The Real Selfman

¶ You consider what the eyemen are telling you. They describe the clouds, and you think that they are swirling like foamy waves on an inverted sea. The earmen tell you about the sound of the cars going by, and you think they add to the effect, sounding a little like waves.
¶ You ask Super Ego about it, but he just tells you to get your mind out of the clouds.
¶ You ask Id, and he laughs at the thought.
¶ You tell the legmen to walk across the street. You watch the eyemen's message absentmindedly while the legmen and other crew members take you across the road. The sidewalk is painted with yellow rectangles. The walk signal is blinking red, and, as the earman informs you, it's chirping.
¶ The eyemen are just reporting to you your distance from the curb when the idea man asks you, "Who are you?"
¶ You laugh. "I'm selfman. Are you still trying to comprehend..."
¶ "I don't think you are," interrupts idea man.
¶ You are taken aback. You ask, if you aren't yourself, then who are you?
¶ "You aren't selfman. You are memory man."
¶ You ask idea man what he means by this.
¶ "You are memory man, and you have the memories of selfman. You remember selfman. You are the memory of selfman, but you aren't selfman himself."
¶ You wonder where selfman would be if your not him. You hadn't seen any other selfmen around the brain. "If I'm memory man, then why don't I remember who selfman really is?"
¶ "You do, but you don't"
¶ "I'm selfman."
¶ "No. You're memory man."
¶ "Then where's selfman?"
¶ "Nowhere."
¶ You have crossed the street now, and legman asks if you'd like to continue down the sidewalk as usual, but you hardly notice.
¶ Ideaman goes on, "Selfman left. He left a long, long time ago. We're all just here in his brain, doing what he told us to do, what you remember he wanted us to do, but he's not here anymore."
¶ You hardly notice yourself asking the headman and eyemen to look down at your hands, but you find that your receiving reports about the apperence of your own hands, and they seem strange to you. One of the handmen rotates the hand for you, and you see what an alien friend it is. Is it yours? Is any of this really you?
¶ The legmen ask you again if you'd like to continue down the sidewalk, and you're pulled from your thoughts just enough to mutter an affirmative response.
¶ The idea man’s words feel almost as if they could be true. You're uneasy. "Am I Selfman?"
¶ One of the handmen overhears you, "Aren't you?"
¶ "I don't know."
¶ The handmen converse with each other, "He might not be the real selfman."
¶ Soon the rumour spreads throughout your whole brain, that is, if it is your brain. They all speak in hushed voices.
¶ "Where is the selfman?"
¶ "Who is the real selfman?"
¶ "Is he gone?"
¶ "He is, isn't he?"
¶ "Will he ever come back?"
¶ "I want him back."
¶ "I'm lonely."
¶ "Wait!" you cry, wanting to get a hold of the situation. "I am selfman... I am... I am..."
¶ "Are you?"
¶ "Are you really selfman?"
¶ "You're just a memory."
¶ "Are you the real selfman?"
¶ "Selfman left us."
¶ You look around the brain. "Maybe... maybe I am selfman... and maybe I'm not... but if I'm not then what I am is a representative of him. Wherever he is, I remember his wishes. That's what matters. Listen to me, and I'll tell you what he wanted. Maybe he'll come back one day. Maybe I am him. Either way, nothing's changed. Keep listening to me, and selfman, whomever he is, wherever he be, will be satisfied."
¶ Ideaman begins applauding, and everyone else shuffles quietly back to work, satisfied by your speech. You remain there, feeling small and awkward, wishing you could think of a speech that's just a little more satisfying.
¶ Ideaman smiles and leaves you to yourself.

Experemental Mode of Writing

A man on the edge of the ocean waits to tell his mother goodbye, but an old friend...
Slippery was the white which whashed upon the grains
like salt too heavy to dissolve.
It reminded him of a gritty sort of soup,
or a sugarjar in the m i l k.
Drifting on a child's sail, he lost his footing.
No more was the wooden green floating
nor the heavy salt slurping,
for now the children where laughing,
like roadways of dying.
Trees drinking applejuice, with
icecubes
or cherries that can't see.
So our eyes lie on the sidewalk, while our feet dangle
in
    the
            sky was partly cloudy with no chance or rain,
only the occasional mist in droplet form,
taken twice a day and once before evenings
wherein the lady rocked on a needle chair
sipping her tea from accross the bay
where all the mothers ask their children
"What will you say today?"
and all the children answer
once in a while
when the sky is a little less wet
-ed by the tears of the girl who wasn't asked
until the lady in the needle chair
finished her tea
and asked me
"What will you say today?"
The man was shaken from his thoughts by a cold
touch
of wind upon his skin. Paper fluttered.
Longer legs than a treetrunk slipped like a
tiger
,a madman on his day off,
coming through the brush with - an - U m b r e l l a
in - his - hand.
"How's the reflection shifting today old chap?"
Murrmer murm, murmer mermur murmer Mermering
mermer muremir mermir mirmure mirmur merm,
murmur thus "Said the waiting man."
"Is That So!?" Cackled the floor planks,
"Well I think it's fine for a drownin'!"
He smiled warmly as he might,
"Th'flection's shimmered by a cold wind.
I sha'n't stay under so long's to see."
The treetrunk of a tiger dropped his paw
colder still
on the back of his neck.
"December is coming, count with me."
Ten they said together.
Thus several seconds passed away
while a whispering blade of grass learned to play flute.
"Did you see the ircksome lad?"
"Nay, buta fine'n on t'porch.
Delivered me mail twice a days-back."
A moments hesitation
putting on face,
"Well that's grand! Whatcha get fur jingles?"
"Two pence anna 'alf."
"Ah! Now I gotta one fur twenty!
Mind yur blather's twice tha' in a forenights kelp."
He lowered his eyes.
"Whatta de-matter?"
"M-m-m."
"Spit yer neh-ah-uhhh..."
"My own matters."
He stood a little resolved and half dizzied as the grass
finally learned D minor.
The water lapped upon green wood
and spires of splinters spat salty spittle
uppon grey trousers.
"So be it."
They stood in silence.
The sun argued with the moon as to weather,
and whether the stars could stay.
The shore insisted that they must go home,
for they where turning purple it supper's air.
"She was on the line." Spoke he finally.
"Yeah, and we all wher-
"NO... my line."
'''
"Ah. Go on mah friend. Go on."
"There was the we, standin'
and she said to me,
'What will you say today?'
and so it was..."
and so it was
he lost his footonthe cloud again,
that all I finally knew
all the others accross the bay had no socks
save for the red pear in the heavens,
'tween the East and South mountains
where it rose e'vry Saturday morning from the East
and settled down for a nap every night in the West
so that we could sleep despite its spiteless radiance...
"What's the point! Ah was there."
,,¡ʇɐds spǝǝs ǝɥʇ puıɯ,,
The crooked cane quivered.
Tiger trunks eyelids like a tongue barely pushed
or a nostril breathed through
or a pin in, but not through, the evening news
showed us that this was not the man's usual.
(Indeed, he preferred jam over jelly.)
His eyes
            turned
                down
cast    to    the    ground.
                                                "Sorry"
"Don't ye ' me ya! Take a trike fer breakin'!"
Gazing like an english muffin,
a seagull in the rain,
he was an unshaking figure silhouetted against
purple sea.
"I  await  her."
The cruel one grinned.
"Come now, you wait in vein on'sploaded veins!"
    Veins (indeed).
"Do ya really think there's any time to be gained
on a salted plane
in the middle of a winter's hour?"
Slippery was the white which washed upon the grains
like salt to heavy to dissolve.
He lifted his eyes,
"Yes."

Passing 'neath a maple tree

I meant to post something like this a while ago, but never came up with anything beautiful enough. Still haven't. Oh well, maybe it will sound better on your end.

Passing 'neath a maple tree, it's leaves golden and oránge,
a collection of men, three, had some words to exchange.
A leaf, a discarded sheet of foliage, fell to the cobble path.
one of the three, a sage, cried out "A sign at last!
As this leaf before me is graced with veins of red,
so is my heart that pleas to let my friends be fed.
Now I know that the thing I need to understand
is: this hand's for giving!" Anew he saw his hand.
The second man there growled "Nonsense! Deciduous
is all it is!" He howled "A sign? Preposterous!"
Then the last of the three asked if it were a sin
to learn from things that be, but speak only within.
"For despite the language that this sanguine leaf speaks
in his ear the foliage gave the lesson he seeks."
All these things did transpire beneath a maple tree
in which a smile slyer than suspected by th'three
sat watching, and speaking as it dropped one more leaf,
"They got not my meaning, but clarity's not chief.
What they understood I hadn't in my mind,
but still it was good, though my thoughts they don't find."

Physicalism's Flaw

> How does the physical world work? What is it? What does it mean? Some of the answers to these questions are more widely accepted than others. The conclusion that is accepted by more people, which is more popular, may sometimes also be the more accurate conclusion, but not always.
> I remember visiting O.M.S.I. as a child, and looking at certain machines contained in glass boxes. These machines consisted of an electricity driven motor that lifted metal balls from a trap in the bottom to a spot on the top. These balls would then roll down tracks taking turns at forks and influencing which forks would be taken by each other. There were levers, swings, latches, and many other little mechanisms that made the machines fascinating to watch.
> One might describe one of these machines with Boolean logic. When a ball arrives at this fork, if three balls weighed down this pressure plate, and this lever had not been switched by another ball, then the ball took the left fork. As Boolean logic could be used to describe the physical workings of this machine, so could Boolean logic be used to describe all physical processes. If the force applied to an object is greater than the friction on that object...
> Our brains are physical. Just masses of matter. Electrons orbiting nuclei determine the bonding of one atom to another, these atoms bond into chemicals, these chemicals make up cells. When a certain frequency of light, a particle and a wave, collides with an object, it bounces according to an exact formula. When the light enters the cone of someone's eye, it stimulates a chain reaction much like those machines in O.M.S.I., and electrochemical waves are sent down the axons of those neurons, down the optic nerve, through the brain, jumping from one cell to the next, into the occipital lobe at the back of the head. Billions upon billions of chain reactions occur, branching off, coming back together, processing, comparing things in the circuitry of other parts of the brain, being influenced by the "ifs" of the molding of our mind that is our "memory." These chains lead into the prefrontal cortex where, according to current understanding, we analyze all this data and make a decision accordingly. This then triggers more chain reactions that result in our muscle movements and our speaking and whatever other response we may have.
> Naturally, this is all a simplification, for it would be impractical, and even impossible to communicate these things without simplifying them. Yet, even in this simplification, we can see a hole. There's something missing. Would billions of those machines from O.M.S.I. chained together into a giant loop be sentient, aware, like we are? Some may say yes, and some may say no. One way or the other, the fact remains that this current explanation of the physical world only tells how light particles could catalyze chain reactions, how vibrations in our eardrums could catalyze chain reactions, or how any other physical input into any machine could catalyze chain reactions resulting in physical output. It does not however, explain our experience of colour. It explains vibrations, but not the experience of sound. It explains how our senses work, and how our brain processes just like a computer does, but it does not explain how our awareness works, or how our minds think.
> Our brains are just computers, and our bodies are just machines. We however, are more. We have awareness that is independent of matter, energy, and the spaces in between. There is output leaving the physical world, like the output leaving a television or computer screen for someone's viewing. That someone is our self.
> Now, the physical world operates according to exact formulae, and everything is just a chain reaction of matter and energy, occurring on it's own. What can these "selves" be but observers? Well, the fact that I am discussing this concept is proof that these selves can send input into the physical world, otherwise my physical brain could not process the "concept" of awareness, and I could not discuss the concept, nor write about it in the physical world.
> So, to put this conclusion into simplified metaphorical terms, the physical world is like the internet, our brains are like computers, and our aware selves, our minds, are the operators of these computers, outside of the internet.

Early Limericks

I was looking through some of my writing and I found these Limericks that I wrote. These are basically the first ones I've ever written, and I haven't written many more sense. I ought to try my hand at some more.
Hey, why don't you try writing some? The pattern is an aabba rhyme scheme where the third and fourth lines are generally shorter.
a_ _ _
a_ _ _
b_ _
b_ _
a_ _ _


There was an old man yesterday
who was sitting on a log at the bay.
The log rolled
and his pants got soild
so he won't be there next monday.

There was a mad scientist
talking to an insane priest
they each shouted
'till both pouted.
Neither came to the logicians feast.

A lass without her own house
was taunted by a little mouse
That's quite rude
and very crude
to be so bold, a thing high as a louse.

Lost in a maze of corn
a woman was feeling worn
so she stopped
and there popped
and thus a puzzled child was born.

In a good mans dizzy skull
the world seemed to be made of wool.
His head on the brink,
he said, "I can't think!"
So a sponge gave him a headful.

Looking for a meadow lark
a dog suddenly began to bark.
It had found
on the ground
a sneaky smurf in the dark.

There was a man wearing blue
who asked if anyone knew
where we went
to get so bent
and he got his answer from you.

Sitting in a five foot arm chair
sat a man who never would dare.
"It's safe" he said,
so at home he staid.
'till his seat fell hard on his hair.

There's a yellow chimpanzee.
It never was much bother to me,
But Bill
had his fill.
Bill's such a stingy bannanna tree.

There was a man in a red cap
who aimed a bear to trap
so he got a dart
thinking himself smart
but all he got was a bit of tree sap.

Some Limericks I tried to write
and found that it took some might
for though I could
they weren't as good
as some of us would have liked.

You may have noticed a rhym
on some occasion, or at some time
that didn't quit fit,
and gave you a fit,
caus technicaly it's "identity" to say "teatime."

In the greatest MMORPG
that I ever in my life did see
a haiku dungion
deserves acclaimation
and yet the limerick one escaped me.

On too common an occasion
the rock escapes abbrasion
by sitting
not fitting
as the brains of a legion.

Rooted in Order, Branching to Chaos

¶ I was just reading about trees. I learned that although there are many art pieces that depict root systems that are not very wide, roots actually spread out in a radius significantly large. They tend to spread farther when the branches are wider or reaching higher. There are several kinds of roots, some of which are permanent and some of which are only seasonal. Anchor roots support the tree, and others give it water and nutrients. If an anchor root is cut, a large percentage of the root system may die, potentially leading to the death of the whole tree, or the toppling of it. Not very many of the roots actually go very deep, but spread out within about a foot of the surface.
¶ In forests, trees shelter each other from the elements with their branches. When a tree is alone and exposed, winds can more easily knock it down if the root system isn't sufficient to support it's heavy trunk and branches. Branches that are dead, diseased, or that rub against each other should be removed to protect the tree from sickness. Of course if too many of the branches are cut, that too will damage the tree, creating several exposed wounds and decreasing the light that can be photosynthesised. In Oregon, the neighbours cut off several of the branches on one side of a tree in my front yard. In the following months, the branches on the other side died and fell off, as if the tree was trying to get its balance back. Only the branches in the middle remained to keep it alive until a friend with more understanding of tree care could come and work with it.
¶ I also found it interesting that arborists begin to train trees when they are young, improving both their health and their aesthetic value. Properties with trees often sell for more, so construction workers like to build by trees. Unfortunately in doing so they often cut or suffocate the roots, so the home buyer looses the tree a few years later, and many people don't realize why.
¶ I'm happy to still be living among many trees. I always loved it in Oregon, looking out over my neighbourhood and seeing a forest of green. Living here, I am still surrounded by life.

Update: Click here to answer a questionnaire about this post.

As Far as the Eye can See

This story is a metaphorical story that I wrote for my High School Senior English class. See if you can guess at its meaning before those who already know reveal it. (And once you know, or even think you know, or even think you don't know but feel like acting as if you do, you certainly don't have to keep it a secret from those who still don't know.)

¶ The sand had turned grey beneath the child, huddled up against the cold. Around the boy stretched nothing but this grey sand for miles and miles, and it was littered with toys and other curious objects. On the horizon all around was an impenetrable mountain range from which an impenetrable white sky rose.
¶ It was from beyond this sky that post boxes occasionally rained. They crashed down in the sand around the boy, and he opened them one by one, hoping.
¶ Many of the objects in the desert around had come from these boxes, though some the boy had created himself, and some had been there for as long as he could remember.
¶ Today, like any other, he went from one cardboard meteor to the next and found the usual contents. There were several photographs which had been painted over, usually with the same grey paint. There were weather reports. There were assorted meats, though what assortment was hard to tell as most worth eating had been burnt beyond recognition. The un-burnt meats were rotten and old, and the boy had long ago learned that eating them would make him sick. There were T.V. guides that the boy occasionally hauled to the fire pit to use as fuel. There were also, of course, lots and lots of advertisements.
¶ As the boy munched on some charcoal black mystery meat, he transcribed the return addresses from these boxes onto some he had just put postage on. Into some of these boxes he packed a few of his favourite toys that he had created. Into others he packed the meat that he would not be able to eat himself, in the hopes that it would benefit someone else. He didn't however, like to send anyone the rotten meat, as handling it too much made him sick, and would probably also make the receiver sick, so he sent as much of that as he could to the dump. For his best friend, the boy packed a box containing a sandwich he had made with meat that was only slightly burnt, and a photograph of himself that he did not paint over, except a little bit to remove the red eye.
¶ The boy sent all of these packages on trucks made of wind over the mountains, to a place that he never had, and never could go, no matter how much he wished he could. When he was done mailing the boxes he began finding ways of piecing together items from the desert to make himself new and better tools and toys. He wondered if the other children in the other deserts beneath other skies were doing the same thing. "Surely they must be." he said to himself, "Though their creations must be quite unlike mine."
¶ He enjoyed the toys he managed to build, and so, when the night came, he was fairly satisfied with how the day had gone. Maybe tomorrow he could send some of his newly invented toys to his friends. For now, he went back to the center of the desert, were he kept the most colourful items, and went to sleep for the night.
¶ The boy awoke the next morning to the sound of rain. Boxes packed full of grey items pelted the sand on the edge of the desert. One box landed a little closer to where the boy was, so it was the one he checked out first that day.
¶ This box looked familiar, and he found on the outside a stamp that read, RETURN TO SENDER. Opening it he found the photograph and sandwich he'd made for his friend.
¶ The boy shivered against the cold, and considered why his gift had been returned. Perhaps under his friends sky, there was not a desert, but a jungle were sandwiches grow on trees. Or, maybe his friend lived in a very harsh desert, and could afford no gift to give in return. Maybe there was some good reason. Maybe it had been an accident.
¶ Whatever the case, the boy distracted himself from the situation by eating the sandwich, and determining to send the photograph again, with a letter. He had practiced his handwriting a lot, though he wasn’t sure if he was getting better at writing so others cold read, or only getting better at reading his own handwriting. Whatever the case, the boy hoped that his friend wouldn’t misunderstand his letter, as postage was expensive.
¶ He went on to check the other packages that had fallen, and found mostly the usual things, as well as a few more of his toys in boxes labelled RETURN TO SENDER.
¶ He dug through weather reports looking for food. He dug through rotten meat to find something edible. He dug through burnt meat to see what of it would taste bearable. As he ate his charcoal breakfast, he gazed at a pile of rotten meat. Maybe in their desert, he thought, they don’t have fire. He swatted away a fly, then stood to distance himself from the carcass it had arrived with.
¶ Walking from cardboard box to cardboard box, passing his own belongings along the way, he gazed off at the impassable mountains that fenced him in. What existed in other lands? What was it like in the places these boxes had come from? His greatest longing was to know.
¶ He had not peeled his eyes from the walled horizon before beginning to peel the tape from another package. He would never live in any land but this, and he could accept that. He just wished someone would send photographs, postcards, something. Opening this package, he did find photographs, but they were covered in paint like others.
¶ He spent a good three hours attempting to scrape the paint off that photo, and in the end he received some satisfaction in seeing the little bit of the image that hadn’t been destroyed. There was a person under a white sky like his. The face in the image was that of the sender, whom he had corresponded with often. Previous attempts at salvaging this person’s portraits had never been terribly successful, but this attempts had resulted in the discovery of the senders eye colour. Because of this discovery, the boy was able to accept the day as being fairly satisfactory, and so that night he went to bed fairly content.
¶ The next morning, he awoke as he had the previous days. Trudging through the cold desert, he searched boxes as usual. As usual, he found little items of any great interest.
¶ Eating his black meat that day, he looked out over the massive desert, and all the items littered there. From the sky he could see more arriving in another rain of post boxes. There were so many of them, when he really thought about it. Even the impassable mountains were magnificent, and they were there for him as much as mountains were there for anyone. “I’m rich,” he said to himself, and decided he could take enough satisfaction in that to make it through the day.
¶ He trudged through the desert, with no place in particular to go. Just when he thought the rain had stopped, one more package plummeted toward the earth. It smashed into the ground in front of him, forcing him to shield his eyes as a splash of sand washed over him.
¶ Looking at the box curiously, the child felt a warmth emanating from it. As he approached it, he could smell a delicious aroma. Opening the box eagerly, he found inside another box, wrapped, with a card.
¶ The package was from one of the friends to whom he had sent many of the toys he had created. From what he could decipher of the handwriting, the card didn’t say thank you right out, but it did seem to express gratitude. If the card didn’t, then the carefully wrapped gift certainly did. He tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box inside.
¶ As soon as he lifted the lid, a refreshing warm wind poured out over the boy, carrying on it the sound of music, and several photographs. Looking inside, the child beheld a turkey, not rotten or burnt, but fresh and cooked just right with a little seasoning. His mouth watered at the sight of the juicy meal.
¶ Looking around at the photographs that had come out of the box, he beheld that they were hardly painted over at all. To his delight they showed much about the senders homeland, and answered many questions the boy had long had about the outside world. Yes, other lands had a floor of sand like his own did. Yes, other lands were surrounded by mountains of different colours. This other land was full of trees, and life, and colour. There were little furry creatures with four legs and bushy tales that ran through the branches up high. There were feathered creatures with wings that flew in the sky even higher. There were clouds shaped like elephants and sea lions.
¶ Some photos showed that a part of the forest had burned down, filling that area with ash, but even these images were beautiful to the boy, for he had never seen so many trees before.
¶ The boy gathered together some of his things, a table, tablecloth, chair, and items to set the table with. Before long he was tasting the perfectly cooked turkey. He was torn between devouring it and slowly picking it apart one tiny piece at a time.
¶ As he ate he considered all the things he would give in return. There was one tree still alive in his desert, and he could send photos of that. He could show the mountains and great stretches of item littered sand. Maybe he could even show himself. Certainly he would cook up a very nice meal to put in the box, and he would make some very good toys.
¶ As he concluded his meal, the little boy realised that the warmth from the package had drawn up moisture, and small clouds of fog decorated his surroundings. Carrying the photographs with him, the little boy grabbed his camera and skipped toward his last tree. With him the bodies of fog skipped and danced. Sitar music floated through the air.
¶ As he approached his tree, to his great surprise, the warmth and moisture had brought colour back into it, and caused it to drop its seeds. A green forest had sprung up around it, and dormant grass seeds receiving the right conditions were now sprouting up from the sand. Flowers of more colours than the little boy had seen for a very long time sprouted up all around. The rolling hills of grass rose and fell like waves, and carried on them a vessel, a finely crafted wooden boat, ordained with gold. The boy boarded and rode it across his land, taking pictures of the beauty for his beloved friend.
¶ Birds flew over head, apples danced, clouds sang, towers and a palace made of jade and ivory rose from beneath the ground and began to play organ music. The boy’s creations stood and rejoiced, marvelling at the extraordinary life that had sprung from that one, carefully assembled gift.

When Science and Religion Disagree, They Don't Exist

¶ I have always found science versus religion debates very painful to listen to. Perhaps this is because both sides make such weak arguments. Everybody gets upset at each other without anybody actually managing to make a valid point.
¶ Einstein said, "Science without religion is lame. Religion without science is blind." I must say, that is well said.
¶ Science and religion do not contend with each other. If they claim to, then at least one of them isn't real. Arguments between so called "science" and so called "religion" are merely arguments of who said what and who agrees with whom. Neither is based in any scientific or religions grounds. Real science and real religion do not contend.
¶ Science is knowledge. It is learning to understand the universe. It is where our brain is. It is the facts. It is truth.
¶ Religion is willpower. It is the focus of our devotion. It is where our heart is at. It is our drive. It is our spirit. It is what we care about.
¶ Nobody studies science without religion, for without religion, nobody cares about science. Nobody practices religion without science, for without science, nobody knows what to practice. Nobody lives without science and religion. "Science without religion is lame. religion without science is blind." (That which cannot affect the world and cannot be effected by the world, doesn't exist.) No university is without religion. No church is without science.
¶ Arguments are the result of stubborn people, and nothing more.
¶ I think I've made my point clearly enough. Now here's a thought that's almost on a completely different subject. If Earth was created six or seven thousand years ago, and this rock has existed for billions of years, then how much of the existence of this rock was Paradise, before Earth? Or was this rock ever called Paradise? If not, then what was it called before it became "Earth," six or seven thousand years ago? And when did humans start calling this rock "Earth?" It doesn't seem to have been a proper noun in biblical times, as references to "earth" in the scriptures seem to me to always refer to earth, not Earth (soil, and landmasses, not this planet). And if this rock was Paradise before it was Earth, what was it before it was Paradise? And what was the stuff the earth is made of used in before this rock?
¶ To bring that last paragraph back around to the subject of the rest of the essay, I'll say this: I myself don't have the science to answer these questions definitively, and it is not terribly important to my religion to do so. If the religion God the Omniscient (all science) wishes me to follow required me to know these things, He would provide a special way to attain the answer; but this is not the case (that I know), so I suppose the answers do not pertain significantly to my happiness. Nevertheless, blessed are the truth seekers, and to be learned is good, so it can't hurt to ponder so long as I consider moderation in all things and put none before Him.

Material & Real Truth

¶ The material world is secondary to reality, though it is the most absolute of truths. The truth within the material world is utterly invisible, and incomprehensible, save by the most enlightened of beings. Our realities exist exclusively inside our minds. Anything that is outside our mind is outside our reality.
¶ Matter and energy make up the material world, but the mind cannot be the mind without awareness. Awareness is not matter or energy, nor is it the result of functions of either, or both, of the two. Our brains, corporeal and spiritual, are computers of matter and energy, but we are aware of their processing and thus our minds contain thought. This thought contains judgments, which the material world doesn't have on it's own. We see the world from our perspectives, not seeing anything directly, but seeing a mould of the world that has been formed out of clouds of thought.
¶ In a world with none to be aware, and none to judge, there would be nothing. Though there may be a desolate world, but that world would not be perceived, and would be part of nobody’s reality. It would have material existence, but that existence would remain unnoticed. A computer, as a brain, (or as a pile of oblivious dirt) could exist on such a desolate world, without having awareness, and it would continue to have no existence save in material space, outside of the reality of all beings, entities, and so forth. All that I have described in this paragraph exists in your reality more than it would if it really existed in material reality, for if it actually existed, it would not be real. Because you are aware of the concept of it, you know it doesn't exist, though conceptually you can imagine it existing, but you must imagine that you can't imagine it, and in the act of imagining it, you are imagining it. I am trying to describe something unimaginable, but because you are imagining it, what I have described is clearly not what I intended to. It is impossible, because it is outside our realities. That is what I seek to communicate. The concept of the lack of concept. An awareness of the lack of awareness. (What would nothingness feel like?)
¶ Our perception of the material reality comes in the form of symbols. We see colours, shapes, textures. We hear, feel, taste... All these perceptions that we are aware of are occurring exclusively in our minds, for smell does not exist, particles exist which our sensory organs sense and process as a series of events. We may call them numbers, but numbers do not exist materially. The shape we call a number exists, but it is only a number when our thoughts make it real. (Notice: Words mean what they will, which is nothing, but I will word what I mean none the less. Please notice that when I use a word, there are several things I could be intending it to mean.) Our reality is one of symbols, thoughts, and concepts, all within the reality which is our mind. (Being that our minds are ourselves, and our minds are everything, we are everything, except everything else.) In the material world, there is no purpose, for such a thing is a concept. There is no meaning, will, desire, lack of desire, or feeling, though there be emotion. It is in our minds' reality that these things come forth, and thus only in us (as awareness’s, not just humans) is there any purpose, meaning, significance, interpretation, or feeling.
¶ The material world is secondary to reality, which reality is in the mind. The material world is a medium for organizing our thoughts. It's like a computer, full of data under the hood. We fill it up with archives, but we don't generally see the processes or numbers that it's calculating, we only see what shows up on the screen. I am typing this on a computer, and though I somewhat understand the workings of a computer, I cannot see much more than what's on the screen. Reality is one of concepts, which tend to be embodied in forms, colours, smells, and other such representations of the material world, out of the material world.
¶ Please excuse me if my wording is confusing, and consider the concept I've attempted to communicate. Don't try too hard to consider it in words, for you'd have to redefine all of your words to do so, and then you'd just have to re-redefine them again later to use them like you did before. After you have developed a greater understanding of the concept in whatever form of symbols however concrete, you will be able to find the words to attempt to discuss the concept, like my attempt, and as more people consider the concept, more people will be able to communicate it. This is the concept of concept, awareness of awareness, and the observation of the reality that exists behind our sight, and nowhere relative to our eyes, as our eyes exist nowhere relative to it. (Unless it has location in the material world? How would it if it, not being matter or energy?) Also, please excuse my inconsistencies, or better yet, don't.
¶ Now I hand the baton of this thought to you, which baton is a symbol, which is my point. The symbol of batons have meaning too us, even thought they, as material items, have no meaning to themselves or any other material thing. The concept of a baton though, communicates an idea, just as these letters, which have no meaning whatsoever in material reality, are meaningful symbols in our minds' realities. (A brain can process the associations with a baton, and the functions, and compare similarities between a baton and other events, (metaphor) but it is not aware of this processing without us, as awareness's, and none of it is real outside our minds.)
¶ I said only a fraction of what I wished to communicate, though I expect I communicated only a fraction of what I said. That happens a lot, which is why I'm asking you to explain the rest of this to yourself for me.

Try my questionare so I can hear your thoughts on the subject. Click here.

A Creative Writing Assignment

¶ There was no rain that day, but only she knew. That day she was the only one who had gone outside, the only one who had taken a walk, and the only one that had nowhere to be. She was used to being the only one.
¶ It was a beautiful day, and she had it all to herself. There were no peers to laugh at her as she danced among the petals that fell from the trees with an attitude almost as careless as hers. There were no adults to tell her what not to do, to get down from there, to stop walking in their garden. Her father was nowhere to be seen. Best of all, Pheyla hardly alerted herself to her own presence.
¶ There was no rain, only a curious and delightful substance that the wind brought in. Flakes of this opaque material fluttered down from above the trees and painted rainbows across the grass as the summer sun's rays filtered through them. Pheyla's father didn't like glitter for the mess it made, but this, she thought, would not be a problem. The flakes of what seemed to be some sort of plant material could be brushed off easily before going back inside.
¶ She ignored the thought of going indoors, not wanting to burden herself with the idea until absolutely necessary. To distract herself from the thought, (which thought was in itself a distraction though she didn't want to admit it,) she scurried up the nearest tree to see what the park fountain would look like from above.
¶ The sun sparkled off the water's rippling surface and her mind drifted into a more distant land as she gazed off at it. Skipping along scraps of paper coloured more vibrantly than the world others made her live in, she chased the tale of some thread on a giant spool, until she caught it in her hands and was dragged by it through melting paintings. She had just begun to tiptoe along a strand of thread like a tightrope walker when a shocking sound violently split her dream. She fell from the thread in her mind, but fortunately kept her grip in the park tree.
¶ She clutched the branch she was on whilst franticly looking about below for the source of the sound. She feared the worst, and the worst she found. The dog was back.
¶ The girl screamed, "Go away! I'm supposed to be alone!"
¶ A growl came in reply.
¶ "No! Just 'cause you can smell me doesn't give you the right!" She whimpered to herself, "I'm supposed to be alone today."
¶ The dog leapt against the tree, barking and snarling. Its black fur bristled, its yellow teeth snapped and its red eyes glared. There was only one thing about this dog that might have detracted from its terrible appearance, and that was the one thing that only Pheyla had reason to fear. The pink ribbon was still tied around the canine’s bushy tail.
¶ The dog clawed at the tree, climbing up toward the girl. She stood and backed around the tree, hugging the trunk. "Get back wolf!" She tore off one of her green shoes and threw it, striking the beast between the eyes.
¶ While the animal recoiled and hesitated, the girl climbed down the other side of the tree, knowing it wouldn't offer protection from the predator for long. As she ran across the grass with one green shoe and one colourful striped stocking that her father didn't like, the wolf attacked her discarded shoe, shook it, then dropped it and turned its attention back to her.
¶ Her feet could not race as quickly as her heart was, and the creature reached her just as she got to the fountain. She dove in with a splash and scrambled to her feet. In the center of the fountain was a statue, and she clung to it for support as she looked back at the monster waiting at the side of the pool. She panted almost as hard as it was. "I know you..." she gasped, "I know you can't stand water."
¶ The dog stopped glaring at her and tipped its head sideways in a curious expression.
¶ "Just go away. I'm not coming out!" she shouted at the wolf. "There's nobody here to make me come out, and you can't get wet, so there's no point in waiting for me. Just go away!"
¶ The beast grinned and spoke with in a cool voice. "What makes you think I can't stand getting wet?"
¶ The girl glared and splashed water at the animal. "I know you! Go away! Go away!"
¶ The creature did not go away, and so the child stopped splashing and huddled against the statue, shivering slightly. "You're all wet now," she said. "See what happens when you don't do what I say."
¶ "I was already wet."
¶ "No you weren’t!"
¶ "Ah, but I was."
¶ "No you weren't!"
¶ The wolf smiled and climbed onto the edge of the pool, where it sat down and watched the child. "You are wet."
¶ "That's because I'm in the fountain."
¶ "You were already wet."
¶ "No I wasn’t'!"
¶ "Ah..." the dog bore a large grin, revealing its yellow teeth more clearly than when it had growled. "...But you were."
¶ "No I wasn't! Where would I get wet on such a nice day as this?"
¶ "A nice day?"
¶ "Yes! A nice day." The girl moved back to hide behind the statue, more out of shame than fear. "It's not rain. It's some stuff the wind blew in, and it won't make a mess like glitter."
¶ "You know it's rain," her father said.

A Psychology Assignment

¶This is an assignment I did for psychology class at the beginning of this school year. The objective was to introduce myself.
¶The writing in the middle says, "Who I am, who I think I am, who you think I am, and who I tell you I am differ. As such I choose now to tell you that I am who I think you think I am."

(Click on images to enlarge them. When I did, it made it too large, but with firefox at least I could right click and view it in a more convenient mode. I don't know 'bout other browsers.)

A Photography Assignment

Ryan said I 'oght to put some of my art on my blog, so here's this to start. I'll try to scan in some of my sketches when I get the chance.
This is an assignment I did for photography class. It's composed of elements I found around the campus of LO high school, and my friend Sam who's in the class with me.
I feel like it would be better if I had something interesting somewhere around the location of that window.
Anyway, it's not the most exciting picture, but I had fun making it. Fairly basic as far as photoshop goes though. I'm just beginning to use the program.


Update: Here's the cropped version according to the suggestion my dad gave me. Thanks Dad.

Standin' on th'Wall

On the wall I stall and look down to the ground.
All the people there are looking so fair... what do they wear?
It's hard to see from here, I fear, if they sneer or smile. I'll watch them for a while.
From here I see what we be, but not what we really are.
I see as I saw, as they see, a sight different and incomplete.
From here on the wall I feel a little tall,
but there on the ceiling where the paint is peeling I've got a feeling...
There's a river below sliding slow, though not so slow as a slug I know.
The slug the snail and the letter in the mail, it's all my tale.
The cats in green wear different hats, walking on the same mats.
I wore the same different hat, here where I sat,
so I stood and tossed it down, and saw a bald man stoop down, seeing it was brown, he put it on.
Now there's a man in a brown hat in a sea of green, easily seen if you're looking.
Without reading the news, I didn't think to check their shoes.

Dinner With Howard

¶ In a small red house the Sadler family was preparing for dinner. Mrs. Sadler was in the kitchen putting together the last of the meal. Mr. Sadler was reading the newspaper in the dining room. Howard Sadler was in the living room talking to his friend Lil.
¶ "My mum makes great lamb stew." He was saying.
¶ "Lamb?"
¶ "Yea, lamb."
¶ From the kitchen Mrs. Sadler called, "Howie! Dinners ready!"
¶ Howard and Lil entered the dining room and everyone took their seats. Mr. Sadler sat down at the far end of the table and Mrs. Sadler sat next to him. Howard sat in his usual spot on the other side of the table and pointed Lil to the spot set next to his. Soon they were all eating the lamb stew.
¶ Mr. Sadler mentioned something he'd read in the paper. Rioters had attacked a research laboratory the previous night.
¶ "People are crazy." Lil said, shaking her head.
¶ Howard laughed, "Those ones were."
¶ "What are you laughing about Howie?" his mom asked.
¶ Howard glanced at the empty chair next to himself. "Nothing. Just a thought... this is good stew Mom."
¶ "That it is." Mr. Sadler said.
¶ "I'm glad everyone likes it." Mrs. Sadler answered the two. "It's nice that our family can all have a quiet evening alone to eat dinner together isn't it?"
¶ "Yes it is." Mr. Sadler said.
¶ "Yes." Howard said absentmindedly as his thoughts drifted to Leo's house.
¶ Howard, Leo, and Bill were in the family room, watching a movie on Leo's big television. Bill laughed and pointed at a character on the screen, saying how dumb he was.
¶ Howard defended the character, "Some people do that kind of thing."
¶ "Some people are dumb." Bill said.
¶ Howard said, "Consider his situation."
¶ Bill answered, telling what he would have done if he'd been the character.
¶ "You aren't considering all his situation though." Howard said. "If you were there you might have done that, just as if Leo were there he'd have done some other thing or if I were there I'd have done something different. Everybody does something different."
¶ Bill pointed at the screen again, "And what he did was dumb."
¶ Leo joined in, "I think I'd actually do the same thing as Bill.
¶ "Almost the same thing maybe, but..." Howard was saying, but then he was interrupted by his dad.
¶ "How was your day at school?"
¶ Howard looked up from his lamb stew. "It was good."
¶ "That's good." Mr. Sadler said.
¶ Howard was halfway through his stew.
¶ Lil chuckled.
¶ "What?" Howard asked.
¶ "Your day at school" she answered.
¶ "Hu? Oh!" Howard laughed. "Yeah. That."
¶ "Another funny thought?" Mrs. Sadler asked.
¶ "Hm? Yea." Howard said as he told himself to control his laughter better. He thought someone was bound to think him crazy if he kept on like that.
¶ "Care to share your funny thought?" Mr. Sadler asked.
¶ "Oh, yea... It was just this joke I remembered..." Howard thought for a second. "How do you disguise an elephant like a rosebush?"
¶ "Hmm." Mr. Sadler contemplated. "I think I know this one. I think I've heard it before."
¶ Howard remembered that he'd told his dad this joke before.
¶ "Maybe not." Mr. Sadler finally said. "How do you?"
¶ "Paint its toenails red." Howard forced a small laugh. Mr. Sadler chucked and Mrs. Sadler smiled. Howard returned to eating his stew. He wondered if Lil would enjoy this lamb stew if she were there. He remembered a conversation he'd had with her.
¶ They were walking up the road just outside his house. They'd been talking for a while and the subject had turned to food. "Lamb is probably my second favorite meat."
¶ "Really? What's your first favorite?"
¶ "Pig." Howard answered.
¶ "Ham or bacon or what?"
¶ "All of it. I like pig. Good meat."
¶ "Hmm. Better than lamb?" Lil asked.
¶ "A little better."
¶ Lil thought for a moment as they continued walking, passing someone out gardening on the warm day. "I don't remember what lamb is like." She laughed. "In fact, I don't know if I've ever eaten lamb."
¶ "Never eaten lamb?" Howard was surprised.
¶ "No, I don't think so."
¶ "Oh. You should come over for dinner some time when my mom's made her lamb stew. It's really good. We get some meat fresh from my uncles farm once a month."
¶ Ms. Blount, a rotund woman was coming out of her house to get the mail, "Hello Howie!" she waved.
¶ "Hello Ms. Blount." Howard waved back.
¶ "It's a nice day for a walk isn’t it?" Blount said. "You two are the third couple I've seen passing by today. Love must be in the air."
¶ Howard and Lil looked at each other embarrassedly and laughed.
¶ This time Howard managed to not laugh in reality. He was just finishing his stew. "Thanks Mom." he said. "That was good."
¶ "You’re welcome." Mrs. Sadler said. Her voice echoed in Howard’s mind until he looked back down at his empty bowl of beef stew. He wished his mom were around to cook up some of her lamb stew. Looking back up from his bowl he stared at the table, barren of any place setting but his own.
¶ Howard stood up and picked up his dishes in his right hand while he pushed in his chair, the only chair in the dining room, with his left hand. He went to the kitchen and set his dishes in the sink, then walked through the family room toward the front door.
¶ In the family room Lil was just finishing reading a book. She looked up as he entered the room. "Good stew?"
¶ "Yea, but I can't cook anything like my mom could, and it's beef too. I wish I had some lamb stew."
¶ Lil set down her book and rose from the chair. "Perhaps I could cook you some one of these days."
¶ "You cook?" Howard smiled.
¶ Lil smiled back. "I could try."
¶ Howard laughed, "That sure would be nice." He opened up the front door and stepped out into the ashen wasteland. "I'm getting tired of only eating these darn emergency rations."
¶ Looking back into his empty house, he wondered if life might be easier with someone to share it with.
¶ A small gust of wind blew some soot into the house, so Howard closed the door before more could blow in, then he turned away from his small red house, the only house still standing, and walked out into the lonely grey desert in search of memories.

Senseless Song Scraps

The following are lines and titles from songs that I placed together at random. Have fun.

The messenger's wig seems fraught with desire, for blueberry picnics and pince-nez and magpies to peanuts and ketchup, sanctimonious sycophants stir in the bushes, The lock upon my garden gate's a snail, that's what it is. scratch out his eyes with the tip of a razor, let the wire extend from the tip of a rose, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline, Oh! Elevator in the brain hotel, Broken down but just as well-a jumpsuit and pig meat and making his fortune, If the sun don't come, you get a tan From standing in the English rain.
First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is Riding the backs of giraffes for laughs is alright for a while The Deathless Horsie, Such a tiny speculating whether to be a hippo or Skip along quite merrily. scoop out his brain, put a string where his ears were. Gee, I like your pants, So I lit a fire, isn't it good, Norwegian wood. Pink Napkins, Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.
Looking through a glass onion, See the young monk meditating, rhododendron forest, a rubber line tied to chairs and rare bits pay another player, tantalize poets with visions of grandeur, He made him fly thru a hole, Till he grew real old, And he never came down, He just flew till he burst.
Peaches En Regalia, We never bothered to scream When your mask came off, Standing on the cast iron shore, yeah, Fixing a hole in the ocean, Tryin' to make a dovetail joint puncture the bloat with the wing of a sparrow, Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey, relent and obverse and inverse and perverse and reverse the inverse of perverse and reverse and reverse an reverse and reverse and reverse and chop it and pluck it and cut it and spit it and sew it to joy Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.
We'll give every life For the crackpot notion, Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday. Mister moonlight succulent smooth and gorgeous. Isn't it nice? an overdub has no choice And it cannot rejoice And the pills that I took Made my fingers disappear, My, my the clock in the sky is pounding away. Rectify moments, most serious and urgent, to hail upon the face of most odious time, requiring replies most facile and vacuous. The porpoise is laughing, he bites on the neon and sleeps in the capsule.

From songs by The Beatles, Frank Zappa, Donovan, David Bowie, The Velvet Underground, and The Monkees.

Everyone's Everyone

¶ He was walking down the street on his way home, running through a mental checklist. Water the lawn, bring Mrs. Robinson's mail to her, walk the dog...
¶ A slight sprinkle of precipitation began coming down as he drew close to Robinson's house. He didn't think much of it (nor the mail truck) as he approached Robinson's mailbox. She was an old lady and had recently had a leg injury, so he'd offered to bring her mail to the door for her.
¶ As he came to from his thoughts he realized that the mailman, bringing a large package, had taken the mail to the door for Mrs. Robinson already. He checked that off the list.
¶ Continuing on his way home he finally noticed the rain as it was picking up. "Hmm" he said to himself, "Water the lawn... check."
¶ Shortly after getting home, one of the neighborhood boys, Andy, came and offered to walk his dog. He accepted the offer. "Check."

¶ Whoever does something gets it done. A simple thing. We needn't do everything ourselves. Some tasks though, involve a certain person doing a certain thing. Somebody else may still be able to do the thing, but it wouldn't complete the task, because the thing alone is not the task. Homework would be an example of that.
¶ Anyway, I only open by mentioning that because I think that idea may have been one of the catalysts for the idea I'm about to explain.

¶ She sat on a park bench, watching the people go by. A friend of hers came along and joined her. Watching a child fly a kite, her friend asked her if she'd ever flown a kite as a child, and she answered, "No."
¶ "Do you wish you could have?"
¶ "I'm happy with the childhood I had. I flew no kites, but that child flies one for me."
¶ "But," her friend argued, "If he flies it instead of you, you can only experience watching him fly, not know what it's like to do it yourself."
¶ "That's all right. He can know what it's like for me. There are an infinite number of things that I'll never get a chance to do myself, but that's why it's so great living in a world full of other people."
¶ The two sat silently for a time, watching the people in the park. As a rich and powerful lady passed, her friend had a thought. "Do you ever feel envy? Jealousy? I mean, being willing to let other people experience thing for you and all?"
¶ "Only when I'm not thinking logically" she answered.
¶ Then a beggar came along.

¶ It's so wonderful being human. It's such a marvelous race to number myself a member of. As my life goes on I find fewer and fewer things that I cannot find enjoyment in. Everything this life has to offer is so extraordinary.
¶ Everyone's everyone. We are all human, and all so similar to each other, even with our many differences. People of every culture, every religion, every time period... It means so much to be human. People fighting side by side in a war, or fighting against each other. The slave, the master, and the volunteer. The holy man and the sinner.
¶ No matter the condition of the world, each person has the choice of whether or not to be the best they can be; and the freedom of many other choices also. We all have similar potentials.
¶ The psychologist Carl Jung suggested that we all have a personal unconscious that is unique to each individual, as well as a collective unconscious that is universal to all human beings. No matter how different two people are, their collective unconscious is still the same. Much of what we are is also in other people, so when we wonder why somebody else does something, the answer may well be found within ourselves.
¶ Being humans, we all have our similarities and differences. We share this world like thoughts share the space in our heads. Sometimes we don't quite understand each other, but more often then not we don't understand ourselves either.
¶ Let me finish the story of that girl in the park.

¶ She stood from the bench and walked to the beggar. "Friend" she said to him, and held out a lunch sack. "I made this for you."
¶ He took it and peered inside. Then he grunted and walked away with the food.
¶ "Why'd you try to help him?" her friend asked. "It's his own choices that have gotten him where he is. He's not even thankful."
¶ "That's all right. I'll be thankful for him. He's made his choices and I've made mine. We've all gone where our choices have taken us." Then she left the park without further explanation. She was satisfied with what she had chosen, even though her friend still did not quite understand.

From Beneath the Door

From beneath the door
shines a crack of light upon the floor.
It's majestic mystery captivates me.
I stare at it until I see
something, I can't quite tell what.
The door is not quite shut
and it seems neither is the floor.
The black and white lines are more
than just the grains of wood.
Through the ground I could
(though not yet clearly)
another world see.
The shadows were blinds
pulled over the shines.
A whole world lay in the light
on the other side of my present sight.
Then again none of this was true,
but rather black islands were strewn
upon an ocean reflecting eternity;
a light washed blue infinity.
And still none of this was so,
(Or, if it was I do not know)
but rather it was layers of white clouds
stacked over earthen shrouds;
or a luminous plain broken
off into the dark depths of oblivion.
And again I looked and saw a hill,
I on its dark side lying still.
And with another look, a mound,
though this time not of the ground,
but rather of sticks stacked.
Then to the start I fell back
when my eyes went out of focus,
leaving me again in our world mysterious.
All this I saw upon the floor
illuminated by the light from beneath the door.

Placticene Pansies

Walking through a garden of placticine pansies, tulips and rosebuds blooming like a mushroom clouds raining down from the highest of buildings razed to the earth turning and turning around to see another day follows night in armor penetrated by bullets like fireballs frenzied ‘gainst innocent skies arching over and over through endless trampoline halls, I found the door and turned the keyword entered and the search complete, selecting the one that would guide me through mountains and deserts sandy and frozen fingers when I touch the marble making my walls higher and higher another worker to work like a machine shining as good as new worlds without number nine stretching into the distance without consideration of me on the other hand in hand in the paper for free the children from sea to shinning seals lay on their back behind the alligator's eye gleaming with a sapphire reptilian smile there is a dark chasm lit by your sould it all for cheep as free to the man in the turquoise tied up at the moment walking through gardens of placticine pansies, tulips and rosebuds blooming like mushroom clouds blowing out the candle lit room for everyone is running and running rabbits run the race for the finished with chores and on to the concert with concentric concepts without logic to refine the fuel of life and deathly still walking through a garden of placticine pansies, tulips and rosebuds blooming like mushrooms growing on the grounds for arrested by wonder in your eyes watching the wolves are skipping through the stations looking for another song to be sung when the world has come to an end of the end of the book read by people lazily lying on lilac fields ever stretching across the lawn of sunflower fields burning beneath a velvet sun of the father of my father is his brother why do we bother the sleeping peacefully strolling through gardens of placticine pansies, tulips and rosebuds blooming in a child’s eye see them all walking through gardens of placticine pansies, tulips and rosebuds blooming under an endless sky.

Door 540

The blade came down. The person lying below it had a name, but the name meant little more to the surgeon than a number. It was what was under the blade that meant something. An incision was made in the back of the head.
After a piece of the skull had been removed, the surgeon peered inside. Through the hole he saw a small dark room, and in it a man sat at a desk. As the surgeon approached the man looked up. "Breakfast or lunch?" the man asked.
The surgeon looked at his watch. Twelve forty-three. "Lunch... I guess."
"Room five forty. Eighth door on the left." the man informed the surgeon, then turned his attention back to filling out some sort of forms.
"Thank you." the surgeon said as he became aware of a door to the right of the man. On it a plaque read, UPSIDE DOWN, and above it was the message "This door is to be locked in case of emergency." The surgeon went through the door.
There was a swimming pool on the other side, and a dog training class was under session in it. Dogs were swimming all about the pool. Some that were better trained made laps from one end to the other, while those just beginning the class paddled along with floats tied to their forelegs.
The surgeon approached the dog trainer and asked her where room five forty might be found. "Eighth door on the left." she answered.
"Thank you." The surgeon said as he noticed the door exiting the pool. Through it he found a hallway lined with windows. Each window was numbered. "Five thirty-two, five thirty-one, five thirty..." The surgeon read along the left side of the hall. I'm going the wrong way. Before turning back the way he came he decided to read the numbers on the right side of the hall. "Four fifty, four fifty-two, four fifty-three... This side of the hall is going the right way, but it's much farther from where I'm going."
The surgeon stood, looking at the door at the far end of the hall (and far it was indeed), then at the door from which he'd come, then at the windows, then back at the door at the far end of the hall. He scratched his head. "Should I start close and move away, or start far and get closer?" Then he laughed at himself. "What nonsense am I speaking. I'm standing with window number five thirty-two to my left, and the numbers on the right side of the hall go up, so where I am is a close start and the numbers I'll follow will get me closer."
The surgeon began walking down the long hall, then stopped. "Wait..." His mind was growing clouded. He looked back to the door from which he came and found a janitor in a white coat standing there, locking it up. The janitor turned and met his gaze, watching him steadily, patiently, and expectantly. "Do you know where room Five forty is?"
"Eighth door on the left." the janitor answered, pointing out window number four fifty, then he began pushing his cart down the hall.
"Thank you."
As the surgeon opened up window number four fifty and climbed through, he noticed that his coat was blue. He didn't remember it having had been blue before.
On the other side of the window the surgeon stood on a balcony, and the floor of that balcony was a flower bed, while the streets below were rivers with banks that were oceans. A short ways off, hanging in the air high above the ocean, there was a line of doors. The doors hung on fishing line and were numbered with Roman numerals.
Looking back through the window the surgeon saw the janitor in the white coat, and it was then that he recognized the coat as his own. The janitor closed the window and locked it. The surgeon pounded on the window, tugged on it to try and open it, and yelled to be let back in, but the janitor seemed unaware of him. As the janitor walked off down the hall, the surgeon followed him along the balcony, running up ahead to the next window to get through it, but just as he came to the next window, there was the janitor locking it. The surgeon ran to the next window only to find the janitor already at that one too, locking it. The surgeon ran from one window to the next, and every window he came to he found the janitor on the other side, locking it.
Finally the surgeon decided to sprint several windows down to try and get to a window before the janitor. The surgeon ran franticly through the flower bed past the windows. When he felt the janitor was sufficiently far behind he stopped to open a window, but to his horror, there was the janitor, locking it before he could get in. Try as he might, the surgeon could not come to a window before the janitor locked it.
Losing hope the surgeon began banging on another window. This time the janitor heard him and looked up. Having his attention the surgeon cried, "Unlock the window!"
The janitor looked past the surgeon and pointed at something behind him. Turning, the surgeon saw door number five forty suspended a ways off by fishing line. When the surgeon looked back, the curtains had been drawn on the windows.
For several long minutes he contemplated how he might cross the expanse of emptiness to reach the door. While he was thus contemplating he heard the sound of a giant bathtub being unplugged, and then the ocean with the river in it below started draining away. Preferring to cross with the water still below, so as to cushion his fall if he fell, he began contemplating harder, wanting to cross sooner rather than later.
The man behind the desk, the dog trainer, and the janitor had all said it was the "Eighth door on the left." considering this, the surgeon realized that facing the way he would have been coming from the way he came, door number five forty was on his right. As such he felt he ought to have found it coming from the other way, so he became curious as to what he'd find on the other end of the flower bed balcony.
Thinking that the answer might bring him closer to crossing to the door, the surgeon began running along, past the windows as he'd done before, seeking what was at the end. Far off, past the place the line of windows ended, a red door could be seen. If door five forty was to be on the left, this red door would have to be the way he would come from. To come from it he first would have to get to it. As he ran, the surgeon passed seven doors. This was encouraging.
Half out of breath with shoes full of dirt and shoelaces entangled with plant matter, he reached the red door. Unlike the windows before it, it was unlocked. Opening the door and going through, he found himself in a familiar dark room.
The man behind the desk asked him, "Back so soon?"
Suddenly the light turned on, and the surgeon saw that the room was his operating room. He found himself sitting in a chair in the corner. The man behind the desk was nowhere to be found. The surgeon’s assistant was operating on the back of the patients head.
"Room five hundred and forty." the surgeon said.
"On the third floor?" his assistant responded.
"I guess."
The surgeons assistant left the room for door number five forty, and the surgeon was left behind with the patient. "We've found it." he said to the person on the table who had a name.
The person turned to face him and replied, "It's not room five forty. That's for lunch. You should have said breakfast."

Thrice Upon a TIme

[I sure wish copying and pasting from the original file to the internet wouldn't screw up the format. I have to fix all the italicized words and it messes up the paragraph indents]

Thrice upon a time there was a child.
The first was by a pond one day, watching ripples form. What caused the ripples he could not tell, so he started throwing pebbles at each he saw.
Thus spent he his time for what could have been hours. He laughed and smiled at himself each time he hit a ripple in its epicenter, but he soon grew curious, for he found each throw prompted a laugh and a smile. He was amazed to find that every pebble he threw hit its mark.
He stopped throwing pebbles to ponder this. He did not remember ever having such good aim in his life. He tried to remember where he could have learned such accuracy.
The second child was walking down the road one day, skipping merrily with excitement. The source of his jubilation was the coins rattling in his pocket, which he planned to spend on a slingshot. Down the dusty dirt road he trotted, singing some tune to himself that he'd heard from his peers. Walking before him were two old men.
These men seemed peculiar to the child, though he couldn't quite tell why. He watched them closely, as they walked side by side. For all the scrutinizing of these two that the child did, he could not tell what was so strange about them.
Soon the child forgot his worries and returned to thoughts of the slingshot that he would soon buy. He skipped along, hopping from one footprint in the dirt to the next. It was following these footprints that the child realized what was so strange about the two men. The child was following the footprints of the man on the left, but the footprints of the man on the right were nowhere to be seen.
The child ran ahead to walk beside the two men, to see if he could find what had come of the footprints to the right. Looking at the dirt he found his answer. While the man on the left walked, leaving his footprints behind him, the man on the right walked, picking up a set of footprints that was already set stretching down the road ahead.
Perplexed, the child interrupted the conversation of the two men and asked, "Excuse me Sir..." then after he had the attention of the man on the right, "Why are your footprints in front of you instead of behind?"
The man on the right laughed heartily. "Because my boy, I am walking backwards."
The child stopped to ponder this, and finally said to himself, "What a puzzling puzzle... Pieces must be missing."
The first boy by the pond, after remembering the second, realized something odd about the ripples in the water. They held a certain strangeness that was similar to the man who'd walked on the right, walking after his footprints instead of before them.
After not throwing pebbles for a time, the boy realized that the ripples had stopped appearing, so he picked up another pebble and took aim at a place far out in the water. Just as the pebble left his hand, a ripple appeared near that spot in the water, and the boy watched in amazement as the pebble arched and fell into the exact epicenter of that ripple, without making a new ripple.
In amazement the boy stared at this, then said to himself, "What a puzzling puzzle... Pieces must be missing."
The third child was speaking to his friend one day. "I just don't understand it." he was saying. "If there were any logic to this world, ripples would form on the outside of ponds and get sucked toward a certain point, and then somebody would come along and throw a pebble at that point and the ripple would be sucked up by it."
His good friend answered him, "That, or our footprints should appear before our eyes just a little ways ahead, then when we step in them they should remain exactly the same."
"Precisely," said the third child. "That's what would happen if there where any logic to this world, but there is no logic to this world."
It was then that the third child heard his own voice from two different times in his memory, saying in harmony, "A puzzling puzzle. Pieces must be missing."

Passed Upon the Stair

The following was inspired by David Bowie's song, "The Man Who Sold the World."

I walked along the sidewalk, remembering the flowers that once grew there. Children played where they'd been, unaware of what it had been like. Friends passed me by along the pavement path. New flowers had sprung.
A child asked me which way robins fly for the winter. This brought a laugh as I answered, "South."
Entering the building I walked down a hall decorated with pictures that had all been changed. I liked the new ones better.
Out the back door and up some stairs around the side, I looked at the sun. It was as warm as the old one had been. A man on his way down bumped my shoulder, and after seeing me he said, "Well hello. It's been a long time."
"I'm sorry," I replied, "Do I know you?"
"You don't remember an old friend?" He spread his arms wide in a friendly gesture, more friendly than the sun but still less friendly than his smile.
It was then that I recognized him. "It's you?" I asked in amazement.
"It is."
"You're still around?"
"Well, I've traveled a good deal, but I'm back again."
"No, I mean, I didn't know you were still alive."
He laughed. "Of course I am."
"Are you really you?"
"I really am, my friend. I really am."
"If you really are who I think," I said, "Then I've never met you."
"Sure you have."
"Not in person."
"You have now."
"I suppose I have." I lingered there for a moment, staring into his eyes that shouldn't have been there. "I should be going."
"I'll see you later then." He left up the stairs, and without thinking, I left going back down.
At the bottom I stopped and turned back to him. "Why did you do it?"
He stopped at the top, before going around the corner. "Do what?"
I gestured to the garden, and the world beyond. "You know."
"Why'd I betray the world you mean?"
"Yes."
"I didn't."
"But you did. You handed it over to them."
"I did, but the world's no worse off."
I looked around. "The world we knew is gone."
"The world my grandfather knew was already gone. Things change. They aren't bad, they're just different."
"Why'd you do it?" I asked again.
"Seemed profitable."
"Was it?"
"They let me travel the universe in a silver goblet."
"A silver goblet?"
"Yes." he answered with no further explanation.
I walked back up the stairs, halfway. He stayed where he was. "What's it like on other planets."
"Different" he answered. "Like it is here. Like it is for you compared to the next guy."
"Is it good?"
He laughed. "I'd guess people would say it's bad, because people don't seem to like things that aren't how they think they should be."
"The children enjoy the new sun..." I admitted, "Except the kid that dwells on tales of old."
"Things shouldn't all be how they should be." He smiled. "Sometimes they can be different." Then he turned and walked around the corner, leaving me on the stairs to never see him again.

I Was In My Garden

Sitting in my study, I was looking over writings by an author who shares my name. A stack of books sat on the desk, the titles on their worn spines illuminated by the desk light. Some were novels, others discussions of philosophy, others political discussions, others compilations of shorter works.
I wondered how this one author had managed to write all these things. I wondered how he thought of all the ideas contained in those pages. I wondered what the author might be like. What would it be like to meet the mind that wrote all this?
Would he be as wise as his books made him sound, or would the meeting be a disappointment? Would he live by what he taught, or would he be a hypocrite? Would I feel like I'm in the presence of a great man when I shake his hand, or would he seem like just another average person? I wondered what he'd be like now, as opposed to how he was then.
I couldn't remember. I hoped to meet the author again someday, but it seemed as if he'd been forever lost in my past. It seemed as if I'd never be able to write these things again. Never be able to comprehend such ideas again.
I closed a novel that I'd written three years ago, and I pushed it to the corner of the desk. Sitting back in my chair, I folded my arms and closed my eyes. Where have you gone? I wondered. Where have you gone?
Where have I gone really.
Yes. Where have I gone?
No, where have you gone. You're not who you were.
Not who I was, no. I am somebody new now. I am searching for a bit of me, but having lost it, it is not in me... no, it is in me... but it's not in the part of me where I am. I am searching for you in me. Where in me have you gone?
Yes, that's right.
Introspection, introspection. If only I could unfold my mind and lay it out like a roll of turf. I could walk through the grass of my thoughts, then kneel down and inspect it closer, searching for you in it.
Looking closer at the turf reveals that there is more growing in it than grass alone. It is a whole garden.
So I walk along the edge of it, looking down the rows of plants, trying to find you.
The rows seem to stretch on forever. It seems almost impossible to find anyone in this infinite landscape, but no, there's someone. There is someone down that row.
I begin to walk down between the two rows of plants, toward the person.
He knows you're coming for him. He slides through the brush into the next row and into obscurity.
I brush past the plants as I move to follow him.
There he is, just beginning to break out into a run.
I run too, chasing him. I run. I run. I'm catching up.
Is he growing weary, or is he letting you catch up?
He's growing weary.
I'm letting you catch up.
What?
I am. I am him. We are face to face now. You caught me. I let you.
You?
Yes, me.
You are me.
No, I am me, and you are you. We are both a part of this garden, but we are not part of each other.
But this garden is my mind.
So you are the keeper of the garden?
Yes... I guess I am.
That does not mean you are the garden.
No... I suppose not... Who are you?
I am who you were looking for.
You were the author?
Yes, I was.
I need your help.
With what?
I need you to write me another book.
No you don't.
What? Yes I do. My publisher is demanding that I write another by the end of the year. If I don't, I'm going to be out of a job.
I mean you don't need me to write it, the garden does.
Oh. O.K., fine, the garden needs it, but I'm the keeper of the garden, so I need it for the garden.
He is the keeper of the garden.
Who?
Over there.
Where?
Do you really want to know? Aren't things confusing enough with just the two of us?
I suppose so... Tell me about him.
He is the keeper of the garden.
Aren't I?
Yes.
So we're both keepers?
Give me your head.
Aren't we already in it?
No, not our head, your head.
Our head is mine, and his apparently too, because we are the keepers.
True. You're learning. Now give me your head.
Whoa! This feels so strange... Who am I? What is this place? Is this me? No, the other garden was me, what's this one.
This one is you.
You're still here?
No, this is my first time here. Before I was there.
Where's there as opposed to here?
Here is the garden in your mind. Your mind is in our mind, which belongs to you, because you are the keeper. There was our mind, in which your mind is. That's where we are.
So is my mind our mind or my mind?
Which one of your minds?
This one.
This one we're in, or this one that the one we're in is in? Which do you mean?
Erm... I'm not certain what I mean... I don't know who I am to know my meaning.
Then look around. Inspect the garden. I noticed you didn't do so earlier, because you were to busy looking for me. You ran through our mind, which belongs to you and the other, without even looking around. Do you know how much you missed?
I... I can't remember. Was that me that ran through that garden? I don't remember what I missed, because I can't remember who ran through the garden.
Your garden ran through our garden. Inspect the garden you are in now, and perhaps you will learn what it missed when it ran through our garden, though it will be difficult. It would have been a lot easier if the garden had paid attention for itself rather than leaving you to search through it for the thing it saw but ignored.
Whoa, this is a beautiful garden. I've never seen plants like this before. Look here at this plant's eyes... they shine yellow, like a cat's eyes. I think one just blinked! Did you see that? Did you? Wait... where did you go? Where did you go? Hello? Hello?
It was when I heard my own voice echoing off the wall, asking "Hello," that I remembered there was a wall. Four of them in fact. I opened my eyes and looked around the small study. I looked at the books stacked up on my desk. The books by an author I'd recently had the opportunity of meeting.
I smiled, then took out some paper and a pen.

The Colour Blue

Blue. The colour blue. Blue paint. An intelligent shade of blue. Blue.
I once was talking to someone about perception.(more than once actually) I said something to the effect of, "What if what you see as green, someone else sees as blue, so when you say green, they think of what you call blue but what they call green? There would be no way of realizing that the perception is mixed up. You and this other person would each be seeing two different colours, but would think you’re seeing the same."
The reply I would get was something like, "But they could figure it out by comparing that colour to other colours, noticing that it has different properties."
I don't really know about that, and I haven’t thought a whole lot on it. I won't bother to explain how that could work with shades and tones and things, but instead, I'll ask another question. What if someone perceived all colours differently from another, with a whole rotation of the colour wheel?
On a 180 degree rotation, when one sees blue, the other see's yellow; and when one sees red the other sees green. There would truly be no way for the two people to realize that they are seeing two different things. Colours would still follow all the same rules of mixing and shades and tones and colour wheel rotation, but each person would see different things.

Now sure, maybe an inspection of the brain at some time could reveal somehow that when one person's brain is stimulated in a certain area by a certain light wavelength, another person’s brain is stimulated in another area by the same light wavelength, and when you give each the opposite colour they trade which part is stimulated, but this doesn't really prove anything.
Perhaps one person's mind registers blue in one part of the brain and yellow in another; while another person registers blue in the part that the first registers yellow in, and registers yellow in what is the other's blue area. We would still not have any way of knowing if the two people are actually perceiving the same colours or different colours. We may be able to read brains, but we cannot read minds.
So what you see to be blue, another looks at and sees what you would call yellow, but still calls it blue. Who is really right? Maybe blue is actually the name for what you perceive as yellow. I don't really think either one is right or wrong. They are both seeing two different things, each as true as their own sight and no truer.
I could go on about this, and explain how about a 90 degree rotation one way would make blue equal to red, and the other way blue would be green, but a lesser rotation could make blue be purple or aqua, or a greater rotation make it another shade of green or some sort of orange. (all depending on exactly how you rotate) I could also talk about altering shade and tone. Instead though, I have something more interesting to say.
What if one person perceives blue as a duck and nobody realizes the discrepancy?
"Impossible!" some might think. "Such a misunderstanding would surely be noticed."
Well blue could very well be a duck, and steak might be the ocean. What if everything we see is only a manifestation of a concept?
What if you perceive life to involve these bipedal, upright walking, approximately vertically symmetrical beings called humans, but it's only a symbol created by your mind to make order out of things.
You might wonder: if you're the only one who sees "humans", than how can I, and for that matter everybody else, describe them. The answer is: I don't. I described my perception of the same concept in my own words. You see your version of my words at the other end, and taking that information, automatically translate it into the way you perceive it, so that you think I described something you’re familiar with (which I did, but not in a familiar way)
This is a challenging concept to explain, so I think I'll use a short story to clarify what I'm trying to say.

Bob and Ed were walking along down the street one day, according to Bob's perception. According to Ed's perception though, they were dripping sideways across a vertical incline with a bluish colour to it. Bob said to Ed, "You hungry? There's a Deli up ahead where we could get something."
Ed's perception of this was that Bob started bubbling, and little bits of colours shot up in a certain pattern that meant that they should go mix with some sustaining energy that was glowing on the vertical incline up ahead of where they were going. It was a common friendly symbiotic event. Ed responded by spitting up his own pattern of colours. This meant to Ed that he was informing Bob (Who Ed did not call Bob, but rather called a bluish green with a slight red glow) that though his energies were depleting he did not have the courage to fight off the pointy sticks guarding the energy.
Bob perceived this in the form of the words, "A sandwich would be good, but I haven’t got any money." So Bob told Ed that he'd be happy to pay for it.
Ed perceived this as a great display of colorful sparks shooting out of Bob like fireworks, declaring that the sticks were no match for him, and that he'd gladly help Ed get past them to reach the sustaining energy.
Shortly thereafter Bob and Ed went into the sandwich shop, ordered their sandwiches, (Bob paid) and sat down to eat.
Ed perceived a mighty and most epic battle with the evil sticks (Which sticks Bob perceives as part of economy by the way) in which Bob showed his great heroic might. They forced their way past and managed to assimilate some sustaining energy into themselves. It was an average chapter in an average book. Defeating sticks and assimilating energy.
Bob thought the sandwiches tasted good. Ed thought the energy played a very nice symphony inside of him.

Hopefully that helped to clarify things. Basically I'm saying, what if the way we perceive everything is only a manifestation, a representation, a symbol for the same concepts. We each perceive different symbols for the things in our life, and everything translates over from one to the other.
I can guess that I've left a lot of questions unanswered, but I think I've gotten a good start just the same. One question people might ask is, "Why does it matter?"
They might ask that. I might give them a clear answer too.
Anyway, I was thinking, people sure do have a lot of faith in their perception of things. Faith in their eyes and ears and thoughts. A lot of people seem to follow their eyes with a blind religious devotion. I find that interesting.
Well, if green were a conclusion and blue were green, then it's about now that I might say, "Blue." Anyone who thinks that what I call blue is a conclusion though, may well not see blue when I read this, so I ought to write a conclusion so that when they read it they can have the satisfaction of perceiving the colour blue.
I could conclude like Forrest Gump and say, "That's all I have to say about that." but the fact is that's not all that I have to say about that. Instead I'll conclude by saying, "That's all I now say about that." Blue enough?