A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 21, 2008 || 12:09 am

“All such objects are known to be related to one another by a variety of dualities.”

Despite all the means of expression readily available at our fingertips, humanity lives in a huge, disconnected world that seems to revel both in a lack of profundity and the loss of genuine kinship, as well as the expression of same.

There are just so many of us, we humanpersons, and we tend to get lost in the wash of doing (the business of busyness, I like to call it) and more often than not we forget to be. I’d like to note here that were this handwritten in one of my journals, the last word of the previous sentence would have tiny lines surrounding it in a corona, magnifying and illuminating it for the reader.

BE: Such a tiny, tiny word for a grand notion, a concept that some would admit in small voices ““…is just so overwhelming.”

For years I’ve referred to myself as a compassionate misanthrope, but more and more I am coming to know that, perhaps, is not the exact case. Rather than disliking humankind, I think I may just be uncomfortable with the preponderance of shallow interactions. I want us to have meaning, to be meaningful to one another. Many times in a week I’m asked, “How are you doing?” and I’ll answer “I’m well, thank you,” without doing the asker the standard –or rather, expected– courtesy of returning the question. This is not because I don’t care how that someone is, but because I just don’t want to be lied to. I don’t want the pat, superficial, “I’m fine.” I don’t ask questions just to use up my share of oxygen and soundwaves in a day, I ask them because I want clarity.

Does this make me selfish? Does it make me honest? Does this make me idealistic? Probably a mix of each. I just know that I want people to be genuine, and that being genuine in nature doesn’t necessarily mean you have to spill your guts or wear your heart on your sleeve; it just means that you have to adapt yourself to a level of transparency that the world we live in is hostile toward, albeit in a rather surreptitious and/or passive fashion.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

“There are known configurations which describe all the observed fundamental forces and matter but with a zero cosmological constant and some new fields.”

I’ve spent some of the day gobbling in great chunks of information on quantum (I always want to end that with an ‘n’ like in ‘autumn’; I think it lends further grace to the already-loaded word) physics; I tend to get goofy with weepy romanticism when I do this, which probably scientifically proves beyond a shadow of a doubt I’m a girl –the girliest of all the sorts of girls that were ever invented– in the most quiet and perhaps best parts of me. There is all this and it’s all improbable and impossibly reasoned and chaotic and amazingly grand…all these things at once and more, more, more, so much more that the scope of my eensy brain is no match for it all. And, I should tell you, of all the Beauties I’ve experienced or learned of, I’m most fond of the ones built on thundering dichotomies.

Quantum(n) physics, as best I can fathom, is The Mother of All Dichotomies, cinched up and spiralling loose at the same time. The looseness and connectedness of all things everywhere all the damn time. I’m most interested in the aspect of this that deals with human beings, with the specifics of how we are all, at the very least, loosely connected on some level, even to people we’ve never laid eyeballs on. As of late I am especially enthralled with Quantum Mind Theory and Noetic Consciousness. Even if you find them to be a load of gobbledygook or hooey or whatever Philistine word you choose to assign to things you wish to discredit, it makes for some entertaining reading.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Alex Woodward is flying a middle finger at remaining disconnected, and he is doing it quietly, artistically and gently. He is humbly doing it with his guitar and with his voice, a willing conduit from one individual at a time to The World At Large. It’s such a mind-blowingly beautiful idea, graceful in its simplicity: People privately send him their stories, he works them out in song and sends them out into the world to knock on the hearts of others by way of their eardrums.

Some people are so fucking brilliant that it completely stupefies me. I am then left flailing on the edge of my finite vocabulary, unable to translate the breathlessness of my insides into a recognizable language. The only thing I know to do is point my face to the night sky and breathe blessing toward them and thanks for them.

5 worked it out »

  1. chris robinson 9.21.2008

    You might need to read some of the novels of Rebecca Goldstein my quantumly, cosmic and cool friend. You two have a lot to talk about.

     
  2. Jettomatika 9.21.2008

    She ever a colleague of yours, or are you simply a fan?

     
  3. chris robinson 9.22.2008

    Grammar is important, and I failed to acknowledge this in my first note. You are my “quantumly, cosmic and cool friend.” I’ve never met Rebecca Goldstein. But her work is great. Sorry about the ambiguity.

     
  4. redclay 9.22.2008

    “Quintessence of Dust

    . . . lost between two infinities,

    the infinitely large and the infinitely small.

    - Blaise Pascal –

    Among the khaki husks of last Fall’s weeds

    in Henry Second’s Umberland a small

    white flower leans in slightest zephyrs, bends

    beneath the weight of but a cabbage moth,

    then bobbing once again erect when free.

    The chill of early evening settles on

    a field beside a clear May stream about

    a boisterous Saxon band emerging from

    marauding raids against the Norman king’s

    dominion over lands that once were theirs.

    Through star-pricked deepest night, an aging fire

    beside the forest’s foot protects the warmth

    of slumber’s innocence while not one league

    away, among the cooling ashes of

    a manor house the grotesque slaughtered sleep.

    The gray beginnings of the day arise

    above the coughing embers’ dying glow,

    while horses and dark grumbling men awake

    to preparations for the violence

    ancestral vengeance passed on to its kin.

    Inside the great depression of a boot

    beside a fire’s heap, a small white bloom

    lies flat among the skeletons of last

    Fall’s weeds where yet another flower will

    tomorrow sway to merest thoughts of wind. ”

    Peter Freas

     
  5. Kellie 9.30.2008

    How neat for me that you posted this on my birthday.

     

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