me: oh right
well... federer is definitely on his way down now
he's not plateauing anymore
Alan: your face is plateauing
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
What Is This Thing Called Patience?
What exactly is it? That I have felt for some time myself to be patient has suddenly become irrelevant. There is no such feeling within me any longer, and I do not understand how such a sudden change could have taken place so. Maybe it is because patience is a supremely rationalized action, and the impetus due to which I am now driven is in no way rational; it is at its very essence an impetus of momentum, not controlled but mollified, a motion which is ridden and not bridled.
And yet, though I no longer feel the presence of patience within me any longer, still I appreciate its importance to my current predicament. Before when I had no such need for patience, it was by my estimate surely present in large quantities. Now that the hour has struck midnight, my reserves become suddenly sparse, either due to a disproportionate increase in demand, or due to a quick depletion of stock. It is not important which, for the feeling which clouds my mind is not one which knows absolutes; it actively accommodates to become relatively infinite in comparison to my stock of patience regardless of whichever measure I choose to evaluate it.
This now is the feeling that one has when faced with a decision which can be made at any time, where the decision is this: a man is attempting to drive himself to the beach. The road on which he drives is high up on a mountainside slope traveling alongside the beach, which is far below. Should the man wish, he can at any moment quickly jerk his steering wheel and enter into the steeply sloped grassy plain which sweeps down to the shore, a path which will allow him to reach his destination much more quickly, yet carries incredible risk, perhaps of overturning his vehicle. Eventually the road will reach the sea, but will the sun have yet to set?
Truly, the man's greatest obstacle is not the length of the road, nor the angle of the slope, nor the path of the sun. The man's greatest obstacle is his own doubt in any of these factors, the lack of belief, of faith, that any of these routes will lead him down to the sand. That he is pained in either choice is a clear indication of his exaggerated discomfort with the consequence of each, his preoccupation with a negative result that drives him to indecision. He is himself destroyed by a decision for which either path would have allowed him life.
Those who await him on the shore also suffer, for they perhaps are patient, and deep with faith. They do not suffer knowingly, for it is not that stones are showered upon their heads, but rather that bread is not given to them freely.
My lack of patience is then not the issue at hand. Rather, it is my dissatisfaction with this lack of patience. Either to have, or have not, one ought to be content regardless. I have instead found frustration which arises not even from the situation, but from my own volition. To agonize yet be paralyzed, to contemplate yet stagnate, this is my current state.
And yet, though I no longer feel the presence of patience within me any longer, still I appreciate its importance to my current predicament. Before when I had no such need for patience, it was by my estimate surely present in large quantities. Now that the hour has struck midnight, my reserves become suddenly sparse, either due to a disproportionate increase in demand, or due to a quick depletion of stock. It is not important which, for the feeling which clouds my mind is not one which knows absolutes; it actively accommodates to become relatively infinite in comparison to my stock of patience regardless of whichever measure I choose to evaluate it.
This now is the feeling that one has when faced with a decision which can be made at any time, where the decision is this: a man is attempting to drive himself to the beach. The road on which he drives is high up on a mountainside slope traveling alongside the beach, which is far below. Should the man wish, he can at any moment quickly jerk his steering wheel and enter into the steeply sloped grassy plain which sweeps down to the shore, a path which will allow him to reach his destination much more quickly, yet carries incredible risk, perhaps of overturning his vehicle. Eventually the road will reach the sea, but will the sun have yet to set?
Truly, the man's greatest obstacle is not the length of the road, nor the angle of the slope, nor the path of the sun. The man's greatest obstacle is his own doubt in any of these factors, the lack of belief, of faith, that any of these routes will lead him down to the sand. That he is pained in either choice is a clear indication of his exaggerated discomfort with the consequence of each, his preoccupation with a negative result that drives him to indecision. He is himself destroyed by a decision for which either path would have allowed him life.
Those who await him on the shore also suffer, for they perhaps are patient, and deep with faith. They do not suffer knowingly, for it is not that stones are showered upon their heads, but rather that bread is not given to them freely.
My lack of patience is then not the issue at hand. Rather, it is my dissatisfaction with this lack of patience. Either to have, or have not, one ought to be content regardless. I have instead found frustration which arises not even from the situation, but from my own volition. To agonize yet be paralyzed, to contemplate yet stagnate, this is my current state.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Red Flower Revolution (Part 1)
There is not much to say. Yesterday a gasket on one of the great moving machines tore, and we were forced to halt our progress. This never happened before the coming of that woman, but since she arrived, the rate of such occurrences increased from zero to appreciable, and from appreciable to frustrating, and finally from frustrating to problematic. If anything, she is the one who is problematic.
The problem isn't so much she herself, but rather her effect on the morale of the men. They are a simple army of workers, not a one of whom had ever seen such a beauty. Indeed, she is more fair than any had imagined the beauties of legend. There is a certain twinkle of her eye, a cunning to her smile which drove men to the brink of sanity. She is a fireball.
That all the men were attracted to her was not ever in question; rather, thoughts dwelled on who would be able to gain her attention. Those poor provincial men never once considered why such a woman would suddenly appear in this massive polluting place, but if they had the acumen to form such thoughts, then they would not be so easily blinded by her beauty in the first place.
It was strange that a woman had come aboard. Each moving machine was responsible for an edge of base of the great plodding beast of a city known as Atop. When asked by inhabitants of the lower land what exactly the city was atop of, residents simply repeated the ages-worn mantra, "Atop the world, wherever we go, where that it is, where we say so!" Nobody remembered the actual meaning of the phrase, but it was catchy, and would recruit locals on occasion.
Much of population of the land resided in the crawling cities, built long ago by some twisted and backward people who felt that there was some sort of innate beauty to the landscape which ought preclude permanent settlement by man. That this ideal would eventually lead to what were essentially giant land-destroying, smoke-pouring factories was a testament to the absurdity of the ancestors whose bureaucracy and penchant for awful long-term decision making were the stuff of legends. Having at one point determined that the entire planet was heating up like some sort of hot coal, the city-makers attempted to resolve the situation by simply creating giant cooling devices which poured heat into space via giant radiators. This is not to say that their scientists were so foolhardy - simply that the weight of public desire and mass stupidity was perfidious to actual knowledge. But we digress.
It is possible that she did not even come from the land below. Nobody remembers seeing her climbing up the long winding metal-frame walkways of gentle angles (nor does anybody understand why such ramps were necessary when simple ladders would have sufficed for climbing). Strangely enough, the earliest anyone remembered her presence was the man on detail overseeing regulation of smoke discharge from the main stacks at the top of the city. Smoke discharge was so vital to society and discipline in Atop that the man was able to resist the desire to take a second glance at the woman for binding of his duty. Truly, very few understood that the actual reason for the smoke regulation shift was simply to occupy the need for activity and purpose among the lesser men, as the entire city had no actual use for the massive amounts of dirt and rock and organic debris swallowed up by the shoveling jaws at the front other than creating smoking slag which was once considered a great renewable resource. That there were more suitable materials for building or decorating or crafting was trivial; in those days, the beauty of an idea was considered more valuable than its merit.
After that first sighting, no man had seen the woman for days, until she appeared suddenly and unexpected during one of our regular future-thought sessions. It is common practice and perhaps even sensibility to know and understand what the future holds for each man, as since there is no more life to be had after death, one ought to plan accordingly. On the other hand, each resident of Atop lived essentially the same life and served the same function, so thoughts of the future were not particularly enlivening. Truthfully, all the men of Atop hated the future-thought sessions, and nobody really understood the necessity. For this reason, her entrance to the future-thought hall was akin to the sudden appearance of a woman in the midst of numerous men brought to a stupor by a lecture which had long ago failed its intended purpose. It was eerily similar.
She strode quickly and purposefully to the podium, shoved aside the startled speaker. "I am Red Flower, and this is a revolution!"
The surprise was so palpable that it was necessary to turn on the fire-control systems to clear it from the room. Drenched in retardant, the woman continued. "Each of you has been reduced to nothing more than a simple ox, pulling a cart not caring to where or what you go." She ought to have said that they were like mules, since mules cannot reproduce, similar to the dumbfounded men sitting staring around the room. Then again, mules are said to be much more intelligent and tame than oxen, so perhaps oxen would have been more apropos.
She continued. "I am here to free you. Let go of this foolish nihilist garbage, and believe!" Murmurs filled the room, and the sound of the woman's voice became muffled among the noises of retardant spraying nozzles and muffling whispers of the intrigued men. Later, some would claim that she had come from a place called "Instantbull", but that they might know it as "ConstantOval". Others said that she was a giant flying bird with great talons, and that she had come to save them from the city, which she referred to as "More Ya". Even others insisted that she had called them all slothful and retarded, and they needed to get back in shape, and that it would require seven easy steps. One man said that she had caused him to pledge his allegiance to a being named "Mister Rogers", whoever that was, and that upon his death, he would go to a paradise called "Neighborhood". Regardless of what anyone claimed to have heard, it was generally agreed on that the woman was totally and unequivocally attractive.
Days passed, and the stories became more and more outrageous. One man said that for a day he had grown black paper feathers all over his body, and became unable to do anything except run about excitedly, then lean over others' shoulders and cackle "Nevermore!". Whoever was assigned to smoke dispersal would ignore protocol and instead allow pressure to build up until its release caused a loud whistling noise, after which the man would loudly proclaim "All aboard!" Each time any man ate an apple, he felt an incredible urge to throw the fruit into the waste disposal after a single bite, exclaiming that "that is where it belongs." All the while, the strange behavior of the affected men did not subdue the universal regard for the woman by all. The city fell into disrepair as men dealt with their afflicted comrades and pined for the woman's return.
-
I'll probably write the second part once the next topic appears.
I guess I lied, I don't think I'm very capable of starting something, putting it on hold, then restarting again later. It's just not in my nature.
The problem isn't so much she herself, but rather her effect on the morale of the men. They are a simple army of workers, not a one of whom had ever seen such a beauty. Indeed, she is more fair than any had imagined the beauties of legend. There is a certain twinkle of her eye, a cunning to her smile which drove men to the brink of sanity. She is a fireball.
That all the men were attracted to her was not ever in question; rather, thoughts dwelled on who would be able to gain her attention. Those poor provincial men never once considered why such a woman would suddenly appear in this massive polluting place, but if they had the acumen to form such thoughts, then they would not be so easily blinded by her beauty in the first place.
It was strange that a woman had come aboard. Each moving machine was responsible for an edge of base of the great plodding beast of a city known as Atop. When asked by inhabitants of the lower land what exactly the city was atop of, residents simply repeated the ages-worn mantra, "Atop the world, wherever we go, where that it is, where we say so!" Nobody remembered the actual meaning of the phrase, but it was catchy, and would recruit locals on occasion.
Much of population of the land resided in the crawling cities, built long ago by some twisted and backward people who felt that there was some sort of innate beauty to the landscape which ought preclude permanent settlement by man. That this ideal would eventually lead to what were essentially giant land-destroying, smoke-pouring factories was a testament to the absurdity of the ancestors whose bureaucracy and penchant for awful long-term decision making were the stuff of legends. Having at one point determined that the entire planet was heating up like some sort of hot coal, the city-makers attempted to resolve the situation by simply creating giant cooling devices which poured heat into space via giant radiators. This is not to say that their scientists were so foolhardy - simply that the weight of public desire and mass stupidity was perfidious to actual knowledge. But we digress.
It is possible that she did not even come from the land below. Nobody remembers seeing her climbing up the long winding metal-frame walkways of gentle angles (nor does anybody understand why such ramps were necessary when simple ladders would have sufficed for climbing). Strangely enough, the earliest anyone remembered her presence was the man on detail overseeing regulation of smoke discharge from the main stacks at the top of the city. Smoke discharge was so vital to society and discipline in Atop that the man was able to resist the desire to take a second glance at the woman for binding of his duty. Truly, very few understood that the actual reason for the smoke regulation shift was simply to occupy the need for activity and purpose among the lesser men, as the entire city had no actual use for the massive amounts of dirt and rock and organic debris swallowed up by the shoveling jaws at the front other than creating smoking slag which was once considered a great renewable resource. That there were more suitable materials for building or decorating or crafting was trivial; in those days, the beauty of an idea was considered more valuable than its merit.
After that first sighting, no man had seen the woman for days, until she appeared suddenly and unexpected during one of our regular future-thought sessions. It is common practice and perhaps even sensibility to know and understand what the future holds for each man, as since there is no more life to be had after death, one ought to plan accordingly. On the other hand, each resident of Atop lived essentially the same life and served the same function, so thoughts of the future were not particularly enlivening. Truthfully, all the men of Atop hated the future-thought sessions, and nobody really understood the necessity. For this reason, her entrance to the future-thought hall was akin to the sudden appearance of a woman in the midst of numerous men brought to a stupor by a lecture which had long ago failed its intended purpose. It was eerily similar.
She strode quickly and purposefully to the podium, shoved aside the startled speaker. "I am Red Flower, and this is a revolution!"
The surprise was so palpable that it was necessary to turn on the fire-control systems to clear it from the room. Drenched in retardant, the woman continued. "Each of you has been reduced to nothing more than a simple ox, pulling a cart not caring to where or what you go." She ought to have said that they were like mules, since mules cannot reproduce, similar to the dumbfounded men sitting staring around the room. Then again, mules are said to be much more intelligent and tame than oxen, so perhaps oxen would have been more apropos.
She continued. "I am here to free you. Let go of this foolish nihilist garbage, and believe!" Murmurs filled the room, and the sound of the woman's voice became muffled among the noises of retardant spraying nozzles and muffling whispers of the intrigued men. Later, some would claim that she had come from a place called "Instantbull", but that they might know it as "ConstantOval". Others said that she was a giant flying bird with great talons, and that she had come to save them from the city, which she referred to as "More Ya". Even others insisted that she had called them all slothful and retarded, and they needed to get back in shape, and that it would require seven easy steps. One man said that she had caused him to pledge his allegiance to a being named "Mister Rogers", whoever that was, and that upon his death, he would go to a paradise called "Neighborhood". Regardless of what anyone claimed to have heard, it was generally agreed on that the woman was totally and unequivocally attractive.
Days passed, and the stories became more and more outrageous. One man said that for a day he had grown black paper feathers all over his body, and became unable to do anything except run about excitedly, then lean over others' shoulders and cackle "Nevermore!". Whoever was assigned to smoke dispersal would ignore protocol and instead allow pressure to build up until its release caused a loud whistling noise, after which the man would loudly proclaim "All aboard!" Each time any man ate an apple, he felt an incredible urge to throw the fruit into the waste disposal after a single bite, exclaiming that "that is where it belongs." All the while, the strange behavior of the affected men did not subdue the universal regard for the woman by all. The city fell into disrepair as men dealt with their afflicted comrades and pined for the woman's return.
-
I'll probably write the second part once the next topic appears.
I guess I lied, I don't think I'm very capable of starting something, putting it on hold, then restarting again later. It's just not in my nature.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Moment
He sits there at night, in the lot, with his back to the table on which his elbows rest, slouched in the manner of a wire once taut. It is one o'clock, A.M., a silent warm night. Only the light breeze can be felt. The lights in the lot are on, keeping the darkness away from the cars parked there as the man sits.
His eyes are off in the distance. He is, likely, contemplating something that is not that object in the distance, at least not literally. If you stand in obstruction of his view, you would not be obstructing his view, for he is not seeing anything in particular but that subject which reigns in his mind. He is a man in thought.
As you walk up to him, a car passes into the lot, at first close, then farther and farther. Distance is nothing, but closeness is everything. You are close to him; surely he knows this. When you pass within a few paces of him, he turns and catches your eye, but says nothing. He is not to be disturbed.
You wonder what could drive him to sit there, thinking, deliberating, perhaps simply waiting. Is he troubled? Is he at peace? What causes a man to enter this state of ambiguity which only he knows and that you do not know? And yet you do know simply by walking by him. Right then, you are him, and he is you. When he catches your eye, the essence of that moment is transferred through the ether from soul to soul, a movement that is faster than instantaneous, a singular copying of mind and being that is closer than juxtaposition. He sees you, sees the physical representation of a human who stands before him, and yet also sees your very existence deep into the roots of the universe.
The moment is broken. He is still there, surely, but this is not important. A man can sit in one place, forever, yet the duration is lost as quickly as a grain of sand into a dune. There are but moments, each shorter than time itself, which build upon each other unto infinity, allowing you that locking of gaze that transcends comprehension. Each of those moments is a different moment, unrepeatable, lost forever immediately, yet destined to be echoed in each moment thereafter.
This is not to say that the man either does not value each moment or values each moment excessively. He has seen what is present there, and it is not lost, but saved.
His eyes are off in the distance. He is, likely, contemplating something that is not that object in the distance, at least not literally. If you stand in obstruction of his view, you would not be obstructing his view, for he is not seeing anything in particular but that subject which reigns in his mind. He is a man in thought.
As you walk up to him, a car passes into the lot, at first close, then farther and farther. Distance is nothing, but closeness is everything. You are close to him; surely he knows this. When you pass within a few paces of him, he turns and catches your eye, but says nothing. He is not to be disturbed.
You wonder what could drive him to sit there, thinking, deliberating, perhaps simply waiting. Is he troubled? Is he at peace? What causes a man to enter this state of ambiguity which only he knows and that you do not know? And yet you do know simply by walking by him. Right then, you are him, and he is you. When he catches your eye, the essence of that moment is transferred through the ether from soul to soul, a movement that is faster than instantaneous, a singular copying of mind and being that is closer than juxtaposition. He sees you, sees the physical representation of a human who stands before him, and yet also sees your very existence deep into the roots of the universe.
The moment is broken. He is still there, surely, but this is not important. A man can sit in one place, forever, yet the duration is lost as quickly as a grain of sand into a dune. There are but moments, each shorter than time itself, which build upon each other unto infinity, allowing you that locking of gaze that transcends comprehension. Each of those moments is a different moment, unrepeatable, lost forever immediately, yet destined to be echoed in each moment thereafter.
This is not to say that the man either does not value each moment or values each moment excessively. He has seen what is present there, and it is not lost, but saved.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)