The following post is a response to THIS blog entry, because I didn't want to totally dominate the comment box with this beastly reply. Love, Tana
Every living being is a soldier, willing or not, in the great battle against that chaotic Entropy toward which our universe is constantly drifting. Simply by existing, we fight. Each cell in a body is something - held together - serving a purpose. Thus, we are born into this world with a responsibility: namely to be, and to add what little touch of order we can in a world dissolving around us. Maybe this destiny is of a primitive nature, as simple as a farmer planting corn in rows to ease his task of caring for the plants; but perhaps - and this is where I place my belief - it originates in an innate deific desire to create our own worlds as God did for us. Accepting this second possibility as truth, it seems logical to assume that this organization, this doling out of responsibility, is a characteristic of that holy Infinity himself.
My personal favorite part of Waking Life is the "We Are the Authors" segment. The man on the bridge says, "The world is an exam to see if we can rise into direct experience. Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it. Matter is here as a test for our curiosity. Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality." So, I guess, we emulate the Divine in setting those limitations, the "social roles" as you called them, and in doing so, we lay a path for the others in our lives to exceed the expectations (in the correct way, of course), and realize their own infinite potential. You can't define light if you have no concept of dark; similarly, you can't comprehend the infinite without an understanding of the finite.
It's an ideal situation, I think, especially if the relationship is reciprocated, because it allows me to act divinely while simultaneously striving towards actualization of that divinity.
So, for me personally, I try to appreciate the uniqueness of moments, but place limitations and expectations on those I really love, to preserve the holiness just for the few who are willing to make the journey with me to the Sublime.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
If My Life Was a Novel . . .
. . . I think this would be one of my favorite chapters.
The dim light painted everything golden as I slid off the trampoline and landed on my toes. The ground was still too hard to trek barefoot, and the briers had just begun to creep up through the cracked soil. The careless attitude that springs so infectiously from summer evenings kept me from putting my shoes on all the way. I started toward the old fence, hardly aware of the pebbles that had already found their way into my undone sneakers.
Once I reached the fence, I turned and followed it towards the setting sun; when I was halfway, I stopped. I peered through the chain links, pressing my nose through to smell the fresh cut grass. It was silent, as always, but in a different way. Cemeteries sleep in fright, sorrow, and reverence, but today it slept in contentment. No one cried, and no empty holes yawned hungrily; a pinwheel stuck next to a tiny headstone spun in a breeze I couldn't feel.
I turned back to my side of the fence. Looking past the old saw, the neglected cars, to the westernmost side of the yard, I saw the pile of logs. They had lain in the same spot for years, outlasting time and tragedy. The three largest trunks had become smooth with age, and each had too many rings to count. Hundreds of dandelion mourners encircled the ancient wood, heads bowed forward. Tiny, white wildflowers sprouted at the base of the trees' resting spot as nature's tribute to the dead. When I turned my head, a deer grazing thirty feet away started and leaped across the field. As he jumped, the dandelions wept cottony tears and the crickets began to keen.
I looked up at the tall Birch above me, one of the 17 that lined the fence between the two graveyards. His new leaves quivered as the sun finally dipped below the horizon - a timid watchman!
I turned back to the house, following the fence again. It's comforting to know that on soft summer evenings, even death finds calm.
The dim light painted everything golden as I slid off the trampoline and landed on my toes. The ground was still too hard to trek barefoot, and the briers had just begun to creep up through the cracked soil. The careless attitude that springs so infectiously from summer evenings kept me from putting my shoes on all the way. I started toward the old fence, hardly aware of the pebbles that had already found their way into my undone sneakers.
Once I reached the fence, I turned and followed it towards the setting sun; when I was halfway, I stopped. I peered through the chain links, pressing my nose through to smell the fresh cut grass. It was silent, as always, but in a different way. Cemeteries sleep in fright, sorrow, and reverence, but today it slept in contentment. No one cried, and no empty holes yawned hungrily; a pinwheel stuck next to a tiny headstone spun in a breeze I couldn't feel.
I turned back to my side of the fence. Looking past the old saw, the neglected cars, to the westernmost side of the yard, I saw the pile of logs. They had lain in the same spot for years, outlasting time and tragedy. The three largest trunks had become smooth with age, and each had too many rings to count. Hundreds of dandelion mourners encircled the ancient wood, heads bowed forward. Tiny, white wildflowers sprouted at the base of the trees' resting spot as nature's tribute to the dead. When I turned my head, a deer grazing thirty feet away started and leaped across the field. As he jumped, the dandelions wept cottony tears and the crickets began to keen.
I looked up at the tall Birch above me, one of the 17 that lined the fence between the two graveyards. His new leaves quivered as the sun finally dipped below the horizon - a timid watchman!
I turned back to the house, following the fence again. It's comforting to know that on soft summer evenings, even death finds calm.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sophie Roux
Love, thy name is Lady Danville.
Okay, not really, but still, this song is nice:
This was written when one of the band members went to Paris and fell in love.
Awww! ♥
P.S. Why doesn't Esmerelda get it? I would give my heart to a poet over a soldier any day. Poor Gringoire!
Okay, not really, but still, this song is nice:
This was written when one of the band members went to Paris and fell in love.
Awww! ♥
P.S. Why doesn't Esmerelda get it? I would give my heart to a poet over a soldier any day. Poor Gringoire!
Friday, May 15, 2009
Rent in Twain
Several years ago I made a decision. It was my sixth grade year, and I had just finished reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Consequently, I had also resolved to loathe Mark Twain until my dying day.
The hatred was not difficult to cultivate. Over the next few years I was forced to read Huckleberry Finn, not once, not twice, but three more times. Each reading served only to feed the blazing feelings of contempt I had for Mr. Samuel Clemens. [It should be noted that when I was in seventh grade, I read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, and did not object so violently. I'm still unsure why.] In eleventh grade, in the midst of Anger and Disagreement 101 (Junior English, to those who didn't have P.H.), at the mention of reading Huck Finn again, I very nearly became sick on the spot. Vehement objections were made, and Trent and I were allowed to read a different book (what a rebel I was, eh?). Yes, my distaste for Twain had grown so uncontrollable that I took refuge in My Antonia. Oh the desperation. Upon completion of the novel, I determined that I had never read anything so droll in my entire life (with the exception, perhaps, of David Copperfield, read at the beginning of sixth grade, although in the book's defense, I was only 11; I ought to give it another chance) and promptly forgot everything I could about the story - except for the wolves . . . What I wouldn't give to forget the wolves . . . Ah, but I digress; this is the tale of my relationship with Mark Twain, not Willa Cather. So, upon returning to class and hearing my fellow students' tales of woe, I nodded knowingly and shared their indignation.
Now, here I stand, two and a half years later, holding on to - no, clinging to - the traces of loathing that are slowly trickling out of my hands like river water. A hatred nearly eight years in the making is a difficult thing to relinquish. Yet as hard as I try to despise it, I find myself loving every Twain snippet I come across. Today, for example, he sympathized with nearly every hang up I have with the German language. Given, his objections are a little stronger than mine, but the idea is the same; He provided a way for me to laugh about it, anyway.
So, if you study German (or even if you don't), check it out:
The Awful German Language
Well, Mr. Twain, it seems that this may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The hatred was not difficult to cultivate. Over the next few years I was forced to read Huckleberry Finn, not once, not twice, but three more times. Each reading served only to feed the blazing feelings of contempt I had for Mr. Samuel Clemens. [It should be noted that when I was in seventh grade, I read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, and did not object so violently. I'm still unsure why.] In eleventh grade, in the midst of Anger and Disagreement 101 (Junior English, to those who didn't have P.H.), at the mention of reading Huck Finn again, I very nearly became sick on the spot. Vehement objections were made, and Trent and I were allowed to read a different book (what a rebel I was, eh?). Yes, my distaste for Twain had grown so uncontrollable that I took refuge in My Antonia. Oh the desperation. Upon completion of the novel, I determined that I had never read anything so droll in my entire life (with the exception, perhaps, of David Copperfield, read at the beginning of sixth grade, although in the book's defense, I was only 11; I ought to give it another chance) and promptly forgot everything I could about the story - except for the wolves . . . What I wouldn't give to forget the wolves . . . Ah, but I digress; this is the tale of my relationship with Mark Twain, not Willa Cather. So, upon returning to class and hearing my fellow students' tales of woe, I nodded knowingly and shared their indignation.
Now, here I stand, two and a half years later, holding on to - no, clinging to - the traces of loathing that are slowly trickling out of my hands like river water. A hatred nearly eight years in the making is a difficult thing to relinquish. Yet as hard as I try to despise it, I find myself loving every Twain snippet I come across. Today, for example, he sympathized with nearly every hang up I have with the German language. Given, his objections are a little stronger than mine, but the idea is the same; He provided a way for me to laugh about it, anyway.
So, if you study German (or even if you don't), check it out:
The Awful German Language
Well, Mr. Twain, it seems that this may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Can it get any better than this?
I submit that it that it cannot.
Come, friends. Love with me.
And yes, I do believe that is a bassoon. A glorious, glorious bassoon.
But hey, you can't please everyone.
Come, friends. Love with me.
And yes, I do believe that is a bassoon. A glorious, glorious bassoon.
But hey, you can't please everyone.
Set your phasers on STUNNING
I attended the very first showing of Star Trek in Utah county. It was on May 7th at 7:00 PM. Being among the first to see the show, we got one thing that few later show-goers would get:
Trekkies.
Oh yes. I almost touched one.
It was so crazy, because they were so realistic. I mean, the Spock-trekkie looked exactly like Leonard Nimoy! He was 5'4", had a Mountain Dew belly, and smelled like hot pockets. I know, right? It was like we were actually on the U.S.S. Enterprise, staring into the face of the greatest Hucan (Human/Vulcan hybrid) this galaxy has ever known.
Also, watch THIS, 'cause I love you.
Trekkies.
Oh yes. I almost touched one.
It was so crazy, because they were so realistic. I mean, the Spock-trekkie looked exactly like Leonard Nimoy! He was 5'4", had a Mountain Dew belly, and smelled like hot pockets. I know, right? It was like we were actually on the U.S.S. Enterprise, staring into the face of the greatest Hucan (Human/Vulcan hybrid) this galaxy has ever known.
Also, watch THIS, 'cause I love you.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Timing
Star Trek. Was. Awesome.
I have a complaint though: I don't understand time travel.
Hypothetical situation time.
Let's say that there's an interplanetary war going on, which began when you said something impolite to some high-and-mighty Romulan (this isn't the plot of the movie, so no spoilers, just a big mess of confusion that I can't talk myself out of). Naturally, if the option was available, you'd go back in time and stop yourself from saying whatever it was, right? I would. So, you go back and stop yourself, and the war is averted. Which means that there was never a crisis, and therefore no need for you to go back in time to stop yourself from saying anything. But if you don't go back and stop yourself, you've got a war!
Alright, let's say you've wised up a bit. You've realized that, war or no war, you need to go back and stop your big mouth. Present-you is about to blab, when future-you pops up and says, "Shut up. Okay, two weeks from now, you're gonna zip back here and stop yourself from saying what you're about to say. If you didn't (or don't?), I wouldn't (or won't?) be here. And then Earth is doomed." Aside from the fact that you've now created two of yourself, you have also, either, A) Made time into a loop (what with continually having to go back and stop yourself, present-you has no choice but to go back at the same point that future-you did), or B) Proved the multiverse theory.
Personally, I find B much more probable because it means that rather than travelling through time in one universe and disrupting everything that defines it, time travel is just an interaction between two beings from separate universes founded on the same reality. Plus I just like the multiverse theory. But really, it's the only feasible way for time travel to be possible, isn't it? I mean, option A is just a convoluted way of explaining multiple universes; every time you go back, you're creating another path to be followed.
Multiverse theory also allows for some wicked speculation on electron particle/wave duality. Sure, Schrödinger had a cat, but I'm talking interuniversal relationships on a subatomic level!
Heh, wow. I think this whole post needs a disclaimer. Or three.
1. I'm not crazy
2. I don't submit to the multiverse theory, I just like speculating.
3. I loved Star Trek and honestly, the time travel thing was so inane that it doesn't even matter. And I'm still not crazy.
P.S. I secretly adore Spock.
I have a complaint though: I don't understand time travel.
Hypothetical situation time.
Let's say that there's an interplanetary war going on, which began when you said something impolite to some high-and-mighty Romulan (this isn't the plot of the movie, so no spoilers, just a big mess of confusion that I can't talk myself out of). Naturally, if the option was available, you'd go back in time and stop yourself from saying whatever it was, right? I would. So, you go back and stop yourself, and the war is averted. Which means that there was never a crisis, and therefore no need for you to go back in time to stop yourself from saying anything. But if you don't go back and stop yourself, you've got a war!
Alright, let's say you've wised up a bit. You've realized that, war or no war, you need to go back and stop your big mouth. Present-you is about to blab, when future-you pops up and says, "Shut up. Okay, two weeks from now, you're gonna zip back here and stop yourself from saying what you're about to say. If you didn't (or don't?), I wouldn't (or won't?) be here. And then Earth is doomed." Aside from the fact that you've now created two of yourself, you have also, either, A) Made time into a loop (what with continually having to go back and stop yourself, present-you has no choice but to go back at the same point that future-you did), or B) Proved the multiverse theory.
Personally, I find B much more probable because it means that rather than travelling through time in one universe and disrupting everything that defines it, time travel is just an interaction between two beings from separate universes founded on the same reality. Plus I just like the multiverse theory. But really, it's the only feasible way for time travel to be possible, isn't it? I mean, option A is just a convoluted way of explaining multiple universes; every time you go back, you're creating another path to be followed.
Multiverse theory also allows for some wicked speculation on electron particle/wave duality. Sure, Schrödinger had a cat, but I'm talking interuniversal relationships on a subatomic level!
Heh, wow. I think this whole post needs a disclaimer. Or three.
1. I'm not crazy
2. I don't submit to the multiverse theory, I just like speculating.
3. I loved Star Trek and honestly, the time travel thing was so inane that it doesn't even matter. And I'm still not crazy.
P.S. I secretly adore Spock.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Move Over Judd Nelson . . .
Looks like Mr. Jackman has taken a leaf out of your nostril-flarin' book!
I like it, 'cause we can tell exactly how angst ridden he really is.
Not that I don't adore both Judd Nelson and Hugh Jackman, but come on.
I like it, 'cause we can tell exactly how angst ridden he really is.
Not that I don't adore both Judd Nelson and Hugh Jackman, but come on.
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