sometimes we eat worms. sometimes worms eat us. things just don't go well either way.
growth yields among other things wisdom and fat.
a grape a day keeps the ape away.
buffets can easily be likened to the current healthcare system. (this was explained last night.)
a metaphor for life: you must stretch before exercising, lest you injure yourself.
a metaphor for life: sometimes there's just no time to stretch.
abra kadabra alakazam! at some point in my life, these words did not equate to pokemon.
if this statistic can somehow be likened to an astronomical amount of a common day measure, i will be amazed.
typically we think about things after they happen.
giraffes are pretty absurd animals.
nonsense yields the least nonsense.
there's plastic everywhere. it's made from the decomposed and transformed bodies of dinosaurs and plants millions of years old. therefore, for every time that i was scared there was a raptor in my closet, i sat on a thousand plastic objects, picked up ten thousand plastic objects, and looked at hundred thousand plastic objects. perhaps more. also, i have untold numbers of atoms in me that were once part of a raptor.
if i had no hair on the outside of my body, i would either be immensely more comfortable, or i wouldn't know the difference. many things in my life are this way.
music is pretty sweet.
when you scratch yourself, you're leaving thousands of tiny bits of yourself behind. those bits feed dust mites, foster allergies, and disgust people who think too much. don't scratch, it's good manners.
colors mean things. you can call a person any basic color, and it means something.
a question that has stolen far too much of my time (and the time of many many others): what is consciousness?
you are what you eat.
if millipedes actually had one thousand legs, think about how much better a world this would be. (hint, why would people call a creature that clearly has fewer than a thousand legs a word that means "thousand legs")
monotremes are strange. i still haven't really accepted the existence of the platypus.
people are obsessed with balance. the existence of conservation of energy and conservation of momentum does not imply the existence of conservation of good and evil, the conservation of human rights, the conservation of karma, the conservation of night and day or hot and cold, the conservation of wealth, or any other silly notions. the only balance that really matters is the balance of "your mom" and "your face". thou shalt not increase the right whilst withholding the left.
nocturnal and owl always come up in the same thought for me. this might be another pokemon thing.
isn't every color just a shade of off-white?
i should use synecdoche more often. figurative language ruins my metaphors.
who is the most courageous member of an army?
mysterious man, you are better off alone.
outrageous contains the word rage.
there's probably a more efficient way of putting together printed text than in the form of a book.
humans are obsessed with rectangles. just look around.
spiders have eight legs; insects have only six!!
great writers are a combination: you must be sure of your superior intelligence and thinking, and others must be sure of it as well, yet lack it.
will i need to have a spare set of keys in heaven? or will the first set never be lost? (will keys be necessary?)
why is there no "princess" card? 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 p j q k a
i like Japanese because of how it sounds.
elegy is really a word!
nothing is truly nondescript.
every enemy is still an enemy.
sometimes i think about what the shape of people's heads are underneath their hair.
the word placenta makes me nervous.
numbers are replete with emotions. six. four. nine. twelve. one. don't you feel them?
at some point language went from a means to a meaning.
i often have the most insane urges at the most delicate times. when meeting with important people, i wonder what would happen if i got up, punched the person in the face, and walked away. during silences, i am tempted to explode with laughter and fall to the ground simply in order to observe other people's reactions. i wonder if i would survive a car crash at 40 mph. 50. 60.
circuses once existed.
Platyhelminthes!
some people kill other people and enjoy it.
cicadas wait underground for 17 (or 13) years before their summer vacation. they get just one.
lazyness is sometimes efficiency. we empty trash cans when they are full. we fill gas tanks when they are empty. we eat food when we are hungry. we sleep when we are tired. this is not the exception to the rule.
people just don't use wooden pencils any more.
life is a long time. patience is a short time.
oxygen is necessary, but you can't see it. except in extremely high concentrations.
if people had eight fingers, there would be no digit 8 or 9. if people had twelve fingers, there would be two more digits of some shape. they would represent 10 and 11. if people had nine or eleven fingers, human culture, architecture, technology, thought, art, and even language would be vastly different. symmetry is part of humanness.
sometimes the obvious things need to be explored.
what is thought, but a road fraught with dangers?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
the road taken/how much more
there is a man. who? imagine somebody you know, an acquaintance, a man who seems rather pleasant to you, but you do not know him very well. perhaps you only know his name and remember his smile. pretend that the man in this story is the man you just imagined. ok. let's try this again.
there is a man. he is walking along a road. it's a road for walking, not a road for driving. if you need to, call it a path. call it a trail. it's a route for pedestrians. bear with me.
he's walking. suddenly he trips. he falls to the ground, catching himself with his hands. he cries out in pain. he is surprised. you, too, are surprised that he fell. he doesn't look to see why he fell, but he vaguely knows that there was pain. as he gets up, he looks around to see if there is anybody around who caused him this pain. there is no one. no, not even you. there might be a background. maybe a tree. where is he? this is just a metaphor. don't worry about it.
and so, he's walking. actually, he walks here often. some time passes. it might be a few minutes. it might be a few days. the man is again walking where he tripped and fell. this time, too, he trips and falls. yea, again. he cries out in pain, but manages to catch himself. again, he merely looks around for the culprit before walking off. again, there is nobody around. you think he's foolish? we'll see. we shall see.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he sees nobody. he walks off. some more time passes. the man is walking again. you get the idea. but now, imagine that the man is doing things between his seemingly random visits to pain. maybe he's visiting somebody. maybe he is going into town. maybe he has responsibilities to attend to. maybe he has a job, a home, a family. maybe people care about him. maybe he cares about people. maybe he's important. maybe he's not. this man that we know, there is something behind that face and behind that smile; there is something behind that firm handshake and greeting.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he sees nobody. but this time, he stops to wonder about the pain? it must have come from somebody. but nobody is here. maybe it didn't come from somebody. but then where did it come from? maybe the pain came from my surroundings. maybe. he walks off. some more time passes. the next time the man trips, he looks around, sees nobody and walks off.
this goes on for some time. every now and then, the man stops for a bit longer; the man thinks a bit harder. yet each time, the man still trips and falls and suffers. perhaps you wonder why this man is worth watching. perhaps you wonder what more there is to this man than repeatedly making the same unknowing mistake. perhaps you forget that he might or might not be important. perhaps you forget that he might care about people, or that people might care about him. perhaps you forget that he might have a family, a home, a job. perhaps you don't consider that this man was born. perhaps you don't consider that this man might have had parents, might have had a childhood, might have had friends. perhaps it doesn't occur to you that this man grew from some background with some circumstances to some future. perhaps you don't realize that this man might have somewhere to go, might have people to meet, might have a family to grow, might one day be lonely, trusting, fearful, joyful, anguished, satisfied, despairing, hopeful. perhaps you don't understand that this man is a human being. perhaps you don't know that this man is you.
perhaps you do.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he looks at his foot. he sees that his shoe is untied. he ties his shoe. he walks off. he thinks nothing of all the times he fell. he doesn't remember the many times he cried out. he doesn't realize that this is the first time he did anything more than simply looking around. he is merely pleased with himself for having thought to look at his foot.
--
if we grew tired of the man in this metaphor, how much more patience than us does God have?
there is a man. he is walking along a road. it's a road for walking, not a road for driving. if you need to, call it a path. call it a trail. it's a route for pedestrians. bear with me.
he's walking. suddenly he trips. he falls to the ground, catching himself with his hands. he cries out in pain. he is surprised. you, too, are surprised that he fell. he doesn't look to see why he fell, but he vaguely knows that there was pain. as he gets up, he looks around to see if there is anybody around who caused him this pain. there is no one. no, not even you. there might be a background. maybe a tree. where is he? this is just a metaphor. don't worry about it.
and so, he's walking. actually, he walks here often. some time passes. it might be a few minutes. it might be a few days. the man is again walking where he tripped and fell. this time, too, he trips and falls. yea, again. he cries out in pain, but manages to catch himself. again, he merely looks around for the culprit before walking off. again, there is nobody around. you think he's foolish? we'll see. we shall see.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he sees nobody. he walks off. some more time passes. the man is walking again. you get the idea. but now, imagine that the man is doing things between his seemingly random visits to pain. maybe he's visiting somebody. maybe he is going into town. maybe he has responsibilities to attend to. maybe he has a job, a home, a family. maybe people care about him. maybe he cares about people. maybe he's important. maybe he's not. this man that we know, there is something behind that face and behind that smile; there is something behind that firm handshake and greeting.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he sees nobody. but this time, he stops to wonder about the pain? it must have come from somebody. but nobody is here. maybe it didn't come from somebody. but then where did it come from? maybe the pain came from my surroundings. maybe. he walks off. some more time passes. the next time the man trips, he looks around, sees nobody and walks off.
this goes on for some time. every now and then, the man stops for a bit longer; the man thinks a bit harder. yet each time, the man still trips and falls and suffers. perhaps you wonder why this man is worth watching. perhaps you wonder what more there is to this man than repeatedly making the same unknowing mistake. perhaps you forget that he might or might not be important. perhaps you forget that he might care about people, or that people might care about him. perhaps you forget that he might have a family, a home, a job. perhaps you don't consider that this man was born. perhaps you don't consider that this man might have had parents, might have had a childhood, might have had friends. perhaps it doesn't occur to you that this man grew from some background with some circumstances to some future. perhaps you don't realize that this man might have somewhere to go, might have people to meet, might have a family to grow, might one day be lonely, trusting, fearful, joyful, anguished, satisfied, despairing, hopeful. perhaps you don't understand that this man is a human being. perhaps you don't know that this man is you.
perhaps you do.
some more time passes. the man is walking again. he trips. he falls. he catches himself. he cries out. he looks around. he looks at his foot. he sees that his shoe is untied. he ties his shoe. he walks off. he thinks nothing of all the times he fell. he doesn't remember the many times he cried out. he doesn't realize that this is the first time he did anything more than simply looking around. he is merely pleased with himself for having thought to look at his foot.
--
if we grew tired of the man in this metaphor, how much more patience than us does God have?
Monday, September 21, 2009
jar
i've never told anybody this, but i have inside of me this jar. it isn't a very fancy jar, nor is it a very large jar. it's what i think of as a rather humble jar. it's made of that baked clay that has a reddish orange color. it curves out from its circular base and curves back into its circular lip. this jar is perhaps the size of my two hands balled together. i have a long history with this jar.
when i was young, the jar was quite easy to keep full. whenever anything put me down, like an unappetizing dinner or an early bedtime, i took a sip from the top of the jar. the jar would be full of the sweet syrup of play dates and new toys. even when something worse than usual came along, like scolding from parents or a fight at school, a slighter longer sip would quench me, and the jar would fill soon enough.
as i grew, i found that each little event in my life took more than just a sip or even a long sip to remedy. when my parents grew angry with me or each other, i would need a mouthful. when my friendships became competitions and my competitions became losses, i took two. but it was alright, because my jar still filled readily with the dew of video games and puberty.
by the time i finished middle school, i needed a drop in the morning and a drop in the evening even if nothing detrimental even came my way. when those heavy winds did blow, though, i would take a gulp or two. only then would the warm feeling inside return, and only then would the potion of some lofty ambition or a pretty girl replenish the jar. those days i started to fear for my jar, and often i wondered if anybody knew of it, wanted to drink of it.
near the end of high school a gulp a day was keeping me together. my jar had not increased in size, but i found that in order to refill it each day, i needed to seek out the liquid in other similar vessels. at times others would share with me if they were in excess, and perhaps i would return the favor, but always taking a bit more than i gave. those days i was imbibing the nectar of high education to be and those perhaps-serious relationships.
until recently, i had been emptying my jar each morning to fill my unending thirst. my jar, once a joyful source of youth and energy, was now a terrible chain that bound me to my ineptitude. the willpower that i gained from guzzling all the drink my jar contained was about enough to sustain me until i found enough liquid from desire of job and family and who knows what else to refill it, only to begin again. i could not remember how it was that this jar once gave me so much happiness, that this jar once took me away from troubles instead of delivering me to them. daily i cursed this jar that once filled me, for now i was forced to fill it.
finally, as even the contents of the entire jar did not sustain me long enough to locate another serving, i learned of a fountain that gives up an endless supply of drink. if you were to fill your vessel from this fountain, then you could drink from it as long as you desired, and never would the level of liquid lower. the fountain made my jar an endless supply. i am able to drink from dawn to dusk without stopping, and the jar remains full. i drink not in order to bring me back to my normal state, but because i am lifted away from the need of continually filling my jar. nowadays when others come searching to fill their vessels, they are free to take from my jar. if they wish only a sip to continue their journeys, they are so watered. if any is thirsty enough, then i will tip a bit from my jar to theirs. if they ask how to acquire a water as sweet as mine, i point them to that fountain.
--
obviously, not one of my more subtle works. but feel free to take a sip from my jar.
when i was young, the jar was quite easy to keep full. whenever anything put me down, like an unappetizing dinner or an early bedtime, i took a sip from the top of the jar. the jar would be full of the sweet syrup of play dates and new toys. even when something worse than usual came along, like scolding from parents or a fight at school, a slighter longer sip would quench me, and the jar would fill soon enough.
as i grew, i found that each little event in my life took more than just a sip or even a long sip to remedy. when my parents grew angry with me or each other, i would need a mouthful. when my friendships became competitions and my competitions became losses, i took two. but it was alright, because my jar still filled readily with the dew of video games and puberty.
by the time i finished middle school, i needed a drop in the morning and a drop in the evening even if nothing detrimental even came my way. when those heavy winds did blow, though, i would take a gulp or two. only then would the warm feeling inside return, and only then would the potion of some lofty ambition or a pretty girl replenish the jar. those days i started to fear for my jar, and often i wondered if anybody knew of it, wanted to drink of it.
near the end of high school a gulp a day was keeping me together. my jar had not increased in size, but i found that in order to refill it each day, i needed to seek out the liquid in other similar vessels. at times others would share with me if they were in excess, and perhaps i would return the favor, but always taking a bit more than i gave. those days i was imbibing the nectar of high education to be and those perhaps-serious relationships.
until recently, i had been emptying my jar each morning to fill my unending thirst. my jar, once a joyful source of youth and energy, was now a terrible chain that bound me to my ineptitude. the willpower that i gained from guzzling all the drink my jar contained was about enough to sustain me until i found enough liquid from desire of job and family and who knows what else to refill it, only to begin again. i could not remember how it was that this jar once gave me so much happiness, that this jar once took me away from troubles instead of delivering me to them. daily i cursed this jar that once filled me, for now i was forced to fill it.
finally, as even the contents of the entire jar did not sustain me long enough to locate another serving, i learned of a fountain that gives up an endless supply of drink. if you were to fill your vessel from this fountain, then you could drink from it as long as you desired, and never would the level of liquid lower. the fountain made my jar an endless supply. i am able to drink from dawn to dusk without stopping, and the jar remains full. i drink not in order to bring me back to my normal state, but because i am lifted away from the need of continually filling my jar. nowadays when others come searching to fill their vessels, they are free to take from my jar. if they wish only a sip to continue their journeys, they are so watered. if any is thirsty enough, then i will tip a bit from my jar to theirs. if they ask how to acquire a water as sweet as mine, i point them to that fountain.
--
obviously, not one of my more subtle works. but feel free to take a sip from my jar.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
a thought; father
today, i heard a sound. today, i saw a sight. today, i felt this feeling. today, i understood this thought.
that sound was the noise of weeping. that sight was the vision of a comforting hand. that feeling was the embrace of the widest love. that thought was from the heart of God.
--
it was a dreary rainy day. it was just one of those days. sitting at the bay window, only grays and drabs could be seen. cars splash through puddles. people march under their umbrellas. one man sadly walks his dog.
after a short while, thunder rings out as if only to reinforce the curtain of dour. there is water collecting on either side of the road and flowing slowly and deathly into the gutter. aside from the drudgery of raindrops the only sounds are of the cars speeding off and splashing the sidewalk. thunder resounds again.
but then a young child appears. she's wearing florid pink boots and a plaid-patterned raincoat. she's smiling. she jumps into puddles. she chases that squirrel to its tree. the rain is a gentle caress. those street-side streams are playthings.
we are not that young child. we merely watch from the window as she plays. we are not actors in this film; we did not purchase tickets to this fair. as much as we wish to jump through the window and fill her pink boots, we cannot.
but then, our father comes. he tells us that we, too, have a pair of small boots. we, too, have a sheltering raincoat. he gives us these things. we rush out the door.
our father stands on the threshold. he watches us diligently, carefully. each puddle we splash, each fallen leaf we examine, he is overjoyed. the articles we wear, that he gave us, keep us dry. as he watches us at play, a smile is on his face. he loves us.
that sound was the noise of weeping. that sight was the vision of a comforting hand. that feeling was the embrace of the widest love. that thought was from the heart of God.
--
it was a dreary rainy day. it was just one of those days. sitting at the bay window, only grays and drabs could be seen. cars splash through puddles. people march under their umbrellas. one man sadly walks his dog.
after a short while, thunder rings out as if only to reinforce the curtain of dour. there is water collecting on either side of the road and flowing slowly and deathly into the gutter. aside from the drudgery of raindrops the only sounds are of the cars speeding off and splashing the sidewalk. thunder resounds again.
but then a young child appears. she's wearing florid pink boots and a plaid-patterned raincoat. she's smiling. she jumps into puddles. she chases that squirrel to its tree. the rain is a gentle caress. those street-side streams are playthings.
we are not that young child. we merely watch from the window as she plays. we are not actors in this film; we did not purchase tickets to this fair. as much as we wish to jump through the window and fill her pink boots, we cannot.
but then, our father comes. he tells us that we, too, have a pair of small boots. we, too, have a sheltering raincoat. he gives us these things. we rush out the door.
our father stands on the threshold. he watches us diligently, carefully. each puddle we splash, each fallen leaf we examine, he is overjoyed. the articles we wear, that he gave us, keep us dry. as he watches us at play, a smile is on his face. he loves us.
Friday, September 11, 2009
a beautiful heart/a foolish heart
there within her skin, her fragile ribcage, the layers of muscle and membranes, beneath veils of strong guise, scattered bits of emotional debris, and finally under a tight mass of fear, lies a beautiful heart. some would say that it is red with blood, with iron, a healthy heart that does its job; a heart that provides, a heart that pushes on, a heart that gives. some would say that she has a heart that takes back the blood depleted by its dependents, refills it as necessary, and sends it back out, knowing well that the blood will return, depleted again. some would say that she has a heart that sustains, not for no reason at all, but for some purpose. some would say her heart achieves something as it beats; her heart reaches for some end as it pulses; her heart wishes life as it thumps. some would say her heart is a miracle.
But i would say that her heart is red with love. i would say that her heart is more than a pump that pushes oxygen toward her vitals. i would say even that her heart is more than just a vessel for keeping in her thoughts, her emotions, her desires, her fears. i would say that her heart, as with all of our hearts, is not the sum of what lies within, but what can be and is put forth. therefore, i would call her heart words that normally do not describe an organ: generous, thoughtful, careful, resilient, and so, wonderful, miraculous, amazing, incredible. above all, i would call her heart beautiful; i would say that she has a beautiful heart.
--
but what would she say of her own heart? would she say these same flattering phrases? would she exalt her heart up in the same way as i have? what does she feel about that heart that i have so praised? would she mention that her heart cannot beat forever? would she say that her heart is like any other? would she detail all the little flaws that cannot be seen from where i stand? would she explain that her heart truly is nothing more than a small pulsating bundle of muscle and nerves? even more than all that, would she say that her heart is frail and weak from wear and tear? would she list all the times her heart was not up to the task, was not not ready to fight, was too weary to work, was simply not enough? would she say that her heart is but a heart?
would she have the same words to utter to my heart which i graciously gave to hers? would she see that my heart is just a foolish heart, as any heart is liable to be? would she know that the words from my heart to hers are nonsense, drivel, rubbish, nothing but silly blabbering? would she understand that my heart is no real judge of a heart, as no human heart is? having that, then, would she hint that my heart's banter is but? would she mention that my heart is perhaps mistaken and deluded? would she declare that my heart needs work, that my heart, having eyes for everything around it, needs a hard look inward, that my heart needs to grow more than just a bit before looking outward? would she remind me that my foolish heart's adoration of her heart or any other is truly and deeply misplaced? would she then guide my heart in the proper direction? she would, wouldn't she?
But i would say that her heart is red with love. i would say that her heart is more than a pump that pushes oxygen toward her vitals. i would say even that her heart is more than just a vessel for keeping in her thoughts, her emotions, her desires, her fears. i would say that her heart, as with all of our hearts, is not the sum of what lies within, but what can be and is put forth. therefore, i would call her heart words that normally do not describe an organ: generous, thoughtful, careful, resilient, and so, wonderful, miraculous, amazing, incredible. above all, i would call her heart beautiful; i would say that she has a beautiful heart.
--
but what would she say of her own heart? would she say these same flattering phrases? would she exalt her heart up in the same way as i have? what does she feel about that heart that i have so praised? would she mention that her heart cannot beat forever? would she say that her heart is like any other? would she detail all the little flaws that cannot be seen from where i stand? would she explain that her heart truly is nothing more than a small pulsating bundle of muscle and nerves? even more than all that, would she say that her heart is frail and weak from wear and tear? would she list all the times her heart was not up to the task, was not not ready to fight, was too weary to work, was simply not enough? would she say that her heart is but a heart?
would she have the same words to utter to my heart which i graciously gave to hers? would she see that my heart is just a foolish heart, as any heart is liable to be? would she know that the words from my heart to hers are nonsense, drivel, rubbish, nothing but silly blabbering? would she understand that my heart is no real judge of a heart, as no human heart is? having that, then, would she hint that my heart's banter is but? would she mention that my heart is perhaps mistaken and deluded? would she declare that my heart needs work, that my heart, having eyes for everything around it, needs a hard look inward, that my heart needs to grow more than just a bit before looking outward? would she remind me that my foolish heart's adoration of her heart or any other is truly and deeply misplaced? would she then guide my heart in the proper direction? she would, wouldn't she?
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