Mortal Glory, a Forgotten Beauty

- From my lungs I cry laughter to the roof of the night! From my eyes, salt and water write an ode to joy upon my face! I throw my hands into the air! I shout! I understand, “Life is wonderful!”
- An old man gives me a funny look, and I answer him with a hand on his shoulder, “Life is wonderful!” I chuckle, at myself, with the world, “I don’t expect you to understand me. I don’t know how I could express to you what it is. But Life is wonderful!”
- I move on, in these moments so precious. I progress towards the end of it all, for I know this will end, and it will be forgotten forever and ever. That’s wonderful too. Nobody need remember this, not even God. As sad as it may seem, knowing that soon, tomorrow, or in a few hours, I will have forgotten all that I now understand. I will remember only that I understood something, but won’t be able to put my finger on what it was. This is not the kind of thing that memory records. When the memory ends, so will this me, and that other me will be left standing with a look of confusion as sweet as that of the old man.
- I feel more than joy, I feel sorrow as well. I feel everything I could ever need to feel. I am living my life, knowing every experience, every sensation that makes up a fulfilled life. In these few minutes, I have had a worthwhile, nay, more than worthwhile lifetime. That other me who shall stand confused, he shall live many more years. His body shall pass away and he shall continue through the spirit world for all eternity. He shall do all this, but he shall never understand me like I do now. Nobody ever shall, not even myself again, for I will die, and I will not continue through the eternities. I’ll be as a corpse in an atheists eye, going to the grave forever. It’s alright. It’s wonderful. A am a mortal part of him, a part for which he has always been living, though he never knew it. Even if I’m the only one in his whole eternal existence, even if I’m the only one in all the eternities together, it was all worth it.
- Who is that? I ask her name.
- “My name is Jezebel. I play violin.”
- I furrow my brow, narrow my eyes. She isn’t real. “A name,” I growl, “And a shallow profile. You’re just a character, easily invented, easily written. You’re a phony!”
- She smiles in a doll-like way, “So, what do you do?”
- I stumble back, these words, this question. I have been asked what I do, what I like...
- (Years ago:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh... I like to... read... write... listen to music...? Who am I?
- Less years ago:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh.. I like to.. read.. write..? Who am I?
- Recently:
- Q: What do you like to do?
- A: Uh. I like to. read. Who am I?
- Presently:)
- A: I stagger. I sway. These words have cut my eyes open. What do I do? Who am I? Are my answers not as contrived as hers? Is my profile any more sincere? Or am I just as much a character as her, written up:
- This character’s name is... How about Jezebel... And Jezebel... She works at... no, she plays violin. Yes, that will make a good character. Jezebel, who plays violin.
- Am I any more real? Think now, who am I? What do I do? What do I like? What did I do as a child? What was it like? What have I experienced? What is my life? ...Who am I?
- I have no idea. I can only list off facts I’ve memorized about myself, but none mean anything more to me than those I can tell you about Tom Sawyer, Hamlet, “Call me Ishmael.” I don’t know anythi-
- I notice a masquerading man is mirroring my motions, the shaking of my hands, the pacing of my feet. He wears a facade of my desperate questioning. I glare at this taunting man. He looks nothing like me, and makes a mockery of my motions with his play. I turn away and then,
- I see my reflection.
- Though it is pitch black, though my eyes cannot actually function in this lighting, I know that the mirror is there, and so I see my reflection. As always, it looks nothing like me. I clutch my head, I growl and try to shake away the discomforting lie in the mirror. Finally I avert my eyes from the unbearable looking glass, and I see the masquerader again.
- When he imitates me, why should I call it a mockery? Because of his appearance that is so unlike me? So untrue? He is no less like me than my own reflection.
- I look down at myself, but it’s too dark to see, and even if I could, I’m on the wrong side of my eyes, looking the wrong way.
- The old man stands to the one side, and on the other the masquerader. Jezebel, the violinist, stands on the opposite side of me from my reflection. Every feeling I know to exist, very subtly, swirls around in my head as my energy fades, and I sink to the ground, slumped against a wall.
- I open my eyes, and in the faint blue light, I look around the bathroom. I’m forgetting already. What was it that I was experiencing just a little bit ago? Precious moments? A lifetime in a few minutes? Well I knew they would end. I close my eyes.
- The old man wants to know what that was all about. What did I mean, “Life is wonderful?” What epiphany had I experienced? Now I’m as clueless as him.

My Perception of Time

- This is how I see time:
- Three squared in nine. The square root of nine is three. The effect of this is that. The cause of that is this.
- No matter when you solve the problem, three squared is still nine. No matter when you solve the problem, the square root of nine is still three. No matter when you experience the cause, the effect is the same. No matter when you experience the effect, the cause is the same.
- (3^2)*y=18. (3^2)*2=x. x=18. y=2. No matter when you solve it, the solution will be the same. No matter when you experience the solution, it will be the same. "a" squared plus "b" squared equals "c" squared. In a right angle, the two acute angles add up to ninety degrees.
- Time is not a line, nor a web. Time is a fact, or a compound of many facts. Each moment is another step in the solving of an equation, though it will never be completely solved. The present time is the point in the equation you are currently at, however, many facts beyond the one currently being dealt with are equally true to the one you are dealing with now, both conceptual facts as well as facts of steps in the equation which were present earlier, and which will yet be present. All of the equation and the facts involved exist constantly, regardless of what step your mind may currently be focussed upon. Your mind is part of the equation, and can be solved for, and is the solution for other parts of the equation.
- The fact of the universe is defined. Your life is not predetermined, but it is determined. The substance of cause and effect interrelation is static. In the big picture, the universe is a single, massive mathematical equation. You can represent a mathematical equation by writing it out on a chalkboard in many ways, but it is the facts expressed in the equation that are the essence analogous to my perception of time.

A glass box. A painted artpiece.

A glass box. A painted artpiece.
Set where passerbys see.
They come, admire, might stop.
They pass their various ways.
A boy stopped. Reached out.
Touched.
He scratched the painted glass box.
"Stop that!" cried the officer
seeing through aviators.
Scratch.
"Stop!" running comes
Scratch,scratch,claw, something?
Baton drawn, swing, beat, bloody.
Dragged the boy away from, "Do not touch."
Crumpled boy. Blood from an empty heart.
Something inside me. A jigsaw heart.
One piece, incomplete, empty heart.
A glass box. A painted artpiece.
The boy returned,
Returns pounding,
His fists to the glass, crack,
knuckle shards dripping crimson.
A hole. Sanguine hands.
"Stop that!" cried the officer.
Widen the opening. Sanguine to the elbows.
"Stop that!" running towards.
Grab edge, stinging palm, pull to the ground.
Opening the glass box. There inside!
Baton drawn, thwap!
Boy on the pavement, dripping hands reaching,
reaching to the exposedundershards
thwap!
But it was there...
thwap!
A jigsaw cut gem.
A surpasser of painted shell.
thw- grab the aviators, painted blindness.
Nails scratching the officer's face.
A yell of curses, wincing, then...
opening his eyes... he saw it to.
Everyone had stopped, for,
A jigsaw cut gem.

Conclusion Umbrella

¶ A while back I wrote a comicbook by surreal means. After completing it, I interpreted, and "Conclusion Umbrella" is the name of that interpretation. The story, as I saw it, was about a lonely kid trying to share himself, but being rejected for his attempts at sincerity. None returned the sincerity to bridge the loneliness, until a little girl shared herself with him and reopened his door to wonderland. In wonderland he could explore endless possibilities by letting go of his static identity, and in so doing he discovered something for which he had a passion.
¶ Wonderland is the canopy on the umbrella of reality, a land of dreams overlooking possibilities. A child's mind dances through its gardens learning about all the things they could become. It is a vantage point from which we can see the map we are trying to traverse.
¶ An umbrella needs a handle though. To see and explore the possibilities will only bring chaos if we don't also choose and live one path from among the many. Things like Zen may make up this "One Path." By being aware of the present and our role in it, we maintain the order required to keep the umbrella of our reality in its healthy form.
¶ The "Many Possibilities" is the canopy, and the "One Path" is the handle, both very important parts of the umbrella. Many people have inadequacy in both, carrying little more than a shaft. The many possibilities may be expanded by exploring anywhere, from our own dreams, to those of our neighbors. Empathetic interactions expand our understanding of lives beyond our own, broadening our horizons and turning us from isolation to freedom. Study and learning on a wide range of topics can give us a better grasp on the world beyond ourselves. The one path may be refined by putting aside distractions to focus wholeheartedly on each task our life brings us. By being aware and conscious, we don't just find the life we want, but we live it. Integrity in our actions and feelings gives us solidarity and lets us live with passion. Following our one path we gain an understanding and mastery of the things that are most important to us.
¶ That is Conclusion Umbrella.

End User, Experience

¶ It seems to me that the material world (finite and infinite) is a computer, oblivious but ever processing, receiving input and sending output to the end user. This end user is spirit, not in the infinite material sense of the word, as a ghost or some such thing, but in the same sense as in "The Spirit of Christmas," "The Spirit or Giving," "The Spirit of Love," or more evil spirits such as "The Spirit of Contention." I mean by this the qualia, the experiences, that we seem to feel within us. Perhaps those "feelings" actually are us, the end users, operating this computer, this tool, for the betterment of the real, "spiritual," world.
¶ These experiences, this consciousness, this awareness, is not only an observer and interpreter of material arrangements, translating meaningless arrangements of matter and energy into meaningful concepts; but is also giving input to the computer (For the analogy is not of the material world being a television, or a fractal generator, but a computer.). Our own spirits may shift from being one sort of spirit to being another. We would rather be good spirits than evil ones, and thus we wield these corporeal vassals to reach the conceptual places and spiritual states which we most thrive upon.
¶ Our brains can only store memories as data, and I'm not sure that awareness needs actual "memory" of its own. All things exist in the here and now, dimension zero of time and space, existing at one point on a map, and one point in time, regardless of the infinite omnidimensional realm in which those points could, have, and shall yet exist. Matter is immortal, though the forms it takes die each moment to make way for new forms. Experience has no form or location, and its memory may be merely its fact of existence, while when it existed is irrelevant. There is a common desire, a sort of spirit of curiosity, which may call for a computer of a sort not limited as our finite brain is. A kind of particle with a mass of zero point zero continued one (units N/A) could be assembled into bodies much like our finite ones, but containing brains that can collect and hold infinite data. These material spirits might be able to create an endless scape of molds for awareness within any amount of space, letting immaterial spirit dance from one "form" to another across the infinite brain that is assembled.
¶ Another thought I just had is this: If the infinite brain had to record an infinite brain, the two brains would become infinitely more infinite every moment. Could such a thing be possible, plausible, or reasonable? It sounds like some sort of paradox to me. If on the other hand the infinite brain existed to record the finite brain, or conversely, if the finite brain existed to be recorded by the infinite brain, then through the connection of the three things, finite matter, infinite spiritual matter, and this awareness, consciousness, intelligence, experience thing, there would be formed something which is both conscious as well as enduring, with the capacity to expand, explore, search, and grow. With the awareness of awareness itself, the infinite memory of material spirit, and the endless possibilities for growth contained within the possible arrangements of finite matter, the world seems less existential.
¶ Discussion, thoughts, feedback, questions, suggestions, or reactions seemingly spontaneously generated from nowhere and having no apparent connection? Leave a comment.

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."