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sTORIES pOEMS bLOG eSSAYS |
5 March 03 writers and philosophers have suggested (and meant seriously) that we have no way of knowing if we are one continuous self. or no way of knowing if the this moment and the then moments before and after it, are connected, are one. suggesting (of course) that there is no self. at times the weight of my own mind sits so heavily on my thoughts, time extending backward twenty-four years and forward for the next few seconds, or days, years, decades overwhelming me. and momentarily, I admit the desire to believe that maybe I am not, that I am some butterfly dream, is temporarily appealing. but the appeal here is death. to desire something other than the self is to desire our own destruction. some might argue that growing is destruction. and there is an element in all personal change that begins with the death of what we were before. but this is a metaphorical death. the death involved in an actual escape from the self (see buddhism, christianity, etc.) is the end of life. but just in case all those crazy fucks are right, I am putting myself here. white noise whir of laptop, sing-song sigh of desktop, and the broken rhythm of raindrops. shoulders tight, neck cramped, too much driving and typing. i have, since I can remember, always forgotten when spring is meant to start. :: posted by walker 4:42am 03/05/03  3.6.03 "an army of philosophers." that is what I said. after all this time dissing plato I catch myself agreeing with some of his ideas. but an army of philosophers is what we need. men and women driven to know. to understand the workings of the world and play some part in their shaping. is this too much to ask? would people be willing (and this is key!! it must be by choice of the individual, not some dictation of esoteric philosophy, waiters, dishwashers, sales associates, artists, CEAs, each must choose what purpose is given their work, the value of someone's efforts belongs to them alone) to donate some part of their time to making life for others better (and by better I mean offering opportunities, not just giving them money.)? I believe far more reward could be found in helping others than owning the latest toys or eating fancy food. What is Valuable? I saw Daredevil last week. it wasn't that good. if I had spent that two hours building a house or tutoring underpriveleged kids how much more would I have gotten out of it? I am not suggesting wholesale sacrifice. I am suggesting that we have so much more than we need, in terms of time and money, that we might be less haunted by the emptiness of our lives if we were helping more. I am not pretending that I have thought this through. there is much I must read and learn before this is anymore than a rant. I am still a free-market capitalist. I do not believe government has any place deciding what role an individual should play or dictating how much of their time(i.e. percent income tax) they have to dedicate to caring for others but I do believe that informed consumers, armed with a robust and well-developed philisophical system could stamp obscene poverty from the face of the earth. :: posted by walker 5:28m 03/06/03 3:6:03 I should be studying the calculus or sleeping. instead I am trying not to choke on unchewed chunks of quickly swallowed Quaker's honey Grahm O'hs. been feeling dehydrated lately, for some reason that drives me to drink coffee. but I can often trick myself into drinking water by getting some dry piece of food stuck in my throat; so the cereal. :: posted by walker 2:29am 03/06/03 3:7:03 Quality becomes whatever we desire to attain; pre-civilization Quality was unrotten food and useful hunting and gathering methods and tools. Quality is defined by two key factors: philosophy necessity (reality) Palatable food and shelter, basic elements of survival, will always be imbued with basic Quality by necessity. It is our philosophy which gives quality to all else. Advertising campaigns goal is the infusion of quality into the unnecessary. Branding and high prices become synonymous with quality. Sex and fancy cars become a needed element to achieve “Quality of life”. It is not capitalism which has robbed life of meaning. It is the un-philosophy that drives most men; that and the machine built to feed and fuel the desires of these almost mindless men. When a man kills with a hammer no one demands the hammer be replaced by a tool that can’t be used as a weapon. Powerful tools will always be deadly and vicious in the service of flawed philosophy note the power of language in the mouths of evil men. :: posted by walker 1:29am 03/07/03 3:8:03 Poems are concrete or at least the text books say so and the frightening free-fall that is life is often brought to an abrupt stand still when we encounter a poem. We find the flesh of the mind shatterered into so many wet beating pieces on a sidewalk suspended, an obstruction that allows us to pause and observe ourselves, in a frozen moment, passed violently from one mind to another. :: posted by walker 1:50am 03/08/03 3:9:03 Dry today; disconnected. drinking disables discerning devices. time moves as such a brutal blade. the mind and its magical memory makes yesterday as real as tomorrow and we stand awash in a torrential landscape that rips away what seems right; the moment we become used to the way it is, it is no longer. :: posted by walker 1:29am 03/09/03 3:10:03 It's funny how the desire to distance ourselves from painful commentary drives us to cliched openings. Philosophy is something i take very seriously. In areas that pertain to personal behavior it is usually pretty simple to make a philosophical decision. It is when we try to make decisions about our friends that it becomes difficult to apply a metaphysical and ethical framework to an individual situation. Trust is paramount. It is easy to suggest that when you don't trust a person you should probably ditch them but also a difficult maxim to follow. In the end compromise almost always leads to sabotage of the strength of personal identity. :: posted by walker 1:45am 03/10/03 3:11:03 I wonder sometimes if the purpose of a lover would be only to remind me of how precious my time is. My machines instead are my companions. My percolator and microwave talk to me in rhythmic pleading: What you have asked is done, is done, is done. The stove, silent, boils water for my tea. The computer spills a stream of organized electricity through a garden of silicon instead of water through the pebbles of a stream, its exhaust fan wind through trees. The floor lamp beside me makes occasional hesitant clicks, assuring but nervous of its intrusions. A complex distribution of labor was needed to provide me with my inanimate companions and to what avail, that I might in artificial light, sit up late into night and worry over my unproductivity? :: posted by walker 12:18am 03/11/03 3:12:03 Somewhere there are ceiling fans that turn in perfect silence. Or perhaps not. Perhaps all the places where ceiling fans would turn in perfect silence have air-conditioning. No, for there must be mechanics who have ceiling fans. Men and women as familiar with machines as the rest of us are with eating. Who recognize a wobbling ceiling fan as an injured entity, a dog with a thorn in its paw. They rush to their doctor’s bag, still the harnessed helicopter, tend its wounds. And now only the near-silent hum of well-maintained machinery fills the empty air above their heads. :: posted by walker 12:18am 03/12/03 |
