The heavens can teach us about things like the space between one thing and another, the distance between our perceptive capabilities and what is. Observation brings new interest in life and inspires thinking. Without thoughtfulness, instincts overwhelm and "what is" loses some of its meanings.
Think of instincts as the mechanics of self-sustenance in the face of impending death.
With death, a new cycle or new part of a cycle for that matter that we once were. It is not all negative, it spurs living things onward.
If a god moves to pick its nose does a universe full of stars come undone? That nagging idea of the Big Bang being just another small atom of something larger.
Sub-creation: Art: making something novel from observable bits and pieces we can hobble together. Creation has happened, or is it always happening? If the latter, then our art is part of it. Still, new things cannot be created... but old things can be reshaped. Can human beings be true creators? Or only breeders and alchemists, a catalyst in the larger, on-going Creation?
The Creation is the forward flow of time, or it creates this flow, or it is the result of this flow....
Both are undeniable to the senses. We are fixed in the flow of Time and Creation but our alchemy or art can allow the miming of stepping outside Time and mortality.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
madness
Fellow Earthlings!
Thank you for visiting. The more ruminating I do on what it might be like to be Martian, or just alien to this world, the less I am able to make light of the subject. A seriousness about the search for truth and meaning take over. I am beginning to see the elements of propaganda that have for so long remained hidden from view in the science fiction of the past century. Only with distance does the perspective broaden; yet the heart grows fonder, too. It's a bit of a conundrum. Even the most convincing visual picture (here I am thinking of the media of film) of science fiction relies absolutely upon the strange and wonderful world around us, the same planet some of us long so desperately to escape. This wonderful world includes the human in all its aspects, as well, and the visual picture comes to reflect those who produce it and where it is produced. Hence, the bipedal or humanoid-centric universe depicted in Star Trek and many other imagined galaxies.
The space race between the Americans and Soviets of the mid-nineteen hundreds fuelled a collective imagination that, in turn, further fuelled the space race itself, much like the nuclear reactions that take place inside a star. Eventually though, in the case of both the race and the star, entropy takes over. Like the miner trapped by a cave-in whose body can only reuse its own urine so many times before being poisoned, the system breaks down unless something new is brought in, some source of fresh water discovered.
But now I am reducing everything to the simplest terms: the struggle for survival. Why? In a way this is what the space race was about. Am I over-simplifying? By trying to make blanket statements to deal with the "big picture" I cover up the details that the miner is trying to dig up: the new source of fuel. I am sorry. I am not very good at thinking. Or writing, for that matter.
Now for the descent into confusion and self-doubt, the same old excrement. When will I find the hidden streams that will replenish me?
So, I guess that's it for now. The mind plays tricks, the nebulous shadow-self invades like a force from another world. In a way, this writing, unplanned and meandering is evidence of how I break down from positive, ready to take things on, and inspired. The other self tangles it up. But an attention span is only so long. I will come back to write again. What literary character am I reminded of? It's a Dickensian one: the wealthy aunt of the main character helps to care for a man who is forever writing his autobiography, only to become muddled and depressed by the recurring appearance of a mad royal personage in the tale. It's one of David Copperfield's companions. No, not the illusionist, the literary character. The trick was for him to have meaningful occupation and friends. The devil makes playthings of us in our idleness. Isn't that same Satan of the tales depicted as an alien force that descends from the heavens upon the Earth like the darkness upon the mind?
Don't make war on the strangeness, when it lands its craft. Explore the world with it. Feel the mind expand under the alien springs.
Thank you for visiting. The more ruminating I do on what it might be like to be Martian, or just alien to this world, the less I am able to make light of the subject. A seriousness about the search for truth and meaning take over. I am beginning to see the elements of propaganda that have for so long remained hidden from view in the science fiction of the past century. Only with distance does the perspective broaden; yet the heart grows fonder, too. It's a bit of a conundrum. Even the most convincing visual picture (here I am thinking of the media of film) of science fiction relies absolutely upon the strange and wonderful world around us, the same planet some of us long so desperately to escape. This wonderful world includes the human in all its aspects, as well, and the visual picture comes to reflect those who produce it and where it is produced. Hence, the bipedal or humanoid-centric universe depicted in Star Trek and many other imagined galaxies.
The space race between the Americans and Soviets of the mid-nineteen hundreds fuelled a collective imagination that, in turn, further fuelled the space race itself, much like the nuclear reactions that take place inside a star. Eventually though, in the case of both the race and the star, entropy takes over. Like the miner trapped by a cave-in whose body can only reuse its own urine so many times before being poisoned, the system breaks down unless something new is brought in, some source of fresh water discovered.
But now I am reducing everything to the simplest terms: the struggle for survival. Why? In a way this is what the space race was about. Am I over-simplifying? By trying to make blanket statements to deal with the "big picture" I cover up the details that the miner is trying to dig up: the new source of fuel. I am sorry. I am not very good at thinking. Or writing, for that matter.
Now for the descent into confusion and self-doubt, the same old excrement. When will I find the hidden streams that will replenish me?
So, I guess that's it for now. The mind plays tricks, the nebulous shadow-self invades like a force from another world. In a way, this writing, unplanned and meandering is evidence of how I break down from positive, ready to take things on, and inspired. The other self tangles it up. But an attention span is only so long. I will come back to write again. What literary character am I reminded of? It's a Dickensian one: the wealthy aunt of the main character helps to care for a man who is forever writing his autobiography, only to become muddled and depressed by the recurring appearance of a mad royal personage in the tale. It's one of David Copperfield's companions. No, not the illusionist, the literary character. The trick was for him to have meaningful occupation and friends. The devil makes playthings of us in our idleness. Isn't that same Satan of the tales depicted as an alien force that descends from the heavens upon the Earth like the darkness upon the mind?
Don't make war on the strangeness, when it lands its craft. Explore the world with it. Feel the mind expand under the alien springs.
Monday, June 11, 2012
A quick message to let you, the good people, know that Zmz is still operational. It's been a while since words have flowed from these phalanges to the ether. I want you to know that I miss you. I am down but not out. The Earth is our shared space-ship and my attention is drawn to it fully these days.
I am having trouble concentrating, so it is time to be off. Drop me a note sometime, won't you? I will force myself to respond promptly.
Zmz
I am having trouble concentrating, so it is time to be off. Drop me a note sometime, won't you? I will force myself to respond promptly.
Zmz
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
...on that midnight train to Georgia
Ahoy fellow space cadets,
Thank you for your sympathy regarding the loss of our canine friend. She had a busy and happy life. She got to see this continent's west and best coasts and chase ducks in both Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Now she's dog-paddling those celestial seas between the galaxies.
Other news: another member of the now-defunct super-group "The Maughams" is due to arrive this weekend! That's two months, two visits. 5ad1e must be making waves up there because it appears there has been some planetary re-alignment.
The Mann arrives June 3rd just in time for Pride day.
Thank you for your sympathy regarding the loss of our canine friend. She had a busy and happy life. She got to see this continent's west and best coasts and chase ducks in both Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Now she's dog-paddling those celestial seas between the galaxies.
Other news: another member of the now-defunct super-group "The Maughams" is due to arrive this weekend! That's two months, two visits. 5ad1e must be making waves up there because it appears there has been some planetary re-alignment.
The Mann arrives June 3rd just in time for Pride day.
Friday, May 25, 2012
death
Our dear canine friend, 5ad1e, passed away peacefully yesterday, the twenty-fourth of May, 2012. She was twelve years old. She is missed terribly. There is an empty spot in our hearts and home.
Zmz
Zmz
Monday, May 14, 2012
equal parts hello?
Things may be taken too seriously. Who can tell? But it is sad that the writing project falls to the wayside. The sadness encourages some part of me to make an end of it, to be final. That kind of thinking is probably due to the sickness. So let us not say goodbye just yet, "but as the French have it, au revoir."
goodbye
I will be going away for a while. Who can know when or if I will ever return? My mind is no longer functioning properly and I am unable to keep up the charade. My illness is becoming me. "We shall have to become philosophers, Mary." No more aesthetes. Enough vanity.
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