Sometimes sitting down and typing feels alien ot me. The keys are never punched in the right order, constant backspaces and retypes are here that you will never even know about. Instead I will leave all of them in plain sight for you to reall yobsever what I am talking about, although I suppose iwill at least strike through the misplaced words and nonsensicsal retypes that would help to make this a more readable projecet. I even catch myhself automatically backspacing and trtyping before I have a chance to allow them to be solidified inot reality and notn just a momentary blip of my mistake to be covered up and disguised like a blemish on the face of a model minutes before a shoot.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Eternal Recurrence
If you are reading this, upon completion of this thought process do me a favor.... sit still, breathe real slow, and try to imagine yourself not existing. An atheists death i suppose, just picture one minute you thinking and feeling and seeing, and the next just blinked out. How difficult is it to imagine oneself Not Existing. Yourself in the first person sense gone. It seems overwhelming to try and imagine. Sometimes when my mood strikes a particular combination of things (tiredness i believe being one of them), i can feel like i'm standing on the edge of that abyss of existing/not existing. Only for a moment or two, then its gone.
During that moment however, i'm filled with a powerful feeling, one of recognition, a sense of understanding almost. It's as if i have teetered on that ledge before and quickly backtrack my process of living and end up here again. Those of you that know me understand my fascination with Nietzsche. One of his ideas crops up here, that of eternal recurrence. If your life does flash before your eyes, like some people say, i guess that would be it. If you truly do get a flash of life right before your eyes that only lasts a moment of 'real time', it would still feel like your life being lived over again. Every minute of it. Horrible, painful and mundane, fun and excrutiating. Nietzsche says that one should model their life over this idea that you have to relive every second of your existence eternally.
Now some astronomers and the like would say that given enough time and space, everything that could happen, has, and then all thats left (given there is still an infinite amount of time) gets repeated over and over again, a sort of cosmic re-run. What makes us so arrogant as to think that this is the first run through? Is it possible that we have all gone through these motions before? My typing, your reading, just another lap around the same track. Well hopefully, the first and original go round you have read this (or something similar, i won't presuppose the arrogance that my writing is the catlyst for where i am going with this) and changed afew things to make the reliving as enjoyable as possible. However, just in case this is the first go round, you (and I as well) should make a few adjustments to ensure that we can have a more enjoyable eternal recurrance.
And if not, if all of this is nonsense and you find it trite and irritating, just picture not existing. Or come as close as you can. Maybe you'll get that tingling little sensation that you have done this before.
During that moment however, i'm filled with a powerful feeling, one of recognition, a sense of understanding almost. It's as if i have teetered on that ledge before and quickly backtrack my process of living and end up here again. Those of you that know me understand my fascination with Nietzsche. One of his ideas crops up here, that of eternal recurrence. If your life does flash before your eyes, like some people say, i guess that would be it. If you truly do get a flash of life right before your eyes that only lasts a moment of 'real time', it would still feel like your life being lived over again. Every minute of it. Horrible, painful and mundane, fun and excrutiating. Nietzsche says that one should model their life over this idea that you have to relive every second of your existence eternally.
Now some astronomers and the like would say that given enough time and space, everything that could happen, has, and then all thats left (given there is still an infinite amount of time) gets repeated over and over again, a sort of cosmic re-run. What makes us so arrogant as to think that this is the first run through? Is it possible that we have all gone through these motions before? My typing, your reading, just another lap around the same track. Well hopefully, the first and original go round you have read this (or something similar, i won't presuppose the arrogance that my writing is the catlyst for where i am going with this) and changed afew things to make the reliving as enjoyable as possible. However, just in case this is the first go round, you (and I as well) should make a few adjustments to ensure that we can have a more enjoyable eternal recurrance.
And if not, if all of this is nonsense and you find it trite and irritating, just picture not existing. Or come as close as you can. Maybe you'll get that tingling little sensation that you have done this before.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Laughter
I feel that laughter is one of the (if not THE most) essential characteristics of the human condition. If you are not of this belief and feel affronted by the fact that i place laughter this high on my list, then please, carry on about your miserable, dreary life. However, if you are of the regard that there may be some truth to aforementioned statement, then please, join me in this venture into the mysterious origins of the human consciousness and laughter.
Many times within the poetry slam community, i have heard different versions of the 'stay away from funny poems', or 'bring the darkness' (a mantra i have grown to absolutley despise), or just people who do not have one shred of humor or lightheartedness in any of their material. Even a horrible cynical or sarcastic comment counts for me as humor, and is appreciated. Once, I remember in Texas for nationals, a poet (I believe from Texas), did a poem about how he can't laugh anymore (he might have been referring to poetry, i hope actually, as admitting that you can no longer laugh is the most dismal and slow of deaths and also draws a bit of bitter angst towards that person from myself) because of his job dealing with kids who have been abused. One of the poets i was with turned to me after that poem and said that from that point on in the bout, no one would be able to do a funny poem.
I scoffed (well i'm not sure if i scoffed really, but that is how i am going to recount this bit of personal history), and said that was exactly why there needed to be funny poem. To show the absurdity and stupidity of the earlier poem. Those are the kids that need laughter the most. There is no nobler goal than to swallow the pain and senseless violence in the world while returning nothing but a smile and chuckle of laughter to acknowledge the duality of all things in the universe. To only be willing to witness and take part in the travesties of human nature, no matter how golden paved the intentions are, is only a lonesome highway to the depths of a personal hell. So enough of this, and on to the laughter (which is far overdue in this writing exercise i know, but you may skip to the end for one my favorite jokes if you like, i'll wait)!!
Laughter has been called many things, none of which (that my limited experience has brought upon me) seem to be completely false, and also i might add, none of which seem completely true (in the sense of being a primary factor above all others). Some of my favorite explainations were along the lines of pshychology, but in a very amusing manner. The first one i wish to bring up was 'the secret in laughter is a return to nature'. I'm not sure how well founded this is, as mother nature would be a strange model to emulate our silly giggles and grins to (in a cynical or sarcastic sense, well maybe even in an ironic sense i can understand this as the basis for humor), yet it places laughter in a position older than speech and conscious thought, which i like.
A more eloquent and more obviouslly pshychological approach is that laughter is "the result of suddenly released repression, the physical sign of subconscious satisfaction". Another dandy idea, and in many cases would seem to carry a bucketfull of water, but again, it doesnt quite strike my sensibilities (maybe it does yours though? please leave me some comments telling me what you believe about the glorious joy of laughing).
I will keep it simple (if that is even in the realm of possiblility for myself), in that laughter is the soul, running an old tin cup across the iron prison bars of the body, remembering what it was like to be free. It makes us human, allows us to dance on the tips of razor sharp truths, and kiss the blunt end of reality when it delivers sledgehammer blows to the face. So i will leave you with a bad joke that i love (are there really any other kinds of jokes to love really?), and hope if you dont laugh at the joke, you will laugh at the idea that i think it is so grand a one.
Why is it that people never hear rabbits having sex?
cotton balls.
Many times within the poetry slam community, i have heard different versions of the 'stay away from funny poems', or 'bring the darkness' (a mantra i have grown to absolutley despise), or just people who do not have one shred of humor or lightheartedness in any of their material. Even a horrible cynical or sarcastic comment counts for me as humor, and is appreciated. Once, I remember in Texas for nationals, a poet (I believe from Texas), did a poem about how he can't laugh anymore (he might have been referring to poetry, i hope actually, as admitting that you can no longer laugh is the most dismal and slow of deaths and also draws a bit of bitter angst towards that person from myself) because of his job dealing with kids who have been abused. One of the poets i was with turned to me after that poem and said that from that point on in the bout, no one would be able to do a funny poem.
I scoffed (well i'm not sure if i scoffed really, but that is how i am going to recount this bit of personal history), and said that was exactly why there needed to be funny poem. To show the absurdity and stupidity of the earlier poem. Those are the kids that need laughter the most. There is no nobler goal than to swallow the pain and senseless violence in the world while returning nothing but a smile and chuckle of laughter to acknowledge the duality of all things in the universe. To only be willing to witness and take part in the travesties of human nature, no matter how golden paved the intentions are, is only a lonesome highway to the depths of a personal hell. So enough of this, and on to the laughter (which is far overdue in this writing exercise i know, but you may skip to the end for one my favorite jokes if you like, i'll wait)!!
Laughter has been called many things, none of which (that my limited experience has brought upon me) seem to be completely false, and also i might add, none of which seem completely true (in the sense of being a primary factor above all others). Some of my favorite explainations were along the lines of pshychology, but in a very amusing manner. The first one i wish to bring up was 'the secret in laughter is a return to nature'. I'm not sure how well founded this is, as mother nature would be a strange model to emulate our silly giggles and grins to (in a cynical or sarcastic sense, well maybe even in an ironic sense i can understand this as the basis for humor), yet it places laughter in a position older than speech and conscious thought, which i like.
A more eloquent and more obviouslly pshychological approach is that laughter is "the result of suddenly released repression, the physical sign of subconscious satisfaction". Another dandy idea, and in many cases would seem to carry a bucketfull of water, but again, it doesnt quite strike my sensibilities (maybe it does yours though? please leave me some comments telling me what you believe about the glorious joy of laughing).
I will keep it simple (if that is even in the realm of possiblility for myself), in that laughter is the soul, running an old tin cup across the iron prison bars of the body, remembering what it was like to be free. It makes us human, allows us to dance on the tips of razor sharp truths, and kiss the blunt end of reality when it delivers sledgehammer blows to the face. So i will leave you with a bad joke that i love (are there really any other kinds of jokes to love really?), and hope if you dont laugh at the joke, you will laugh at the idea that i think it is so grand a one.
Why is it that people never hear rabbits having sex?
cotton balls.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Salinger, Myself, and Writing
If I've never told you, J.D. Salinger is quite possibly my favorite author. Of course most peoples initial reaction is 'oh Catcher In The Rye'. Not my favorite of his works. Personally it doesn't hold the same pinache and gusto contained within Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters, or my absolute favorite Seymour-An Introduction.
His chaotic parenthetical whimsy of oration (i see this particular writing style as much more relating to actual speech than a stale page) is a thing of splendor. I like to think I myself relate to this style, partially from the uncanny ability to spend endless hours recounting stories that branch out in tangents and become their own roots, whose shoots never quite blossom before new seeds fall and take root on their own (yes, i tend to ramble and lose the main track of my argument or story). They way in which Salinger addresses the reader (like i myself have taken on here), is inspired. He brings up the amusing question of how can an author know who his audience is? The reverse is easy. So to you few readers (as i highly doubt i have some inordinately large reading base like some of the intangibles) I, like Salinger, apologize for this long winded and verbose explanation that a better poet would be able to state quite simply.
What i am trying to get at, is the reason that poetry is difficult for me. It is difficult for the same reason that 3 day trips for fun become a burden. I simply have no idea how to pack. A visual image, a thought, a smell, are things that i cannot simply compose in a line like many of the great poets i know. I have to wander around it, through it, cradle it gently (or roughly, depending on my mood), to relate it to everything i know (or as much as i can possibly stand, which is most likely a little bit more than what you would be able to tolerate yourself as the reader). So Poetry becomes a task of taking off layers and layers to reach some sort of primordial essence that will transcend the brevity of description and magically (in the very best of conditions, which is usually our goal isn't it?) add those layers again once the reader (or listener i suppose) allows themselves to be affected by this prose. This skill i am lacking (as should be apparent by this writing which for better or worse seems to be my natural style). So for those of you readers (if any of you are still there even) who made it through this, i appreciate it, and will be making more of these journeys around the peripherals of my psyche instead of what many would consider prose in order to sort out and alleviate this incessant chattering (whether its aloud, or simply in my head).
His chaotic parenthetical whimsy of oration (i see this particular writing style as much more relating to actual speech than a stale page) is a thing of splendor. I like to think I myself relate to this style, partially from the uncanny ability to spend endless hours recounting stories that branch out in tangents and become their own roots, whose shoots never quite blossom before new seeds fall and take root on their own (yes, i tend to ramble and lose the main track of my argument or story). They way in which Salinger addresses the reader (like i myself have taken on here), is inspired. He brings up the amusing question of how can an author know who his audience is? The reverse is easy. So to you few readers (as i highly doubt i have some inordinately large reading base like some of the intangibles) I, like Salinger, apologize for this long winded and verbose explanation that a better poet would be able to state quite simply.
What i am trying to get at, is the reason that poetry is difficult for me. It is difficult for the same reason that 3 day trips for fun become a burden. I simply have no idea how to pack. A visual image, a thought, a smell, are things that i cannot simply compose in a line like many of the great poets i know. I have to wander around it, through it, cradle it gently (or roughly, depending on my mood), to relate it to everything i know (or as much as i can possibly stand, which is most likely a little bit more than what you would be able to tolerate yourself as the reader). So Poetry becomes a task of taking off layers and layers to reach some sort of primordial essence that will transcend the brevity of description and magically (in the very best of conditions, which is usually our goal isn't it?) add those layers again once the reader (or listener i suppose) allows themselves to be affected by this prose. This skill i am lacking (as should be apparent by this writing which for better or worse seems to be my natural style). So for those of you readers (if any of you are still there even) who made it through this, i appreciate it, and will be making more of these journeys around the peripherals of my psyche instead of what many would consider prose in order to sort out and alleviate this incessant chattering (whether its aloud, or simply in my head).
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
My problem with Psuedo-science
It's actually not what you think. My problem is the term itself. Science has gained such a stranglehold on western knowledge in the last 200 years that now any other system of knowledge and belief (especially ones that are considerably older) are deemed childish, fraudulent and laughable. You know those crazy fundamentalist evangelical Christians that preach all madness, that they know the only true way? yea, throw a lab coat and a pocket protector on one, and you got a scientist. They are belligerent and racist. Any indigenous peoples are silly and misinformed about the world they inhabit because they don't have science. Many scientists believe that science is the only lens in which to view the world, its dogmatic, and personally i find it sad.
Last time i checked, astrology did not directly result in the depleting of our ozone layer. Alchemy had no part in the mass industrialization of Europe, leading to the genocide of native peoples and the raping of fertile lands for resources around the globe to feed this monstrous (yet invisible) giant we call science. Why? Well because the priests.... i mean scientists tell us that we need to advance our knowledge so we can understand the world and make it better! What has gotten better in the last 200 years? menial comforts, length of life, health and travel. Yet we've lost our habitat, the natural wonders of our planet, and some of its marvelous creatures as well. But guess what, we STILL all die. Don't worry though, the preachers..... i mean scientists say they can fix that. And if you try and look to stars for answers, they'll laugh until the toxic fumes of their breath blocks out everything glorious around us.
Last time i checked, astrology did not directly result in the depleting of our ozone layer. Alchemy had no part in the mass industrialization of Europe, leading to the genocide of native peoples and the raping of fertile lands for resources around the globe to feed this monstrous (yet invisible) giant we call science. Why? Well because the priests.... i mean scientists tell us that we need to advance our knowledge so we can understand the world and make it better! What has gotten better in the last 200 years? menial comforts, length of life, health and travel. Yet we've lost our habitat, the natural wonders of our planet, and some of its marvelous creatures as well. But guess what, we STILL all die. Don't worry though, the preachers..... i mean scientists say they can fix that. And if you try and look to stars for answers, they'll laugh until the toxic fumes of their breath blocks out everything glorious around us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
