Knowledge as Salvation

7:33PM

For me, this has been a season of loss.

1:01PM - Ouch.

I'm losing my kitty, and it's just has hard as I always thought it would be.

Edit: Mandy died around 9:30 AM on Monday, December 12, 2005.

I will always miss her.

6:55AM - A Query

I know nothing about poetry, and my relationship with particular poems is either 'it means something to me' or 'I don't give a damn about it' and nothing in-between. I've got a reasonably logical brain that works well in Biochemistry and Cellular Biology courses, but that rebels when told to interpret art; "it's art," that rebellious brain will say, "and I think the artist was saying 'hey, what should I do with this stack of paint tubes today?', not 'DEEP HIDDEN MEANING, DAMNIT!" Therefore poems I like tend to be blatant, even harsh, or sometimes just tell a very good story. I am, perhaps, distrustful of symbolism; some creature in the back of my brain sincerely believes the artist was not thinking “I will paint a flower, and it will symbolize the futility of death” so much as he or she was thinking “I will paint a flower, and everyone will try to read into it when it’s just a flower, and I will laugh at them until the heavens fall.” I mean, that’s what I would do.

Again I must admit that I know nothing about poetry (this is a fact I cannot stress enough), but now I’ll admit that I like some of it. Invictus is a particular favorite: it is bold, obvious, and encouraging after its fashion. It means something to me, means perseverance and strength and the assurance that I will continue, come what may. The lines and delivery may be heavy-handed, but they are stirring nonetheless. It moves me somehow, this collection of words and lines.

This has awakened my curiosity like the lumbering beast it is. I may not know poetry, but some of it obviously knows me. I’ve begun to suspect maybe it’s not that poetry as a genre does not oft interest me so much as it is that writing bad poetry is really very easy and happens very often, and perhaps I’m just not getting exposed to the good stuff. With that in mind, consider this an exercise in interactivity.

I do not have many readers (if any at all), but for those who do see this, I'd like to know: what's your favorite poem? Why do you like it? And heck, what are the favorites of friends and family? What's good out there? Talk about what you know, and feel free to send others who know where to find the good stuff also. Feed the beast that is curiosity!

10:16PM - The Secret of the Birds

I dreamed I could fly through the force of sheer will, lift my feet from the ground because I wanted to, powerfully, and soar. I was inside of a large building crowded with people, many people, oblivious people, and I soared above their heads laughing until some of them noticed me and began to follow me, waiting for me to come down. And when I did get to where their voices could reach me, their words touch me, they told me this:

“It won’t last forever. Walk, or you’ll fall when you lose it.”

And I laughed in their faces and flipped head over heels, a sharp arcing movement, spreading my arms wide and surging away on a flood of my own giddy strength.

I shot up to the rafters, where the people below appeared as insects on pavement, and then down, through garlands of glittering points of light, sight blurring, and then up again and around and it came to me, then, that I was searching for the door out of the building, for an escape to a world where the naysayers could not follow. I was searching for a door to the stars.

Follow they did, though, and I could find no door, and whenever I came close enough to the earth they were there, their faces wracked with pity for me, their voices imploring.

“People do not fly. People walk. It will kill you. Walk with us. It won’t last forever.”

And again and again I spun away, and again and again they were waiting when I came down.

Finally, euphoric still but growing desperate for my escape, I shot up, straight up, away from the people and their walking and their words and up, up towards the Christmas-light bedecked rafters, up and up and then I lost it, lost flight, and I knew not how.

And when I began to fall, I prayed the impact would kill me as they claimed it would, for if it did I would never have to walk with them and fear the heights.

And when I began to fall, I prayed to take them out with me; to destroy them all in a scorching burst of Armageddon.

* * *

It was a strange dream, far too cognizant for my usual night's meanderings, far too clear in my waking memory. It was oddly meaningless when I dreamt it, and though the story it provides may seem soaked in unabashed overtones of “message” and “metaphor”, when typed up on the screen, it still feels simple to me. It wasn't about success, or taking chances, or exceeding the norm, or any of that bullshit that chokes moralizing motivational posters in half the office buildings of the known world.

It was about flying. Really flying, and nothing more.

Today I walked home from Biochemistry, and halfway through I stopped on the hot sidewalk, closed my eyes, and imagined what it would be like to feel the ground drop out from beneath my feet, to take flight and leave the world back on the concrete. I think it would feel like nausea, and then fear, and then joy. I think it would be ecstasy to know the secrets of the birds.

9:57PM - Phoenixfire.

Suddenly I'm craving a box of hair dye, bright blue as a frog's warpaint or deep violet as an iris in bloom. Suddenly I want to go on a binge and buy something big, something huge: a new wardrobe, maybe, or a car and then I'll take everything old, everything that doesn't apply, everything exhausted and tired including myself and I'll build a small mountain and sacrifice it all to bright fire. Suddenly I want to run until my lungs expload, until my heart pumps lactic acid, until the inner workings of body and mind are driven out of my skin like sweat in the snowfall. I want a violent renewal. I want to consume myself and create from the emptiness: a cultural revolution of the personal kind.

And there, on the mountaintop of ages, on the shackled and ragged spine of the world, beset with fire that crawled, hungry, through flesh and bone the Beast stood strong and tall and screamed "I am not afraid!"

I'm screaming for that personal revolution. Bring on the chaos of recreation!

Today I'm jealous of everyone that's not me, because today is one of those days I feel trapped a millimeter beneath my skin. I want to be what people say they think of me, or better yet, what I'd like to think of myself. I'm neither, though. All I really am is a good liar.

I've got a multitude of glittering, grand ideas and I've got a mire of crippling worries and I've got plans -good plans, reasonable plans- to deal with both, but this skin I'm in, this face I carry, seemes frightfully helpless and bare in reality's glare. Every plan I have is revealed to be missing step one, and I'm not sure where to turn next.

"I have the world," it cried, voice deep and terrifying in its final instant, "and I am not afraid."

But I'll handle it. I always do. And if I cannot burn myself like the Phoenix and build again then I shall simply reshape the bricks that are already here, one milimeter at a time, until this flesh and bone and brain fit, until I feel firm and proud on feet I can call my own. It's all I can do, after all, this shifting of microcosms. It's life.

The Renaissance didn't change the world in a day.

And then the hungry flames consumed the broken flesh of the Beast and its ashes were scattered to the ends of the earth by breeze and gale and indeed, the beast had the world, and indeed, there was nothing to fear.

8:10AM - More Poetry

( I am the master of my fate )

I'll get around to talking again soon, I hope. I think I've got a bit of a backlog of nonsense to say, just waiting for the right time and frame of mind.

3:48PM - Poetry

( 'Let America Be America Again' )


O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath

7:53PM - How strange.

For quite some time I have had nothing whatsoever worth saying.

All signs indicate this pseudo-intellectual drought may last a while longer, at least until the immediate necessities of life are sated. Musing is limited, when one worries about the bills, to various schemes all directly linked to paying said bills. Such plots can hardly be interesting and thought-provoking, and so I must cheat my imaginary audience a bit longer.

Many apologies.

7:54PM - Ghosts.

I found this an interesting way to murder a few moments.

But then, I've always been fascinated with disaster. Call it a morbid quirk.

5:02PM - If an idea cannot support itself, it should not be supported by others.

"I wish to propose for the reader's favourable consideration a doctrine which may, I fear, appear wildly paradoxical and subversive. The doctrine in question is this: that it is undesirable to believe in a proposition when there is no ground whatever for supposing it true. I must, of course, admit that if such an opinion became common it would completely transform our social life and our political system; since both are at present faultless, this must weigh against it."

-Bertrand Russell-
Skeptical Essays, I
(1928)

1:32PM - Parable, unpolished.

I listened to the world today from the lips of a demon of truth and light, and from his star-forked tongue spilled a torrent of fire. He spoke to me with dying embers in his eyes and soot clinging to the bent and charred feathers of restless wings. "Listen to me," he rasped with a voice worn thin by eternity, "and listen well, for what I say must be shared and when I have finished I will not speak again."

And so I did.

"There is neither good," said the demon, "nor evil. There is neither right nor wrong. There are merely the alive, the dead, and the unknown."

I said nothing. At my back, humankind's tangled morass writhed in the grasp of mortality. They hurled their souls at what the demon deemed nonexistent, assailing the facade of perceived evil and writhing genuflect before perceived good, all claiming righteousness that could not be. Their perceptions clashed like thunderheads and dissipated like smoke in an empty sky, and the only wars left were man to man with no cause and no truth, nothing but a tossing mass of empty, gasping flesh. Where we stood, the demon and I, a breeze came up, and with it a lifetime of clouds roiled overhead.

"You," said the demon, heedless as the wind whistled through his feathers, "are of the Alive. And that is significant."

I nodded. Breath labored and fragile, the voice of the world stilled. Eternity ticked by with the beating of my heart as the first few hesitant raindrops plunged from a firmament of black. The beast's forked tongue flicked wearily to taste the sodden air, his coal-dark form shuddering once with a gesture of inner pain before words poured again like gasoline from his hollowed throat.

"The unknown is nothing more or less than choice. Life is potential shrouded in choice. You can choose bliss, choose despair, choose fury, choose peace, choose love and choose hate. Good and evil do not exist to force these choices upon you, nor can they absolve you of responsibility once you act. And though the only true responsibility you have is to yourself, it is still not to be sundered freely to that which does not exist. Do not waste your life on right and wrong. Joy, perhaps, is a more worthwhile pastime.

"Life is choice."

With that the hiss of air through those ancient lungs grew faint, crooked body shivering once more like a lonely child lost in the frost. Embers shook from broken wingtips as the demon's mouth opened wide to span infinity, and his teeth were stars in the sky, his tongue a blackened road, his throat an abyss from which slipped one last line murmured through a cloud of sulfur and smoke. One line, one finality, before the world's wind roared up and the rain tore the sky in two. The demon crumbled ash-like beneath the onslaught, chunks to pebbles to dust and then gone in the storm which devoured existence. In an instant or a lifetime nothing remained of that star-forked tongue but the wisdom it spoke before its own obliteration:

"Choose well."

9:24PM - Most sincere apologies.

I have nothing to sell or preach at the moment, but thank you for asking.

9:11AM - Pulse.

Have you ever contemplated the human heart? Put your fingers to your neck or your palm to your chest and feel the surging pulse of blood beneath a thin barrier of skin. Within the flesh and bone there lies a core, a knot of muscle that clenches and releases to an eternal internal rythm. Realize what it does, and how long it's been doing it. Days and nights uncounted, a host of sunrises and sunsets, ceaseless since before you even escaped the warm obscurity of your mother's womb. In all that living, never a break or rest, never a pause to wind down, to relax. Every second, a lifetime of constant labor. Every single living experience you posess it shared, tireless. It raced at your first kiss and slowed with every night of sleep and drove you forward each moment, each movement, each breath.

And it doesn't quit. For a lifetime of years.

I find that rather remarkable.

9:21PM - And what of love?

"Love is not a demand. As long as you need your partner to survive, they will always leave you. You cannot contribute anything of worth when you're always taking. True love only comes when you give up needing and start loving... And ironically, you get more love when you ask for less. The real trick is to acknowledge that your needing is a method of gaining power."

10:23AM - Responsibility

Once upon a time, I worked for them.

Domestic species were bred to be dependent on the human race. They are, in effect, the Frankensteinian creations of all Homo sapiens (albeit a lot cuter). Like Dr. Frankenstein, the species must realize that the formation of such a beast leaves its architect with an innate responsibility to see to its welfare. Any pain and suffering the creature might endure would be on its creator's hands.

These are living things. They are in essence the children of humankind. Like it or not, as a human their blood stains your fingers, too.

And to anyone who has or is considering getting a pet: spay and/or neuter your animal as soon as possible. If money is your excuse, check with local animal rescue groups- they oft run programs to help the disadvantaged fix their pets, as it saves them cash, time, and furthers their cause (which, ultimately, is to have every animal a wanted animal). If ethics is your excuse, realize that for every kitten/puppy your pet spawns, you've doomed another animal to the fire pit and their deaths are on your head. If health is your excuse, know that spayed/neutered pets live longer and healthier lives, with lower rates of cancer and other various diseases.

I'm not sure why I care. I could take the attitude of the vast majority of the public and see pets as nothing more than amusement or nuisance, not worthy of civil consideration. I could view the world through eyes that think abandoning an animal to death or pain is fine, that think it doesn't matter as long as things are easier for me. Problem is, I value life. I can’t just throw such things away, no matter how much I may want to play the fool. I refuse to shirk responsibility, to take the coward's way out of most any issue or decision that crosses my path. Including this.

We made them. We are responsible.

8:18PM - Here's to the Memories

I remember, and it makes me laugh.

I remember jumping fences. I remember others falling behind or pulling ahead, footfall to heartbeat. I remember sloshing through drainage pipes beneath quiet streets, flicking on a lighter for orientation and then dropping it as fingers burnt. And it's hilarious.

I remember betrayal. I remember lies. I remember cheating fiance/boyfriend/girlfriend/soulmate(s). I remember friends punching other friends in the face and running off with their money for the sake of the crack-pipe god. And it, my friends, makes me laugh like a madman.

I remember rape (be it claims, be it accusations, be it simply a matter of age differences). Death threats, from parents none the less. I remember Ryan stumbling out a dark doorway with blood frothing at his lips, ribs alarmingly sunken into his thin chest (I believe he was beaten with a 2x4). I had mixed chocolate milk for he and Heather only a few days before. I remember the first time I was told Phoenix had died. I still don't know if it's true.

And it is silly. Crazy. Stupid as hell. And I laugh.

We made all that, and then we bitched about it. I remember meeting a woman fresh from a sentence for assault (she beat 'the other woman' to a pulp). Fiericely she swore she should have killed said other woman, and her vehemence seared into my brain. Nothing made her do this; nothing put her in that situation but herself. And it is funny. Here we are, in Christian-rich-white-conservativeville-USA, and we can still manufacture this bullshit.

I remember helping runaways steal food. Colorado has more missing children than any other state, numbering in the thousands. Only 25 were kidnapped, the rest ran away. Thank you American culture.

Woe is us, woe is us: we have nice cars and so much food that the looming health threat on our horizon is OBESITY (and lo, our children will never know what it is to starve and will be worse for it) and we just can't take it. We care so little for life we can throw it away with cancer sticks and little pink and purple pills that make the very light kiss you. Woe, baby! We've got it so bad we don't even know what it is to lift our faces to the sunlight! And guess what?! We think it's so great we want to drag the rest of the world down with us! Sell your souls, my friends, to the Soap Opera!

Drag racing down Woodmen in our rich-kid cars as we moan about the injustices of the parents and culture that bought them.

We.

Chose.

That.

All of it, and no one else may shoulder the blame.

I laugh, and it isn't sarcasm. I look back and I laugh. Look up, look out, watch the rain on the grass and the sun on your face. Feel the burn in your lungs and legs on a steep alpine trail. Go sledding. Life your life so a lie never occurs to you. Build a snow fort. Do something you didn't have to do, and do it the best you can. Kiss a stranger. Love for the sake of love. Live for the sake of life. No more, no less.

And stop blinding yourself.

10:33AM - The state of the planet is the responsibility of all who inhabit it.

"Bush is the worst president for the Enviroment since Ronald Regan."
-Denis Hayes
Earth Day Network Chair,
Organizer of first Earth Day

Dust Bin America
NRDC: Bush Administration Enviormental Record
Mother Jones: The Ungreening of America

First and foremost, the Bush administration's outright attack on our enviroment is the root of my opposition. Even within the first crucial 100 days of Georgie's reign, his campaign to demolish generations of worldwide conservational accomplishment grew blaringly apparant. Now I can tack on religious intolerance, women's/gay rights, the economy, the Patriot Act and related violations of basic/constitutional rights, warmongering, and straight out stupidity to the list, but the state of our enviroment still reigns supereme. Beneath terrorism, job avalibility, and tax cuts; behind cash flow and trade, love, life and freedom, every human relies on the planet Earth for existance. Fuck politics: this is all we have, and for our own sakes we must preserve it to the best of our abilities.

There are no second chances.

8:00AM - Consider this:

The deepest, darkest hatred in the human mind is reserved for those who you covet, and those within whom you recognize yourself.

7:52AM - A typical discussion on evolution

(Debate, more like, between a creationist and a evolutionist.)

Originally posted by denshuu in challenging_god.

Creationist: Addition is just a theory. It can't be proven.
Evolutionist: Erm... actually, it is and has been observed and tested. It occurs.
Creationist: You've never seen it happen before.
Evolutionist: Sure I have. There was a study done not too long ago that demonstrated that 1 + 1 = 2. Also, it's been shown that 1 + 1 + 1 = 3.
Creationist: That's micro-addition.
Evolutionist: What?
Creationist: Micro-addition. Addition on small levels happens, and it's been proven. Macro-addition, however, has never been proven, and is all based on faith. You'll never see a 3 turn into a 20,000,000,000,000 just by adding a bunch of 1s.
Evolutionist: Of course you probably won't see it happen. Humans typically don't live long enough to find that kind of patience. But you can turn a 3 into that number.
Creationist: You accept that on faith.
Evolutionist: No, I don't. If you keep adding the number 1 to 3, you'll eventually end up with 20,000,000,000,000.
Creationist: Blah, blah, blah... that's not proven.
Evolutionist: Look. You admit that 1 + 1 + 1 = 3, right?
Creationist: Sure. That's been proven.
Evolutionist: So, what's 3 + 1?
Creationist: 4.
Evolutionist: And 4 + 1 is...
Creationist: What's your point?
Evolutionist: Do you notice that the number keeps getting bigger?
Creationist: Yeah. But it will never reach 20,000,000,000,000.
Evolutionist: So ever if you add 1 20,000,000,000,000 times, you'll never end up with 20,000,000,000,000?
Creationist: It hasn't been proven, so I don't buy it.

This is why I limit my discussions on my scholarly interest(s) to my peers in the scientific community.

4:19PM - The Butterfly Effect

For want of the nail, the shoe was lost.
For want of the shoe, the horse was lost.
For want of the horse, the rider was lost.
For want of the rider, the message was lost.
For want of the message, the battle was lost.
For want of the battle, the war was lost.
For want of the war, the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.