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  • wittyjules 12:41 am on May 25, 2012 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , "bad dreams", , "child care", , , "dow jones", , , , "health and fitness", , , , "meaning of life", , , "new movies", , , , "Small, , , , , advice, , , bedtimes, , , , career ( 2 ), , , , , , coupons, , , , , , , , , , , gas, , , , , , , independent ( 2 ), , jobfind ( 2 ), , , , , , moods, motherhood, , , , , , , , , scam, scary, , , , , teach ( 2 ), teacher ( 2 ), teachers ( 2 ), technology, , , TV, unemployed ( 2 ), , , , , , ,   

    The thing about pop culture is… 

    You’re readily/easily/immediately irrelevant. 

    In this day and age of instant gratification and revolving door recycled trends, we don’t stand out as the most sophisticated or introspective group of people. In fact, it seems we’ve spent a couple generations on merely forgetting that we are people…distracting ourselves from life, rather than embracing it. If life truly imitates “art”, then we are a bunch of Sims, shopping around for temporary brands of happiness. Can I ask a question? Well, another one, anyway…

    What the fuck happened to simplicity???

    When did a sunrise become irrelevant? We ignore (quite without a murmur) the little bits of joy passed to us from our Creator. It’s not “cool” to sit outside and soak up the sunshine, feel the wind in our face, or gaze out at the few trees we haven’t demolished in the name of “progress”. And we never take the time to miss it, either. We distract ourselves from real life with a fake existence of wasting time and counting minutes. We have to spend money, impress other people, eek our way to justification in any way deemed “socially acceptable”.  You can’t just LIVE. No…that would put lots of sleazebag salesman/lawyer/ad monkey types out of a job. How atrocious. We are and must be a nation of consumers. Buy shit you don’t need, they beckon, because we say you might need it one day.

    It’s all a gimmick…bottom line is ratings…soulless, yuppie, 80’s bad guys in a jar, is what we have become (with a few rare gems of exception; relatively speaking). Look in the mirror and tell yourself the fucking truth. It sucks, but it’s the only way to fix us. 

    All of us.

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  • wittyjules 12:47 am on May 20, 2012 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , , , , , , "meaning of life", , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,   

    You can just tell… 

    (my secrets)

    I can tell a lot about a person by looking at them. Not at what they wear, or how they talk, but at the subtleties that make up a human life. Their eyes, hands, and shoulders all tell their stories. And I am an avid reader. For example, in any person’s eyes, written underneath the current expression (worn just for the occasion), you will find a mind reaching out, to meet yours.

    A person’s hands tell you the story of his/her life: the roads traveled, if you will. Hands will tell you if they work hard, or if they’ve led a manicured existence. If they’ve fought their way to this point, or oozed past us on easy-going sidelines.

    Shoulders…well, I hate to ever see them slump. It absolutely breaks my heart to see another human being at his/her breaking point. A person’s shoulders tell you a great deal about self-worth. This is, perhaps, the most integral. It’s one’s opinion of oneself, put forth into the world, which determines one’s destiny within/of/among Wo/Mankind.

     
  • wittyjules 7:34 pm on March 21, 2012 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: "best diet", "diet and exercise", "doomsday preppers", "dream meanings", "family guy", "free porn", "meaning of life", "new diet", "religious views", "US soldiers", death, diet, , free, healthy, , , , satire, soldier, stories, trump   

    For your consideration… 

     

    I just wanted to post a short story I’ve recently written for any feedback (positive, or negative, so have at it) I might be able to find out there.

    Thanks, guys! Ok, here goes…

     

    Wishing Well(?)

    Kali Sands stared down into the well, even as she threw the the coin. It fashed once, flipping over in the sunlight, before that wholly gracious reflection, too, disappeared forever. Pondering the depth of the old well was sort of a town hobby (or, joke, depending upon how you looked at it). The cold, gray, stone structure had been around since before anyone in the town could remember, and had existed when the town was founded, here. Yet, no one, in all of Terra (it was a small town, anyhow) had ever heard a coin hit the bottom. It was, indeed, a curious subject.

    She strained, stretching her neck to almost inhuman, even, comic book character lengths, to try again and gauge its depth. As always, nothing. Kali came to the well twice a week, or so, to sit in solitude and hopefully, one day, hear the tiny ‘clink’ of irrefutable evidence that might, at last, solve the mystery of the imperceivable abyss.

    Half the time, she wasn’t even sure what she wished. She’d just drop the coin, absent-mindedly and out of habit, then sit down to think, most days. For some reason, the question of the well’s depth concerned her exponentially more than her actual wishes. There were, of course, the obligatory wishes; health and happiness, and all that jazz; but there were other, more selfish wishes. Not to mention, Kali’s guesses, at what she was supposed to do with her life.

    Once, she’d wished for beauty. She had almost let the coin fall, too. And, she would have, had it not been for the nagging voice in the back of her mind insisting that vanity wasn’t worth a wasted wish. That voice had been so strong and calm, almost, like having God as her own personal conscience. She’d grasped the coin, pulled it back, and held it to her heart, like she could search it for a more noble desire. Fearing she didn’t deserve a wish, after all, she’d settled for clearing her mind and dropping the coin, purely for the hope of hearing it hit.

    One day, she knew, it would sound out. Proof that there was an ending; a bottom; a conclusion. On that day, she; Kali Sands; would be it. She would be fierce. She would know what it was, to finally be someone, who counted for something.

    * * *

    Columbus Tate watched, from his car, as Ceilia and her little homo buddy emerged from the lab, after a day of brewing up their fancy, scientific shit. They were probably on their way to get drunk and run their dick-suckers about him. He was already a few beers ahead of them, but, it hadn’t stopped him from following her before; why should it matter, now? Columbus grunted his disgust, watching them cross the street. Lunch, every day. Bar, every week. This guy was the reason Ceilia had broken it off with him, Columbus knew it; was counting on it. Ceil and her sorry little, fag, tag-along had tried to make a damned chump out of him. They were gonna pay, too. Columbus put the car in gear and drove along sowly, passing them on his way to their weekly watering hole. As soon as he had an opportunity, they were gonna regret it. Columbus Tate was nobody’s little bitch. He pulled into the bar’s parking lot, so wrapped up in revenge and his own, twisted version of reality, that he never saw the coin land in the soft carpeting of his passenger floorboard, a muffled thump of nearly muted sound, failing to echo the evidence of its existence. To anyone, really.

    “Why is it raining, all of the sudden?” Drew opened his newspaper, to use as a hasty, makeshift umbrella.

    Ceilia shrugged, nonchalant, in her bravado. She’d seen the car, but, refused to acknowledge him. He’d been following her for 37 days, now. If that wasn’t a stalker, she couldn’t imagine what was.

    “You got nothing?”

    She shrugged, again, as they reached the door and he pulled it open, for her.

    “Aww, shucks. Thank you, ever so, you big strong maaan,” she joked, in her best Scarlett O’Hara drawl, before ducking inside.

    “Beer?”

    “Hell, no. Shot! You want vodka?”

    He grinned. That woman definitely had an answer for everything. He could see the wheels turning, behind those baby greens, of hers. She had a theory about the rain, alright, probably wrapped up in some ridiculous conspiracy. He just wouldn’t hear about it, until she had a couple of drinks in her. After all, it was Friday. Recently, it had somehow evolved into a weekly ritual to hit the local bar, a block from the lab. It started about a month back, the day after Ceilia got dumped at dinner, by her longtime boyfriend. Drew had met the guy a couple times…total douche. But, wasn’t that always the way of it? Nice, smart girls always ended up with daft jerks, while nice guys, well…were mostly gay. That was Ceilia’s theory. The Cliff’s Notes version, anyhow.

    She was a brilliant woman and, although her theory on men and women rang pretty true, it lacked controlled results, or unbiased evidence, to support it. That said, her actual idea was, that people who were complete opposite, in personality, found each other sexually attractive, only to produce a more perfect person. Balance, and all that jazz. Drew found this theory unsettling. When it came down to it, her’s was just another wild, hybrid theory. He couldn’t get on board.

    She insisted that Drew only need, “look past the math”, to make most of her ideologies work. He just couldn’t see how this was possible. Math wasn’t something you overlooked, to get to a solution. Math was the only route to a Universal, plausible, non-arbitrary conclusion. As a fellow bio-chemist, Drew was fairly appalled even to hear Ceilia talking this way. She’d always hated her job and, truth be told, Drew did, too. Nothing killed aspirations of changing the world, through curing cancer, or, the elusive daydream of a Nobel Prize, quite like brewing up babies, for bored, rich women. Many a bar night, had begun with this very topic of discussion, in fact. The typical protocol being; “I never thought I’d be doing this, when I was in Grad school,” chased with a shot of tequila (or vodka, or rum), subsequently, by a couple of beers (usually, whatever was new on tap), and general pontification.

    “It’s just illogical,” he found himself saying. Slurring, actuallly. One shot had, somehow, turned into several. It was the only thing that remotely explained the gist of their conversation. Drunken science.

    “See?” Ceilia took a long, slow sip of her beer. “You just don’t see things the way I do, Drew.”

    “It’s a good thing, too. Otherwise we’d both be crackheads.”

    She laughed. “Don’t you mean, ‘crackpots’?”

    “Nah…I don’t think anyone uses that word outside of books, there, brainiac. Speaking of which, you know, our whole personality dynamic supports one of your theories, anyway.”

    “Oh yeah? Which one would that be?”

    “That you and I, being polar opposites, should probably bang.”

    She laughed again, wryly.

    “Yeah,” he agreed. “You do see a lot of things, other people don’t.” He paused, tapping the bar napkin with his index finger. “It doesn’t make you right about this, though.”

    “Look again, Drew. I’m right. Not to mention, it’s the simplest math of all time.”

    He gazed down at the napkin again, which looked even more surreal, against the backdrop of the heavy wood counter supporting it. ‘The God Equation’, she was calling it. He didn’t believe in God and, according to his Catholic upbringing, God especially didn’t believe in him. Science and math were the only plausible answer to the puzzle of our Universe; not some weird, arbitrary bearded guy in the sky. Sure, her ‘simple math’ added up. But, against what, exactly?

    God, man,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.

    He jumped at her voice. “You’re drunk,” his voice came out loud, awkard, accusing. He sounded like a little kid who didn’t want to play anymore, because he’d been picked last.

    She threw her head back, laughing wholeheartedly, this time. “Okay, Pot. Fair enough. But, you’re a little blacker, or, drunker, as it were. What are you? Trying to work up the courage to hit on me? We both know I’m not your type, honey.”

    Drew smiled a small, sad smile. “We both know, it wouldn’t work.”

    “That’s true. So, hit on the waitress.”

    He glanced at the overworked girl, as she pushed a dark loch of hair off her forehead. He shook his head, turning his gaze to the beer in his hand.

    “I doesn’t hold the ever-elusive meaning of life,” she’d read his mind, again. She had a tendncy. A freakish tendency; and it wasn’ just him. She always seemed tuned in to the locked up thoughts of other peoples’ cerebral chambers. If he weren’t a man of science, he’d swear she was psychic. She’d always had his number, since day one, when he thought he was so great at keeping everyone (parents and sister, included) out in the dark. He looked back at Ceilia, almost afraid of her.

    “Collective conscious,” she quipped. “Plus, you’re pitifuly easy to read.”

    He grinned, some more. “Pitifully, huh? Am I at least lovable, like a Pound Puppy, or a My Little Pony? Or, maybe, the little kids who learn a valuable life lesson, at the end of every, singe episode of G.I. Joe?”

    Drew couldn’t help, but to feel a perpetual need, to poke fun at Ceilia for her TV-on-DVD collection. She revered those old 80’s shows, bad camera and all, to the point that it made her physically angry for anyone to remake them, even in an honest attempt to introduce them to a new generation. She threw a peanut at him. Her secret shame was Jem; who could blame her?; after all, Jem was ‘truly, truly, truly outrageous’. Three truly’s…that had to be legit.

    “You forgot Brandon. You’re more of a Brandon. Especially, with that red hair.”

    He ran a hand through it, involuntarily. “It’s not red. And who the hell is Brandon?” He sounded very like the mythical Anne Shirey, and they both knew it. Ceilia grinned.

    “Punky Brewster’s dog. What is it, if it’s not red?”

    “Auburn. And you would know the name of Punky Brewster’s dog.”

    “Whatever. I made you laugh, anyway.”

    “You usually do.”

    Ceilia summoned the waitress. “Let’s get outta here, kid.”

    “No problem, Bogie.”

    She loved those old movies, too. She was the only grown woman he knew, who still watched the ancient, Hayley Mills version of, ‘The Parent Trap’, and she owned every Marilyn Monroe movie, ever made. Not to mention the whole Bogie and Bacall collection, ‘It Happened One Night’, ‘Dr. Strangelove; Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb’, amongst others. Ceilia was a metaphysical conundrum, he supposed, in and of, herself.

    Columbus watched the pair leave the bar, wondering if that Don, or Dan, or whatever the hell his name was, could grow the balls to try something with Ceilia. Just once. One time, was all Columbus needed, to confirm his suspicion that the two had been messing around, all the while, on him. They called two cabs, hugging innocently, before they supposedly parted ways. Oh, they were clever, alright. Columbus took a swig from his private stash and followed the D-named fag’s cab, all the way, down that yellow brick road.

    * * *

    Kali slung her backpack off of her shoulder and threw it to the ground. She never lost her cool. What was wrong with her, today? Oh, yeah; she knew what it was; that damned math quiz. She’d failed. She was sure of it. Math was simply horrid. So limiting, with no room for imagination. How many times, she wondered, had she wished she was at least capable at math? Countless. Truly, an insurmountable quantity of coins had been flung into the abyss, with this very name on them. She fished around in her pocket for another one, this time, with rain on her mind. She dropped it, straining again, for the sound of surety, only to be disappointed again, at its silent descent. Slumping against the well, Kali gazed up at the cloudless sky. Still, no rain. Still, no hint of a bottom in the old well. It wasn’t shaping up to be a good day.

    * * *

    Ceilia sighed. She had managed to grant a bored, rich housewife, quintuplets. What would happen, from here on, was completely out of Ceilia’s hands, but, it didn’t stop her from speculating at the terrible fate of the four extra little people. Ceilia had always been pro-choice, and completely okay with someone who found herself in a jamb, using abortion as her end-all, be-all, nowehre-to-go, last option. It wasn’t birth control. It damn sure wasn’t appropriate for a woman to stir the pot and have babies genetically engineered for her, toss the rest of the embryos, like they were nothing more than used-up tissues. That, Celia mused, was most certainly a horse of a different color. She couldn’t imagine that this was what ‘free will’, if such a thing truly existed (which, her profession seemed to prove), was meant to be.

    She wondered what Drew thought about all of this, but, she couldn’t really ask. He was touchy, even with subjects that only danced around the idea of any brand of God(s). Free will, was pretty completely, a God(s) argument. She’d had enough of those for this week. It was awfully tiring to argue with a supposed atheist, about something he’d grown up around and actively chosen to refuse to ever acknowledge, again. Celia had always believed in a Higher Power, but, on her own terms, alone. She couldn’t bear to box God in, with a little book, in a little steeple. Drew; he couldn’t even come to his own terms with any Creator/God figure. She could understand why, too. If her overtly Catholic parents had sent her to a de-gayification camp three years running, she might have felt the same.

    Celia preferred to think of the human race as one, of many, manifestations of a pure and perfect Energy/Universe/Creator. She’d figured, long ago, that these words all meant the same thing. She was likely wrong, as all of the human race was apt to be, however, people had always been uncomfortable, talking with her about theoogy. She was labeled, in her family, an atheist. She didn’t really mind. They just didn’t understand her and she, well, she just didn’t understand anything. But, at least she was smart enough to know that she knew nearly nothing. She couldn’t help, but, feel like she had a little in common with God(s), what with her petri dishes and celluar construction. It was hard to imagine that everything had fallen into place, this way, without a guiding hand, of some sort, by whatever name. Still lost in her thoughts, she stepped out into the rainy afternoon, for a long overdue lunch. Where the hell was all this rain coming from, anyhow? She felt like she was in a tropical forest, during the monsoon season.

    * * *

    Kali gazed up at the sky, longing for a single drop, of life-giving rain. She perked her ears and tossed the coin, with a wish for water, pushing its way past her lips. She coudn’t imagine how Terra would survive much longer, without any rain. It wasn’t as though her town was a desert. She looked around, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the well. The town was starting to look sad and dull, almost like a ghost town, in the old Westerns. When was the last time, she’d seen anyone at the old well, Kali wondered. When, in fact, was the last time she saw anyone…anywhere? Something very strange seemed to be going on around here.

    * * *

    Columbus sat outside the bar, watching and waiting. What were they doing? Was that ‘mo holding her, keeping her warm, in the dead of the night? Who was taking care of Ceilia, if this fag didn’t have the balls to do it? Columbus shook his head; what the fuck was he doing; worrying about it? She was whoring herself out to a queer, when their relationship wasn’t even cold, in its grave…so what. He didn’t give a shit. And he’d tell himself tht; the whole time he was following her.

    Drew couldn’t understand what was bothering Celia, so. And, to make matters worse, she was remaining uncharacteristically close-mouthed about it. He eyed her, from behind the beer glass, as he took a swig. Yes, it was Friday, again. It had a way of coming around regularly, like that.

    “What?” she’d caught him, staring at her.

    He shook his head. “Just wondering what’s up with you. You’re so,” he paused, “quiet.”

    “Yeah, I know.”

    “Anything you want to talk about?”

    Now, she shook her head. It was going to be a long night, at this rate. Without Celia to entertain him, tonight was sure to be a bust. He realized, then, how much he looked forward to her zany concoctions, regardless of his cynicism. She kept him light-hearted and bizzarre.

    “Now, I’ve got you thinking, huh?”

    He nodded, raising his glass, again.

    “If Science and Religion ever shut the hell up and agree to meet in the middle, I think I’ll be happy.”

    He nodded, again. “I just don’t see how they can.”

    “Yeah,” she mused. “Nobody seems to. That’s just the problem. I’m the only one who sees a little of it, which makes me automatically wrong. I’m by myself, in a society where majority rules.”

    “You got that right.”

    She smiled.

    “See? That’s what I was missin’. Are you thinking about Levine?”

    He’d hit the nail on the head, alright. She found herself akin to the proverbial nail. She was, in fact, still worried about the four “extra” babies, she’d inadvertently cooked up for Mrs. Saul Levine, III. Honestly, she’d expected more from the woman, considering her faith. You’d think God’s chosen people would be smart enough to realize there was a reason they weren’t chosen to have kids. But, all of it was truly out of her hands, now. Some lab tech had probably already disposed of the little miracles lying unwanted, in their dish.

    “Yeah,” she admitted, “but I’d rather not dwell on it.”

    “Fair enough. You need someone to talk to, you know where to find me. In the meantime, I gotta take a leak.”

    “Well, I’m not going to come looking any time soon, then. Damn.”

    Both of them laughing, Drew excused himself, leaving Ceilia to her own musings, which inevitably wandered to this unending question of morality, in a society devoid of even a hint.

    For no reason that she could name, Ceilia looked up, just then. She was startled to discover there was no ceiling, only a long (seemingly endless) tunnel, raising straight up above her head. A dim, dying, gray glow reached out, toward her, never to touch her world. Ceilia blinked, once; twice; but, the tunnel stayed and kept glowing, ever so slightly. It never wavered. This was impossible. Surely, she was dreaming. There was, simply, no other explanantion; logical, or extraordinary.

    She turned her attention back to her drink, still waiting for her, just as she’d left it. In fact, she could feel the icy liquid, there, beyond the glass, and the sheer layer of condensation; wet droplets of sweat, against her palm. All was, indeed, as it should be. The bartender, sullen and bored, pouring another shot, to drown the sorrows of a patron who refused to shut up about them. The usuals, jammed up at the bar, to catch the game their wives wouldn’t let them watch at home. A couple of weird guys she’d never seen before, hanging in the corner, talking amongst themselves.

    On any normal night, Ceilia would have willfuly and readily made up a witty dialogue, to entertain two such chracters. It was her favorite part of any bar; letting her underused imagination take flight. Married couples, boyfriend-and-girlfreinds, guy parties drunk on alternate man-love and battles of testosterone… they were all good fun. These guys could have been interesting. One had on a trench coat, dull and gray, and Ceilia found the theme song for ‘Inspector Gadget’ running through her head, unwittingly. They were talking in hushed tones and Ceilia figured they were probably up to no good. They were at a bar miles from where they lived, to discuss some hit the preppy guy wanted Inspector Gadget to carry out. It was probably Richie Rich’s wife, he wanted offed. Every now and again, Richie Rich’s eyes scanned the room, paranoid squirrel style, to lock with hers and scamper away, uncertainly, again. She smiled, with about as much joy as the bartender, and gazed down into her glass. Half, maybe a third, full. Drew had downed his before retiring, to tend to his business, she noticed. All was utterly, as it should be. Except, for that far-reaching tunnel, the hole, and its glow.

    She didn’t mean to (again), but, found herself wondering about what she’d seen, prior to actively distracting herself, this way. She supposed her thoughts had to come full circle, sometime. It wasn’t as though she was drunk enough to forget. She was, truth be told, pretty sober. They didn’t start with a shot, and this was only her second beer.

    Wait! She’d looked away; turned her attention to the people in the bar. The tunnel had to be gone, now. It was the oldest trick, in lucid dreaming, to turn your attention elsewhere, when something was about to wake you up, or, shatter your illusion of life, as you knew it. At any rate, the tunnel must have disappeared. She looked up, tentatively. Still there. She found herself transfixed, by what would go down in the record books, as the most surreal, insane thing, that had ever happened to her. The tunnel stretched out, into Infinity, into that glow of Heaven, or whatever it was.

    Was it a wormhole? Ceilia wondered. Certainly not, she remedied, realizing that the walls of the tunnel were clearly man-made. The gray and beige cobblestone walls sparkled, at points, in the poor light, to suggest quartz, or, even limestone. The blocks were rough, uneven, thrown together and adhered with mortar. The mortar didn’t even look quite like the factory-made stuff, you could buy at Home Depot, but more like the old-school formula of; contained sand, clay, traces of calcium carbonate, and a high percentage of lime. Ceilia marveled at the detail her mind was absorbing and simultaneously recalling, in only instants. She absolutely must be dreaming, she again convinced herself. It was a very well-calculated, detailed, and constructed dream; that was it. Then, it happened.

    As she studied the walls, a figure came into the light. A silhouette of someone, or, something. God (maybe)? She wasn’t sure, but, the pure, raw emotion; the instant connection and love of someone she didn’t know and never really could; suggested that this could only be God; that, or, she’d just given birth, without realizing it; they were the only two loves that compared. This face, however, wasn’t the face of a God, Who’d been painted throughout the centuries, by the classical greats and the common Wo/Man, alike. This was no Sage; no old, wise, timeless bearded man, in the sky, reaching for cherubim from a cloud of perfection. This face was the epitome of Youth; plain and pretty. This face bore the small, adorable snub nose, characteristic of early childhood, and high cheekbones ready to emerge from the last remnants of baby face…

    “CEILIA!” Drew said, sharply, as though this were the umpteenth time.

    She turned to him, with a start, confused at his sudden presence. Oh, right; her head cleared; he’d gone to the bathroom, only moments, before.

    “Are you drunk?”

    She shook her head, dumbfounded.

    “What are you looking at?”

    She pointed up and his gaze followed. He shrugged, as if to say; Really-what the hell are you looking at?

    Ceilia looked up, expecting the tunnel to be gone, at last. It wasn’t. Tunnel, glow, young girl (Ceilia wasn’t sure when, or how-but she’d decided it was a young girl, that God, or, Whatever it was, up there); all, still watching her. Ceilia gazed into the glow, at the face she could barely make out, as a coin flipped, end-over-end, past Ceilia’s uplifted visage, to clink into Drew’s empty glass. Outside, thunder crackled, and the Monsoon season began again, for today.

    In the two days since she’d noticed, Kali had seen no one else, in Terra. Where her books, or backpack came from, she’d no idea. Whom she never seemed to talk to, she didn’t suppose she’d ever find out. Wandering around, aimlessly, had only led her here, back to the old well. Confused, she fished a coin out of her pocket and tossed it absent-mindedly, straining to hear, knowing she wouldn’t, as always.

    She wished, only, to know who she was; to know where this was; to know what it all meant, after all.

    Clink.

     

     

     
  • wittyjules 5:23 am on July 27, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , "meaning of life", , , , consciousness,   

    And, now, for something completely different… 

    People tell me all the time, “Jules, you’ve gotta think outside the box.”

    These are people who: A. Don’t know me, at all, or (much worse), B: Don’t or can’t accept what comes out of my mouth (and pen) when, as I tend to, do think outside the box. I noticed, a long time ago, that I just can’t stay in the damned thing. The box, that is. But, I’m a weirdo, for it. This same group, who tell me not to think what I think, or say what I say, are one in the same….the whole, “outside the box” crowd. Personally, I find it amusing. However, I digress. The time has come, to make my point.

    I am the very first to admit that I’m no physicist. Math has always been an issue for me. It doesn’t keep me from speculating upon certain theoretical issues, however. In short, I’m all theory and no practice, so please, bear with me and my sprinkles of (mostly) conjecture.  I happen to be a believer in several different scenarios of quantum theory, out of the eight major, basic themes, concerning reality. First of all, I discount the theory that there is no “deep reality”, due to its integral flaws. How can there be no deep reality, if we exist? When Bohr said that, to go further( than to scratch the surface) was madness, he merely meant that it would drive him (as an old-school scientist) mad. He just couldn’t get with the times. I also contest that observation, as a passive entity, cannot possibly create reality. Besides, it’s utterly and (dangerously) subjective. Only one person, or mind, is needed to observe what s/he observes (which inevitably varies, based upon bias, experience, etc.), and that is wholly insane, or, at the very least, has the potential to be. I feel the most likely scenario to be that, consciousness creates reality (with a cross section of multiple realities based upon choice and circumstance; much like a game of chess, but I’ll get to that, in just a moment).

    Well, you may say to me, how is ‘consciousness creating reality’ any less subjective, than ‘observation creates reality’? Because my theory stipulates, Sir, or, Madam, that the consciousness creating the reality, is a collective. Just as, one atom bends, to another, so do our minds. Things meld, become hazy, interpret each other, and mold to become (some) mostly defined form of what we all perceive.

    I’ll return, now, to the idea that  chess is a cross section of multiple realities, based upon choice and circumstance. You’ll have a five-move Mate, going on, inside of your brain, and the opponent goes and fucks you up. He moves the Queen you were just about to trade, before sacking your Bishop, to Mate him with a Knight and a Rook (it happens, I swear…). Now, bottom line, the whole reality of those sixty-four squares, has changed. It’s altered, in a way to which you must adjust, or die. This is your new reality; the possibility of defeat, in the wake of certain victory. After all, how did your opponent see your move? I could blame collective consciousness and your projection of your mind, to his, but, I won’t. What I will say is that we, like all animals (and it’s best not to forget that we are, for all intents and purposes, animals) tend to follow a distinct and predictable pattern of attack. If you’re still with me, stick around…it’s about to get fun (for dorks, like me, anyway).

    My theory, based solely upon the particular ramifications of my previously mentioned theories, is that I (in particular) project my consciousness strongly, into the overall collective, to which I attribute most of our reality. I do feel that there is a final word; a sort of mix, of God (“or whatever it is, if it actually exists”-The Life Aquatic, With Steve Zissou), and mere Man. If I piss off any feminists, I apologize, now. I do own a vagina, myself, I just don’t keep quite the exclusive rights on it, which you folks seem to.

    Bukowski once said, “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” He was right, to a fault. The supposely ‘sane’ people are the two-legged cattle who go about with smiles on their (whacko) faces, blubbering about Jesus, and ‘American Idol’, at the same time, if you catch my drift.

    If ‘God’ were the purest form of absolute energy, and we were a continuation of that energy, emanating from the center of the Universe, to continue on, throughout death and the infinite reaches of said Universe; couldn’t science and religion coexist, as equal parts of the whole, without one trying to dominate the other? And, couldn’t humanity (or, whatever this slideshow of the inexplicable gauntlet of life and reality, as we know it) embrace and welcome death, as a graduation to the next stage of existence…a, sort of, evolution, beyond the consciousness we all think we know, but within the regulations of the infinitely more powerful ‘sub’-conscious, as it were? Just some food, for thought….or, thought, for food…

    -Jules-

     
    • Mr WordPress 5:23 am on July 27, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Hi, this is a comment.
      To delete a comment, just log in, and view the posts’ comments, there you will have the option to edit or delete them.

      • Chrisy 6:58 pm on August 3, 2011 Permalink | Reply

        I think you should go to a university and major in philosophy. Hit it up, man!

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