mrblicero

"If we survey the field of history and ask what features all great periods of revival, of expansion of the human mind, display in common, we shall find, I think, simply this; that each and all of them said to the human being, 'the inmost nature of the reality is congenial to powers which you possess.'"
- William James, "Rationality, Activity, and Faith" (1879)

My goodness, I believe I see blue skies outside.

I dream of space travel,
a city of tree-houses,
with rope-bridge thruways,
drinking fountains that dispense
   chocolate milkshake,
light sabers and hoverboards for all,
and a Fermina Daza for every
   Florentino Ariza.

There's some saying that approximates:

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

This seems like hubris to me.

I like:

"A clean environment yields a clean mind."

A bit longer, but brevity isn't everything.

I'm dealing with the enclosure of night here, residing in a cramped system of energy and wondering exactly where the batteries are located.  My arms are slowing down.  Not sure about my voice; when I talk to myself, it's not audible, in the ordinary sense.  There's a certain hum to it, to the city night I mean, with a rhythm that is just this side of rhythmic.

I wonder, if I discount the existence (or being) of that unmoved mover that Aristotle talks about, where does that leave imagination?  From what I can tell, the imagination is not contingent (it's causa sui) on billiard-ball physics.  It has no vectors of movement.  It can dream of crystal palaces, but doesn't seem to mind when they come crashing down.

There was a fly in my soup today, but it wasn't doing the backstroke - the boiling water killed it.  It was just floating there, dead.  So much for a punchline.

My typewriter's too loud sometimes.  Jarring words onto paper, lines after lines, with no conclusion stepping through the doorway.  It might be cozy, otherwise.

We wake up on days like these to the words of the great poets and authors, ringing clear now in our heads, divorced from that murky process of reading.  Free now, free to taste air, to dip a tentative toe into a still pond...Well, there's ripples now.  But you know what I mean...

If you've seen my eyes, tell them I miss them.  They've probably seen you too.

Tonight, we ask that peace holds until we wake up.  The idea of violence while we sleep, that's something that the mind flinches at, whether we have any control over situations or not.  It's just how it goes, and we don't have to like it; we just ask for peace in the aether.

Tomorrow is that day, set against this now, against this day, pages turning, dog-ears marring otherwise clean reflections into mere remembrances, into void recognitions of the same-damn-thing, but better, spicier, more panache and less precision.

And if you don't like it, go watch some ballet or something.