Gewunden

Vertigo

2009-04-05T00:35:00.000-07:00

This unpleasant twisting sensation pulls my mind in every direction. My understanding is spiraled around itself and everything distorts into a liquid filled column of unsteadiness. I strain to look straight ahead but see only reflections and bent light coming from elsewhere. Brightness catches in my sides, only to be lost in the darkness of my unbalance. Flashes of perception invade my senses but I lose it all in the glassy disturbance of the light. The lensing effect of my warped form causes the world to exist strangely. Beauty and meaning are replaced with menacing discontent; a darker world exists on the other side of this sickening vertigo.

I blink.

I blink again.

I am no longer dizzy.

But linearity is gone and the world is still dark.

Pi

2009-03-25T22:31:00.001-07:00

"To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

Oy. Yann Martel would be disappointed in me.

Music

2009-02-16T08:59:00.000-08:00

A person with whom I've recently become friends invited me to a musical get-together with some of his friends. Knowing only a little of music from the piano lessons my parents made me take when I was younger, I voiced some concerns about my ability to contribute, but he told me not to worry -- I'd fit right in. Reassured, I readily accepted the invitation and he told me they liked to dress up and pretend it was an important occasion.

The day of the gathering, I showed up to my friend's house armed with my plastic recorder from elementary school and dressed nicely. But to my embarrassment, my friend was dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a very old and expensive looking violin. Again, he told me not to worry and that everyone would be happy to have me there, that my clothing was perfect and that they'd been needing a recorder player for a while.

So we got in his car and and went to a parking lot behind a large and vaguely familiar building. My friend looking at his watch and urged me to hurry -- we were, apparently, almost late -- so we walked quickly into the building through heavy double doors. After following a narrow and winding corridor, we entered what I saw was a giant concert hall. My friend led me to the second chair violin seat (he sat in the first place) and, noticing my hesitation, again assured me that I would be perfect for the part. I tried to explain that I had no musical talent past a little piano from long ago and when I played with recorder music when I was bored; I didn't even own a violin, how could I be in the second chair seat? My friend, seemingly surprised that I was worried about a violin when he'd said I could play recorder, produced one from somewhere and handed it carefully to me.

Just then the lights turned on with a loud series of clicks and the rest of the orchestra quickly came in and began tuning. After only a few minutes, the conductor came in and announced to the orchestra that today was the day of the most important performance they'd ever played -- it was for someone unfathomably eminent and powerful who I'd heard of but not realized exactly who they were.

All through this I was becoming more and more nervous but my friend wouldn't let me leave -- it would all turn out okay he said.

The conductor turned and addressed the only two people in the audience -- an old man and a younger man who looked like his son. After a scant few words, the conductor turned, and, without hesitation, the orchestra started to play.

The music was a confusing jumble of sounds -- now and then a single instrument would become audible above the rest -- there wasn't any discernible beat and, as I found when I looked around, no one had any music. Some musicians were smiling jubilantly and others had tears quietly running down their cheeks. I felt the urge to cover my ears, but refrained since I was already out of place. I couldn't bring myself to pick up either the violin or the recorder; all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't find a way to do so unobtrusively.

After an uncomfortable half hour, the conductor motioned for the end of the piece and the sound cut off abruptly except for an oboe and the tympani. Everyone waited patiently and silently for them to finish and then stood as one to bow. Then they remained standing and watched the two men eagerly as if waiting for praise at their playing. But the men's expressions never changed and they just stood and left.

The orchestra packed up and left silently. In the car on the way back, my friend said nothing and I felt awkward breaking the tense silence. I wasn't sure whether I was annoyed at my friend for taking me to the concert or if I was afraid he was mad at me for not playing.

When we reached my apartment, I climbed out of the car and turned to thank him for the ride. My friend remarked, "We've played and played and are never good enough. Maybe we haven't waited long enough. Maybe next time we'll be good enough."

I wondered if they ever practiced but I said nothing. Instead, I turned and walked quickly inside.

I never touched an instrument again.

Shut up.

2008-11-15T13:29:00.001-08:00

Oh my God stop talking. Really. "Oh my God." "Oh my god." "Ohmagawd." "Omg." How stupid are you? Cut out your tongue if you can't keep it restrained. It'd look better than your pink tongue ring anyway. Stop putting so much gel in your hair that I could take a sledgehammer to it with no effect. Lose the heart shaped, gold painted, plastic earrings. The jeans with the holes, the fake nails, the make up. Stop. Just fucking stop. Even if you're not vain, stop talking. Everyone stop talking. You idiots need to stop talking. Superiority complex aside, you have nothing in your head that the rest of us don't have more of. So, silence.

Now. Listen. Take a deep breath and let it back out. Think some real thoughts, write a paper or two. Read some books and get back to me when you know more. Take some time out from your masquerading and be a real person.

You don't need to smoke or drink to be cool. You don't need to sleep around. You don't need to be atheist or condescendingly religious; just what makes you happy. You don't need to have your boobs hanging out and you don't need stiletto heels. I'll respect you more if you have on pajamas and a full bag of books. Read What is Enlightenment? by Kant or Faust by Goethe or A Mathematician's Apology by Hardy. Everyone will take you more seriously that way.

So don't be stupid. You don't have to be smart -- some people can't be smart -- but really, no one has any excuse for stupidity. No excuse to be vain or vapid or inane. You're better off dead if you really think that's what's best for you.

Job 10:18-22

2008-09-22T21:20:00.001-07:00

Why then did you bring me forth from the womb?
I should have died and no eye have seen me.
I should be as though I had never lived;
I should have been taken from the womb to the grave.
Are not the days of my life few?
Let me alone, that I may recover a little
Before I go whence I shall not return,
to the land of darkness and of gloom,
The black disordered land
where darkness is the only light.

I was thinking about Nietzsche...

2008-09-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the dark of a Cave, a tiny awareness violently pierced the rock like the tip of a pickaxe. The intensity of being took the stone unaware and it cried out. It's voice echoed through itself, sending great wave-like shudders out of the Cave and through the mountain. Dislodged boulders crashed into trees and scraped down the slopes, pulling away the clawing roots and causing birds to flap away, screaming in fear. The snows shifted and slid, sending soothing whiteness to the new wound of sentiency.

For thousands of years, the mountain stood, blinded by feeling, unable to do anything but experience. The seasons cycled; the blissful numbness of winter and the contrasting warm itchiness of summer. The Cave became home to wolves and bats and other tiny scratching creatures; the mountain shivered in annoyance but the creatures didn't leave.

Finally the mountain shook until something inside cracked. Agony rippled through the stone as more and more convulsions passed through it. And suddenly molten blood poured through the mountain's veins. Fissures and chasms filled with it and the mountain's innards burned. Steam and smoke rushed out of cracks to the surface. The mountain's pain was tempered only by the satisfaction that the animals had run away howling.

The magma continued to flow outward and suddenly burst through the top and rushed down the sides of the mountain. The trees burned and when it cooled everything was calm. The mountain was at ease for the first time in it's existence.

Hundreds more years passed. The trees grew again and a hermit made his painstaking way up the slope. At the point of exhaustion he found the Cave and crawled inside. Warm air from cracks in the walls warmed him and the hermit found the Cave an ideal location for his meditations.

As the mountain's ponderous consciousness became aware of the man, it started trembling again, trying to work a poorly anchored boulder in the Cave to a point where it would roll. The boulder slowly shifted until it finally moved. The being in the Cave regarded the the boulder curiously and walked into the tunnel it had revealed.

The tunnel led to a deep hole in the ground. The philosopher looked into the abyss and the abyss looked back into the philosopher. The mountain's earthy monotone awareness saw the bright and flashing colors of the human thoughts. The vivid colors spiraled into the mountain's mind and it, he, understood thought.

The mountain retreated into himself and thought. He was so withdrawn in his contemplation that he forgot the trees and animals. After many years, the brightening colors of his ruminations woke him. The mountain remembered his petty annoyances and forgave the creatures that he gave a home to. He took joy in their quickness. As he observed them, though, he started to pity himself and wished for the creatures' mobility and brilliance.

And as he wondered at their ability to change, an idea came to him. He directed vibrations and slowly crafted a hollow in the chasm in the Cave. When it was done he filled it with magma. The magma cooled and he poured his awareness into the body.

The body was in the image of the man who had looked into him. The mountain lay in his hollow until he understood the mechanics of the body. Then he stood slowly and walked out of the Cave.

The mountain saw a town full of people and went towards it down his own side. His stone body became lighter and more limber as he walked and soon he was human.

When the mountain reached the town and people asked him where he'd come from he couldn't answer; he had no language. As he watched them he learned to speak. A family gave him a name and taught him the rules of society.

The mountain lived in the town for the span of a human life. He enjoyed the company of humans and their cleverness and intelligence. He ate delightful foods and loved and married a girl. The life slipped by quicker than he could comprehend but he made the most of it.

And then the girl -- the old woman -- died. The mountain's stone heart broke and he walked out onto himself in a daze. He walked and walked until he reached the Cave; all the while his now-old body became heavier and harder to move. He stumbled stiffly into the passage behind the boulder and curled up into the hollow.

His mind leaked out into the mountain again. The brightly colored human thoughts faded into earth tones again and the mountain became a mountain. He wondered why he had lived as a human when he could have lived for millions of years as a mountain. And then he realized that while he had lived a shorter life, he had not lived in the tormenting boredom he would have endured as a mountain. He had loved and experienced life. As this thought came to him, he was at peace. His dark thoughts became darker until he could no longer understand them. The slowing moving colors no longer seemed to be thoughts at all. The mountain lived no more.

Vyvolochnov, Nikolai Nikolaievich

2008-07-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

The Tolstoyan, Vyvolochnov, visits Nikolai Nikolaievich about business. The conversation eventually turns to philosophy:

Nikolai Nikolaievich: "Up to a point I am with you, but Tolstoy says that the more a man devotes himself to beauty the further he moves from goodness."

Vyvolochnov: "And you think it's the other way around -- the world will be saved by beauty, is that it? Dostoievsky, Rozanov, mystery plays, and what not?"

Nikolai Nikolaievich: "Wait, let me tell you what I think. I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats -- any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death -- then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself. But don't you see, this is just the point -- what has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but an inward music: the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful attraction of its example. It has always been assumed that the most important things in the Gospels are the ethical maxims and commandments. But for me the most important thing is that Christ speaks in parables taken from life, that He explains the truth in terms of everyday reality. The idea that underlies this is that communion between mortals is immortal, and that the whole of life is symbolic because it is meaningful."

Dhammapada

2008-06-10T19:53:00.002-07:00

I'm rereading the Dhammapada. Flowers and The Path are my favorite parts. ....I probably shouldn't have typed them all out: they're kind of long, I don't actually like any of the parts in their entirety, and it's probably against some copyright. That's okay though. Flowers, I think is fairly illustrative of how one should act. And The Path is the path. Eh, it seemed worth writing all of it. In any case, there are tabs in there, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to make them show up; sorry about that.

The Path

2008-06-10T19:53:00.001-07:00

The best of paths is the Eightfold [Path];
The best of truths, the Four [Noble Truths].
The best of qualities is dispassion;
And the best among gods and humans
Is the one with eyes to see.

This is the path
For purifying one's vision; there is no other.
Follow it,
You'll bewilder Māra.
Follow it,
You'll put an end to suffering.
This is the path I have proclaimed,
Having pulled out the arrows.

It is up to you to make strong effort;
Tathāgatas merely tell you how.
Following the path, those absorbed in meditation
Will be freed from Māra's bonds.

"All created things are impermanent."
Seeing this with insight,
One becomes disenchanted with suffering.
This is the path to purity.

"All things are suffering."
Seeing this with insight,
One becomes disenchanted withs suffering.
This is the path to purity.

"All things are not-self."
Seeing this with insight,
One becomes disenchanted with suffering.
This is the path to purity.

Inactive when one should be active.
Lazy [though] young and strong,
Disheartened with one's resolves,
Such an indolent, lethargic person
Doesn't find the path of insight.

Watchful in speech and well-restrained in mind,
Do nothing unskillful with your body.
Purify these three courses of action;
Fulfill the path taught by the sages.

Wisdom arises from [spiritual] practice;
Without practice it decays.
Knowing this two-way path for gain and loss,
Conduct yourself so that wisdom grows.

Cut down the forest [of desire], not [real] trees.
From the forest [of desire], fear is born.
Having cut down both the forest and the underbrush,
Monks, be deforested [of desire].

As long as even the slightest underbrush of desire
Between man and woman is not cut away,
For that long, the mind is bound
Like a suckling calf to its mother.

Destroy attachment to self
As you could an autumn lily in your fist.
Cultivate the path to peace,
The Nirvana taught by the Well-Gone-One.

"Here I'll live during the rainy season,
And here during the winter and summer."
So the fool ponders,
Unaware of danger.
Intoxicated by children and cattle,
That addict
Is swept away by Death,
As a sleeping village is by a great flood.

Children, parents, and relatives
Are not a protection;
For someone seized by Death,
Relatives are no protection.
Knowing this,
The wise person, restrained by virtue,
Should quickly clear the path
To Nirvana.

Flowers

2008-06-10T19:53:00.000-07:00

Who will master this world
And the realms of Yama and the gods?
Who will select a well-taught Dharma teaching,
As a skilled person selects a flower?

One in training will master this world
And the realms of Yama and the gods.
One in training will select
A well-taught Dharma teaching,
As a skilled person selects a flower.

Knowing this body is like foam,
Fully awake to its mirage-like nature,
Cutting off Māra's flowers,
One goes unseen by the King of Death.

Death sweeps away
The person obsessed
With gathering flowers,
As a great flood sweeps away a sleeping village.

The person obsessed
With gathering flowers,
Insatiable for sense pleasures,
Is under the sway of Death.

As a bee gathers nectar
And moves on without harming
The flower, its color, or its fragrance,
Just so should a sage walk through a village.

Do not consider the faults of others
Or what they have or haven't done.
Consider rather
What you have or haven't done.*

Like a beautiful flower,
Brightly colored but lacking scent,
So are well-spoken words
Fruitless when not carried out.

Like a beautiful flower,
Brightly colored and with scent,
So are well-spoken words
Fruitful when carried out.

Just as from a heap of flowers
Many garlands can be made,
So, you, with your mortal life,
Should do many skillful things.

The scent of flowers
--sandalwood, jasmine, and rosebay--
Doesn't go against the wind.
But the scent of a virtuous person
Does travel against the wind;
It spreads in all directions.

The scent of virtue
Is unsurpassed
Even by sandalwood, rosebay,
Water lily, and jasmine.

Slight
Is the scent of rosebay or sandalwood,
But the scent of the virtuous person is supreme,
Drifting even to the gods.

Māra does not find the path
Of those endowed with virtue,
Living with vigilance,
and freed by right understanding.

As a sweet-smelling lotus
Pleasing to the heart
May grow in a heap of rubbish
Discarded along the highway,
So a disciple of the Fully Awakened One
Shines with wisdom
Amid the rubbish heap
Of blind, common people.

---------------------

*This reminds me of The Confiteor...

I confess to you almighty God,
and to you, my brothers
and sisters, that I have
sinned through my own
fault, in my thoughts
and in my words, in
what I have done, and in
what I have failed to do;
and I asked blessed Mary,
ever Virgin, all the
angels and saints,
and you, my brothers
and sisters,
to pray for me to the
Lord our God.

Art

2008-06-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

When one looks at art as a means of communication, then much of the beauty inherent in the most common definition of art is eliminated. Much of the time art is simply a thing to look at, and not a great deal more. However, when an artist tries to put a meaning into his artwork, it changes the intent behind the art (i.e. the art is no longer just “for pretty,” it’s now also as much a medium of communication as is an essay). While everything is still “art,” there are different angles from which it can be viewed and different ideas can be formed about the intent of the artist when he made the piece of art; regardless of what his real purpose was.

An aspect of seeing art is alluded to by Schopenhauer when he says, “Thus we no longer consider the where, the when, the why, and the whither in things, but simply and solely the what.” Basically that if one is to remove oneself from the pedestal he has put himself on, then he will see things as they truly are and not only as they are in relation to him. If he can push his mind past his initial perception of ugliness or beauty or the definition of the object as nothing more than a means to an end, then he can cease to relate the object to himself and see it as art, or at the very least he can see it as it is and not as what it’s used for.

An example of something which is almost always seen as a tool to get to an end is a chair. It doesn’t occur to many people that, while a chair can be seen as something to sit on, it can also be seen simply as a chair and no more. A chair can be a magnificent work of art; not because of anything particularly beautiful about it, but simply because one has succeeded in removing himself from the equation and now can see the chair as it is, and not merely as something to sit on.

As Tolstoy writes, “…Beauty is understood as something mystical and very exalted, but unfortunately very indefinite and, therefore, inclusive of philosophy, religion, and life itself.” One can have no set definition of beauty, and therefore art also has no set definition. He later defines his own concept of art as “…A means of communion among people.” In general art has, at the very least, an intention of being aesthetically pleasing or depicting a story, and other times there is a much deeper meaning hidden within the superficial meaning of a piece of art.

A type of art that very often has several meanings is the artwork found in churches. It is always to “glorify God,” and therefore is always beautiful; many times with bright colors and gold, and is made by someone with exceptional skills with the medium of which it is made. However, while it does have the simple aesthetic appeal, it always has an allegorical meaning as well. The figures in ecclesiastical art are always depicting scenes from the Bible, and typically the scenes come from those stories which have lessons within them. The message was first conveyed to the art by the artist, and then from the art to the viewer. In fact, this was the original purpose of this particular art; to transmit the stories from the Bible to those who were illiterate or unable for some reason to understand the written text. In this way a story is told to he who sees the art, albeit in an indirect way.

A perfect illustration of a piece of art which has an entirely different original meaning behind it is the kaleidoscope. Sir David Brewster invented it in 1816 with the purpose of teaching people about reflection. He put four mirrors in a tube with brightly colored glass beads at one end, and used it to show everyone an example of symmetry. Unfortunately someone else patented the idea first, and he never made any money from his invention, but it was, nonetheless, a work of art with a hidden meaning that was strictly to communicate a lesson to another person (or people, as the case may be) –exactly as Tolstoy defines it.

Setting aside the most basic meanings inherent in art (the pleasing colors or the easily understood story), one can safely say that it is ludicrous to assume that there is a deeper meaning behind each and every piece of art. The person who assumed that there was would not only spend his days vainly trying to understand something that wasn’t there, but he would, in addition, be deemed idiotic by society simply because everyone else understood what the art was there for, and he did not. Most art is of this nature, and, while some people will inevitably wrench a meaning out of it, it is generally understood that there is no reason to contemplate it further than to see its aesthetic value.

Something which exhibits this lack of ‘deepness’ is a piece of clothing that a child would wear—if a girl wears a pink shirt with a blue dinosaur on it, one can come to the conclusion that the shirt signifies that the child with live to an old age and that she will have male children, but this idea is obviously absurd, and will no doubt be disregarded by the vast majority of people. In cases such as this, seeing the piece of art simply as it is, is immensely better than arguing for a preposterous concept.

While there is some merit in looking at things as one believes the artist intended for people to see it, and as the artist himself saw his own art, many times there isn’t any intention beyond what is blatantly obvious. However, on the other occasions, one has the option of appreciating the art for its aesthetic value, or to see the art as the message the artist was trying to communicate through the work of art. A last option is to view the entire world around one as art and remove any preconceived notions one may have had about an object to see it as it truly is. While there is no set definition of art, there is art and how one sees it depends purely on how one chooses to see it.

Life.

2008-05-18T11:07:00.000-07:00

Two sides opposed
A subtle same
The flip of a coin
In a losing game

24 Preludes and Fugues

2008-05-15T04:00:00.000-07:00

It's 4 AM and I have my last final in 6.5 hours. I'm freezing cold, crying, and listening to Preludes and Fugues by Shostakovich.

I've listened to the Preludes and Fugues so many times that I have them mostly memorized. I think the first and twelfth Fugues and the second Prelude are my favorites. I like the twelfth in particular because it's in 5/4 time; something I've always found fascinating. Most of the time 5/4 music is in the same style as Take Five by Brubeck; it gets old eventually.

Shostakovich always seems to have a 'new' (I use the term loosely; he was born in 1906 and died in 1975, so he's clearly older than Brubeck by 14 years, and of course older than any newer music) take on everything. He's very obviously influenced by other Russian composers, but he also has his own definite style. In general, music by Shostakovich has a darker tone; dissonances and minor keys show up consistently. I guess I listen to Shostakovich so much because the music illustrates how I feel a lot of the time. There's always five or six different, completely different, things happening in the music. They all clash but they work together perfectly at the same time. There's so much going on and it almost always works. And then, of course, there's sometimes something like the Leningrad Symphony (Opus 60, Symphony No. 7 in C Major), which works theoretically, but in reality, it's just mediocre because it's so forced.

And there's the Puppet Dances, which I love. The Polka is definitely my favorite. It's so absurd, such a strange form to put a Polka in, that I can't help but enjoy listening to it. It kind of reminds of Ravel's La Valse, just because it's another piece of a certain form that's strangely written.

And the Jazz Suites. Oh the Jazz Suites. I've listened to them more times than I can remember. I can't decide which one is my favorite. I like them all. Unlike a lot of his other music they're mostly upbeat and happy. Well, they're jazz, that's the point I guess. Suites for Jazz Orchestras Nos. 1 and 2 and The Bolt.

Twelve years of listening to Shostakovich and I'm still not sick of it. I think if I could go back in time and meet one person and one person only, Shostakovich would be one of the top few I'd like to meet.

Ugh.

2008-04-27T17:09:00.000-07:00

Stop looking for excuses to get out of doing something you're afraid of. Stop pretending that you're better than everyone else because God loves you. Stop being so damn self-righteous, like you know everything and you're some benevolent entity who is kind enough to deign to associate with us and explain these inexplicably deep thoughts of yours to lesser beings.

Yes, believing in God is good. Yes, God will fix things and make you better. Yes, God is important and you should feel honored that he loves you.

But that doesn't mean you're entitled to be overbearing to people who can't understand it yet. Even if you think you're helping, even if you're sincerely trying to help, you're just scaring us away. It doesn't mean that you can do whatever you want and believe that God will take care of you no matter what. It doesn't mean that you should take every little thing that happens as a sign. It doesn't mean that you should blindly do whatever you feel is 'right' without weighing the consequences.

Trusting God goes both ways. God will look out for you if you look out for yourself and for him. He might not always give you a clear path, he might make things hard sometimes, but if you really think that not doing anything is the best way to get anything done, you're wrong. The only thing you'll do is make the situation worse; you'll end up hurting more for it.

Trust God, but trust yourself too. Trust others who know what they're doing even if you're not so sure just because you don't understand it yourself. God gave you a brain so you can use it; it should be clear at this point that you can't understand everything, that's why you believe in God, right? If he didn't mean for you to rationalize situations, if he didn't mean for you to make decisions on your own, he wouldn't have given you the opportunity to do so.

I think this is why I have so much trouble with truly believing in God. There are so many people who use God as an excuse to get out of doing things, an excuse to feel better than other people. I appreciate those who are solid enough in their faith to show it without being embarrassed; I wish I was that way. But to be honest, it's just obnoxious and stupid to try to force your faith on other people, even those who want to learn about it and want to believe strongly themselves. On the contrary, it's probably more counterproductive than simply sitting there and passively showing your faith. Just live the way you think God would want you to, and you'll do more to convince other people than you ever would by proselytizing and trying to make them believe. There are more dimensions to faith than you think, there are more ways to approach belief and ways to 'fix' the insecurities of others. Don't just assume you're right, don't just blindly follow what you feel is easiest. You just look like an idiot. You just make me sick.

--

On rereading this, I don't know how much sense I made; there's two separate thoughts and they kind of got mixed together. I'm pissed off and so drugged up right now that I don't even remember the last 36 or so hours with any semblance of accuracy. Don't expect me to be coherent; it isn't going to happen.

All You Need is Love

2008-04-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.
There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It's easy.
There's nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be in time
It's easy.
All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.
All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
There's nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy.
All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
All you need is love (all together now)
All you need is love (everybody)
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

Gefunden

2008-03-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

Ich ging im Walde
So für mich hin,
Und nichts zu suchen,
Das war mein Sinn.

Im Schatten sah ich
Ein Blümchen stehn,
Wie Sterne leuchtend,
Wie Äuglein schön.

Ich wollt es brechen,
Da sagt es fein:
Soll ich zum Welken
Gebrochen sein?

Ich grub's mit allen
Den Würzlein aus.
Zum Garten trug ich's
Am hübschen Haus.

Und pflanzt es wieder
Am stillen Ort;
Nun zweigt es immer
Und blüht so fort.

The Beauty in Math...

2008-03-04T15:28:00.000-08:00

I don't see math in terms of numbers and letters.
There are no set methods for doing anything.
No memorization.
No vocabulary.
No superficial notation used to describe it to those who can't appreciate it's beauty.

Math is patterns.
Structures.
Colors.
Music.
First, music:
When I hear music, I don't hear the words and the sounds.
Instead I see swirls of colors.
Spirals and lines and dimensions.
Layers of colors and patterns that don't....can't exist in real life.
The images in my mind created by music astound and mystify me.
I see the structure of the music in terms of colors.
Overlaps and loops and organized confusion.

Think of music.
The sounds you hear.
What does it make you think of?
How do you visualize it?
Can you visualize it?

It took me until sixth grade to realize that if I described a sound as blue no one would understand.
It's the same way with math.
So I give you this analogy: think of what I describe as the way you hear music.
Pick your favorite Rachmaninov concerto or Bach symphonia.
Think of how you feel and what you 'see'.

This is how I see math.
But instead of the organized chaos of music.
The organized chaos of life.
I see the lines and patterns.
Organization of something that is already, by definition, organized.
Perfect infinite patterns that stretch on forever.
Iteration after iteration.
Deeper and deeper into abstraction.
These are all colors.
All these are are colors.
Bright, beautiful colors.

For those who think I'm a genius... I'm not.
I've just learned to use what I have.
I can 'make up' math, because I have an idea how it works.
There's patterns everywhere.
Most people just can't see them.
And if they can, they don't realize that that's why it's a pattern.
You can safely extrapolate on what you have and you'll get somewhere.
That's the idea of a pattern.
Just look at something.
And then keep looking.
On and on.
And then you're there.
At the end.
Or at least further from the beginning.

And when it gets confusing.
Just step back.
Take a look at the whole web you've built.
How you've gotten places.
How did you get there?
You followed a path.

So start making your own path.
That's all I do.
Just look down the path.
And if there's not one.
I make my own.

This is math.
Life is math.
Math is beautiful.
Take it how you will.

In a Mellow Tone

2008-03-01T00:18:00.000-08:00

Yeah, sing it mellow
And people will listen and learn more,
Sweet and low,
The longer the road you go.
Each sound anybody's puttin' down's
Gotta be their very own,
In a mellow tone.
Light and fluffy as a cloud,
Never very loud...

Do your singin' sweet and mellow,
Seldom ever in a bellow,
And you're really gonna see:

Everything you say and everything you do
Is gonna hang around a little while,
Because it really is true,
And if you ever get blue,
'Cause I know I do,
And so do you,
I'll never worry a minute
'Cause I know,
Don't ya know?
The blues are multicolored
All dependin' how ya dig 'em
And dependin' on your outlook.

Well lemme see:
Weary blues,
Sad blues,
Bad blues,
False blues,
All kinds of blues,
Plenty of different kinds of hues,
Yeah sure but the only blue that we know is indigo....

The Floor

2008-02-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

The floor is something we must fight against.
Whilst seemingly mere platform for the human
stance, it is that place that men fall to.
I am not dizzy. I stand as a tower, a lighthouse;
the pale ray of my sentiency flowing from my face.

But should I go dizzy I crash down into the floor;
my face into the floor, my attention bleeding into
the cracks of the floor.

Dear horizontal place, I do not wish to be a rug.
Do not pull at the difficult head, this teetering
bulb of dread and dream...

Psycho Killer

2008-02-21T23:09:00.000-08:00

"We are vain and we are blind,
I hate people when they're not polite..."

Riddles

2007-01-24T23:44:00.000-08:00

The riddle of now
The now of then
The how of why
The why of when

A poem of poems
A dream of dreams
The rhyme of rhymes
So simple it seems

The flow of time
The time of night
A night of rest
The rest of life

Life is a tale
Ever writing
Of light and gloom
Of peace and fighting

A world embarked on
A beginning breath
The start of the story
Of life and death

The legends are lost
And wars are won
Answers are asked
But no question

Consider all
But never choose
For answers always
Raise questions anew

Heed this verse
For better or worse
For these are the words
Of one who is cryptic
The writer of wrongs
The poet unscripted
The one of shadow
The one of light
Who writes to live
But lives to write

The riddle of then
The then of now
The when of why
The why of how

A poem of poems
A song of songs
The life of lives
Of rights and wrongs

The age of time
The time of life
A life of knowledge
And nonage’s strife

Life is a river
Ever flowing
Of shallows and rapids
Of endless going

A box of bones
A rose of red
The end of the tale
Of life and dead

The stories are stolen
And morals are gone
Answers are asked
But no question

Ponder all
But never decide
For answers have
New questions inside

Heed this verse
For better or worse
For these are the words
Of one who is clever
An author of ages
Who sees the forever
One of the future
One of the past
Who writes to live
And lives at last

Disjointed Ramblings on Kant, Socrates, Puzzles, and the Government

2006-09-05T02:06:00.000-07:00

There is a point in life where you look around and realize that the whole time you've been wasting your time focusing on the wrong thing. When you finally understand why it didn't work, because you had the missing piece and were looking for the puzzle instead of putting the puzzle together and hoping to find the missing piece later. When you realize that you really have no idea whats going on, and you flail around blindly until you find something which seems more solid. And then there is a point where that isn't good enough and something needs to be done. It's when you reach that point that you find that you've seen so much and missed so much more that it's too late to try to change, and you sit in the dark and cry. Most people don't bother noticing the difference and never change at all. For everyone else there's no going back, but how can you go forward either? When that happens it's hard to just take it in stride and keep going, it's hard to just assume that what you now see has any more substance than what you saw earlier, that it has any more validity compared to what you know you're still failing to see.

It is an unfortunate flaw of human nature that we tend to overlook the obvious and see entirely too much in the most insignificant of details. There is also the human propensity for blaming others for this flaw. The government, the schools, the Russian spies, your parents. How do we survive in a world where everyone sees only their tiny piece and no one wants to share that piece with anyone else? Will we ever be willing to share anything other than our negative opinions and even more unconstructive and unpleasant accusations pointed at someone other than ourselves? This is getting us nowhere, and we still have our entire lives to live with the mistakes we make now. The assumptions we base our opinions and thoughts and even our entire lives on are nothing more than the puzzle piece which may or may not be the one missing from the big puzzle. What is the purpose of living when we can't live our lives to the fullest for lack of information? How can a person just shrug and turn their back to learning and just assume that they know everything they will ever need to? What happened to Socrates and his brilliant notion that true wisdom lies not in knowing everything, but in realizing that in fact you don't and never will? As Kant asks, why is it admissible or even possible for a person to remain in his nonage and not actively seek to become more than he currently is? I ask these questions not to come to any particular conclusion, but to give myself something to question and hopefully a better view of the other puzzle pieces that I'm missing.

Maybe I should write a book detailing my ideas on enlightenment, Socrates, and the government. Maybe I should hide in a corner and whisper obscenities about the current state of the universe and wonder why no one likes me and my different ideas. Maybe I should curl up and die and give up on ever learning as much as I want to know. Maybe someday I'll finally find the other pieces and accept why others are the way they are and why I am the way I am. Maybe.

Painting

2006-07-21T05:22:00.000-07:00

You know when you have a whole bunch of blobs of paint, but one blob is bigger and uglier than the other ones and if you drag something through them the big ugly one sort of takes over and you can't tell what else is mixed in? That's how I feel right now. I don't even know what I think because everything is covered up by the bigger uglier blob of paint.

Word of the Day:

2006-07-20T02:09:00.000-07:00

Sexinatent

Um...

2006-07-19T04:17:00.000-07:00

I used to know everything, and question nothing,
But now I know nothing, and question everything,
It comes from forgetting everything because I was questioning nothing,
And from questioning nothing I no longer know everything.

Hierarchy

2006-07-11T01:12:00.000-07:00

Trees, Humans, and the Unimaginably Horrible "Higher Beings"

A word of advice:

2006-05-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

Never forget your scissors when you need to get duct tape off your skin in a hurry.

Ladybug

2006-04-22T01:23:00.000-07:00

Piao Chong ( 瓢蟲 )
Marienkaefer

Reflection

2006-02-22T19:22:00.000-08:00

Something that occurred to me today. I'm reading a paper called An Essay in Aesthetics (by Roger Fry), and the author talks about how when you watch movies your reactions/emotions in reaction to an event are purer than in real life because you don't have a part in what happens; no instinct to get out of the way, no obligation to help, etc. Then he goes on to say that if one is to use a shop window (or something similar) as a mirror and watch what goes on behind them they will experience a similar detatched feeling, and will notice more because it isn't immediately affecting them (at least that's how their brain interprets it). Then I was thinking about how I'm not sure that I like the idea of people looking at me like a movie. That made me think of a movie I watched called What the Bleep do We Know? which talked about how we affect things with our minds; basically the whole "I think therefore I am" deal except a lot moreso. A lot of stuff about how nothing is absolute unless we can see it. I don't believe that; I spent several minutes at karate yesterday doing katas with my eyes closed and I was absolutely sure every step I took that I'd run into someone or something (in particular one of the punching bag things even though I was in the dead center of the mat nowhere near the bags). But anyway, it made me think what if it was real and I was an imaginary person in someone else's reality? What if I don't actually exist except when someone sees me, and everything I do is determined by what someone else may or may not be thinking and when they are or are not thinking it? Maybe I only exist because some random person on the street sees me twice in their life and I have to be there at those two points and so therefore I exist? More like "Someone else thinks, therefore I am" than the other one.

Robin Hood Opening

2006-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

"How many months in a year my love?
There are thirteen, I would not lie--
But the sweetest month of all the year
Is the month one does not die."

If

2006-01-16T00:03:00.000-08:00

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

Kraehen im Schnee

2006-01-05T00:17:00.000-08:00

Die schwarzen Kraehen auf dem weissen Feld.
Der Anblick macht mein Herz erregt,
Es staeubt die Schnee. In Wirbeln kreist die Welt,
Sie sitzen auf den Baeumen unbewegt.

Die Zaubertiere aus der alten Zeit,
Sie sind bei uns nur zu Besuch.
Sie tragen noch das Galgenvogelkleid,
Sie hoerten einst den rauhen Henkerfluch.

Was denken sie? Ach, du erraetst es nicht!
Sie starren einsam vor sich hin.
Der Himmel hat ein milchig truebes Licht,
So war die Welt im ersten Anbeginn.

Nun naht vom Wald her sich ein neuer Gast.
Die andern sehen ihm nicht zu.
Er laesst sich nieder auf dem weissen Ast,
Und dann ertoennt auch durch die Winterruh'.

So rauh wie hohl der alte Kraehenschrei,
In ihm ist Langweil und Verdruss.
So hocken sie, das schwarze Einerlei,
Und wirbelnd faellt der Schnee, wohin er muss.

Notebook

2006-01-02T15:40:00.000-08:00

I was bored, so I was looking through a notebook that I write whatever I happen to be thinking in. There was some...interesting stuff to say the least. Mostly sort of dark stuff that when I looked at it I was like, "Whoa. Did I write this??"

Here are some. Now that I see them I remember this was just things I saw when I closed my eyes.

The sky is a wonderful deep blue.
A shield shaped mirror rests on the tips of the highest branches of a tree.
It reflects a lighter blue than the sky; it's almost greyish-silver.
And it blocks the sun.

I am in a Japanese garden.
The rocks are a lovely dark grey, and covered with pale lichens and red flowers.
I walk over a miniature bridge and see a man face down in the running stream.
His striped red tie hangs over one shoulder and flutters in the water.
His suit is wet and ruined.
I stare a moment and then walk away.

Those are the two I wrote in the notebook...there were more...but I couldn't write them down fast enough, and now I don't remember them.

Here's another thing I wrote...

The walls give sage advice but the quilt is a wiser green. And when it's dark they serve the same purpose.
Strange how oxymorons float into one's head...
I must always be a noun or a quote...no exceptions. Why does my brain work the way it does? I I think I must be mad...gone completely potty.
It looks like I'm writing with my left hand. How strange.
Sounds almost like a proverb...but it's not, it's just my room; or rather the southern corner of my room.
I'm sad for the souls in purgatory, but they are destined for heaven..more than that, I am sorry for the souls who choose Hell; they just don't understand...I wish I understood.

I also have a weird habit of writing quotes or short phrases or words at the top of every page that I write on (and some that I don't write on). Here are some of the things I've written.

All must pass.

"Behold when thy face is made bare, he that loved thee shall hate,
Thy face shall be no more fair at the fall of thy fate.
For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain;
And the veil of thine head shall be grief, and the crown shall be pain."
--from Tess of the D'Urbervilles

babcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzanniefreudenthal

...I'm tired of waiting...

Life is full of mysteries.

I'm with Stupid! I'm with Stupid! Done, done, done! I'm with Stupid! Dark!! Iambic Pentameter!!

In Nomini Patri, Filii, et Spiriti Sancti.

Where there is a Will, there is a Way.

"Yeah, the blues are multicolored all dependin' how ya dig 'em and dependin' on your outlook..."

I Wish...

"Der Fliegende Hollaender"

Skull and Bones and a Serpent's Head!

"Sun on daisies, darkness, eggs..."

A collection of poems from an unstable mind.

Reason is a slave to desire--it always has been; always will be.

"The Wizards' First Rule: People are stupid!"

A veil of hate dropped over the eyes of innocent men. A dark herald of night.

Number as inverted stars. [I suspect this was so I wouldn't forget that line for the poem Army of the Dead.]

Student Name, Music Theory, EPGY
c/o Florence Moore Housing Service Center
436 Mayfield Ave.
Stanford, CA 94305

BUXGHULBLIFBBWFLVQQNGWQJQEZZWAJLUDIAWIN

Does it work?!? Yes! Haha! [talking about a pen that I couldn't get to write]

So yeah. Haha, now that you've had a glimpse into my head....

KLEF

2005-11-27T23:46:00.000-08:00

"One of the advantages of being young is that you don't let common sense get in the way of doing things everyone else knows are impossible."

Seminar Poetry

2005-10-21T23:24:00.000-07:00

In seminar my group was supposed to to a presentation on poems that we read. My group presented, and I read The Army of the Dead (and people liked it...yay!), and then we passed out four papers and set it up in such a way that the person writing could only see the line immediately ahead of the one they were writing (folded the paper so that they couldn't see the lines above that one). In essence the class wrote four poems together, and did it so that they didn't really have much input from other people. The idea was to demonstrate that it was poetry and that even though so many people with so many different ideas/views/lives wrote it, that it was still poetry. It was pretty cool. (They are named according to the way we color-coded them to keep track of who had written on which paper.)

Yellow

The wind sings through the trees like time
The sound makes me want to mime
If only, only there were more time
And if only I could see the previous line
Everything would probably make a lot of sense
But right now it just does not
Will we survive without this precious thing?
Will we survive with this precious thing?
Hope wills us to survive through the darkest times
We only see this as a dark time because of our lack of hope
Where this came from, the pope only knows
Unless if they pick their nose
Mmm…boogers….
Go climb a tree
Or eat a good chocolate chip cookie
Then swallow the cherry flavor laxatives
No one likes laxatives
If only they could see
But is it for the best?
Why do we seek to know?
Maybe we are better off not knowing

Green

The sun shall never rise as high
The sun never set as low
The sky so full of light
The mountain is so high
It spirals above us so mighty and so pure
Then it fell, and crashed on the cold dry earth
It broke into a million pieces of nothing
The nothing made of something
There is no such thing as nothing
Nothing is the embodiment of everything
And everything tends to get confusing
When no one cares where they are going

Pink

The sheep slips on the snow an falls down the mountain
And yet he does not notice
In the middle of the dance floor he stood
He began to dance like a mad cow
Jumping and flying as if he weighed nothing
The pigs ate the apple in the midnight sun
Not if it was creamy ointment
Personally I like chunky
Chunky things smell funny
And funny things are like palm trees
That smell like our feet
But nothing ever smells bad if you don’t want it to
Although sometimes it does
Sometimes it does not make sense
But all you have to do is trust
Trust in yourself
Trust in others
As you would in yourself
Find this to be true
Nothing is true
Except that my favorite color is blue
And all you had to say was
Yes sir!

Orange

I love oranges and banana cheese
Yes, cheese is good and oranges are juicy
Both feeding everything but the soul
Neither have a heart the color of coal
But do either have the makings of a soul?
To make sprits rise or fall
You need to know spirits
How can we know spirits?
How can we not?
It’s so temptatious
How did we live without it?
Why must we know how?

Pretty cool, no? I like Green the best (no, not because it's my favorite color). I almost wish I could turn them into songs.

Paradies

2005-10-16T23:51:00.000-07:00

Wer kann schon sagen, was mit uns geschieht
Vielleicht stimmt es ja doch
Dass das Leben enie Pruefung ist
In der wir uns bewaehren sollen
Nur wer sie mit "Eins" besteht
Darf in den Himmel kommen
Fuer den ganzen deckigen Rest
Bleibt die Hoelle der Wiedergeburt
Als Tourist auf Ibiza, als Verkehrspolizist
Als ein Clown in der Zirkusshow
Den keiner sehen will

Um diesem Schicksal zu entfliehen
Sollen wir uns redlich bemuehen
Jeden Tag mit ienem Gebet zu beginnen
Anstelle von Aspirin
Nur wer immer gleich zum Beichtstuhl rennt
Als waer's ein Wettlauf
Und dort alle seine Suenden nennt
Der handelt einen Freispruch aus

Ich will nicht ins Paradies, wenn der Weg dorthin so schwierig ist
Ich stelle keinen Antrug auf Asyl, meinetwegen bleib ich hier

Wer Messer und Gabel richtig halten kann
Und beim Essen gerade sitzt
Wer immer "Ja" und "Danke" sagt
Dessen Chancen stehen nicht schlecht
Wer sich brav in jede Reihe stellt
Mit geputzten Schuhen
Wer sein Schicksal mit Demut traegt
Dem winkt die Erloesung zu

Wir sollen zuhoeren und aufpassen
Tun, was man uns sagt
unterordnen und nachmachen
Vom ersten bis zu letzten Tag
immer schoen nach den Regeln spielen
Die uns befohlen sind
Wie sie im Buch des Lebens stehen
In Ewigkeit, Amen

Ich will nichts ins Paradies, wenn der Weg dorthin so schwierig ist
Wer weiss, ob es uns dort besser geht, hinter diesen Tuer
Ich will nichts ins Paradies, wenn der Weg dorthin so schwierig ist
und bevor ich auf den Knien fleh', bleib ich meinetwegen hier
Ich will nichts ins Paradies, wenn der Weg dorthin so schwierig ist
Wenn ich nicht rein darf, wie ich bin, bleib ich draussen vor der Tuer

"I don't want to go to heaven if the way in is so hard. Who knows if it's better for us behind that door? I don't want to go to heaven if the way in is so hard. And before I kneel on my knees, I'll spend my life here. I don't want to go to heaven if the way in is so hard. If I don't make it in the way I am, I'll stay outside the door."

Why do I bother? No one cares about what I do. Why do I write in my blog? I think it's some way to make myself feel important. But it unfortunately doesn't work.

But that realization makes me wonder: why do people feel the need to make themselves important? There isn't any particular reason that everyone needs to be the most important person in the entire world. Yet everyone I know, including myself, feels that it's necessary. Why are people so conceited and self centered? I think that I've been over this exact question several times in seminar with the Berry paper, the King paper, and Night by Elie Wiesel. But I still wonder. And you know what? By writing this in my blog, I'm doing exactly what I just implied I shouldn't do, and I'm modeling precisely what any hypocrite like myself would do: write about it in my blog, assuming that the many people who avidly read my blog will be fascinated by my rambling, and will reply with thousands of elucidating comments to help me.

On Cooked Carrots

2005-09-28T01:49:00.000-07:00

I was eating dinner today, and contemplating a cooked carrot. It occured to me that cooked carrots are like ambitions: They are good when you first get them and they're still hot, but when they get cold they get slimy and disgusting. Which isn't to say that they can't be reheated. They can. But when they're cold they are revolting, and nothing good can come of going for them. You'll just make yourself sick.

The Fairies' Siege

2005-09-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

I have been given my charge to keep--
Well have I kept the same!
Playing with strife for the most of my life,
But this is a different game.
I'll not fight against swords unseen,
Or spears that I cannot view--
Hand him the keys of the place on your knees--
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!

Ask him his terms and accept them at once.
Quick, ere we anger him, go!
Never before have I flinched from the guns,
But this is a different show.
I'll not fight with the Herald of God
(I know what his Master can do!)
Open the gate, he must enter in state,
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!

I'd not give way for an Emperor,
I'd hold my road for a King--
To the Triple Crown I would not bow down--
But this is a different thing.
I'll not fight with the Powers of Air,
Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall, 'tis the Lord of us all,
The Dreamer whose dreams come true!

Journey or Destination?

2005-09-16T14:42:00.000-07:00

"'Tis not the destination you arrive at, but the journey you take to get there."

The journey determines the destination. But why would you be pursuing a destination if the journey were all that mattered? Do you need a destination to have a journey? I believe you do. Physically you may. Unless you kept walking. But, like in religion, the journey towards heaven doesn't compare with the perfection that is heaven. But that's sort of hypothetical. But at the moment all one has is the journey I suppose. So it's a quote for someone who hasn't finished the journey yet. But what if it wasn't? Well, it depends on the journey. True. If one were to walk to the store to get that great ice cream, but they were to meet a lot of people on the way and have fun, then the journey was more important. Or hiking up Flattop or whatever. But, say, biking Resurrection Pass Trail was miserable, and the destination was the part I wanted. The journey made me better; I got in better shape, and I got more experience mountain biking, but I definitely didn't enjoy the journey. So the experience of the destination is subjective, because that could be the real reward for someone. Is the quote meant to be taken literally? I.e. the journey is nicer or better than the destination; more enjoyable? Or is it meant to mean that, while the destination is the desirable part, the journey makes you better? What is the journey even? I guess it's an oxymoron wrapped in an enigma.

The Power of the Majority

2005-09-15T00:51:00.000-07:00

"You are free to think differently from me, and to retain your life, your property, and all that you possess; but if such be your determination, you are henceforth an alien among your people. You may retain your civil rights, but they will be useless to you, for you will never be chosen by your fellow-citizens if you solicit their suffrages; and they will affect to scorn you, if you solicit their esteem. You will remain among men, but you will be deprived of the rights of mankind. Your fellow-creatures will shun you like an impure being; and those who are most persuaded of your innocence will abandon you too, lest they should be shunned in their turn. Go in peace! I have given you your life, but it is an existence incomparably worse than death." -Alexis de Tocqueville

This is the power that the majority exercizes over America...frightening.

A Poem in C Minor

2005-09-04T00:12:00.000-07:00

“Play a song in C minor.”
The black piano jeers.
“I’ll bet you can’t do it.”
I feel close to tears.

Instead I sit silent,
And stare at my fingers.
While the piano waits,
It’s mocking still lingers.

I reach out a hand,
But stop short of the note.
I can’t play three flats;
With only one I’m a joke.

So I sit still silent,
And try not to cry.
To keep back warm tears,
That leap to my eyes.

I contemplate my life,
A stupid thing to ponder,
When I meant to play piano,
But I let my thoughts wander.

I’ve never understood,
Why life is so tough.
Like playing in C minor,
Melancholy, rough.

I think about my friends,
Then wonder if they’re real.
I’ve never felt quite like,
I think having friends should feel.

I’m so damn insecure,
I’m an introvert, I’m me.
And I’m stuck inside my head,
Only the piano for company.

The one time I had friends,
Who were real, solid, there.
Was when I couldn’t keep them,
Was when I really cared.

The personified piano,
Can see my very thoughts.
“They’ll leave you like the others.
“How can you think they’ll not?”

I refuse to answer,
But I know it’s right.
Already they’re drifting away,
No longer in my sight.

At first we all just clicked,
It seemed we were friends on the spot,
And now we are scattered,
And I miss them all a lot.

Perhaps in the future,
I’ll see them again.
But it seems unlikely,
I lament the loss of my friends.

And then again inside my thoughts,
The piano barges in,
“You’ve brought it on yourself.
“You’ve failed life again.”

I ask it what it means,
And rub my tired eyes.
“You’re imperfect and flawed.
“Your ‘friends’ were just being nice.”

“You’ll never understand.
“The finer points of interaction,
“You’ve failed again, my dear.”
Then it waits for my reaction.

I close my eyes and sigh,
I try to ignore its taunts,
But they’re the unfortunate truth,
No matter what I want.

I’m just an outcast,
I’m ostracized, I’m me.
I’m the one who doesn’t get it,
The one no one wants to be.

“You finally realize,
“That you’ll always lose.
“That you’ll never succeed,
“That you have no choice to choose.”

“You’ll always be alone,
“Well, not alone; you still have me.
“I’ll be in your head forever,
“I’ll show you all your faults, you see.”

I shake my aching head,
And try to close my ears,
Insecurity and imperfection,
Are my two greatest fears.

I sit a little longer,
And then purely out of spite,
I play a minor C chord,
My touch uncertain and light.

I play a little louder,
And a melody appears.
It’s a little shaky,
But soon enough it clears.

I play with my emotions,
Automatically my fingers move,
Though not included in the process,
My insulted mind approves.

And then I make a mistake,
And then again and then again.
The song in C minor,
Has died in the end.

I’ve failed myself again,
And proven it right.
The gloating piano,
I want it out of my sight.

But I’ve found I cannot move,
I just stare at my reflection,
In the piano’s shiny black surface;
Imperfection in perfection.

Army of the Dead

2005-02-20T15:03:00.000-08:00

They sleep the final sleep,

And dream of lands unknown.

Of villages and keeps,

Of towns of wood and stone.

Then through the dark a call,

Rings clarion clear and true.

"Arise from your steep fall!"

And so arise they do.

No longer bound by Death,

Their hearts beat strong and proud.

They take in cleansing breath,

And greet the world around.

And then another call,

"To arms, prepare for war!"

They hear it one and all,

And prepare with hands assured.

With swords of glass and light,

The call to arms they honor.

With helms and tabards white,

And brilliant, gleaming armor.

And then a final call,

"Ride out, brave men, ride out!"

And so ride out they all,

On steeds moon-pale and stout.

They ride through lands they dreamed,

The unknown now is known.

Through landscapes vibrant green,

The towns of wood and stone.

Alas! They cannot tarry,

'Tis war for whence they're bound.

"Ride on ye and be merry!"

The silver trumpets sound.

When weary are the horses' feet,

And more to come yet be.

The foe do they finally meet,

Upon a salt-dry sea.

The evil army, from afar!

They've come to fight again!

Black numbered as inverted stars,

Upon the pure white plain.

The closer do they draw,

And nervous are the horses.

The Evil's wrought of twisted flaws,

And animated corpses.

They see the tarnished helmets;

Of blackened iron made.

The Evil's clad in tattered velvet,

Of black, blacker than shade.

For a blink a silent lull,

The calm before the storm.

And then the battle starts in full,

All can be heard's the clash of arms.

The bloody battle rages,

By the edges of the sea.

They battle through the ages;

For what seems eternally.

When victory is imminent,

They loose a final shout.

They've battled for the innocent,

The tides have turned about!

When the last foe falls,

They see the perverse irony:

Their armor's plain and served them well,

And the foe is clad in finery.

The salty plain is now dissolved,

In blood as well as tears.

The evil army's threat resolved,

So too the danger all once feared.

They trudge home broken-hearted,

Although they have just won.

Though Evil has been thwarted,

They glory in it, none.

When their home they reach,

Their armor they discard.

For killing they beseech,

Forgiveness as reward.

And then a final parting,

For to Death they are returned.

Leave-taking just as starting,

In cold graves they've never spurned.

A new and dreamless sleep,

A long, unbroken slumber.

Now silence shall they ever keep,

Every one among their number.

They once were graced with power,

Every Evil they filled with dread.

They were the Silver Savior;

The Army of the Dead.

Pirates' Signature

2004-10-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

The pirates come with torches alight
To burn the village, disrupt the night.
Throughout the town screams echo and ring,
The pirates take joy in the song pain sings.

They spare no thought for the death of men
The fate of the woman, the life within.
Through the chaos they swiftly go
To leave their sign, a mark of woe.

When the fires quiet and cinders cool
They take more than they need, a twisted rule.
The charred and lifeless bodies stare
The resonant pain a tainted air.

In the light of the new and dawning day
The pirates board ship and sail away.
When finally the white of their sail is gone
The survivors wail their grief to the dawn.

In the years after the town is rebuilt
No one remembers the pirates’ assault.
But the pirates’ song of pain still rings
In silent graves and bloody springs.

A Storm

2004-08-28T01:37:00.000-07:00

grey water
black sky
blood red streaks of fading day
contrast with the stark white sail
familiar overcast
and blue horizon
replaced by driving rain
an absence of light
like a sinister black sun
no lightning
but in the waves is thunder
thunder like a thousand hounds
chasing a frightened doe
but the waves are more merciless than hounds
the ship more vulnerable than the doe
timbers creak
men are swept off the deck
like wooden children’s toys
to sink to a cold, wet death
in the belly of the beast
foolishly thought tamed
a cold, wet, terror-filled death
an eerie parallel
to the cold, wet, terror-filled life
known moments before
the insatiable waves beat the ship
the mast snaps and falls
with incongruous grace
the ship shudders and sinks
the last of the crew
join their comrades
and the waves calm
their prize claimed
as the black sun watches
the bloody streaks now part of the water
the gray water