± H13.com - Archives - March 2011
march 2011

Update3:07am friday, 25th march
So, what’s going on: the main thing probably is that I’m headed off to Korea once again for all of April, and therefore this site will once more be on temporary hiatus. My aunt is really getting up there in years, and I don’t want to miss my chance to see her. In other news, my AI project is going surprisingly well, and I might just have a prototype ready soon. Of course, I’ve been saying that since 2007, so take that as you will. Other than that, I have to pay massive taxes this year, so I better get funded soon. Oh, and the Russian model has not yet returned to the ’States yet, so no new news to report there. Stay safe, seeya later.
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Placeholders1:05am monday, 21st march
These things we plop down as placeholders — they become, many a time, the very foundation upon which we build our lives. Thinking we will go back when we have something better, and scribble out our past effort with such inscriptions that will fork lightning... such lightning almost never comes, and the old, hasty handwriting remains. Moreover, it is expanded upon, extrapolated from, etched into the very surface that was only a temporary site. I think it that perhaps the majority of life philosophies were written down upon cocktail napkins, if not literally — a half a clue that became the gospel of one’s life. This is our lot, we mere mortals: that we base our grandest ideas upon a second of inspiration that we always upon writing think we will improve upon, but never do.

Examine in yourself, if you will, some of your most dearly held notions. I find that some of my own I decided quite arbitrarily to subscribe to, sometimes as a child, with as much attention to detail as one decides what to have for lunch. Despair not if much of what you believe in has very little reason why. We most of us are such this way, for all of us are arbitrary creatures with little or no rhyme to our soliloquy. Chance, in my reckoning, plays much more a role in our living, our decisions, our understandings, our passions, than we care to concede. Some of us are lucky, and — I think — most of us are not. But such is what is meant for us by the winds of life, that we are blown across seas we know not of. Some of us dare to risk it, anyway: put up a sail, and go.

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Meant to Be8:08am friday, 18th march
I have this feeling (comes and goes) that my life is somehow attuned to a grand and mysterious structure underlying the all: “that which was meant to be”. Ever get that? I remember talking to one of my friends about such a thing, asked him whether he had always felt somewhere that he was destined for something great. He nodded, yes, right on the nose, and we were kindred. It’s not madness, I don’t think, or maybe it is only madness’ cousin, because I can trace it back to before I had any kind of truly mad thought. The feeling did, however, enable my Christ complex. So it goes. But the feeling hangs over me like a cloak — a greatness thrust upon ’m, to be thrust upon me, waiting for its appointed time to drop and drape me in one of the colors of fate. Could prove interesting, whatever it might be.

There was that line from the movie, American Beauty: “...everything that was meant to happen, does.” Almost circular, that reasoning, but I am a believer in prophecy, so that line works for me. I know that I am not a Golden One who was foretold would conquer a great evil in the world, but I have these moments... there are some seconds that pass where the great and unknowable Wheel arcing silver in dreamtime lets me imagine that my time is somewhere near or far, but there, that I am meant for something, something I have not yet the words for. Then the feeling passes, and I shake it off. Perhaps I’m just imagining the whole thing, if it comes down to it, that it’s not even madness, but a daydream. Maybe it’s just a figment of my fancy that drifts in then drifts out, that really doesn’t change a thing.

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Drew8:03am sunday, 13th march
He drew on himself: strange symbols, lines leading nowhere, circles with no particular orientation. His pens were continually running dry of ink, and if he took a bath, the water stained a blackish tint, as if he were washing away sins. The patterns he drew were a mystery of asymmetry, an ode to chaos; these markings were a war paint to a battle long over, his side the defeated. No one ever asked him why he did this — there was a certain unknowable poetry to it, and people... people don’t ask questions when they think they already know the answer: he was a sign that the universe was as senseless as they believed. But if they had asked him, “Why?”, he would have answered, “This is what the whole world means — this is the way I see it. Each day the pattern changes, and when the old one washes away, I draw on myself what is new... like a reflection of it all that knows what it reflects, a world rewritten in abbreviations.”
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Clue2:41am wednesday, 9th march
Finally, in this life, do I feel like I’m getting a clue. As to why things are why they are — enough not to drive me up the wall — what means something and what is vacant of meaning, what to practice and what to ignore, a feeling that I know what I am capable of. This is like getting a new lease on life. Now that I feel like I know what I’m doing, maybe I’ll be able to accomplish something on purpose. So far, all the best things in my life have been by accident, and perhaps more will come in this fashion, but one believes that chances will arise for me to believe in something until it happens, to work at something until the thing is done. Maybe to one day to create something that I can call a masterpiece, but this might be getting ahead of myself. I often felt I got waylaid in my early adulthood, but truly, this was merely the way I traveled to get here, where I am now. Count it all joy.
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Not Signs 3:37am saturday, 5th march
I will rely on ideas, not on signs. Whatever the numbers yell at me, if they have no correspondence to some measurable quantity, I will shut out that noise to the best of my ability. For it was once that signs were all I had, but now reason has taken the helm. My science will not play second fiddle to voodoo. Not that I will not rely on divine guidance to help me along the way, but in all earnestness, I will not abandon logic to the whim of random fluctuations in the periphery of my vision. It is time for me to outgrow the warm blanket of superstition, that I held for so much comfort, for security in a hostile world. For I can brace myself for the wind now, which I can face bare of any shielding touch. It is time to be real.
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Me1:12am thursday, 3rd march
This is the me I never was. As Schrodinger’s cat is in the indeterminate state between life and death until observed, whereupon it becomes one or the other, when I observe myself through my writing, I collapse the wave — and I think that this is not me that I write, that I am not really one way or another but that mysterious, undecided state, instead. I think I am me only when unobserved by anyone, especially not myself. When you make me write, you force me to make a hundred decisions, a hundred guesses on what I really am. When I write my thoughts, I am creating as much as I am revealing — the act of writing, of forcing the introspection, changes the what from the thoughts you wish to show to what you can show, because thoughts are not words, not even symbols. Thoughts are feelings that do not truly fit into any of the set words that exist to describe them, and when you want to relay them, you have to shove them into whatever pre-invented forms exist — to struggle with the words, which are all you have.

So, let me be forever telling you, “Hello, this is me.” I will always be a mystery behind the words, a thing that words can never tell.

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