It's the holidays. More specifically, it's the Christmas season. As a christian, I suppose the typical thing for me to do would be to go on an obnoxious rant about the way people respectfully--the proper word is probably closer to fearfully--say happy holidays instead of Merry Christmas because they don't want to offend anyone. Even as I write about the prospect of it, my mind begins to buzz with all kinds of pointers and, "hard-hitters". Ultimately, however, to spend the Christmas season arguing about trivial matters like what we choose to call this holiday is to completely contradict anything the Christmas season stands for. So take heart, dear reader; you will not be bombarded with religious ramblings today--at least not by myself.
To be completely honest, I had not planned to write anything for the next several weeks. It is, after all, the holidays, is it not? Surprisingly enough, it is that very thought which motivated me to write.
Nay, not motivated, for that seems too weak of a word. Perhaps a word like, "drove" or, "demanded" would describe the feeling better. The thought that, " 'tis the season" and that such a fact should count as valid reasoning to not write, demanded of me that I write. The breathtakingly beautiful and unbelievably wise Jessica Liggins would insist that this demand stems from my unrelenting desire to defy the laws of social norm and what-not, and in actuality she would probably be exactly right. My total distaste for social formalities, norms, and, "traditions" would not allow for a break in writing during the holidays simply because taking a break is what one does around this time of year.
I would like to suggest, however, that though this may be the reason on the surface, it is not at all good reason to write. For if my purpose to write is simply to, "Stick it to the man" then a poor adolescent-minded soul I would be. I also probably wouldn't have much more to say than what has already been said repeated several billion times over in not-so-clever various ways.
No, dear reader, something much deeper is at play here, and I believe that something is passion. Passion does not reside within the boundaries of social norm. Passion does not follow rules. Passion does not take holidays.
It is my understanding that if one has a passion, then one will stop at nothing to pursue said passion. It is also my understanding that when people take holidays and go on vacation they are attempting to get away from whatever is they have been doing up until that point, presumably because it bores them or drains them.
The reader will understand then, that in my line of thought for me to take a break from writing because it is holidays, is a very appalling thought indeed. Every part of my being screams at me that this is a betrayal of my passions, for writing is one of the select few things on this earth which make me feel alive. That I even considered taking a break demanded of me that I do just the opposite.
'tis the season to be jolly, and a jolly fellow indeed I am when given the grace to write something--anything--which might be enjoyed by at least one person somewhere--regardless the time of year.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Theoretical Commitment
Commitment. What a funny thing it is. A very beautiful thing as well. Some might even venture so far as to call it a pleasant thought, and for those who have chosen to take it on the words, "worth it" can often be heard bouncing off their lips.
Worth it.
Let us take a moment to dissect the implications of a statement such as, "worth it."
The dictionary defines worth as, "excellence, usefulness, or value", which must mean that those who take up commitment place some sort of value upon the endeavor(it will be assumed that the word, 'it' is indeed talking about the commitment in question). It must also be noted that those who use the phrase, "worth it" attached to words such as commitment, have more often than not just finished recounting stories of hardship which challenged the commitment in question.
And so one begins to wonder if the value placed on said commitment has been there from the very start--how could it not if one has endured such hardship to hold onto something?--or if the value has been achieved via the commitment itself. Which, if thought about long enough, may come across as a slight paradox to the reader. Any sensible person will agree that it is near impossible for people or things to gain instant value, and that if they do, the said value gradually decreases over time.
Commitment seems to take a turn of its own, however, in that if it is carried out, the person or object being committed to only gains value over time, and seemingly more so if hardships are endured along the way. One may point to the thousands of divorcing couples across our planet, but one would have to recognize that divorce is a termination of commitment, and therefore not a valid argument.
At this point, one is struck with the question of how it is that the value needed to commit is gained through the very act of committing. Perhaps the only way to obtain an answer is to test the theory.
Worth it.
Let us take a moment to dissect the implications of a statement such as, "worth it."
The dictionary defines worth as, "excellence, usefulness, or value", which must mean that those who take up commitment place some sort of value upon the endeavor(it will be assumed that the word, 'it' is indeed talking about the commitment in question). It must also be noted that those who use the phrase, "worth it" attached to words such as commitment, have more often than not just finished recounting stories of hardship which challenged the commitment in question.
And so one begins to wonder if the value placed on said commitment has been there from the very start--how could it not if one has endured such hardship to hold onto something?--or if the value has been achieved via the commitment itself. Which, if thought about long enough, may come across as a slight paradox to the reader. Any sensible person will agree that it is near impossible for people or things to gain instant value, and that if they do, the said value gradually decreases over time.
Commitment seems to take a turn of its own, however, in that if it is carried out, the person or object being committed to only gains value over time, and seemingly more so if hardships are endured along the way. One may point to the thousands of divorcing couples across our planet, but one would have to recognize that divorce is a termination of commitment, and therefore not a valid argument.
At this point, one is struck with the question of how it is that the value needed to commit is gained through the very act of committing. Perhaps the only way to obtain an answer is to test the theory.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Mr. A.
When I was in grade eight I wrote a short story/book called, "The Man and His Glasses". I dedicated it to my dad for his(at the time) incredible unwillingness to give up his ancient and outdated glasses. At first, it was supposed to be about my dad and how I imagined he had come about his ancient glasses. I even named the main character after my superhero of a father. Very quickly, however, the story turned into a complete, unbridled-imagination-fueled fabrication.
Not a lie by any means. It was a story. A beautiful story that didn't at all fit the requirements of my assignment. Or at least, it wouldn't, if the assignment had had any requirements.
Grade eight was an interesting year. I was experiencing my first year of public school, and I was in an all boys class. Before January, our class had gone through three teachers. All of whom ended up in tears before quitting. In short, our class was a teacher's nightmare. The school was desperate to find a teacher who would teach our class and actually help us learn something. When myself and my fellow classmates got on the bus to leave for Christmas break, we had no idea who our teacher would be when we returned.
And when we did return, we were greeted by a small man wearing skate clothes. A small man Mr. A. Until we learned that the, 'A' stood for, 'Atkins' most of us just assumed it meant, 'awesome'.
There are many, many reasons that Mr. A. was--and still is--the coolest teacher I and most of my classmates have ever had--the fact that he stays so memorable after a mere five months is testament enough--and I would love to share them all with you, dear reader, but my time is limited and so is yours.
Mr. A recognized that I had a talent/love for reading and writing. He recognized that it wasn't something I did because it was a requirement for school, but because I enjoyed it. When the school library didn't have any books that interested me, I was allowed to bring a book of my choice for reading time. And when it came time for english assignments, Mr. A. handed me a blank, 80 page Hilroy notebook and told me to write about whatever I felt like writing about. The first story was about a conspiracy behind the San Diego earthquakes and their true cause being due to the experiments of a crazy scientist. And after that came, "The Man and His Glasses". A story about a young german genius who bought a pair of glasses and turned them into a massively advanced multi-functioning technological device whose primary function was still to improve vision.
I'm not exactly sure how Mr. A's marking system worked, or how he went about grading an assignment that had no requirements, but I essentially aced grade eight english, and I learned a lot more about english and writing than just how to form a grammatically correct sentence(I still don't know how to do that).
Mr. A. did what teachers are supposed to do. He recognized a spark, threw some fuel on it, and fanned it into a flame. And he didn't just do that for me. Everyone in our class had special assignments for certain subjects. Mr. A let talents flourish by giving them the resources to do so. When I received a, "marked" and completed copy of, "The Man and His Glasses", I found the following note scribbled in to the last few pages:
"Dear Isaac,
Every now and then a teacher comes across a student who decides that normal and ordinary are not good things to be! Then the teacher panics and says, 'That's is--the GIG is up! I'm going to be found out'. So the teacher desperately tries to create a new task to keep that student from discovering the truth about teachers. That truth, by the way, is that teachers--but that's another story. Let me return to the task at hand. Obfuscation!
The teacher, determined to continue the process of denying truth to the student, suggests to the student that he, "pursue that talent" "attempt that independent study" "create.." "design.." and pretty soon the student is sidetracked and forgets that he was on the brink of discovering the truth that the teacher--but that's classified information! Should it slip out, then this book will, in five seconds, (give or take a century) self destruct. (run very quickly away! Now!)
If you are still here and reading this, I obviously have work to do to scarify you! By the way, scarify is a legitimate word--and a very convenient sidetrack to finish this page without telling you the real truth about teachers--they are all crazy! (well, except me)"
"The Man and His Glasses" was, and still is, dedicated to my dad. This blog, however, is dedicated to Mr. A, for his heroic efforts to recognize my passion, and grow it beyond anyone's control. Not even my own. Thank you.
Not a lie by any means. It was a story. A beautiful story that didn't at all fit the requirements of my assignment. Or at least, it wouldn't, if the assignment had had any requirements.
Grade eight was an interesting year. I was experiencing my first year of public school, and I was in an all boys class. Before January, our class had gone through three teachers. All of whom ended up in tears before quitting. In short, our class was a teacher's nightmare. The school was desperate to find a teacher who would teach our class and actually help us learn something. When myself and my fellow classmates got on the bus to leave for Christmas break, we had no idea who our teacher would be when we returned.
And when we did return, we were greeted by a small man wearing skate clothes. A small man Mr. A. Until we learned that the, 'A' stood for, 'Atkins' most of us just assumed it meant, 'awesome'.
There are many, many reasons that Mr. A. was--and still is--the coolest teacher I and most of my classmates have ever had--the fact that he stays so memorable after a mere five months is testament enough--and I would love to share them all with you, dear reader, but my time is limited and so is yours.
Mr. A recognized that I had a talent/love for reading and writing. He recognized that it wasn't something I did because it was a requirement for school, but because I enjoyed it. When the school library didn't have any books that interested me, I was allowed to bring a book of my choice for reading time. And when it came time for english assignments, Mr. A. handed me a blank, 80 page Hilroy notebook and told me to write about whatever I felt like writing about. The first story was about a conspiracy behind the San Diego earthquakes and their true cause being due to the experiments of a crazy scientist. And after that came, "The Man and His Glasses". A story about a young german genius who bought a pair of glasses and turned them into a massively advanced multi-functioning technological device whose primary function was still to improve vision.
I'm not exactly sure how Mr. A's marking system worked, or how he went about grading an assignment that had no requirements, but I essentially aced grade eight english, and I learned a lot more about english and writing than just how to form a grammatically correct sentence(I still don't know how to do that).
Mr. A. did what teachers are supposed to do. He recognized a spark, threw some fuel on it, and fanned it into a flame. And he didn't just do that for me. Everyone in our class had special assignments for certain subjects. Mr. A let talents flourish by giving them the resources to do so. When I received a, "marked" and completed copy of, "The Man and His Glasses", I found the following note scribbled in to the last few pages:
"Dear Isaac,
Every now and then a teacher comes across a student who decides that normal and ordinary are not good things to be! Then the teacher panics and says, 'That's is--the GIG is up! I'm going to be found out'. So the teacher desperately tries to create a new task to keep that student from discovering the truth about teachers. That truth, by the way, is that teachers--but that's another story. Let me return to the task at hand. Obfuscation!
The teacher, determined to continue the process of denying truth to the student, suggests to the student that he, "pursue that talent" "attempt that independent study" "create.." "design.." and pretty soon the student is sidetracked and forgets that he was on the brink of discovering the truth that the teacher--but that's classified information! Should it slip out, then this book will, in five seconds, (give or take a century) self destruct. (run very quickly away! Now!)
If you are still here and reading this, I obviously have work to do to scarify you! By the way, scarify is a legitimate word--and a very convenient sidetrack to finish this page without telling you the real truth about teachers--they are all crazy! (well, except me)"
"The Man and His Glasses" was, and still is, dedicated to my dad. This blog, however, is dedicated to Mr. A, for his heroic efforts to recognize my passion, and grow it beyond anyone's control. Not even my own. Thank you.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Drug Addicts
Everyone is a drug addict. Every single person who has ever laid foot on this plane is--and was--a drug addict. The more knowledgeable and experienced reader may assume that I am about to embark on the well-worn path of brain chemicals related to enjoying ourselves. I am not.
I am not about to dote over dopamine, get silly over seratonin, or turn nostalgic over norepinephrine. The world has enough semi-poet's turning the thought of naturally created brain chemicals into romantic drug addictions.
I will not deny that all humans--including myself--have a subconscious, uninterrupted, and determined desire to feel good. Some of us fulfill that desire with foreign chemicals, while others simply do things they enjoy. If thought about long enough, one begins to realize that the majority of human existence has been spent pursuing our addiction to those brain chemicals. Everything we do--whether intentionally or not--revolves around our desire to feel good.
At this point it may appear that I have killed my position of not writing about brain chemicals, and if I were the reader, I would assume the same. But I am not the reader, and I am not done yet.
If the story stopped here, it would be on a quite pleasant note, would it not? Most modern brain chemical poetry does. We romanticize the idea of being a, "drug addict". And there we stop. On the very edge. For if we were to venture one step further we would find ourselves questioning the nature of drug addicts. We would ponder the physical addiction: the body's need for that special substance--whatever it may be. And if we had not yet bored ourselves with the biology of the matter, our mind would wander into its own realm.
There would be a brief moment of confusion, as the mind is not one to fancy examining itself, and then our train of thought would continue. Within the mind we may find ourselves stumbling across the attitude of drug addicts. And after we pick ourselves up off the ground to look back at what it is we have stumbled upon, our first reaction may be one of disgust.
Whatever the thing is that our wanderings brought us across, it is certainly not attractive. But as most know, things that visibly disgust us have a funny way of locking our gaze at least long enough until they have shamelessly burned themselves permanently into our memories. So we will continue to stare at this object of revolt, and just as our mind has mustered the strength to look away, we may find our eyes withheld by the faintest hint of recognition. Then, slowly--ever so slowly--the deformities of the object mold their way into a very familiar shape indeed.
Some may be refilled with horror, some may flash a welcoming grin, and some--if there is any hope for the world--will run in the other direction. Whatever our reaction, selfishness will continue to lie there in its own filth, patiently waiting out the next chance to strike.
I am not about to dote over dopamine, get silly over seratonin, or turn nostalgic over norepinephrine. The world has enough semi-poet's turning the thought of naturally created brain chemicals into romantic drug addictions.
I will not deny that all humans--including myself--have a subconscious, uninterrupted, and determined desire to feel good. Some of us fulfill that desire with foreign chemicals, while others simply do things they enjoy. If thought about long enough, one begins to realize that the majority of human existence has been spent pursuing our addiction to those brain chemicals. Everything we do--whether intentionally or not--revolves around our desire to feel good.
At this point it may appear that I have killed my position of not writing about brain chemicals, and if I were the reader, I would assume the same. But I am not the reader, and I am not done yet.
If the story stopped here, it would be on a quite pleasant note, would it not? Most modern brain chemical poetry does. We romanticize the idea of being a, "drug addict". And there we stop. On the very edge. For if we were to venture one step further we would find ourselves questioning the nature of drug addicts. We would ponder the physical addiction: the body's need for that special substance--whatever it may be. And if we had not yet bored ourselves with the biology of the matter, our mind would wander into its own realm.
There would be a brief moment of confusion, as the mind is not one to fancy examining itself, and then our train of thought would continue. Within the mind we may find ourselves stumbling across the attitude of drug addicts. And after we pick ourselves up off the ground to look back at what it is we have stumbled upon, our first reaction may be one of disgust.
Whatever the thing is that our wanderings brought us across, it is certainly not attractive. But as most know, things that visibly disgust us have a funny way of locking our gaze at least long enough until they have shamelessly burned themselves permanently into our memories. So we will continue to stare at this object of revolt, and just as our mind has mustered the strength to look away, we may find our eyes withheld by the faintest hint of recognition. Then, slowly--ever so slowly--the deformities of the object mold their way into a very familiar shape indeed.
Some may be refilled with horror, some may flash a welcoming grin, and some--if there is any hope for the world--will run in the other direction. Whatever our reaction, selfishness will continue to lie there in its own filth, patiently waiting out the next chance to strike.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
More of Less
“Nothing ever happens to me.”
These are the morbidly honest and
depressing words spoken by Dr. John Watson shortly before he has the
incredible privilege of meeting—and doing everything with—Sherlock
Holmes.
This particular Sherlock scenario falls
under the modern version. It is during a counselling session, and
through the course of the session it is revealed that Dr. Watson is
supposed to be writing a blog about everything which happens to him.
He replies with the formerly quoted statement.
Despite its minuteness and flippant
delivery, this statement says a great deal about humanity and how our
interactions work. I suppose the phrase, “Less is more” suits
this situation perfectly, but I find myself hard pressed to use it as
I am not one to do what most people would or would not do in certain
situations. Nonetheless, it is an undeniable fact that in those five
words, there is a great deal more waiting to be unpacked.
For example, there are a great deal of
assumptions drawn here by our friend, Dr. Watson. Most of which I
believe to be far more true than even he may have realized. When
asked to write, Watson responded by saying that nothing ever happens
to him. As a writer—and I am sure most authors would agree—this
is the most valid reason in the world to refrain from writing. If
nothing ever happens to you, what in the bloody hell have you got to
write about?
If nothing has happened to you; meaning
that you have neither participated in any action beyond surviving,
nor have you been effected by the lives of others participating in
actions beyond surviving, then any fool can clearly see that you have
nothing to write about. Not even the musings of lovable characters
on excellent tv shows.
Less is more.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Intelligent Observations of Intelligence.
I like to think of myself as an intelligent person. Not exceptionally intelligent, for I think to call myself such would be to step into the realm of haughtiness and pride, and that is a realm completely void of any intelligence whatsoever. Neither would I venture to say genius, for I consider geniuses to be the least likely to call themselves such. If one is a true genius, would one not be intelligent enough to realize what true genius is, and therefore be far from the notion of their own status falling into such a category?
Nay, I am perfectly content to think of myself as intelligent. For this infers that--according to the general population--I am level-headed, I am not stupid, and I observe and/or think before I act or speak. The dictionary defines intelligent as, "someone or something that is bright, informed or shows sound judgment". I like to think that most of these are qualities which I, as a human being, possess.
Not just myself, mind you. I like to assume that the greater majority of human beings I interact with on a day to day basis are, more or less, intelligent. And so for the reader who is assuming that I have set out to write an article which sets my intellect far above that of my peers or fellow man, please know that those are not at all my intentions.
On the contrary, I believe it to be a quality of an intelligent person to rarely--if ever--set out on such a mission, and certainly never intend to do so myself. As an intelligent person, I like to think of myself as one of many, and abhor the thought of living a life where I constantly look down upon the majority of the people I interact with.
And so I reiterate, dear reader: I do not consider myself to be exceptionally intelligent, genius, or anything of the like. Simply your average, every day, intelligent being.
So the reader will then understand why I find myself quite conflicted when I hear many of my, "intelligent" friends asking questions like, "Obama or Romney?" when it is a public fact that between the two of them, the candidates have spent an average of six billion dollars on nothing more than their election campaigns.
Nay, I am perfectly content to think of myself as intelligent. For this infers that--according to the general population--I am level-headed, I am not stupid, and I observe and/or think before I act or speak. The dictionary defines intelligent as, "someone or something that is bright, informed or shows sound judgment". I like to think that most of these are qualities which I, as a human being, possess.
Not just myself, mind you. I like to assume that the greater majority of human beings I interact with on a day to day basis are, more or less, intelligent. And so for the reader who is assuming that I have set out to write an article which sets my intellect far above that of my peers or fellow man, please know that those are not at all my intentions.
On the contrary, I believe it to be a quality of an intelligent person to rarely--if ever--set out on such a mission, and certainly never intend to do so myself. As an intelligent person, I like to think of myself as one of many, and abhor the thought of living a life where I constantly look down upon the majority of the people I interact with.
And so I reiterate, dear reader: I do not consider myself to be exceptionally intelligent, genius, or anything of the like. Simply your average, every day, intelligent being.
So the reader will then understand why I find myself quite conflicted when I hear many of my, "intelligent" friends asking questions like, "Obama or Romney?" when it is a public fact that between the two of them, the candidates have spent an average of six billion dollars on nothing more than their election campaigns.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
I've got a bar of soap.
Life plays dirty. Life doesn't play by the rules. Life lets you do what you please, and doesn't tell you the consequences until you're smack dab in the middle of them. Life lets itself happen to you without letting you realize it.
I've been playing with life for the past little while, and I thought I was being quite clever about it. I thought I had the upper hand. I thought I knew how to play the game better than life itself. I forgot that life has been playing the game for a considerably longer time than I.
The above paragraphs are my attempts as a writer to say in the most clever and metaphorical way possible that I have been learning a very hard lesson of late. Following those paragraphs one would traditionally have some sort of follow up explanation, carrying the original thought with exquisite grace and ease, letting it float from the page to the reader's mind, and--if the writer is really good--into the depths of the reader's very soul. I would love to do that, but the honest truth is that I am far out of practice of late.
My last genuinely entertaining, thoughtful, inspiring piece was written almost two years ago(in my own not-so-humble opinion). Since that time, I have written when it is convenient or when it fits into my ever-busying schedule. I have written more poetry than my heart can handle, and I have found that satisfying to an extent. I have told myself that I am simply growing, and that the writer in me was only a phase. A moment in time. An insignificant enjoyable experience.
The past several months(and my incredibly heart-stoppingly beautiful and inspiring girlfriend) have taught me otherwise.
I write. It is something that I do. I enjoy it more than almost any other activity I have ever done in my life. It brings me joy. It brings me peace. It nourishes my soul. It is when I feel God's pleasure. It makes me feel alive. And I'm damn well good at it.
And if I am damn well good at something, then any sensible person would say that I should damn well do that something. And I say that that person is damn well right.
So it has come to pass that I have made a pact with myself--which I will no doubt regret on many occasions--that I am going to write. Often. At least once a week to be precise. Even if my hand feels like a block of wood and my brain like a blob of baloney. If my mind feels empty and my soul drained--still I will write.
I will not set out to recapture or relive the glorious moments and feelings of writing in the past--though they were grand moments indeed--for that would be to spin in circles. I will not write to make myself feel good--though the reader may think that contradicts previous statements--for that would be to serve none but my selfish desires. I will not write to make others feel good--though I sincerely hope that at least one will enjoy the scribblings of my thoughts--for that would be to allow others to dictate my art. I will write because I need to write.
And so, dear reader, it is my sincerest hope that you will join me on this new journey, and that the process may somehow inspire you to set out upon an adventure of your own. For if there is one thing that life has taught me since I put down the pen, it is this: Our minds were created to travel.
Life plays dirty, but I've got a bar of soap.
I've been playing with life for the past little while, and I thought I was being quite clever about it. I thought I had the upper hand. I thought I knew how to play the game better than life itself. I forgot that life has been playing the game for a considerably longer time than I.
The above paragraphs are my attempts as a writer to say in the most clever and metaphorical way possible that I have been learning a very hard lesson of late. Following those paragraphs one would traditionally have some sort of follow up explanation, carrying the original thought with exquisite grace and ease, letting it float from the page to the reader's mind, and--if the writer is really good--into the depths of the reader's very soul. I would love to do that, but the honest truth is that I am far out of practice of late.
My last genuinely entertaining, thoughtful, inspiring piece was written almost two years ago(in my own not-so-humble opinion). Since that time, I have written when it is convenient or when it fits into my ever-busying schedule. I have written more poetry than my heart can handle, and I have found that satisfying to an extent. I have told myself that I am simply growing, and that the writer in me was only a phase. A moment in time. An insignificant enjoyable experience.
The past several months(and my incredibly heart-stoppingly beautiful and inspiring girlfriend) have taught me otherwise.
I write. It is something that I do. I enjoy it more than almost any other activity I have ever done in my life. It brings me joy. It brings me peace. It nourishes my soul. It is when I feel God's pleasure. It makes me feel alive. And I'm damn well good at it.
And if I am damn well good at something, then any sensible person would say that I should damn well do that something. And I say that that person is damn well right.
So it has come to pass that I have made a pact with myself--which I will no doubt regret on many occasions--that I am going to write. Often. At least once a week to be precise. Even if my hand feels like a block of wood and my brain like a blob of baloney. If my mind feels empty and my soul drained--still I will write.
I will not set out to recapture or relive the glorious moments and feelings of writing in the past--though they were grand moments indeed--for that would be to spin in circles. I will not write to make myself feel good--though the reader may think that contradicts previous statements--for that would be to serve none but my selfish desires. I will not write to make others feel good--though I sincerely hope that at least one will enjoy the scribblings of my thoughts--for that would be to allow others to dictate my art. I will write because I need to write.
And so, dear reader, it is my sincerest hope that you will join me on this new journey, and that the process may somehow inspire you to set out upon an adventure of your own. For if there is one thing that life has taught me since I put down the pen, it is this: Our minds were created to travel.
Life plays dirty, but I've got a bar of soap.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
The Hunt
Space is a most peculiar place. Mostly because a lot of it is just that—space: A whole lot of not-a-lot. Granted, it is far more than just nothing, for any fool could glance up on a clear night and tell that there's quite a bit going on up there. But the problem with it being, “up there” is that we can't really get to it just yet, despite the fact that we'd really, really like to.
We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there! This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbours.
Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'. At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing. Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching.
Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something. The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for. That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time. It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing. We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it. We know it. It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need. Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough.
We are hooked. Mesmerized. Breathless. Addicted.
Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that.
And so we do. We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.
We are destitute. We are distraught. We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about. We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love. Some of us kill for it. Some steal for it. Some give all they own for it. Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories. Some find it in others. Some find it in money. Some find it in themselves.
Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications. We see others experiencing it. We remember the times we've felt it. We long for times to feel it again. We believe in it. We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are. He is.
We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there! This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbours.
Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'. At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing. Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching.
Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something. The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for. That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time. It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing. We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it. We know it. It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need. Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough.
We are hooked. Mesmerized. Breathless. Addicted.
Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that.
And so we do. We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.
We are destitute. We are distraught. We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about. We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love. Some of us kill for it. Some steal for it. Some give all they own for it. Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories. Some find it in others. Some find it in money. Some find it in themselves.
Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications. We see others experiencing it. We remember the times we've felt it. We long for times to feel it again. We believe in it. We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are. He is.
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