Out of money
Out of time
A blog I started
A blog I'll end
But I'll keep writing
These pointless things
It All is hidden
mind body, and soul
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Sign...
Sifting through 49-year-old correspondence, I come across a little book entitled "Tact" stapled to a memo. Inside the booklet is a little piece of paper with a phrase on it, kind of like the ones you find in a fortune cookie. It says, "Men, like bullets, go farthest when they are smoothest." Curious as to where the quote originated I did a search and found that it came from a German Romantic writer by the name of Jean Paul (Johann Paul Friedrich Richter). But ultimately it led me to another one of his quotes: "Too much trust is a foolishness, too much distrust a tragedy." Now most anyone would agree with that statement and find it rather obvious, but to me it's a sign. I have this tragic tendency to go against my own nature; I do it ALL THE TIME. I can give you all kinds of examples, but the most current desire I have is to close the book entitled "Pablo". My thoughts and intentions want to hide. Realistically speaking I can't close it, but yes, maybe I can hide it.
A tome upon an earthen alter, in some cavern beneath the ground where shallow waters cover the surface, gathers no dust from the slowly cracking ceiling, never molds from the rising vapors, but nevertheless the book is open, since it will always BE open. But now it's hard to find, hidden in some cavern beneath the ground. Time does not eat away at its pages, though human eyes could burn through its paper. What a paradox that a book is made to be read but for this book to be read means that it will perish! Might the wind find its way through the earth's cavities to turn the pages, since no hand is there to do the job? Yet a book that goes missing, whose unread words become legend, inspire curiosity, ambitious desire and perhaps even greater emotions, does more to change the world than any book that has been read a million times over, closed and forgotten on the coffee table.
A tome upon an earthen alter, in some cavern beneath the ground where shallow waters cover the surface, gathers no dust from the slowly cracking ceiling, never molds from the rising vapors, but nevertheless the book is open, since it will always BE open. But now it's hard to find, hidden in some cavern beneath the ground. Time does not eat away at its pages, though human eyes could burn through its paper. What a paradox that a book is made to be read but for this book to be read means that it will perish! Might the wind find its way through the earth's cavities to turn the pages, since no hand is there to do the job? Yet a book that goes missing, whose unread words become legend, inspire curiosity, ambitious desire and perhaps even greater emotions, does more to change the world than any book that has been read a million times over, closed and forgotten on the coffee table.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Give me a sphere!
Curious as to how a musical box plays music, I opened one to see what was going on inside. A large cylinder with little bumps would turn, and the little bumps would hit the blades of a silver comb to create music. As I listened to the music I heard strange little squeaks every so often, seemingly unrelated to the melody that was playing. I thought it might be the squeaking of a poorly greased gear turning inside of the contraption. Upon closer inspection, to my surprise, I found the ultimate source to which the music owed its very existence. A small little mouse, running inside of a wheel, was giving the gears of the music box the power to create the music that filled the air. "How do you keep going?" I asked him.
"The same song plays, but I hear something different every time."
The mouse seemed to miss the more obvious curiosity of his continuous presence. So I inquired again. "How do you survive in that wheel?"
...
The mouse said nothing but as I waited for his answer I found myself mesmerized by the song that was playing. It had already started over once, but in the hypnosis brought on by the spinning gears I found myself in the deepest recesses of the song, and all my senses had faded except for my hearing, which was sustained and strengthened each time the song would start over.
"The same song plays, but I hear something different every time."
The mouse seemed to miss the more obvious curiosity of his continuous presence. So I inquired again. "How do you survive in that wheel?"
...
The mouse said nothing but as I waited for his answer I found myself mesmerized by the song that was playing. It had already started over once, but in the hypnosis brought on by the spinning gears I found myself in the deepest recesses of the song, and all my senses had faded except for my hearing, which was sustained and strengthened each time the song would start over.
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