Monday, May 4, 2009
3:59AM - Stumped
Inaccuracy stirs inability.
My initiative fades with familiarity.
No books, no conversation, no smiling will lift my spirit, because I fear rejection.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Every evil is a social barrier, and the illusion of social constructs leave gaping holes which only facilitate and necessitate loneliness, depression, rage, paranoia, suicide...
Ideas are nothing but a communal scrapheap. We scavenge for understanding only to be shortchanged by opinions. Every social concept--success, fashion, money, education...--every value which we must measure, which we must "conceive to see", which we must interpret, puts our egos in charge and in control of the metre-stick; values thus swell to surreal status. To me, success is an imaginary friend--I would like to see it, but my eyes just can't bend that way--I have blown the idea up so much, I can't attain it; no one can.
We already know the nature of separation: we learned, gradually, that the word "food" meant what was on the plate, and not the plate itself, or the table, or the utensils. We were born with an impulse to separate in order to understand, and we continue, even in maturity, to learn through the lens of separation, by labeling others, by defining others, even by shaping others in order to place them into our collection of social constructs. We continue to believe that this works.
Our values thus direct our blessings and our curses. One loves and cares as directed, though the same person also harms and hates as directed. Our minds are packed with ideas, illusions, and the senses which feed them are just as jammed and bewildered. We see a 34-year-old man, 268 lbs., no wife, no kids, not interested in religion, still plays video games, drinks a lot, doesn't mind taking the bus, and really likes the TV show, Prison Break, and we could constantly be re-placing him in our minds; but, most importantly, most likely, we've totally and needlessly disassociated him from ourselves. We've formed prescriptions for him, because we put him in one box, and know that if he could only do "this and this", he could be in a better box.
If you don't like the same movies I like, or even the same foods, I don't even want to talk to you. We look for our values in people. In the classroom, a professor has a champion voice, a cynical face, a caring benevolence, because students are valuable to him. However, in the hallway, he would no sooner look at you than speak, he wears a wallowing face, and drudges without joy, because you are just someone else in the hallway, a punk, a nerd, a nice guy, eye candy...he'll barely say hi.
We listen to what makes sense, but haven't the slightest idea if it does, or what that even means! What does it mean to "make sense"?! We reject as false anything that doesn't fit our ideas--we remove as distasteful anything that doesn't suit our scrap-happy decor. But where did these scraps come from?--where'd we get the tools to measure our ideas?! By setting success so distant, so impersonal, I name myself failure; I name everyone failure. With goals so unreachable, I must know I'm not there; no one I see is there. My social constructs object to all humanity, and for whatever reason, they are chosen to govern this poor human's heavy head. Intellect and maturity arbitrarily chosen as my goals, I have squandered togetherness, happiness, peace, faith, and life... I've perpetuated every evil.
Monday, February 23, 2009
1:48AM - I don't need no doctor
Everyday, the weary hands of the clock fall off.
And I grasp at something not made for hands,
and search for something my eyes cannot behold.
I sit and cry for hours, in my mind, just watching the hours go by.
Perpetually preoccupied: capable of anything, I do something else.
Time is filming, and I am camera-shy.
Procrastination draws to my side, and Time is the precious, deadly tip of its blade.
Not yet dead, I do nothing yet.
Tense, weak, bound--practically incapacitated--
walls and walls baracade everything but self-pity.
Afraid of myself, I look within:
incessantly quivering, I sink.
Tears sparkle, the world sees,
unhelpful are the world's tricks;
nothing completely unbounds me.
The less stress, the heavier--
More, I demand, much more, and easier stress.
Not knowing which wire to cut,
obliteration in a single one,
the bomb I surround with wires;
I think, it will soften the blow.
Shivering, wrapping myself snug in metal links;
my tomb needs no tree,
my head needs no stone,
my grave needs no earth.
I need to calm down without crutches,
unwind without pretense,
and come clean without imagination.
I cannot make believe myself well.
I need to pray without answering.
I am no God, and not mine.
Prayer, unanswered, go, fly with no return, to my God, Whom,
at the moment I see, I replace; Whose answers,
upon revelation, I take credit; Whose touch,
I ignore. Prayer, I will not own you.
By miracles, the laws of earth are bent,
but the laws of heaven are not.
No faith lies in miracle;
no miracle lies in Heaven, let it be so here.
Let it be, God, that you would not answer my prayer, only hear it.
Save it, till heaven. Do as You please.
Forbid it, Lord, that my prayer become my prescription.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
10:47AM - 99
I'm a nomad, homeless in an alcoholic world. No doors are marked "welcome". Drunkenness has only a small chance of taking me. Poison before pleasure: that's the rule. It's backwards: bottom's up. Standing in the way, Death holds a flaming sword at the gate. Death before drunkenness. Stress, anxiety, pain--all have access to this gate of my soul, except alcohol. It can't break in and clean out. I'm trapped with mental unease. The sickness of alcohol lies in never tasting its savour.
Monday, January 12, 2009
6:44AM - crazy
Thing#1 saw a great big blur in the distance. Tiny at the top, large at the bottom, brown with great big green hairs. "What a thing," it thought. "So original, so refreshing." After time, it noticed this Thing#2 had changed. The same colours, but it wasn't tiny at the top; in fact, the top didn't seem to exist anymore! It was short and stout. Small on the bottom, and rather fattened. Where did it's friend go?
Thing#2 saw delicate lines in the distance. They came together shorter at the top, and longer at the bottom, dark lines along a sandy coat. "What a thing," it thought. "So odd, so different." But soon afterward, Thing#1 had changed. The lines quirked and rearranged into different places: short ones at the top, so tiny, the smallest one was probably an inch! It was shorter now, and rounder. Where did it's friend go?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
12:17AM - UTC
I was told once that the sign of a good song is its getting stuck in your head.
I dispute this.
I typically get the most repetitive songs stuck in my head: the lousy, cheap, unartistic loops of melodies.
I watched Beowulf, and, in it, it kind of depicts lust. One scene has the temptress and the tempted looking at each other, with supposedly her music filling his ears. It made me think of lust as being a song stuck in one's head.
Temptation is not a sign of a bad person; bad thoughts, as well as bad songs, can get stuck in your head, but this does not mean your head is bad. It doesn't mean you like it. Don't believe it.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
12:00PM - Astronauts
I wonder what kind of relationships people have. Usually we assume that everyone has what we have; or we are haunted by the thought of everyone else having it better than us. A new thought has been haunting me, and it is that my friends have far worse relationships than I had imagined. Worse still, my friends doubt I'm as well as I am! I think this is bad, because (1) I consider it an insult, and (2) my friends might despair, thinking people suck.
So, for the despairing, insulting, friends of mine, meet Amy and I:
We're the best of best friends.
There once was a girl named Amy. She lived in Halifax, and went to West End Baptist Church. She was dating a boy named Thamuth, throm that thery thame thurch. He broke up with her, and she was upset; and when Amy gets upset...my goodness, you have no idea...Neither did I. After hearing about her upset, I decided to spend some time with her; so I drew up a resume, and applied for her friendship.
Barriers caused by "relationship labels" can be removed without much harm; although, not without much thought. Amy is not the only amazing person in the world, and I don't think it has to do with me, either: I've met lot of amazing people, whom I often miss. Ask me for their numbers. I think most important is not to discredit yourself; someone probably really likes you; and there's not many things healthier than being liked for being yourself--one healthier thing is being loved regardless of what you do. And far healthier than that is to love someone regardless of what they do.
I wrote a few poems for her, and because of her.
I wrote a paper about her: Converse Conversations: Applied Coordinated Management of Meaning
I've been the happiest I've been since 1987, because of her.
Friday, May 2, 2008
2:22PM - Sink a Station
In line with my previous post, concerning my deluded perception of people, I had wanted to write about myself.
I am last,
I am lowest,
I am loved.
This is not because I need to be lower than others, but because I raise myself above others.
My perception of myself ought to be more concise: less about myself, more about others.
Why last and lowest? You could think of it like a graph or a table: I put myself long and high, far up on the charts, when I should be on the first column (last), and be brought to the first row (lowest). You could say one is physical and one is mental: I am last in line, lowest in status. I am not last to be polite—not to glorify my humility—but last because I know I am lowest. And I am not lowest because I believe I am—I don't make myself lowest—but lowest because I was made that way: made equal. It's a battle over my mind, against pride.
This is pride making me believe I am higher than highest. Paradoxically, pride can, and often does, convince me that I am lower than lowest: that I have to fight for equality; that there is no rest for me; that I am simply not right. I am loved, again, not because I believe I am; in fact, most times it's a struggle to believe even that. I am loved, without having to do or believe anything. I am at peace because I am loved. I am at peace because there is rest.
But I am not at rest, because something very essential, and independent of the previous three statements, exists.
I am a lover.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
7:56AM - Pretty Pretty Little Gems
To respond, "that is wise," to any statement, means (1) that you agree, and (2) that you knew beforehand; it was in you all along; you did not bring it out, but when someone else did, you recognized it.
Acknowledgement of anything new affirms something pre-existent in the mind--untapped knowledge. The mind, a mess of puzzle pieces. We piece together our consciousness; Wisdom hints, "Use that piece, there," and our consciousness grows from what was unconscious. We realize, "Hey! You're right!" We pick up a piece we've had all along, and put it in its new home. Up off the heap, and snug where it fits. Now, we can complete this puzzle by copying others, hearing and observing their wisdom, or we can figure it out on our own.
I have read that writers must write before they know what to write; otherwise, they'll never know. Perhaps creativity is a tool. Not used to shape a thought, but used to find a thought. Not clippers to trim, but water to grow.
We have so much inside of us. Knowledge isn't so much an imparting from one to another as it is one helping another out with their own puzzle.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
5:38AM - Intemperant
Not your love, nor your attention, but mine from you.
In a sense, it could be said that in our relationships we are looking, moreso searching, for a reason to love ourselves. Our outward socializing, partying, romancing, are gateways to our inner-selves. We learn who we are by meeting other people. I have heard that "I love you" can mean "do you love me?" Relationships being so in need of rigorous devotion, it begs the question, "do we love ourselves?"
This statement, "Not your love, nor your attention, but mine from you," suggests love is a loan--to be loaned or repaid. As if we would take no gift from another--too prideful to accept charity from someone else, and repulsed at the thought of giving. This maxim belongs in a proud world.
A first thought, a first inclination--instinct is not meant to be right--not final, but it instructs. Though one could die from following nonsense, the very same nonsense could save the very same life. Nonsense isn't no sense. Common sense isn't good sense. There is truth to this statement: perhaps this is a proud world. Perhaps it ought to be.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
4:44PM - Crack a Bat
For whatever reason, my perceptions of people seem to be skewed. This will be my attempt to remedy this.
My adversary is a servant of my God.
The stranger is my brother; another is my sister.
All strangers are as dear to me as the dearest friend.
My friends are like me, and they are "undergoing the same kind of sufferings."
I have no superior.
I have no inferior.
Those lost to me are lost, and irreplaceable.
Those found cannot be replaced.
A person's past differs from the person.
No aspect of a relationship is to be dictated or debated, but discussed.
I own no one.
No one owns me.
People are to be uncontrolled and therefore enjoyed.
No one is entertainment.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
5:57AM - Lovelife
Video games can be hard. You are vulnerable, you have a goal, and you have obstacles. Think Super Mario: your goal is the utmost right (Nintendo anyway); you might have three lives, and can only withstand one or two pricks from the obstacles--piranha plants, mushroom heads, and flying turtles are abundant--of course this depends on how tall you are. To lose a life will bring you back to the start of whatever level you died on, and to lose all three lives will bring you back to the very beginning, as if you never played at all. Frustrating. Although, imagine you have unlimited lives: your mistakes are forgettable.
I've been thinking of the unconditional factor of Love. People often don't want to get involved with others, sheerly because they are sure they will make the ultimate mistake--lose all three of their Mario lives and have to start a new game. Imagine a true love which makes you invincible (as in a game), and therefore perfects your movements, makes your mistakes forgettable, and makes your great goal inevitable. Suddenly, loss is inaction: actions can lead to mistakes, but mistakes can no longer disqualify you. You are free to win sloppily: pacing fast and carelessly tripping over near every obstacle; and you are free to win excellently: learning how to play as you go along, falling less and less, becoming more and more worthy of this invincibility--the Love you have been given.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
"I like what I have learned to mock."
It could be that the young boy in school who picks on the young girl, teases her, hits her, makes faces, and throws things "because he likes her," really only likes her because he mocks her.
To be mock-worthy typically suggests that it is, in fact, worthy; it is somehow great enough to be noticed and to inspire.
I think of Weird Al, and how he has inspired me to enjoy music from many artists I had once despised. I came to mock their songs with him, and consequently accepted them in a sense; they became appealing; their worth was realized.
I was making fun of someone one night with Carolyn and I realized very soon afterwards that I was mimicking the person we made fun of. That person was distinct enough to be mocked, and to be beautiful.
"He who wants to set a good example must add a grain of foolishness to his virtue; then others can imitate and, at the same time, rise above the one being imitated—something which people love."
There is a point of goodness, in all goodness, where it is true to say that "I do not do this for what I receive, but because I cannot help but do it." And this is far greater than badness, where someone is addicted to pleasures, and cannot help doing those things which please them, and consequently hurt them. This is not out of routine, but out of freedom: it is entrapment in an ideal situation; to know that "what I want" is "what I do" is freedom. All things trap us. We are chained to foolishness, and if we did see freedom, would we not cling to it, as foolishness has clung itself to us? It would be another sort of entrapment, that's true: it would be joyful. We would be the trappers. In every sense what you hold onto holds onto you. Be entangled in Freedom.
Friday, January 11, 2008
1:14AM - Reversed-ygolohcysp
In the beginning, getting to know someone causes love. Eventually, a peculiar thing happens, which occurs in many aspects of our social world. Eventually, love will cause you to get to know someone. It's been reversed.
The effect becomes the cause.
Other occurences, that I can think of at the time:
Necessity is the mother of invention; yet, in time, invention becomes the mother of necessity.
New-borns retrieve all sensations, they sort them then judge them, but once the piles of information start to develop patterns, all sensations are judged then sorted.
All of these ideas are firstly concerned with the beginning state of things, then learning, and, finally, reversing the procedure.
"How do you know how to fix something if you don't know what's wrong with it?
I don't understand this tendency for things to be reversed.
"But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong."
Saturday, December 22, 2007
"True, you like me for me, but you don't like me for you."
"Liking me for me" is a common conception of what it is to love truly: it is beautiful to see past a person's falsities, but I have one thing to add to this statement. And it is that this common true-lover has no love to give, however much he or she sees the real you. An animal can seem to love you, by paying attention and obeying, but it is really you who coax this response; in humans as well as animals.
All attention is given because it is demanded. This is not love. What the common person calls love--and calls rare--intrudes daily into our lives. This "liking me for me"-business is as common as it is futile. No, loving people won't love you because you're good; they will love you because they're good. You see, then, that for a relationship to have substance, to have love, you must "like me for you."
Consider Jesus' famous "Love your enemies." If one loves all people, one loves truly; otherwise, one does not love.
There is such a phenomenon that causes people to love self-selected persons. This phenomenon is subject to the other person; or, therefore, caused by the other person; or, therefore, the love does not exist in the giver; this giver is of a type which has no gift to give. This is what it is like to love only your friends, to be good to those who are good, to be kind to those who are kind...--you are trying to give what you see they already possess, and, sadly, what you lack.
The counterpart: to love your enemies, to be good to those who are bad, to be kind to those who are mean, to befriend your losers, to talk with the unsocial, to smile when others frown... This is Love: objective, and therefore not subject to another person; or, therefore, caused by the giver; or, therefore, Love exists in the giver; only this giver has a gift! In fact, this giver has the only gift.
"I fear to breathe any treason against the majesty of love, which is the genius and god of gifts, and to whom we must not affect to prescribe."
It is yours to give only if you cultivate the nature of Giving, which is the nature of God, and our nature as Children--our brother-and-sisterhood.
"If we will not learn to eat the only food that the universe grows—then we must starve eternally."
Monday, December 17, 2007
12:28PM - Happy Birthday!
Imagine you have friends who just plain suck, and perhaps they realize this. These half-assed friends decide to throw a surprise party for you, as if to make up for poor friendship (Of course poor friendship is not something which could be vindicated by anything other than real friendship). They wrench your heart--though you love them deeply, they love you minimally. Now they've collected into a group, devoting a night to you. What torment. The hypocrisy would be overwhelming. The party: a night of mockery. They would play off each other's praises, and down-right lie about you. The sweet words, smiles, and eyes you've longed for, are now dressed to kill: a wretched mirage lay before you.
I don't know what you'd do, but I'd run for it. Friends or not, it would feel like a room full of enemies. Add to that: I don't like surprises or birthdays. I wonder, though, about the good/bad ratio. God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah because, out of however many of the population, there were not ten good persons to be found (Although God cheated by evacuating Lot and his family beforehand). Before the flood only one man, Noah, was good. I wonder how God feels about the church, where it seems like a sort of surprise party goes on every Sunday: half-assed friends come together and play off each other's hypocrisies to praise Him. Is it worth it, if there are at least two genuine friends present? Would God run from the building, every Sunday, as I would? Or should I stay, as God might?
Matthew 5:23-24 "Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift."
If this sort of surprise party occurred, I feel it would resemble a gift in place of reconciliation.
Practice poor friendship and you'll get better at being a poor friend. Practice good friendship, and though you may have to start at the bottom, it's the only way to become a good friend.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
7:43PM - Un-Quoteable Quotes
Quotes are invaluable. They dwell so deeply within one's psyche. Whether consciously or not, maxims promote certain direction over any and all choices. Quotes, as well as poetry, are didactic. Just as you are what you eat, a quote resembles, yet even directs, the person. These maxims are one's accumulated knowledge, collected in single ideas; they are, in the minds of their makers/approvers, the highest known truths. Why wouldn't they naturally follow their wisdom? What they typically accept is the explicit message; but there is always an implicit one, too.
Here are some virus-ridden quotes I've come across (not mentioning some of the ones I've already stated I hated):
Don't settle for anything less than butterflies.
This quote puts to shame the old "No pain no gain"; and wrongfully so, I believe. Settle for only butterflies, and you'll soon kill them all off, for good. This statement implies that if you don't feel like doing something, don't do it. Otherwise, it assumes that people really know what is good for them based on their emotions. If this were true, we would eat nothing but candy.
Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.
What happened to all the other friends!? Yeah, it's a cute quote, but are we looking to shun all but our best friend!?
A good friend comes to bail you out of jail. Your best friend is in the cell beside you saying, "That was fun."
Wow. Way to prioritize friendship. In other words, friendship is the quality that helps you destroy yourself. The comedic latter sentence blindsides the goodness of the first.
Everything is okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end.
A good message, overall, but it implies carelessness, it gives no drive. It implies that something external will help you out, and doesn't stress any personal resolutions.
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Again, this implies that life is more external. Though it acknowledges that life is more than existence, it doesn't tell us what life is. As if it were a good enough life to have travelled different countries, or heard the best music, or eaten the best food; do you see that? It's all about what we get, and not what we give. It discourages action, by enforcing reaction.
Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.
Robert Frost is a dink. I know there are a lot of people who get upset with the reckless use of the word Love; well, this is one of them. Yes, again, it sounds cute; but cute doesn't cut it. This quote again promotes the receiving-end and not the giving-end. Love, he says, is something to get from someone. Is Love merely desire? He says it is. Do I Love bacon? Or is it more about being desired? Do I Love stalkers? Frost was out for money on this one, and not for geniune knowledge. Furthermore, the disturbing part, can we not love those who don't desire us? Can we not love our enemies? Of course we can.
As you may notice, I take quotes very srsly.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
11:16PM - détachement
We try to choose who we are. There is something wrong with that. We accept praise and criticism as personal marks--"I am a bad ballet-dancer + I am a good hockey-player = I am a hockey-player." We are fitted. And on many occasions, towards a variety of things, with little foresight, we become fanatics. We're addicted to ourselves; or, more properly, we're addicted to choosing who we are. Faith has nothing to do with it, though it ought to supercede. We hardly believe we could survive without quirks, without preferences, without talents, without styles--even life without an indulgence or two seems impossible. Labels give security. The dangers of a simple bite into a cookie go unnoticed--the desire builds and a preference has been added to the bank of that-which-defines-you. There are such terms as "cat-people" and "dog-people"; people rooted in preference, some of whom have evolved, and revolve their lives, their very beings, around an animal. Sure, animals are better than drugs, not to mention gambling, and even music; but are we really aiming from the bottom up? Are we satisfied, looking for something better than poison? Fill out the whole span of your life, and notice the topics you introduce in conversation--is that what you will be about? Separate you from what is not you.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
8:33PM - The Doctor and the Train
"I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up," echoed in his memory--a speck in the distance; the journey of education lay behind him--the road to romance unraveled in plain sight.
"Frederich," she begged him, "I'm leaving on the tenth," as if tears were strewn down her face, "and I won't see you. My father w..."
"Hey," he objected. "We won't lose touch." His last words left not a whim of her desires fulfilled--neither the smallest of his.
Beyond what appeared to be a healthy, goal of a man, was an adequately shaped, and rigorously trained, prop: facts and figures inhabited his mind, the seeds of diligent study, developed into maddening sophistication.
His one insight, Madeline--brought much pain to his heart.
"I can't make it tomorrow," spoken sternly to the professor of his final class. "I need to write the exam on a different day," his voice cracked, leaving ample opportunity for backlash from the quieted man.
"Oh," his enjoyment vested not in loudness of voice, but in control of time. "And why's that?" Their friendship shone through his lightest tones, and was only mockingly undermined by a lack of eye contact.
"There's a girl..."
"Ah ha," he looked up. "So that's what it is." He shuffled some papers on his desk, biding his own and his victim's time. "I'm afraid you have to write the exam on the designated date." His straight face and demeanor left no debate to be had.
The instinctive "But!" flew from his mouth. "She's leaving, and I want to stop her; ask her to marry me; I love her." His face grew red and his voice flared, yet respect for his professor overshadowed.
The professor shot a look of disdain, of pity, and finally, of judgment: "Still." He maintained. "Your day, and your desired moment, means what it means to you," he paused, "out of sacrifice. If you had no exam," he leaned in, and unwound his logic, "no education for that matter, no goals, no job, nothing, except this girl, it would be meaningless to the both of you for you to take this day for her." His hands went to his desk, as he remained seated, looking up--eye contact. "There would not be a you for her to have; no essence of sacrifice, which is the true sense, the true share, of self."
He drowned his head, looked around, as if for some other aide, and accepted defeat.
"Listen, friend, I will not change the exam date, but you must search yourself. Don't make the mistake of following an empty desire."
The Tenth. A booming voice rang through the auditorium, with its response: Bergstrum. Here. Caldwell. Here. Farrell. Here...The list seemed to swell until, eventually, Frederich's name. "Is he here?" reiterated the professor, fiercely surveilling the room, wondering--did he go; did he fetch the girl; did he pose his love to her, and withdraw his doctorate?
"Here," a hand corresponded, and the professor focused on him.
"Sadly," he spoke with him softly, "you'll probably ace this exam, and never make a good doctor."
Eyes lit up the room. Seats creaked. The list recommenced, and drew to its end. Emptiness swept out the clutter, and fouled his mind.
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