December 17th, 2004


(no subject)

We are flames dancing to the memories of forgotten heroes. Everything is transitory. Everything. The stone walls of the citadel will become the dust of a thousand stars, and those stars will in turn wither and die, and our memories will be long forgotten wisps of smoke in the december breeze.
Why does it matter? Why does any of it matter?

If I drop this cup, it will shatter into a thousand pieces, never to be put back together again, the kinetic energy transferred into the heat-death of entropy. Yet with a choice, I can move the cup into the cupboard where it will sleep safe, the entropy transferred to my actions of raising the cup higher.

And in the morning, a woman will die crossing the street when she is hit by the car of an inattentive driver who is talking on her cell phone. The child that she would have had with the man that she would have met would have gone on to become the world's greatest neurosurgeon and develop neural implants that would enable those with spinal cord injuries to walk again, to lead normal lives.

But that path of existence is truncated. Another future history is made by a million million choices that happen in the now, in the illusion of the instance of time which fleets by in some imagined rush; here, then gone.

Yet things happen. Discoveries are made in simultinaety througout the world. Ideas are born into the collective conscious regardless of the vessel that shapes them into words and pictures. We are but small pieces of the machine that serves the information, cells that provide the transfer of ideas from the void and into the light. Our identities don't matter, our flesh doesn't matter, our existence doesn't matter except as it serves the information.

Information is energy. We take a cohesive form, packaged into quasi-stable states enough to transpire through a sense of consciousness and reality, when what we experience is a shadow, a reflection, an echo of what just was. We imagine the cohesion of instants as a continuous layer that we call "time", wrapped in mystery, wondering what the future brings.

There is no future. There is only now. Then is an illusion. Time only exists as a concept, as our corrupt and simple meat-minds can only process the energy states in small doses.

Imagine if you will that everything happens at once. Every possibility of everything that could ever have happened or will happen exists in a kind of continuum, like a big white room. Our existence is like an infinitely small thread that runs through that room, ekeing out a path through a single set of existences and determining what we percieve as reality.

If every person has their own thread, then each person has their own reality, their own existence. But not all of those threads have to diverge, not all of those threads have to cross, not all of those threads have to ever meet one another. Nor do they have to be coherent, all running in the same direction.

The Invisible World exists out there, just beyond our reach.


They're having a potluck today, so there are a lot of people running
around getting things ready, tables getting set up, and mondo yummy

It's a little distracting. Though I suppose I'm easily distracted.

Once the shit falls...

It would be funny if it weren't so stupid.

My paycheck from the last half of November was supposed to be sent to me
here in Des Moines. Due to a mix-up, it got sent to my Minneapolis

I asked Rick to mail it to me down here. He did. He sent it priority

It didn't come.

Last night I had him check, and it had made it to Des Moines, but was
marked as "undeliverable as addressed", and was in the process of being
returned to sender. Which is weird, because I do receive mail here at
the apartment.

He did some further checking today. It turns out that because it was
sent priority mail, the mailbox must have a name on it, and not just an
apartment number. No name, no delivery.

SO they're delivering it back to the return address.

Except Rick didn't put a return address on the envelope.

So in approximately 6-8 weeks, I can start a claim to look for it in the
dead letter office.

Happily, D. is sending me a new check which should be here around
Tuesday. In the meantime, I'm putting my name on the mailbox, regardless
of the apartment policy.

(no subject)

Thank you autodidactic! I got home to find a really nice envelope full of prezzies in my maibox... I'm engrossed in pretty much everything right now.

Awesome work.

I have much more to say, but I'd like to say it more privately.
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(no subject)

I like to think of myself as strong and capable.

But once in a while, somebody does or says something that touches me in ways that I can't explain, touches strings that resonate deep inside me. And sometimes I need to walk away for a while and breathe, lest I become overwhelmed and do or say something that maybe I shouldn't do.

So right now, I'm going to go lift weights for a while, and let my body take over my emotions. And if I choose to cry, I can write it off as pain.