsibility or stop complaining.

2006-07-06T23:23:00.000-06:00

Forty-two manically conscious hours of alcohol diluted, teenage angst; orchids against blacks and blues; tangy octopus pastries, masticated anchovies, and salmon eggs; Sicilian women cooking; aqueous potassium aluminum sulfate dodecahydrate, moles, anhydrous alum, and red heads; muted, adult depression; recycling; morning bagels; and various hats.

2006-07-03T18:54:00.000-06:00

I need the purple of a plum right now.

2006-07-01T21:39:00.000-06:00

Peace is the privilege of the enlightened; love is the privilege of everyone else.

2006-06-30T07:53:00.000-06:00

Wake up!

2006-06-27T04:22:00.000-06:00

What you might see if you either drop acid or stay up for two and a half days:

Sunlit beaches under teal clouds with dragon flies fluttering with gossamer wings beating against the dry air over a starved rose collecting dew that was new with the dawn long ago which shone out against the horizon’s navy blue obscuring stars that were once bright but are now clouded by smog and smut spewing forth from industrial esophagi sucking on greed and avarice with ebony knuckles clenched and ivory tongues tripping through metropolises covered in blue-silver dust twisting in the wind that blows now and then from empty pipes languishing in the harsh light cast by compressed gasses and heated wires covering the styrene walls of their cells in the heart of the beast with no wings or teeth for gnashing souls spent drudging through mud and sewage steaming in the cold air of dusk dwindling into blackness staved off by depraved longings for some illumination that is always teasing the pawns forward into the Queen’s slaughter and the King’s madness which the rooks and knights all fear with the same fear of that dreaded dichotomy lurking visible to all of those who need to see it unknowingly proclaiming their various neuroses to those that watch the lunacy of the animal ignorant of bright summer nights and dreary winter days stretching on and on in a backlit sheet of grey weaving its way through the iris and into the cortex sitting idly as the vanguard of reason and logic and that obsession with the material and the good and the God high in a fat nimbus cloud raining humanity down upon the unwashed hordes of philosophers and mathematicians looking for pattern in the chaos swirling round and round their heads in a beautiful turning and churning of entropy which dances in time to the beat of a foot belonging to a little girl with a worn blue dress and tattered socks tapping away through the ground into whatever and such as and twirling and churning and dancing and spinning down down down to the red and black umbrella on the beach buried deeply in the coarse sand that blankets a woman who never had to loose but always lost when the winning came with wind and rain driving the waves and the hand ticking until the gears rust leaving an old man late for someone just beyond a dilapidated memory of a green chair set among sunflowers bright against a blue sky and a black disposition covering the ground where laurel tangles and sun dares not fall too quickly from such great heights over the swells and falls and quiet yellow heads of people that care eight hours a day unless something much less important comes about that can not be mildly forgotten until it envelops it all taking the simple and leaving only music swelling and falling around and around with Cs and As and D minors all coming and dissipating into a void that is silent behind the mirrors and the memories reflecting the whats and hows and whos and wheres and whens which flood in torrents like salt and ash screaming across now barren planes shattered with the remnants of a pretended sanity that all but embraced what it couldn’t know with the gears turning the cranks pushing the pistons pulling the axles that torque the pendulum swinging lower and lower and lower into the sinew and marrow oblivious to the blood and pus dripping down through to the puddle that grows until it is overfull with waste and fluid leaking through to the steel halls and concrete walls leading to the same place at the center of it all looking out through the iris at planets and nebulas undulating with nothingness and nothingness threaded into the pupil and through a glass filled with thoughts thrown away into whatever abyss unwanted things fall down and down and down into a sea of turquoise sunshine where the hatter swims with his Mercury and the strawberry goddess all bathing in the new sun.