Ahh, the glory of night. Actions hidden in darkened anonymity, the world being whatever is created by your light, and your actions. So much to be accomplished, so much potential. What do we desire? What do we seek after? It's all available, it can all be had: complete stillness is out there, or continuous motion if you so desire.
But what's that? Our periphery catches some glancing blow of light! Morning shining off the sky and back-again. But just a sliver now, there's still time, there's still time. Cards and movies, dinners and dancing we can have it all! No need to panic, no need to rush.
Now it seems the windows allow a fain glow, some tricky apparatus funneling in that dreadful substance. Photons pounding off the corridor and into our own private world! Vague objects in the blackness begin to take shape, forms of the formless. Still we persist, and our night carries on. What last adventure do we desire, what last story to reveal in before the morning takes us?
Light is pouring in, obfuscating our generated opaqueness. Reality forcing itself upon us, coming out of hiding and running full sprint at our consciousness. Still we cling to those last shadows before dawn, the last moments of fantastical imagination. But now it is too late, it is over. The sun opening its screens against the night, the windows pulsing with new found energy. No longer are even the corners shrouded in that gentle darkness that so endured them to our wild imaginings. Soon life will start anew around us, and we are left at the mercy of other's realities. The day has begun, and our hope waits in slumber for the night.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Stand-Up Comendy Ideas
Love can't conquer different levels of politness
You should always be able to run in your shoes
What age do you get to when you start wearing your watch facing the other way?
Why do we still have the 'fax' option?
Hacking into the CIA.
Chosing a religion to raise a child in
Not judging fat people in the grocery store
How come actors bring awareness but I'm supposed to provide money?
Why are kids always taught animal noises?
You should always be able to run in your shoes
What age do you get to when you start wearing your watch facing the other way?
Why do we still have the 'fax' option?
Hacking into the CIA.
Chosing a religion to raise a child in
Not judging fat people in the grocery store
How come actors bring awareness but I'm supposed to provide money?
Why are kids always taught animal noises?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Truth and lies, death and life
An abstraction must delete information from reality or it serves no purpose. There can be no complete description save the thing itself. Any representation is, by necessity, lacking. There can be no true re-telling, no accurate report, all become lies in the face of vivid truth. The present and the past, meeting at a razor's edge of now, they are cut apart and can not be brought together despite the trick of memory or record. Thus only actions of fidelity as only they can occur in the present, all else attempts to span the past and the future and becomes lies. All words are, by their nature, lies. In speaking honestly one must besmirch the truth and commit sin in telling. No conversation is forthright and no person who reaches out to those around may consider themselves clean of error. There is no escape nor release from this trap save in action.
Thus is beauty found in action, in the creation. Creation is art, dissection is death and the end of beauty. But beauty may only exist in the moment, in the elusive now. It is bordered and framed and shelved neatly between beginning and ending. That is why true beauty ends in death, the desire for action is the desire to end action, just as the desire to move is the desire to be still. Movement may only be understood in the context of beginning and ending. 'Where is he going?', 'where did she start?', the movement itself relegated to meaningless by the dominant bookends of inaction. Birth and death serve as the foundation and the capstone of live and overshadow any action in it. What is life? It is to be born, and it is to die, the rest of triviality. There is no other surety, no other constant to define life and so the borders must define it.
The truth of action understood only through the lies of words. The joy of life known only in the pain of death. To find beauty we seek destruction, to find joy we look for sorrow. The end of joy is sorrow, it is the constant that befriends joy, the end of life is death and the two made from the same beginning. We are tied to death as truth is tied to falsehood. They come from the same lips, they fall from the same stream. We battle uphill, against the current: what do we see?
Thus is beauty found in action, in the creation. Creation is art, dissection is death and the end of beauty. But beauty may only exist in the moment, in the elusive now. It is bordered and framed and shelved neatly between beginning and ending. That is why true beauty ends in death, the desire for action is the desire to end action, just as the desire to move is the desire to be still. Movement may only be understood in the context of beginning and ending. 'Where is he going?', 'where did she start?', the movement itself relegated to meaningless by the dominant bookends of inaction. Birth and death serve as the foundation and the capstone of live and overshadow any action in it. What is life? It is to be born, and it is to die, the rest of triviality. There is no other surety, no other constant to define life and so the borders must define it.
The truth of action understood only through the lies of words. The joy of life known only in the pain of death. To find beauty we seek destruction, to find joy we look for sorrow. The end of joy is sorrow, it is the constant that befriends joy, the end of life is death and the two made from the same beginning. We are tied to death as truth is tied to falsehood. They come from the same lips, they fall from the same stream. We battle uphill, against the current: what do we see?
Heat
You can feel it pressing in, pushing from every corner. It's a subcutaneous pressure, a motionless wind: there is no escape nor protection. Energy pulsating through every nerve, an oppressive heat surrounds you. There can be no respite, no succor to combat it. Outside it is more intense, more vivid; inside it is a gray undertone to form dissonance to every note. Heat has no counter, allows no recourse. It is the antidote to drive and vigor allowing a torpid soul to continue in apathy. Every move invites a worsening of the exterior condition: pumping out further heat and discomfort.
The cold forces motion: it is a barren field in which one with drive may plow and plant. A vast, empty expanse to be filled with motion, combat is purpose and purpose is success. A desire for cold is a desire to live, desire for heat is a wish for unending stillness, a cry for the ending of the race. It is ambition that will meet the cold, and timidity that calls for heat. The soul of progress will be North, and death only can be found in the tropics: waiting in the lushness of the plenty.
The cold forces motion: it is a barren field in which one with drive may plow and plant. A vast, empty expanse to be filled with motion, combat is purpose and purpose is success. A desire for cold is a desire to live, desire for heat is a wish for unending stillness, a cry for the ending of the race. It is ambition that will meet the cold, and timidity that calls for heat. The soul of progress will be North, and death only can be found in the tropics: waiting in the lushness of the plenty.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Father's Lessons
They thought I could not understand, and so they did not shield me. Or perhaps the moment overcame reason; I am not sure but I do remember. I remember the passion in Mother's eyes, the hunger there where, for weeks, there had only been hardness. I remember the gentleness in Father: the strong reed yielding softly to the winter wind. That is how I first learned from Father that even in the midst of great emotion it was calmness that ruled. He was the wall against which the wild energy of Mother broke until she was satisfied and the calm came to her too. But not the hardness of before, only peace: returned like spring's rains come from afar to wet the broken brow of the earth; Father was back and all was right. This was my first memory and my first lesson and I learned it well. That is why even the men admired me in battle and feared me in the court, I had learned to be calm when all around me had given themselves over to confusion.
Sitting in council I often told that story and the elders would always nod with me. True, true, true, they'd say, and you are truth's ambassador. I told that story the year the winter winds brought unrelenting snow from the East. When the villagers came from out of the plains and begged for food, and the council feared for their own lives and forsook charity in search of salvation. I told the story and the elders murmured "true" and the villagers went away with sacks of flour and a supply of smoked meat that would bring them through to see the sun finally clear the sky of clouds and their fidelity ours. I told the story when our cousins to the North thought that their greed gave them power over us and brought their armies to our doorstep demanding our surrender. Many wished to lay down before them in fear but I told them that the reed bends in the wind and lives through the mightiest gale, but any man that breaks his back will never stand again to face the slightest breeze. We held out three long weeks, and on the fourth found the army gone, the cousins calling back all that they had sent out that they could now destroy each other in war.
It was then that they asked me to stand with the council: Mother was proud and urged me accept. "Such honor" she said, "all will admire you." But Father smiled and said "Honor will come from your wisdom, but you must have the strength to refuse the honor of the people or you should not stand." Mother chided him endlessly for his warning but I listened to Father and did not stand in council. When the elders asked me why, I told my second story of Father.
I was still very little, but Father had taken me hunting for boar in the woods to the West of us. It was not the first time we had gone together, though some considered it dangerous and unwise with me so young. Others thought it wrong headed with me being a daughter and an only child at that as Mother had not yet brought forth Charlie to be my companion in childhood. They thought it unwise but Father had thought it wise and we went out West. This time farther than I had ever traveled away from our little house: deep, deep into the woods.
On the third day we found tracks of a beast not long since passed by. Father had me prepare my bow and he unsheathed his knife ready to slit the throat of the bore I would pierce. It was an honor to be given the trust of being the only archer and so I remembered the moment, and relished the thought of taking the beast and of the praise Father would give me when it fell. It was in this spirit of indulgence that I heard the cry, a man not 200 paces away, lying against the trunk of a great tree, bleeding. Forgetting the boar we rushed to his side only to discover it was Father's great friend Micilio of the council. He was wandering in the forest and had tripped and fell on a branch that pierced him through the chest. Just out looking for a rare flower to cure his wife's illness he said. Father saw the lie immediately and knew the truth behind it. Micilio was against our war with the Lathians and had sided with Father in attempt to stop us from marching. But their voices were not heard and our warriors had set out only a week before to catch the enemy unaware on their return from victories out beyond our borders.
Micilio had gone to warn them, and sell his knowledge of our plans. Father saw all this and reached gently into Micilio's breast pocket and retrieved the small pouch of gold that lay within. Having no strength left, Micilio could not stop him and seeing the pouch, ceased trying. He pleaded that this was for the good of all, that Father was with him surely! Did not Father remember the countless times they'd stood together in war and in peace? Father remembered indeed, and so when Micilio had finally ceased his pleas for forgiveness Father placed the knife, still in his hand, gently against his friends throat. I remember the way the blood came to the surface, drawn up by the edge of that pitiless metal, forming a perfect, red line across soft skin and falling down to the ground, to be drunk up by the tree with the next day's rain and the dew of the morning. Turning to me Father's face lost it's calm and I saw great tears form at the corners of his eyes. "All good friends deserve to be mourned at their passing" he told me. We went home that day and warned the council who sent our rider to alert our troops that their plan was known and to return.
It was then I learned that strength was to love the people more than yourself and so I did not stand, for I feared that I could not find strength enough to sacrifice all when called upon. It was not until later, after Charlie died in the heat of a terrible illness that claimed the the lives of a fifth of us in one summer that I finally decided to stand. I was still young, not the youngest to ever stand surely but the youngest woman and so I was honored. But I was Father's daughter and so I did not preen at their words nor take the proffered gifts but continued quietly to live with Mother and Father in our home across the river from the city.
That fall, a young man had been found climbing out the window of his lover whose parents had forbidden marriage for he had no property and rightly, no ambition. When taken to us in council they first denied having done anything but soon, weeping, confessed to everything. The law was clear and there was alternate paths available, so we stood as one and set the punishment proscribed generations ago when first our people settled here. I stood too, and joined my voice to the elders so that the in the morning the man and woman were killed quietly behind the great sycamore that stands outside the Northern most gates and buried there that afternoon. I saw the execution, refusing to hide from my decision by taking refuge in the daily labors that would keep from having to watch as the young man tried to remain stoic to the end but broke down crying, pleading for his life before the axe removed his head deftly from his body. Nor did I miss the scream the young woman uttered when she turned back too quickly and saw what had happened, or the second scream just before the blade came down on her own neck. I watched it all and knew that it was right, and that though sometimes bloody, it was the law that held our community from tumbling over the edge into dissolution and death of the whole.
The night afterwards I found myself on the hill overlooking the Sycamore tree, staring down at the tree, and the gates, and the distant city on the crown of the horizon. I watched as Father slowly walked through the gates and up, directly to where I sat: knowing somehow that I would be there on that night, knowing that I was alone and in that moment could not be alone. He said nothing, but held me tightly and I cast my arms around him and remembered as a child how it had felt, and that though we were both older I was reassured that in all the storms that had beset us, and all that would come some things were solid and would not change. That is how I learned the lesson of compassion from my Father, that it was given not to those who deserved it, but rather to those who needed it.
Years passed by and Father grew older. When he was thirty-five years of age he stepped down from the council and I was chosen to lead. He returned home to be with Mother and to care for her, as she had lain ill for two years, unable to leave our house save to sit in her beloved garden, now encroached upon by weeds without her tender vigilance, for an hour a day. Over time, I became accustomed to my new role and soon wore it like my own clothes; but I did not forget my Father's lessons.
It was two years later in the midst of the summer heat, that the messenger came to us. I had come back from a battle to the East, a minor skirmish with a duke who though himself a king and thus owner of our lands and of our people. The people were jubilant from our victory but I knew that their feelings would not overpower their worry. There had been a drought that was eating up our crops at an ever increasing rate. It had begun when little snow fell that Winter, and the spring melt had brought only a trickle where before we had seen a torrent. All Spring we waited for the rains to come and bring life to the seeds that meant life for us all but they didn't come. Summer arrived and with it great clouds that promised to drench the land and replenish our supplies, but the storms never came and the clouds finally disappeared: their promises unfulfilled. Concern turned to worry turned to fear and so the council decided to go send out troops to our borders; resolving conflicts that had long festered the people and would bring confidence back. But though our victories were celebrated and perhaps the drought forgotten for a time, the fear would always return, always a little greater than before.And so the messenger came out of the South and when he spoke, the fear of the people confirmed his message in their hearts.
He spoke of gods of which we had never heard, but which we all knew intimately. Gods of anger and vengeance who sent the drought to punish us for our indolence. We must make a sacrifice, he said, we must placate the Gods, then the rain will come. One man must die that all may live, this was his message. The people heard and the people believed, but the council was wiser and cast the messenger out. The weeks went by and news came from the great cities to the West and the North and the East. They had also received a messenger and having no council, had each killed their greatest man and burned his body in ritual obedience. Yet still no rain came and now they wondered and they questioned, and the messengers told them: your sacrifice is great but there remains one city who will not bow to the will of the Gods, they must likewise join you in your humility as they will share with you in the rain that comes from our Gods. So the cities began to send their ambassadors but still the council stood together as one and refused. The people on the borders of our city began to demand we give in, yet still the council stood. The cities sent threats of violence and retribution for our disobedience, but still the council stood. And then one day we awoke to find the armies of countless kingdoms and fiefdoms and cities and villages gathered at our doorstep.
We were told that we would deliver the body of our greatest man to them that night to be burned in sacrifice or we would all go up in a great flame that could be seen from ocean to mountain top. We met in council all that morning, many wished still to remain apart from the madness that had spread across the land and refuse give in, and others felt their honor offended that any enemy would dictate to us. So I told them the story of strength and because they knew me they listened, and they agreed and we had strength together as a council. It was I that went to my Father to tell him, I would let no other take that burden from me.
When my Father heard the decision of the council I had no need to explain, he understood the task that had been given him. Mother though, would not understand and on her bed, cried for hours until she was spent while Father and I held her and comforted her. Together we took the pain of her suffering, together we had calm in the face of the storm. And when her tears were spent my Father kissed her, took his hunting knife along with his bow and we left, off into the woods.
Through the remainder of the afternoon we hunted and as the night came, we found a boar rutting in the bushes fifty paces off. Quietly we prepared, and when we were both ready I set loose an arrow that found the great heart of the animal. It let out a cry and tried to run, but in after only a few steps it had fallen and Father was on top of it, his blade finding the arteries that took the beast's blood to its brain. We stood over it together and saw death bring calm to the boar's raging body. A minute passed, then two, and finally Father looked at me and said "Perhaps now is the time. Wait for me on the hill and watch that you may know when to summon the people."
And so I retreated to the hill above the bushes were we had found the board and watched. I saw as Father cleaned off the knife, not wishing to mingle his blood with that of a beast. I saw as he stood, staring silently at the blade gathering strength for his last act. I saw him prepare his body to receive the telling blow; and though it was dark I saw the moment in which the courage went out of him, and I knew then that this is why he had taught me compassion. For in this moment he did not deserve it, but he needed it and so it was then that my arrow flew through the air and lodged itself deep in his chest before he had a chance to run, or even think of running. I went down and replaced my arrow with his knife, for I was my Father's daughter and I had compassion.
His body was burned that night in a great ceremony out in the plains and the next day the armies returned to their homelands. As the weeks went by and no rain fell the people across the land began to turn on the men from the South and those that did not escape quickly enough were killed and their bodies cast without ceremony out where the fowl could devour them and the rodents pick them clean. It wasn't until Fall, when many had died from drought and from mobbing and from needless wars with neighbors who had once been friends that the rain finally came to replenish the wells and bring hope to the hearts of the people once more. There were celebrations through-out the city and grievances that just the previous day had justified murder were forgotten now in the excess of plenty. The council was overcome with joy and joined with the people in their merry making; but I went to my Mother who was now buried behind her garden, and wept.
Sitting in council I often told that story and the elders would always nod with me. True, true, true, they'd say, and you are truth's ambassador. I told that story the year the winter winds brought unrelenting snow from the East. When the villagers came from out of the plains and begged for food, and the council feared for their own lives and forsook charity in search of salvation. I told the story and the elders murmured "true" and the villagers went away with sacks of flour and a supply of smoked meat that would bring them through to see the sun finally clear the sky of clouds and their fidelity ours. I told the story when our cousins to the North thought that their greed gave them power over us and brought their armies to our doorstep demanding our surrender. Many wished to lay down before them in fear but I told them that the reed bends in the wind and lives through the mightiest gale, but any man that breaks his back will never stand again to face the slightest breeze. We held out three long weeks, and on the fourth found the army gone, the cousins calling back all that they had sent out that they could now destroy each other in war.
It was then that they asked me to stand with the council: Mother was proud and urged me accept. "Such honor" she said, "all will admire you." But Father smiled and said "Honor will come from your wisdom, but you must have the strength to refuse the honor of the people or you should not stand." Mother chided him endlessly for his warning but I listened to Father and did not stand in council. When the elders asked me why, I told my second story of Father.
I was still very little, but Father had taken me hunting for boar in the woods to the West of us. It was not the first time we had gone together, though some considered it dangerous and unwise with me so young. Others thought it wrong headed with me being a daughter and an only child at that as Mother had not yet brought forth Charlie to be my companion in childhood. They thought it unwise but Father had thought it wise and we went out West. This time farther than I had ever traveled away from our little house: deep, deep into the woods.
On the third day we found tracks of a beast not long since passed by. Father had me prepare my bow and he unsheathed his knife ready to slit the throat of the bore I would pierce. It was an honor to be given the trust of being the only archer and so I remembered the moment, and relished the thought of taking the beast and of the praise Father would give me when it fell. It was in this spirit of indulgence that I heard the cry, a man not 200 paces away, lying against the trunk of a great tree, bleeding. Forgetting the boar we rushed to his side only to discover it was Father's great friend Micilio of the council. He was wandering in the forest and had tripped and fell on a branch that pierced him through the chest. Just out looking for a rare flower to cure his wife's illness he said. Father saw the lie immediately and knew the truth behind it. Micilio was against our war with the Lathians and had sided with Father in attempt to stop us from marching. But their voices were not heard and our warriors had set out only a week before to catch the enemy unaware on their return from victories out beyond our borders.
Micilio had gone to warn them, and sell his knowledge of our plans. Father saw all this and reached gently into Micilio's breast pocket and retrieved the small pouch of gold that lay within. Having no strength left, Micilio could not stop him and seeing the pouch, ceased trying. He pleaded that this was for the good of all, that Father was with him surely! Did not Father remember the countless times they'd stood together in war and in peace? Father remembered indeed, and so when Micilio had finally ceased his pleas for forgiveness Father placed the knife, still in his hand, gently against his friends throat. I remember the way the blood came to the surface, drawn up by the edge of that pitiless metal, forming a perfect, red line across soft skin and falling down to the ground, to be drunk up by the tree with the next day's rain and the dew of the morning. Turning to me Father's face lost it's calm and I saw great tears form at the corners of his eyes. "All good friends deserve to be mourned at their passing" he told me. We went home that day and warned the council who sent our rider to alert our troops that their plan was known and to return.
It was then I learned that strength was to love the people more than yourself and so I did not stand, for I feared that I could not find strength enough to sacrifice all when called upon. It was not until later, after Charlie died in the heat of a terrible illness that claimed the the lives of a fifth of us in one summer that I finally decided to stand. I was still young, not the youngest to ever stand surely but the youngest woman and so I was honored. But I was Father's daughter and so I did not preen at their words nor take the proffered gifts but continued quietly to live with Mother and Father in our home across the river from the city.
That fall, a young man had been found climbing out the window of his lover whose parents had forbidden marriage for he had no property and rightly, no ambition. When taken to us in council they first denied having done anything but soon, weeping, confessed to everything. The law was clear and there was alternate paths available, so we stood as one and set the punishment proscribed generations ago when first our people settled here. I stood too, and joined my voice to the elders so that the in the morning the man and woman were killed quietly behind the great sycamore that stands outside the Northern most gates and buried there that afternoon. I saw the execution, refusing to hide from my decision by taking refuge in the daily labors that would keep from having to watch as the young man tried to remain stoic to the end but broke down crying, pleading for his life before the axe removed his head deftly from his body. Nor did I miss the scream the young woman uttered when she turned back too quickly and saw what had happened, or the second scream just before the blade came down on her own neck. I watched it all and knew that it was right, and that though sometimes bloody, it was the law that held our community from tumbling over the edge into dissolution and death of the whole.
The night afterwards I found myself on the hill overlooking the Sycamore tree, staring down at the tree, and the gates, and the distant city on the crown of the horizon. I watched as Father slowly walked through the gates and up, directly to where I sat: knowing somehow that I would be there on that night, knowing that I was alone and in that moment could not be alone. He said nothing, but held me tightly and I cast my arms around him and remembered as a child how it had felt, and that though we were both older I was reassured that in all the storms that had beset us, and all that would come some things were solid and would not change. That is how I learned the lesson of compassion from my Father, that it was given not to those who deserved it, but rather to those who needed it.
Years passed by and Father grew older. When he was thirty-five years of age he stepped down from the council and I was chosen to lead. He returned home to be with Mother and to care for her, as she had lain ill for two years, unable to leave our house save to sit in her beloved garden, now encroached upon by weeds without her tender vigilance, for an hour a day. Over time, I became accustomed to my new role and soon wore it like my own clothes; but I did not forget my Father's lessons.
It was two years later in the midst of the summer heat, that the messenger came to us. I had come back from a battle to the East, a minor skirmish with a duke who though himself a king and thus owner of our lands and of our people. The people were jubilant from our victory but I knew that their feelings would not overpower their worry. There had been a drought that was eating up our crops at an ever increasing rate. It had begun when little snow fell that Winter, and the spring melt had brought only a trickle where before we had seen a torrent. All Spring we waited for the rains to come and bring life to the seeds that meant life for us all but they didn't come. Summer arrived and with it great clouds that promised to drench the land and replenish our supplies, but the storms never came and the clouds finally disappeared: their promises unfulfilled. Concern turned to worry turned to fear and so the council decided to go send out troops to our borders; resolving conflicts that had long festered the people and would bring confidence back. But though our victories were celebrated and perhaps the drought forgotten for a time, the fear would always return, always a little greater than before.And so the messenger came out of the South and when he spoke, the fear of the people confirmed his message in their hearts.
He spoke of gods of which we had never heard, but which we all knew intimately. Gods of anger and vengeance who sent the drought to punish us for our indolence. We must make a sacrifice, he said, we must placate the Gods, then the rain will come. One man must die that all may live, this was his message. The people heard and the people believed, but the council was wiser and cast the messenger out. The weeks went by and news came from the great cities to the West and the North and the East. They had also received a messenger and having no council, had each killed their greatest man and burned his body in ritual obedience. Yet still no rain came and now they wondered and they questioned, and the messengers told them: your sacrifice is great but there remains one city who will not bow to the will of the Gods, they must likewise join you in your humility as they will share with you in the rain that comes from our Gods. So the cities began to send their ambassadors but still the council stood together as one and refused. The people on the borders of our city began to demand we give in, yet still the council stood. The cities sent threats of violence and retribution for our disobedience, but still the council stood. And then one day we awoke to find the armies of countless kingdoms and fiefdoms and cities and villages gathered at our doorstep.
We were told that we would deliver the body of our greatest man to them that night to be burned in sacrifice or we would all go up in a great flame that could be seen from ocean to mountain top. We met in council all that morning, many wished still to remain apart from the madness that had spread across the land and refuse give in, and others felt their honor offended that any enemy would dictate to us. So I told them the story of strength and because they knew me they listened, and they agreed and we had strength together as a council. It was I that went to my Father to tell him, I would let no other take that burden from me.
When my Father heard the decision of the council I had no need to explain, he understood the task that had been given him. Mother though, would not understand and on her bed, cried for hours until she was spent while Father and I held her and comforted her. Together we took the pain of her suffering, together we had calm in the face of the storm. And when her tears were spent my Father kissed her, took his hunting knife along with his bow and we left, off into the woods.
Through the remainder of the afternoon we hunted and as the night came, we found a boar rutting in the bushes fifty paces off. Quietly we prepared, and when we were both ready I set loose an arrow that found the great heart of the animal. It let out a cry and tried to run, but in after only a few steps it had fallen and Father was on top of it, his blade finding the arteries that took the beast's blood to its brain. We stood over it together and saw death bring calm to the boar's raging body. A minute passed, then two, and finally Father looked at me and said "Perhaps now is the time. Wait for me on the hill and watch that you may know when to summon the people."
And so I retreated to the hill above the bushes were we had found the board and watched. I saw as Father cleaned off the knife, not wishing to mingle his blood with that of a beast. I saw as he stood, staring silently at the blade gathering strength for his last act. I saw him prepare his body to receive the telling blow; and though it was dark I saw the moment in which the courage went out of him, and I knew then that this is why he had taught me compassion. For in this moment he did not deserve it, but he needed it and so it was then that my arrow flew through the air and lodged itself deep in his chest before he had a chance to run, or even think of running. I went down and replaced my arrow with his knife, for I was my Father's daughter and I had compassion.
His body was burned that night in a great ceremony out in the plains and the next day the armies returned to their homelands. As the weeks went by and no rain fell the people across the land began to turn on the men from the South and those that did not escape quickly enough were killed and their bodies cast without ceremony out where the fowl could devour them and the rodents pick them clean. It wasn't until Fall, when many had died from drought and from mobbing and from needless wars with neighbors who had once been friends that the rain finally came to replenish the wells and bring hope to the hearts of the people once more. There were celebrations through-out the city and grievances that just the previous day had justified murder were forgotten now in the excess of plenty. The council was overcome with joy and joined with the people in their merry making; but I went to my Mother who was now buried behind her garden, and wept.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Beauty
Some moments are built into our lives with exquisite beauty, they're just scripted that way. The presentation of majestic amidst the most colloquial backdrop may still inspire awe in all classes of imagination. How often do they come? It's hard to say, we may not even remember them afterwards; but the moment exists independent of our recognition as a jewel in the midst of a fire. Though we may see the flames consume it, perfection may only be masked, it can not be destroyed. The ravaging of age leave untouched the gems of youth, and though the mists roll over the visages of our greatest triumphs yet they remain in darkness: their power untouched by the black of the night waiting always for the return of tender hearts to return the light. Be not fearful, but always in the arms of beauty and you shall never fade.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0O6Fnyz1Y0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0O6Fnyz1Y0
Pain
It brings clarity to the moment: isolating it against a static background of somber tones of listless monotony. Pain sharpens the senses, increases the memory and open a pathway of reality unknown to those who hide behind their fortifications against life. The edge of a knife, it slices through deception and camouflage to reveal the truth beneath the masquerade. We seek it in all endeavours, encounter it at the climax of every accomplishment. It is the harmony of success, and the partner of fulfilment. A search for death in life: the desire for beauty is manifested in a desire for death. To see clearly we leave behind the residue of impurity, like a trail of muck that marks the path of a slug. Those who journey to greatness may be found by walking amongst the refuge of filth and unkempt dreams of darker or lesser glories. All our voyages will end the same: in death. All life born with the seeds of destruction built into them. Nothing will last, we speed towards endings of splendour, or of cowardice as we attempt to dodge inevitability. No man that seeks to avoid fate will find his lot cast amongst the heroes of the past.
Pain will bring light into dark places, and bring the power to conquer what lays before us. It will bring up that well-spring of emotion instantly to its aid. What must we feel now? Is it anger, is it sadness? What brought us to this point of intensity in a world of torpor? All the must be will come when called by the dark gods of humanity. They must be wakened, they must be satiated: it is pain that will rouse the sleeping giants within us. Pain will call the legions and light the signal fires; we shall never overcome adversity, but rather shall be raised above all by adversity. Pain is our father, and we seek none greater. This is the prelude to life.
Pain will bring light into dark places, and bring the power to conquer what lays before us. It will bring up that well-spring of emotion instantly to its aid. What must we feel now? Is it anger, is it sadness? What brought us to this point of intensity in a world of torpor? All the must be will come when called by the dark gods of humanity. They must be wakened, they must be satiated: it is pain that will rouse the sleeping giants within us. Pain will call the legions and light the signal fires; we shall never overcome adversity, but rather shall be raised above all by adversity. Pain is our father, and we seek none greater. This is the prelude to life.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Questions
- What is a meaningful contribution?
- Are our lives chaotic, and thus capable of being changed in a significant manner through minor input? If not then what benefit can we bring to others in the short time we are with them? If so, does that make our interactions powerful but ultimatly meaningless morally?
- If information density implies inability to compress, doesn't that lead to the conclusion that only true randomness contains information. If adding order to a system reduces randomness which reduces information, what are the moral and intellectual ramifications of that?
- If a person is caught in an addiction, when do they lose moral responsibility for their actions, or can all actions be placed at the feet of the choices they made that led to addiction?
- What does it mean to make a difference?
- How does spiritual matter travel across physical space? Is it continious as we assume with physical matter, or is it disjointed into finite jumps?
- When we saw two or more things are connected, what do we mean, and what does that actually imply about the items in question? How close must these things be in the given category (physical space, attributes, etc...)?
- Is there such a thing as a continuim?
- Are the phenomena of entanglement and chaos robust enough such as to together impact macro events?
- How redundant must a statement be in order to be considered tautalogical?
- When we speak of the sense of touch, what is it that we are feeling? Electrostatic forces only?
Once more into the breach, dear friends
It was his watch that finally drew his attention to the issue. It was losing time; first seconds on the day, measures within the realm of mediocrity that was the prevalent notion of the day. His irritability turned into confusion as the seconds became minutes, and then hours. He could never bring the problem to focus, never shackle it down and force it into his own reality. He brought stop-watches by the cartoon, wholesale from Swiss vendors circulating the new, crystal variety.
Each one timed against his watch showed fidelity to an unreasonable degree. Milliseconds remaning constant over meticulously recorded minutes and hours. Yet every day he found himself farther and farther back. Whole mornings having escaped the notice of his watch; afternoons dissipating into some unseen aether. Each second marking its passage on the glass face but lost to the spectrum of his life.
Braulio began to understand the source when, after another fruitless but detailed study of one second piling upon another, he found that the issue had so progressed that he was no longer merely losing time: his watch had actually traveled backwards; even as he stared unceasingly at the dials proceeding in the forward direction, several minutes had returned to him, leaving him behind his starting point. In that moment he perceived that is was him and not some physical contrivance that was at the source. A flesh and blood temporal displacement in the midst of a river of inevitability. Some sort of dimensional warping forcing his path into reverse amidst his fellows.
This was not unheard of among mining scholars. Cases of cause-effect reversals having been reported for centuries beneath the surface. Most attributed this to depth inversion, finding height measured downwards the other aspects of life simply followed the simple reversal. Braulio was entirely unaware of this tradition of time altercations amongst his spiritual forefathers, but as with the rest of them he could have immediately ruled out this foolish depth-time relation for such as held that view. The two dimensions were unconnected: it was light. Light has always been the source, always been the arbiter of space.
Darkness ruling in the man-made caverns, blackness permeating into the realities of the mine. It was Braulio's sacrifices to that ruling power which joined him with the opposing directions. As black became his light, so forward was replaced with its opposite: that old 'bait and switch' practical joke that was a favorite of so many that had gone before.
He became a walking doorway into a realm of possibility. The reversal not so of time itself, but more directly of inevitability. Sure things, known outcomes, quaking in his presence. Questions of entropy increase and thermal chemistry reaming unknowns in that pocket of space he occupied. Was this the method God had ordained to return structure to His creation? Some sort of embrace of darkness, a rejection of the gift of sight? Perhaps the blind were to be leading the sighted, bringing them down past the nexus of surface into the subterranean kingdoms.
The questions flamed up in the mind of Braulio, but were swiftly stamped out, dosed by the inundating routine of down-world survival. The day-today trivialities easily crowding out the meaning of true discovery. He became accustomed to merely asking around in order to determine time (no longer able to trust the clocks he had worked by) and the matter began to fade into the ever-present blackness.
Each one timed against his watch showed fidelity to an unreasonable degree. Milliseconds remaning constant over meticulously recorded minutes and hours. Yet every day he found himself farther and farther back. Whole mornings having escaped the notice of his watch; afternoons dissipating into some unseen aether. Each second marking its passage on the glass face but lost to the spectrum of his life.
Braulio began to understand the source when, after another fruitless but detailed study of one second piling upon another, he found that the issue had so progressed that he was no longer merely losing time: his watch had actually traveled backwards; even as he stared unceasingly at the dials proceeding in the forward direction, several minutes had returned to him, leaving him behind his starting point. In that moment he perceived that is was him and not some physical contrivance that was at the source. A flesh and blood temporal displacement in the midst of a river of inevitability. Some sort of dimensional warping forcing his path into reverse amidst his fellows.
This was not unheard of among mining scholars. Cases of cause-effect reversals having been reported for centuries beneath the surface. Most attributed this to depth inversion, finding height measured downwards the other aspects of life simply followed the simple reversal. Braulio was entirely unaware of this tradition of time altercations amongst his spiritual forefathers, but as with the rest of them he could have immediately ruled out this foolish depth-time relation for such as held that view. The two dimensions were unconnected: it was light. Light has always been the source, always been the arbiter of space.
Darkness ruling in the man-made caverns, blackness permeating into the realities of the mine. It was Braulio's sacrifices to that ruling power which joined him with the opposing directions. As black became his light, so forward was replaced with its opposite: that old 'bait and switch' practical joke that was a favorite of so many that had gone before.
He became a walking doorway into a realm of possibility. The reversal not so of time itself, but more directly of inevitability. Sure things, known outcomes, quaking in his presence. Questions of entropy increase and thermal chemistry reaming unknowns in that pocket of space he occupied. Was this the method God had ordained to return structure to His creation? Some sort of embrace of darkness, a rejection of the gift of sight? Perhaps the blind were to be leading the sighted, bringing them down past the nexus of surface into the subterranean kingdoms.
The questions flamed up in the mind of Braulio, but were swiftly stamped out, dosed by the inundating routine of down-world survival. The day-today trivialities easily crowding out the meaning of true discovery. He became accustomed to merely asking around in order to determine time (no longer able to trust the clocks he had worked by) and the matter began to fade into the ever-present blackness.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Information
What is the informational density of a piano? It's primarily known for 88 distinct sets of data (not specific frequencies as each note is impure: containing different overtones), with a specific access mode. Here's an example of information retrieval on a piano, so what is stored here? Clearly the piano brings some base set of information from which one may extrapolate the performance using a set of meta-information. This meta-information would consist of data as to how the keys were pushed. If we knew nothing about the instrument we might assume a list of total presses for keys might do it. Perhaps greater insight would lead us to a list of the keys in order: but even that's not sufficient. We begin to approach a situation in which way be able to actually grasp the desired output when we include time as a recorded factor. But we also discover the speed at which each individual piece of information is recovered is also an essential part of the overall effect, and now more data is needed. A complete set of retrieval information (or meta-information) would include the time of any key-press, press-intensity most likely measured as velocity of key depression, and release time. In a standard piano knowledge as to pedal action would also have to be included.
Armed with this meta-information we would now be able to recreate past knowledge events (play pieces) given a specific knowledge set (the piano). The meta-information we've obtained has no inherent value, it is useless to use directly and can only be accessed itself through the use of the base information. The fact that likewise the base information is useless to us without the meta-information is not a paradox but a wonderful example of symbiosis of knowledge. Once applied appropriately we find a piece played that goes beyond the meta-information we brought to the appearance: resonance between strings, as an example, not being expressed in the text itself.
The actual information has a real physical appearance in the form of the strings, the soundboard, the case, etc... But the meta-information we've discussed is purely abstract, having no physical reality. It may be stored on paper in the form of sheet music (a rather impure form) but then the reality is the ink and the paper and additional meta-information is required to translate that to our version of knowledge. This sets up an infinite recursion of required knowledge that has not been explained. No true end point has been found, we only know there is one, and that it is not infinite, because we are capable of making sense of these things, and we can translate information. But for the time being we see that the piano itself is the only "true" information, and the rest is an abstraction that requires the piano to become a physicality.
So what information does a piano really store? We discussed its 88 notes, but is that the reality? What if we did not know what information to look for, how many ways could we attempt to access the information locked within? We could put the piano in a compression test in which we loaded the top and bottom until it failed, deriving a force versus strain curves and giving us all sorts of information like elastic constant, plasticity and ultimate load. Is not this information 'stored' in the piano just as much as musical notes? Burning it we would determine caloric makeup, speed of combustion, chemical composition and so forth.
Perhaps a question that should be asked is: what does a piano mean? What's the totality of its meaning, what is it in and of itself and what does add up to? Most likely any intelligence would recognize in a short time that it was designed, and that the purpose of the design included use of the keys (cats certainly prove this with frequency). Is that it's meaning? Would it be more meaningful if it were later to be used to perform an notable task? Is a piano more meaningful if it has in the past performed a meaningful task (which we each must decide the definition of)? If so what information is stored that has value? If none then how could meaning be determined if a zero change in information allowed a change in meaning? That would force us to admit that an object does not contain its own meaning, or that it is impossible to determine the meaning of anything as it may or may not have been impacted by the events that generated its meaning.
How does this apply to the meaning of us, of a person? Do we contain meaning inherent in ourselves or must it be forced upon by another intelligence? If so then where does that recursive process end? If we do contain meaning, where can we find it, how can we determine our own sum total? What must we look at, and how would it be stored as it happened to use?
Armed with this meta-information we would now be able to recreate past knowledge events (play pieces) given a specific knowledge set (the piano). The meta-information we've obtained has no inherent value, it is useless to use directly and can only be accessed itself through the use of the base information. The fact that likewise the base information is useless to us without the meta-information is not a paradox but a wonderful example of symbiosis of knowledge. Once applied appropriately we find a piece played that goes beyond the meta-information we brought to the appearance: resonance between strings, as an example, not being expressed in the text itself.
The actual information has a real physical appearance in the form of the strings, the soundboard, the case, etc... But the meta-information we've discussed is purely abstract, having no physical reality. It may be stored on paper in the form of sheet music (a rather impure form) but then the reality is the ink and the paper and additional meta-information is required to translate that to our version of knowledge. This sets up an infinite recursion of required knowledge that has not been explained. No true end point has been found, we only know there is one, and that it is not infinite, because we are capable of making sense of these things, and we can translate information. But for the time being we see that the piano itself is the only "true" information, and the rest is an abstraction that requires the piano to become a physicality.
So what information does a piano really store? We discussed its 88 notes, but is that the reality? What if we did not know what information to look for, how many ways could we attempt to access the information locked within? We could put the piano in a compression test in which we loaded the top and bottom until it failed, deriving a force versus strain curves and giving us all sorts of information like elastic constant, plasticity and ultimate load. Is not this information 'stored' in the piano just as much as musical notes? Burning it we would determine caloric makeup, speed of combustion, chemical composition and so forth.
Perhaps a question that should be asked is: what does a piano mean? What's the totality of its meaning, what is it in and of itself and what does add up to? Most likely any intelligence would recognize in a short time that it was designed, and that the purpose of the design included use of the keys (cats certainly prove this with frequency). Is that it's meaning? Would it be more meaningful if it were later to be used to perform an notable task? Is a piano more meaningful if it has in the past performed a meaningful task (which we each must decide the definition of)? If so what information is stored that has value? If none then how could meaning be determined if a zero change in information allowed a change in meaning? That would force us to admit that an object does not contain its own meaning, or that it is impossible to determine the meaning of anything as it may or may not have been impacted by the events that generated its meaning.
How does this apply to the meaning of us, of a person? Do we contain meaning inherent in ourselves or must it be forced upon by another intelligence? If so then where does that recursive process end? If we do contain meaning, where can we find it, how can we determine our own sum total? What must we look at, and how would it be stored as it happened to use?
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