Muto
Street art by the Argentinian artist Blu.
Essence
What is my essence? In other words, what part of me is really “me”, and what part of me is just details?
Perhaps I am simply a personality encapsulated in flesh… or flesh that has spawned a personality.
Perhaps I am simply a Joshian algorithm operating within a certain set of parameters, a finite equation with a finite number of inputs and certain well-known outputs.
Perhaps I am a cusp, an undefined point on the infinite continuity of reality where everyone else’s equations fail to make sense.
Perhaps I am a mere solipsistic anomaly and inevitable by-product of universal entropy.
Perhaps I am a self-aware projection of a higher-order entity that has (for reasons unknown and unknowable) decided to have this dream or illusion or incarnation manifesting as me.
Perhaps I am a spirit currently experiencing a temporary “pre-life” or “after-life” before reverting to some other form.
I wonder if such things matter, and whether it is even important to know oneself to that extent. The self that most profess to know is the self that is presented to people in general: the self that likes these TV shows, that enjoys a certain favorite beverage, that has certain attitudes toward money and morality and other topics. People who have this knowledge of the self are simply actors well-versed in their roles and very familiar with the faces presented to the public; there is no fear of being disingenuous since a consistent performance is always given based on the well-known rules. In effect, they’ve memorized scripts they themselves have written, and recite them following the stage directions they’ve also memorized.
When people say they like me or they love me, what is it they love? Do they love my physical body? Do they love my demeanor? My responses to various situations and stimuli? Is it some combination of all that? Or something else, something intangible that they enjoy? When they think of me, of what do they think? I expect that the thoughts people have of me are inconsistent, and that every individual’s perception of me differs, being shaded by their own experiences, prejudices, and whatnot. I also expect these perceptions even differ from time to time for a given person, as people’s views of others seem to change over time.
Truth remains elusive as ever. I am growing more and more convinced that there are more answers than there are questions.
Blearaarrrreeaaarrgh
Didn’t get a chance to tell him. I couldn’t get a hold of him for some reason. Maybe he could sense what was coming?
Furthermore… I shredded my arm and shoulder in the middle of the night last night on a zipper in my bed. (Don’t ask.)
Did I mention that I had to work over the long weekend since my coworkers couldn’t figure out how to resolve an issue that came up on Friday?
Grrrrr.
Out for Memorial Day
I was originally planning on doing some cleaning around the house and running a few errands, but you know what? Fuck that. Life is a fleeting thing and my best years are getting behind me. I’m going to call Luke and we’re going out, and when the time is right… I’m going to tell him.
For better or for worse, I’m not going to keep up this charade.
To Continue the Current Posting Theme…
Best part is the guy at the end.
Scientific Materials
It is increasingly hard to differentiate between the noises that bounce around the atomic corridors and those that originate from the bright shining nuclei as they skitter and fritter about the room. The only things that can be said have been repeated ad infinitum in a host of better ways by a host of better mouths to a far better audience under far better skies. All else is a pale imitation of the sound, the true sound that comes from either between or within, not the crossing of the two as the Pauli Exclusion Principle would not allow such neighborly acoustics in this day and age.
You can always learn new things when you pull molecules away, when you get them alone, off to themselves. They mutate in a host of unexpected ways and have a great knack for revealing all sorts of secret truths and hidden timelines as they decay back into their original state (or lack thereof). So it is with man, when he is pulled away from his nucleus, his inner negative charge is not balanced, and this monstrous ion glowers in the corner, weird and freakish, repulsed by those like himself and desirous of those completely different from himself. They call this a solution; perhaps the final solution then is when all particles are separated into their constituent parts and you have soupy protons and soupy neutrons, soupy Abercrombie models and soupy emo kids, soupy sluts and soupy virgins, each in their own little beakers well-labeled and kept cool and stoppered.
Strange shaking and sloshing. Positive and negative acoustics. The acid of desire and the base of excess, both far from neutral water and far from neutral tones. Some half-humans in labcoats might endeavor to study these constituent parts to glean the mysteries of original sin and original energy, but I can tell you they endeavor in vain, as they themselves have already been duly separated and duly sorted. So how can things of distinct and polar nature know of their opposites when it is far, infinitely far from their own experience?
All knowledge is only gained through balance; but with balance comes nullification of the original qualities in lieu of a third quality, unlike his parents, completely of a different tone. And while some lives call for more from the jar on the left and some call for more from the jar on the right, all lives call for the aqueous by-product of assimilation.
Finally, A Religion I Can Get Behind
Scenes from the Chiwawa Matsuri, et. al.
Gaming Locales
City 17 by day…
Port-a-Lucine by night.
The Old Popularity Index
