Author: William

“I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.” —Haim Ginott, Teacher and child: A book for parents and teachers (1976)

I have so many thoughts I need to explicate. Recently my life has consisted of fairly rote, routine behaviors. I have decided that I am alright with this. Initially I would assume that such days are simply lost, never able to be retrieved again. But then I think to myself how important it is gain some distance with thoughts now and again in order gain additional appreciable perspective on them.

That’s not what I really want to talk about though.

I want to discuss my culture.

I never really feel at home in my culture. I don’t really like participating in the mundane activities of the herd. I have a tendency to want to critique and criticize everything. Denis Diderot once said “Gaiety is a quality of ordinary men. Genius always presupposes some disorder in the machine.” I believe this, and it’s comforting to know that this man agrees with my modus operandi.

Society. I miss writing. I miss possessing clear and coherent thoughts that burst forth in stream from my cranium in brilliant displays of imagination. Or, that’s how I like to believe my thoughts gush anyway.

My mind is whithering and warping with every passing day. But I am no drone. I am a critical thinker, capable of inquiring about the most assuming questions. My task is to dig deeper, to delve and probe into the fathoms of reality, of social reality, the one true reality.

Language has been provided to us. It provides a mental scaffolding for ideas. These ideas are none other than concepts, the architecture of will, but the semantics of these concepts cannot be captured with mere propositions. There need be procedural knowledge, demonstrable modeling of the intention, in order to capture the true meaning of words. When the ligatures binding language to meaning have been cut, there is no more utility in the symbolic representation of our words. It is essential to inscribe these words into the world and into the minds, but even more essential is that these words, these concepts of our will, of our moral action, be inscribed into the hearts of men, lest they become trite and meaningless barbara, or fulsome foreign noise.

Power is represented economically. This word: economics, the “law of the home” or the “management of the home” is fitting, but it doesn’t contain the convey pecuniary interest of our material society. Money is law. It produces law. But yet, money is fictitious. It simply codifies and carries out a symbolic incentive, an incentive that drives man to work for others out of necessity, rather than sufficiency.

Swahili, the African trade language, is similar to the mainstay English tongue of today. The disparate tribes possessing their own language reflect a tongue born from the struggles afforded by the geographical demands of necessary survival. Within our country today we have many tongues, yet they all fall under the same “language”, under the same syntax that we call English. Can you speak in the language of physicists? Or perhaps cognitive neuroscientists? Or biologists? Or computer scientists and information technologists? Unless you were raised or socialized using these domain specific languages, or cultivated the tongue through many years of schooling, you would not be familiar with the terminology of these domains. You would be a foreigner. This is the specialization of labor. And each labor produces a unique vocabulary because each labor possesses unique demands, just like geography produces unique demands. In our current society, the division of labor has produced the specialization of language. And each language possesses its very own economic utility. But every language is born out of a people, and the closer you can come to gaining access to a network of people, the sooner you can learn and utilize their language, and in turn capitalize on the economic privileges it affords. But learning the language is not enough. No amount of schooling will provide you with experience, and just because you know Spanish doesn’t mean you know the traditions and customs and practices inherent to it. As a result, you must network, socialize, and mentor under these economic demigods.

The common culture that unites us all is no longer religion, like it once was in Ancient Greece with its pantheon of Gods and deities. Today it is television, social media, entertainment, news. Depending on your values, your world view affiliation, you identify with different cultural outlets. They become the constant structure of your experience. They organize your life, they create regularity, they provide hope and something to look forward to: the weekly TV show, the seasons next fashion line, the next big movie, the final in the trilogy, etc, etc.

Freedom only exists when people are free to survive on their own free will, assuming free will is, of course, a responsibility to our selves. As such, freedom can only exist when we own our own property, when we own the means necessary to guarantee our own survival. I do not want to rent my labor to someone else, no more than I wish to rent my mind, my thoughts, or my desires to another. This is why I refrain from cultural indoctrination.

Property ownership and government power are inversely proportional. The more property owned by people, the less intervention is required of the government. This is because government should serve only to protect the people from each other, and when a man possesses all that is required for his survival, why does he need the resources of another man? You might reply with greed, and that would be correct, and the government’s sole role and responsibility is to curtail that very tendency in man.

John Locke said that the only function of government should be to protect an individuals property because, he believed, that property was essential to the number one prerogative of man: self-preservation. Without property, man cannot preserve himself. He relies on others to preserve him as he grows dependent upon their property, their capital.

The less property owned by the people, the greater need of a government power. The reason? To curb or mollify or prevent exploitation.

The more property owned by the people, the greater freedom they possess and the less they need to rely on others for their survival.

I always know the weak, because they are the most sensitive to the opinions of others. They will always react in hasty retreat, or lash out in desperate defense. Yet their defense is always degrading, a weak attempt to lower themselves back into their ways, rather than rise above.  They are ruled by emotions that know no reason. Character is passion made reasonable. Their character contains flaws, and they are unwilling to reconcile this reality. I’m not sure I want a reasonable character, do I? Only if it is made by my reason, by something universal in me.

You are always better than you believe you are. You do not need the opinions of others to sustain your identity. You need only yourself.

I was reading a chapter from Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, specifically on the Greek Themistocles. He was a powerful and persuasive politician and strategist. In his youth Plutarch noted that Themistocles cared little for the past times of his peers, and instead devoted his time to reading and writing on political and legal matters that he contrived from observation and imagination. He studied wisdom, probably of the philosophical school past down from Solon, of the kind that praised common sense and pragmatics as opposed to pure theoretical, speculative studies. I relate a great deal with Themistocles.

The illusion of choice gives rise to the illusion of freedom.

Is it odd that I agree with this man (Dr. Kamau Kambon)? I’m not for the mass genocide of my own race, but I believe that we live in a culture of oppression. It’s built into the fabric of our language, of our schools, of our political system, of the fundamentals of our society. It’s about the will to power, the drive to dominate, to spread or diffuse influence onto the world in order to wring some advantage out of it.

I would like to see all men freed from one another and have self sufficiency restored, but I’m not quite sure that’s possible. In so far as the group is stronger than the individual, it seems oppression is apart of survival of the fittest, and our willingness to participate in our own oppression is an advantage. Not to all, not forever, but for some, and for a short time. However, I believe we must learn to look beyond the few and the now, and see things with an eternal perspective. That is where authentic wisdom is gleaned for the utilization of our benefit. We must ask ourselves who is leading the herd? Did you consent to their authority? And why? Perhaps we no longer share similar interests?

I also believe that racism is an evolutionary advantage. The herd identifies with itself, and until race lines disappear, there will always be racism, whether its of the gender or the socioeconomic class variety. I’d like us to transcend the temporal, material constraints that bind us to the impulses of immediate sensation, but as beasts, as animals roaming the earth grazing for every efficient advantage, I’m not sure this is feasible, or at all possible.

And on that note I’d like to say that the second speaker resonated with me thoroughly, despite whatever racial overtones may have tinged the message. It is a call to all humanity.

I need to write. I’ve been delaying it recently, telling myself that I need to take a break from thinking. But then I find myself in the same old, vanilla routines and I want to go on a rampage.

I have these thoughts about the world. Everything I see appears so clear, yet so distant. I can’t do anything about it.

Institutions, cultures.

We are consumers.

I sit around with my coworkers. They babble on about their television shows, the drama. I think about life. About their careers typing numbers, pushing data. Everything they do seems so trite and meaningless. They escape through fantasy, through Television shows and movies and celebrity drama. They identify with the shows they watch. It becomes apart of their identity. “I tried getting into Workoholics, but I’m just not into that kinda humor. I’m more of a New Girl kind of person.”  They discuss their favorite musicians with such forceful passion; you’d think it actually mattered whether Radiohead was a “better” band than Michael Jackson. But the conversation seems glib and frivolous.

What is freedom? There is no freedom. Not so long as your valuations depend upon the affirmation of someone else.

Culture is an echo chamber. Words become fixed with meaning, then they spread. The rate and degree of their update depends on their utility, or their economic significance. In this culture the most “successful” people are the best imitators. The yuppies who parrot back expectations, who take the safest risks possible: bartering security for freedom. But they would tell a different story, a story of status and wealth. And somehow they believe that these are the same.

But status and wealth do not guarantee freedom, and security only guarantees bondage by securing you in place. We are evolving creatures, and so we need room to adapt, to move freely.

You are not safe from yourself.

I’ve been collecting experiences recently, storing them in the translucent jars lining my mind.

Competition is not healthy: it diverts energy towards others, away from yourself.

Storied dreams:

It’s late. I’m thinking of her, but the feelings are absent. Distant pools of purity shimmer and shake with each drop of remembrance.

There was a good bye party for my roommate, my best friend. He’s headed for the west coast, the best coast, and I can’t blame him. Shoot: a part of me wishes I had the opportunity to escape. But then I realize that you can’t run from yourself, and at the moment everything I could ever want is already within me. The only outlet I seek is experience, and that can be garnered and mined from the depths of where I am.

“Hello girl.”

“Hello boy.”

“So, what do you think? What’s this all about? Am I being too forward? Should I restrain my feelings? Either way doesn’t matter to me; I just want you to know how I feel.”

“Well, it’s moving a bit fast, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. I guess I mean that… well… I don’t know what I want really. There’s so much uncertainty in the future… you know?”

The boy sighed. He knew what she was saying, but he didn’t agree.

“I understand” he said. “I know you have a lot to figure out. You need to figure out what’s important to you, what is it this life has to offer, or doesn’t have to offer.”

“Exactly.” she said. But all along he knew she hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant. Silly girl, he thought. Her expectations, her rational approach will get her everywhere she wants, but no where she needs. Her heart is tucked away, in some fragile place, in some glass box, hard as diamond, translucent as air. Her beauty shines and the kaleidoscopic of passion that refracts into millions of captivating colors is spell binding, entrancing; yet untouchable and cold.

He continued “I want you to know that I love you, that whether or not I’m here or there, your happiness is vital to my own.” His pacific stare met with hers. Summer danced on her eyes.

“Should I go?” he said.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “You needn’t go anywhere! Stay with me,” she pleaded “I enjoy your company. You make me feel good.”

The boy thought quietly; his heart bled fiery desire. Am I simply a release? Is she simply lonely? Perhaps I am nothing but a comfort, nothing but a reminder that she’s capable of someone’s affection. He asked himself whether he minded these options, whether being an option was a role he was willing to accept, not out of desperation, but out of love. And these two aren’t very different.

“OK.” he finally responded. “I just feel like, maybe sometimes I should let you be alone…” He finally decided to open up his insides, to show his vulnerability. “The thing is, sometimes you intimidate me.”

“Intimidate you?!” She was taken aback. “What do you mean by that? How do I intimidate you?”

“I mean, your expectations are intimidating because I don’t live to fulfill anyone’s expectations but my own, and I’m afraid you may be disappointed when this reality becomes yours. You have a very particular way of seeing things, and I don’t, and sometimes that frightens me.”

“What on earth do you mean?” she asked.

“What attracts me to you are your expectations, for yourself, for others, but sometimes I feel the weight of those expectations. I mean, I feel a lot, I am not consistent. I am not easy. I am onery. I dwell in passion, in fervor and feeling. I am never the same, save my drive to feel more intensely, more exactly, more diliberately.”

She was confused and a discouraged look filled her eye. She felt distant. What was once a close friend, a comforting confidant soon became a stranger.

“I don’t understand what you mean” she finally responded.

“I mean, sometimes I want to be myself, and myself is many things, not just one thing. And I’m hesitant to believe you can be alright with my many facets, my unduly undulations and oscillations of the spirit.”

“I see.” she said quietly. “I think I know what you’re saying. We’re very different, and maybe its best if we didn’t see each other anymore?”

“No, no no” the boy said in frustration. “I just don’t know how to feel around you. I feel like you’re sensitive to feeling, yet I can’t read any of your feelings. You’re a delicate shimmer that I want to cup ever so gently, but I’m afraid I’ll stifle and put out the shine. But all I want in the world is to grow the flame.”

“Silly boy” the girl said. The life in her eyes returned. “I’m not good with feelings. But I know they’re there.”

“I’m commited to you.” he said. “I decided that I love you. That even if you can’t appreciate what that means, that it doesn’t detract from the matter that I made a decision to love you, to preserve your happiness as if it is necessary to my own. Whether or not you’ll have me makes no difference, but I love you.”

With that the boy turn and ran. Tears streamed down his face as his feet pounded the pavement. The summer air was thick and left him exhausted, but his heart continued shaking. He needed to run, run run far away. He was terrified that he had said too much, that he left himself too exposed. Never mind, he thought to himself. There must never be caution in love. She’s just a lost and confused little girl

Cimmerian shade soothes the aching sighs.

Sveldt stares waver across sullen eyes.

I will write, I will pour, my heart out, for you.

I am a physicist of the heart: a poet of pensees plaguing dormant desires.

The plumbing of the past begins to choke, and he cannot comprehend confusion.

Words are empty. Like ether they escape and are gone. One finds their memory resonating in the occasional hearts and minds of men; inscribed in the soft tissues; on the leaves of time.

Never wait till it’s too late. Never wait till the time is right, for that is too late. Prepare the soil long beforehand. Smile, pay compliments. Everything you do will lead to a moment. Do not wait for that moment. Treat it as if it has already arrived. Not as a point, but a process.

That which moves me is that which moves the world, in all of it’s hearts and minds.

If you cannot instantiate a generality, you have no imagination. The task of philosophers is to produce generalities from particulars. The task of teachers are to produce particulars from generalities.

Perspective requires distance between two points. You must allow time to fill this distance. Time is necessary for experience.  But not all time yields experience.

When we are young we are naive. Some people stay young.

If you are going with the flow, you are not swimming against the stream.

There is no unity. There are only modes. Modes of being, existing, thinking, feeling, perceiving. Do not seek to unify, but diversify. Employ these modes. Is there a network?

There was a desperation in her laugh.
Sedulous stare.

Hyperbolic discounting – the tendency for people to have a stronger preference for more immediate payoffs relative to later payoffs, where the tendency increases the closer to the present both payoffs are.[10]

Illusion of control – the tendency to overestimate one’s degree of influence over other external events.[11]

Loss aversion – “the disutility of giving up an object is greater than the utility associated with acquiring it”.[14] (see also Sunk cost effects and Endowment effect).

Mere exposure effect – the tendency to express undue liking for things merely because of familiarity with them.[15]

Neglect of probability – the tendency to completely disregard probability when making a decision under uncertainty.[17]

Search the origin of your thoughts and you will discover they are not original to you.

But if you consider this in human terms, and you imagine a person defined by a desperation to be liked, what do you see? You see a person without integrity, without a center. In more pathological cases, you see a narcissist — a person who can’t tolerate the tarnishing of his or her self-image that not being liked represents, and who therefore either withdraws from human contact or goes to extreme, integrity-sacrificing lengths to be likable.

If you dedicate your existence to being likable, however, and if you adopt whatever cool persona is necessary to make it happen, it suggests that you’ve despaired of being loved for who you really are. And if you succeed in manipulating other people into liking you, it will be hard not to feel, at some level, contempt for those people, because they’ve fallen for your shtick. You may find yourself becoming depressed, or alcoholic, or, if you’re Donald Trump, running for president (and then quitting).

Jonathan Franzen

It’s the fool who plays it cool by making the world a little colder

Improve your condition by improving the condition of others.

Sometimes I try to cry just to see if I care

I should’ve used more tact when posting that. My apologies. What I take issue with is the glorification of appearances. I have no issues with any form of self expression so long it’s authentic and not the result of some implanted societal neurosis. To each his own. The idealist in me wishes society placed more emphasis on the inner life rather than on the outer. The physical fades. A sound mind and character are more enduring and reliable. I get it, our society values appearances. But, save the asthetic value, appearances don’t improve society. They make it more carnal and superficial. If you need to look good by societies standards to have self worth or feel good about yourself, go for it. But i don’t think that’s a lasting fix. If you’re doing it for yourself, go for it. If it’s for others, good luck pleasing the fickle masses. But again, I get it: we’re sexual creatures motivated by desire and passion, rather than reason and good will. I recognize we’re social creatures. I recognize that we navigate our world by sight. But I believe sight is a poor, misleading guide. Most people look alive on the outside but they are virtually dead on the inside. We use our sight to discern between friends and foes, to identify the familiar and unfamiliar. It allows us to pass judgement on things without really engaging and experiencing with them. It’s a cheap and empty way to make value judgements about the world. That’s my take. I’m just as guilty as the next. I don’t think I’m right, or wrong, that’s just my current sentiment.

I know i cant escape my cultural conditioning. I know I’m inclined to like what I’ve been raised to believe is valuable and beautiful.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so I needn’t worry about what society makes of my wife so long as I love her.

Eating disorder/Obesity vs cosmetic surgery: underlying issue?

What if obesity was beautiful? Till it was unhealthy? To each his own? Until what? We’re footing the health care bill with our taxes?

What causes the eye to shine and sparkle when it looks on a dull and dreary world?

Success is about sacrificing something you have for something you don’t have.

Life is the continual realization of choices.

I don’t believe in failures. I believe in quitters. If you never quit, you will never fail.

Success is the continual realization of a worthy ideal. No ideal? No success.

Working out increases will-power.

Disgust is a powerful motivator.

I follow the rules so I know how to break them properly.

The greatest adventure of all lies within your mind.

I used to be a boy.

I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold.

Everyday I wake up, look in the mirror, and see someone new.

I don’t admire intelligence. I admire hard work

My problem: I try satisfying my equilibrium whenever I have the opportujty. Savings? I don’t appreciate the concept. Pleasure? Moreso. I waste money- and wen I say waste, I mean I spend according to my hearts desire- as if I’ll always possess it.

Am I different than most ppl? I am different than most ppl. Most ppl are pathetically shallow, unhygienic, unconscious of their condition. They sweat and swear, try laugh and are generally uncivilized and dull. Dolesome. Am I that way? Am I pathetically shallow and stale, and expired? An plump and red and really pink with petty putridness? So stupid, soo… Daft.

Is it wrong to judge pp.’s enculturation? Or conditioning? Or socialization?

Frail- genetic, not powerful

Tough ppl act like they have a stick in their ass

New clothes/ rich briggs clones, make you look fresh and well of. Refried wash jeans make u look recycled and poor

I don’t know why ppl are friends. They are so weird

Doff clothes, diff personalities. I almost prefer the same Exact facsimile.

I am Alone. What is class? Behavior? Sophistication? Dress? Taste? Reserve? The package? Most ppl are base. Don’t ever let yourself get base.

Well, god speed and many blessings to you and the  panegyrical oratory of wisdom you bestow on the callow minds in attendance at this palaver. May you eschew the prevarications notoriously feigned by men, but instead sublimate truth and sow pabulum with stentorian words so that you may rouse their susurrus hearts and prod their insipid minds into embracing a panoptic understanding of life.

Flies collect 1 2 3
The wind blows conversation to my ear
Heels drag
People walk and nibble on bits
Information flows through the cavities and lips
The trees are bright
Barely alive
Spotted sunshine catches my eye
Brown leaves and Twigs
Grass green with spring

Life is but a waking dream
Ne’er closer nor farther than what it seems
The elastic will may bend and stretch
But never break what the heart will fetch
Out of the womb of passion breeds
Fanciful longings that light the haze
Celestial worlds beckon you to soar
Well past the memories you kept in store
Lightning bugs and sylvan forest
Ignite the mind with courage to explore it
Lucid streams pool into reflecting beams
Empty roads extend to aimless hopes
Winkling eyes never say goodbye
Traveling through mind
Illuminating sight
We carry these around
Ethereal dreams
Despite the worldly imaginings
Never truer was our hearts desire
That lit the annuls of past on fire
Though we walk alone at night
Guided by the apollos light
A glow persists
Diffuses through air
Making our journey worth the wear
A thought incited by frictions fire
A glance that cuts loose ends run free
The rise and dance in melody
Streaking along our worldly perception
Illuminating our souls heavenly complexion
Eyes can capture what heart does not
But love is blind
Or so I thought
Could it be that dreams lay asleep
Waiting for these melodies to run and leap
From within our soul
Sparks waiting to fly
But we stare at the world
And continue asking why?
Let your eyes drift off
Your heart out to play
With new beginnings to start off your day
We walk alone
Our head held high
mouth hung loosely
Eyes open wide
Flinging our feelings far wide
Gazing at reflections of things as they are
Never recalling they seem as we are
Worldly shimmers and shinings so bright
Never a thought of who holds the light
This world is magic and we hold the key
To every warm gesture and cold misery
Our steps trace our thoughts as we traverse the land
Opening up new worlds we don’t understand
Explore these chambers with dreams filled with light
Make use of everything good that strikes you as right
High mountain passes and deep river masses
Mockingbirds that know the words
Let your heart sing in tune
There is nature still in you just waiting to bloom
Blue grass, black beach, red air, debonair
Seek those minds and thoughts that light your white flare
Cross over the shadows that hang at the edge
Move ever so lightly
Expose ever so brightly
These shadows we own
And cast as we stand
Not burning our own light
But worshipping man
Self immolation is the sacrifice of gods
Lay claim to your own light
Burn brighter than suns
Don’t think of the pain
There’s nothing to gain
But what you must lose
To wake up a dream
Coursing as the setting sun
The rising moon
Your will be done
Seek and search and always fail
Compare and cringe
No task is done
Still waiting to blaze
Your own morning sun
Pink ribbons unfurl across the blue swirl
Grey smoke
White buns
A fire burns
The horizon bleeds with long lost melodies
Vernal songs clear the night of superstitions dark canvass
That worldly blight
That stunts one feeling
One unified blaze
To ignite the future of more hopeful days

Research

Find trends in:::
Annual:
-mental/ psychiatric  illness medication
-incarceration rates
-GDP productivity
-wage rates
-military spending
-inflation rates
-government spending
-bank growth
-federal treasury activity
-political campaign contributions and sources
-per capita debt
-personal debt

Hypothesis: Should begin trending 1970-80

Great men are like oysters: crude on the outside, divine on the inside. The gnarley body contains riches within. Every man needs the fleck of hardship to agitate him

Make yourself: when you force yourself to do something, you create yourself to be someone

Consumerism is consumption of the soul

What is history? Philosophy of
Education today (opinion hustler)
-what is man?

American education (philosophy/ political/ cultural/ society)

Nous– mind and world relationship
“the endowment  of presuppositions with authority: This is divinity, the antipathy of wonder, in which catechism reveals its ignorance ”

Great men are the culminated spirit of will of the collective consciousness of mankind. Great men die unhappy: Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Martin Luther, king, ghandi?, Churchill, hitler? Stalin? Roosevelt? Lincoln, princes/ kings? Etc

Egotism is thorn in the flesh
Does not divide his regards: singular and inseparable focused will of the universal: subjective ideal aim- infinite right to be consulted.

Means are external- adapts to its purpose- adapt to it- as objects for its own existence (morals, virtues, ethics)

Men are objective interests in themselves

Reason= freedom: elevated above all alien necessity and chance: responsible for moral enfeeblement.
Man is subject to moral imputation of good and evil- and attached to his individual freedom

Innocent imports entire consciousness of evil

Moral discontent- do not find present adapted to their aims: contrast as they are to ad ought to be—- and open revolt to actual condition of world.

Absolute aims- morals virtues aims- manifested ideals— destroyed by actuality

Fancies of individuals are not to be universal for all- and vice versa

Schiller- poet read

Universal reason as end in itself- Bo regard for particular individual

Deficiencies of individuals obvious in contrast to society

Cunnings of reason: let’s the passions do its work

In an open continuum of time there is no truth, only perspective and probability. But I ask myself what it would mean if it were true and what it would mean if it were false.

What if character included healthy lifestyle habits?  Judging someone based on their weight increases stress which increases obesity.

Picture perfect? Why must we absorb ourselves with these ideals? Don’t they rob the humanity from people and reduce them to an ornamental shell?  I’m arguing that cultures very idea of “attractive” is wrong, that is overlooks who a person is in favor of what they are.  Placing so much emphasis on something so contingent, temporal, fleeting, and uncontrollable  is bound to produce neurosis and wreck self image.

The night breathes cool air
Soft velvet
Currents

The roots wrapping around the conscious

Education is not the problem- hierarchy is the problem. Even if everyone is educated, that’s not really what matters. What matters is the specialized vocabulary and social network that is provided by the institution.

Apple and khan and yale/mit/standford courses and all that will fail. That will not elevate someone from poverty. We have forgotten the value of education. Education indoctrinates us with different values to assemble into different organizations throughout culture. They establish our rank and file within a democracy, within society.

Sitting on a log on the Cumberland river fishing for catfish with Conrad. Using cat blood and vow liver. Bugs aren’t bad. It’s a warm, refreshing night. We’re under a bridge west of downtown. A large tug boat is turning around to the left of us to pick up a few barges loaded with boxes. It’s spotlight patrols the waters before it. Cars roll over the bridge, their lights cascade across the

What does it mean to be an American?
-TV
-cars
-sports
-college degree
-music ? Concerts?
Facebook
9-5

Create a song using explosions for percussion

Everyone is making popcorn on the fourth of July.

Fireworks are a metaphor for every life experience.

Why do we like fireworks? Fully engage the senses.
The fleeting sensations that we capture and keep alive with our imagination.

A fireworks display that explodes scenes along with a radio narrative that you tune into that tells a story

What if fireworks were 2 dimensional or 1 sided so that it you sat on the wrong angle you couldn’t see them.

That should explode the constitution with fireworks. One that is suspended for 6 months, just hanging there in the sky.

Writers are actors.

Environmental information shapes and molds our minds: abstracted data hones, hews, and hammers our psyche into a predetermined “normality”. Predetermined by who? By the status quo, by tradition, by convention, by the authority of legacy and inherited practice: that’s who.

The environment literally dictates how our retained mental plasticity reacts to the world.

Information technology is shaping our minds. As we engage with IT, our minds literally mirror or reflect these structures inhabiting our experience.

In this way design becomes intuitive. Logic becomes natural. We are conditioned to respond to corresponding associations.

An ideal or appropriate layout or design of webpages has implanted itself into our psyche. We have an intuitive sense of how things should be organized, how things should appear to us.

Our minds are a product of our environment. The conceptual structures established by others impress themselves upon our minds so that we mold ourselves, our psyche, around them until what was once an artificial conceptual construct becomes the literal structure, the essential etiological worldview, governing our thoughts and appraisals of this world in which we navigate.

The environment leaves impressions upon our mind that allow us to react appropriately to information and make consistent associations that bind us to other minds.

The “best” minds— considered so by society— are the best at regurgitating and recombining preexisting information, not necessarily creating novel information.

Our world is impressing itself upon our minds. We have grown psychologically dependent upon these cultural structures like the “interweb”, and other systems of organization that dictate order in our experience.

I was wondering why it takes such a long time for the human species to mature. Apes and monkeys, our closest ancestral relatives, mature in only a few years time, while humans take many many years before they’re considered able and independent. Just a hundred or so years ago, humans matured as early as seven, as was in case in 18th century industrial Britain. That was considered the acceptable working age. At thirteen you get mitzvahed in the Jewish Culture. In Native American communities it was around the same age. In the Bible it was the age of twelve when you became accountable to God and your faith. In the US eighteen prevailed, but then college was introduced and soon it was extended to twenty one. Now it seems its mid twenties. Back in the day you graduated college at sixteen. What’s missing here?

I believe it has something to do with social reality, and the construction of that social reality. And the complexities of navigating and deciphering the meaning of an ever growing intricate complex social world and its convoluted language and expectations. The greater the social complexity, the greater time is required to adapt to the language in a way that allows you to contribute functional value to society. In earlier times this occured much much earlier because much of the functional value could be fulfilled with tasks requiring little knowledge of a specialized vocabulary. The most that was expected was some training which was acquired by adopting the trade of your family, or via apprenticeship for those pursuing a craft of skill. But it was basic, procedural knowledge. Not so much propositional knowledge.

Apes and monkey’s don’t need long periods of time to mold and shape their psyche to reflect the intricacies of language and social reality.

I wonder if the age of maturity will grow increasingly slower as time moves on and our cultural becomes more complex? Perhaps the age where people begin their lives extends to the thirties?

Everything is language. Every institution has its own language, and each language is derived from a unique set of problems in which is seeks to describe and address.

Another reason why I think its taking people so long to mature is that companies profit off of dependents, like children still being dependent.

Too many thoughts.

Don’t feel too much, they say. Don’t show all. I respond, it’s not your hand that counts, but what you do with your hand. Never underestimate the mind of a muser. If you will judge my hand, what it is I show you, then you have overestimated appearances, and underestimated the potency of possibility.

Sometimes more isn’t what’s needed. Sometimes it’s better. You don’t need every experience and all the money and wealth to live a fulfilling life. Rather than quantity, what you need is quality. And this feature seems to be overlooked in our current day and age. We grow tired with what we have, we long for more. But we never pause and reflect on how we could conjure additional depth and beauty from our current circumstance and situation.

Every morning I head out my door to join the cultural cattle drives that take me to the slaughter centers—what we call school or work— where my mind is lacerated with mindless minutia.  At least my sacrifices are rewarded with some paper certificates and notes. I’m told they’re needed to live a happy and worthwhile life.

What happens when you don’t care about someone, but would like to care, and you show them you don’t care by not reaching out to them, except in rare occurrences, in which case they respond, but only to find that they equally don’t care? What if you want someone to care but they really don’t care, and you want to show them you care without caring too much, but every effort to show them you care even a little bit in order to retain their interest comes off as caring too entirely?

Do you know what a rat race is? It’s when a bunch of animals compete in a game in which they all lose.

It’s like a horse race, or a dog race. These animals are incentivized either by pain, through a little whip on the rear, or a little reward like a rabbit. They run around a circle as hard and as fast as possible. They compete with eachother like it’s a matter of life and death. They’ve been trained to do this, afterall. Some of these animals even die from exhaustion at the end of the race.

And what do they get at the end of it all? Do these little animals ever get what they’re racing for? Does it ever occur to them that the race is rigged? That the incentives are bullshit? That the only people making any kind of reward off their painstaking efforts are merely spectators betting on their performance?

This is precisely how business and economic markets operate. There are millions of people competing with eachother, wading through the cesspool of meaningless work and routine trivia, while wealthy people spectate, speculate, and place bets on their pathetic performance. They call these bets “investments” and buy and sell at the slightest whim, never minding the consequences.

The businessmen running the companies are the trainers. They’re not the ones making the real money; that is, until they’ve accumulated enough capital to make bets themselves on their animals and other animals, their company and other companies.

A rat race is inherently a losing competition, for all competing participants. The rats are placed within an arena, a track, a maze, and they compete with one another for the cheese, for the gold, for the green.

The walls have been erected for them, the incentive has been placed before them. They’ve been conditioned their entire lives to respond to cheese, like a drug, so when given the opportunity, these rats go wild with competition. They do everything they can to outrun and outsmart the other rats. Only a few get the cheesy rewards.

Almost none of these rats question the rules of the game, the situation of glass cages and cardboard mazes that they compete in daily. None of these rats think at all. They accept their circumstance and call it “duty” or “honor” or being a “good citizen”.

But one rat has developed quite a distaste for cheese. He’s won plenty of cheese in his life and it’s always left him feeling dissatisfied the next day. He observes all the competing rats, and even when they win and eat the cheese, they’re no better off than any other rat. They’re just fatter. They still live in glass cages.

This one rat, this one exception, has an aversion to his other rat friends. He’d rather play by himself than compete and run in circles all day with all the other rats.

One day, while all the other rats are scurrying around the maze, looking for the cheese that’s been placed or hidden somewhere else for the day, this lone rat looks upwards. He notices fluorescent lights. Although he’s never seen anything other than these artificial lights, today their appearance strikes him as odd. Something inside of him doesn’t sit right, but he can’t be sure what exactly. He notices that the walls of this maze are wearing at the edges. He peeks his nose through and is greeted with an all consuming, over powering aroma of otherworldly scents.

His curiosity grows hungry and his mouth becomes moist and drips with saliva. The cardboard grows soggy and loosens with every drip of hunger. He wedges his head through the opening and his eyes are greeted with dry air.  And more scents. And sights.

So strange. What is this place?

He spots giant figures bent over the maze. They don’t notice him, but their large appearance and rapacious grins startle the small deviant rat. What are they looking at?, he wondered. He pushed until his body wiggled the cardboard free and he popped onto a white enamel counter, into the open air for the first time in his life. He kept his eye on the giants looming above him. What are they staring at? Why are they so preoccupied, so transfixed?  The little rat crawled stealthily behind the maze and then on top of a large stack of green bills.

Then he saw the horror: these giants, with their snarling grins and veiny noses, were staring at his fellow rat friends. But his rat friends did not notice that they appeared to be in the maze, that they were sealed in a glass box. They were too consumed with competing. It never once crossed their little rat minds that they were not free. His poor little rat friends hadn’t the slightest little clue.

Sadness overtook the little rat. He thought of his rat friends toying along day after day. He thought of all the stories of rats winning and making it big and achieving the “big cheese” and how it had been all a game. But his sadness was temporary. Soon he grew resentful that none of his rat friends possessed the same curiosity to follow him, that they were too busy running the rat race. He felt less and less bad, and soon he decided that he would stage his own rat race and own his own rats.

If they’re so willing to be slaves, then let me be their master. Better a rat running rats than pigs, no?

But that’s not the end of the story. Just the beginning.

“Not to be born is, beyond all estimation, best; but when a man has seen the light of day, this is next best by far, that with utmost speed he should go back from where he came. For when he has seen youth go by, with its easy merry-making, 1230what hard affliction is foreign to him, what suffering does he not know? Envy, factions, strife, battles, 1235and murders. Last of all falls to his lot old age, blamed, weak, unsociable, friendless, wherein dwells every misery among miseries.” —Sophocles, Oedipus

Who am I? What should I be? What is this life? What’s happened to me? Is this a dream? and will I wake?

Is this my only life?

Dr. Patch Adams is wise beyond his years. And he has many.

Today I woke. My room was saturated in sunshine. The air was crisp.

I made myself some eggs and potatoes— with all the vegetable additions, naturally. And black coffee.

I’m going to the farmers market in a bit. I read some NYTimes articles. One on “The Science of Illusion”, the other on the atrocities within the US prison system wrecked by privatization.

I need to pick up some Kale, tomatoes, avocadoes, broccoli, spices, and maybe a few other things, like fruit. I need more fruit. I’ve been great with vegetables and meat, but fruit has been absent from my diet.

Read, read, read, read. Read today. Smash your brain into some unfamiliar words, into some sinewy stories and precocious plots.

I am not one of you.

I thumb my keys as I walk to my car.

Her blonde hair falls across her forehead, down her shoulders.

I am not one of you. I am isolated. I am reserved: self-sustaining.

There is always more than meets your eye. Life is a dance, after all, a charade, an act; and I am the lone protagonist.

Don’t expect to be disappointed. Remember that it’s all a play.

We have nothing in common. No memories. The past exists only in the present. Recreate it for yourself. You’ll see it’s as bad or as good as you’d like to remember it. Or not at all, which is I how prefer to exist: adaptable, with expectations suspended.

I walk through the streets. The scent of oil hangs in the air. A motorcycle is parked. Clubman handlebars. The helmet hangs from the seat. Shiny and new.

Suddenly I hear a buzzing melody, a song, and I catch the stream with my senses; a string duet, a cello and violin, is serenading the streets with its mellifluous movements. The passion pulses through these string artists: their mannerisms, strict and controlled, heartfelt and exact. The violinist’s face is blissful, flickering with the occasional exertion of effort: escaping, but only momentarily visible.

I stand across the street, away from the crowd that had formed. I lean against a bent tree, arms crossed, and listen. My gaze turns to trance, and soon worlds unfold. Scents emerge. Laughter erupts from the background. The bars are busy. The chimes from the ice cream shop ring with every visitor that passes through its flapping doors.

I sit in the theater, alone. At least for a good 20 minutes. No phone. No noise. Alone.

I observe this cavernous cultural artifact. It’s long, hollow corridor, its high walls. Above me giant, circular, metallic vents are spaced evenly among the checkered ceiling tiles that extend along the length of the theater. Only a few lights are on. I can hear the film operator changing reels, adjusting audio, turning nobs.

The movie is moving.

Beautiful woman, Brit is.

There is nothing in common with you and I. That is my reaction to a world, an all consuming world. A world that consumes not only things, but people, personalities, character, whole boat-loads of individualism.

I hate to break it to everyone, but there is no such thing as individualism if you’re doing what everyone else is doing. Ah. I suppose that means: having your own visions of the world. Let’s not be too free with our secrets. Let us keep some dreams to ourselves, lest someone treads on them. We need to cherish ourselves, our imaginative fantasies like they’re the last flame of the human spirit, the last and final torches that have been past down throughout the ages. We need to keep these lit, else the human race becomes a caliginous ink stain on time, a blob, a gelatinous, amorphous blob, like our brains. Then our hearts.

Let me rule my life.

You are disgusting: copy.

You smile, but you do not know me. I know those who know themselves. Who are you? Do you have thoughts? Opinions? Authentically generated and created impressions of the world? Do tell. I don’t even mind if they can’t be articulated with words. I want feeling. Tell me how you feel, by feeling. And let me bask in the honesty, such a refreshing bath. Take me where you are, how you are, with feeling.

Don’t stop; keep it up.

Memories. Noises. Lights pass, of varying intensity and hue; cars roll. I can see through them, through the windshield, and right out the back. And I can make out the occasional face among the sea of silhouettes.

Oh, how I love the happy eyes. They catch mine. I probe. They smile. I greet them with emotion. They melt. And we merge.

“He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in his soul.” —Celia Thaxter

I need to breath. Slow down. Calm. Don’t get a head of myself. The tension can be too much to bear sometimes. I think about my future. The jobs. Long lists of jobs. The various websites.

I think of my job. I think of my coworkers. Do I want to be in their company? I don’t think so. Maybe I over estimate my worth? The very question makes my skin crawl.

The hours.

I walk into the room. He flexes. We have nothing in common, you and I. Nothing in common at all. I sip my coffee. His jaw is chiseled. He is tense. I resent him. Animal.

I need to slow. I give up. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. I have arrived at a dead end. I have arrived. I am working now. I work and I sit there like a fool. Toying away. I smile. I retort. I follow commands, like a dog, like a child. Happy and smiling, asking for more. Too stupid to reconize that this is no game.

What. I want to live somewhere where I can feel alive. Is this a city? Is this the country? Do I want to escape? What am I sick of? Myself? I need positive thoughts. I need the more positive thoughts. Only they will help me.

Belief.

I need to reconfigure my speeech too. I’m starting to grow tired of my language. The words I use need to be revamped. I am alone. I love being alone. I want someone to love. I want a family. Maybe.

I am a fool.

There is nothing worthwhile for me to say now. It’s all been said. I have nothing interesting to say. I am tired. Let myself feel alive.

No poetry from these lips.

I want to say “fuck youuu!” and take a bow. Take a deep bow, in front of the stage. I collect dust. My thoughts melt. Brittle edges.

I despise. Pity. Don’t plea.

I drive. I scramble.

Everyone at work takes their job so seriously. “This is the worst day ever!” They’ll say. I am puzzled. Is life really that pathetically boring where you have to create a bad day for yourself?

These people must live pathetic lives. Pathetic and uneventful. “This is the worst day ever!” They refer to the days they need to click a few extra boxes and print things out. What difference does it make? I just stare at them and smile gently in agreement. “Sure” I indicate, “it sounds real bad. I feel for you.” But inside I am blank. I have no idea what it’s like to consider a day “bad”.

No seriously.

I cannot remember the last time I had a bad day. I can’t even remember the last time I had a problem. Like, a normal problem. Most of my problems are inside me. They stay with me through the days. The rest is just life. Shit happens. Stuff blurs all around me. People are phased. I take note. Usually I don’t. Whenever I react, it’s usually out of custom. I’ve  found that people find me odd when I remain passive and indifferent in the face of conflict. It’s almost unnatural, like I don’t care. And the reality is, I don’t. The trivialities of life are lost on me. So I act like I care. Just like I act like I can relate to my coworker who is telling me how bad her day is. You were on vacation for five days. Yes, you have work to do. You’re not against any deadlines. You can finish it. It’s not that big of a problem. It’s just data. You sit in an air-conditioned office. You listen to Spotify. You have multiple monitors. You answer text messages. You can manage the work. You can manage some extra work. I promise.

I need to stop complaining. And stop judging. And stop criticizing. It’s not really that good. I just have this mentality that everything is bullshit. My student debt looms over head, its ominous tentacles restrain my efforts to build.

Words are stale. My mind is stale. I want to kill myself. Or do something that jolts my senses alive. I need to move. I hate my living situation. I’m tired of being somebody I don’t want to be. Who the hell is that. I don’t have shit figured out. I’m no closer than where I started, just a lot more confused. I have these bullshit degrees, and not a fucking clue what the fuck I just did with my life in the meantime.

What the hell is a job? A job. 8 to 530 every day. What the fuck did I sign up for?

Emerson, where are you? Teach me again. Where is love? Poetry, my mind, come.

I am dead.

Have died.

I tell you what you want to hear. And you eat it up. You’re a glutton. Too indulgent to take a breath and examine what it is your consuming. You hang on my lips, dangle on my tongue. I know nothing. Stop listening. Go your own way.

Too much. Too much noise. Soft. Whispers.

Hello love.

I vomit. Words spew. Sundered pieces of thought, fragmented feeling, dribble on.

I wake up at six a.m.

My eyes snap open. My chest beats. My eyes strain to the sound of my alarm. Snooze. They relax. I begin thinking about my day and my heart quickens with excitement. Carpe diem. And my mind begins to cull the appendages and the haze burns away. Thoughts race and I rise up from my bed. Coffee is made. I grab the book next to my nightstand and step onto the porch. The morning hue greets me. I feel the suns warmth increase as it creeps over the horizon. The highway is hushed. The occasional car passes, their engines whiz as they whoosh away. I grab my coffee. Sip lightly. Its bitter aroma saturates every corner of my stale mouth, wakes it from sleep, heightens my senses, the burn, the bitter, the crisp curves emanating from its steamy surface. I inhale the aroma and it relieves me.

The pages peel open and I loose myself for the next hour. I set the book down and pick up my journal. My thoughts are nimble now, awake and shaking with excitement. I pen my thoughts. I explore the events of the day prior. Minor reflection. I dream about the day to come. I project outward a day, a week, a month, a year, five years. I stare at her face, the visage of my wife, that future love of mine. My heart grips. Motivation is restored. Passions pours from my pores, courses through my veins, churns within me. The day is mine.

I am one of the first to arrive. Only the head of operations has me beat. What times does she arrive? Should I arrive before her? I glance at my watch: 7:45am.

The rest of the day I work like a machine, tracking expenses, entering data, sending emails, responding to emails, sending invoices, bills. Lunch time. We gather and I opt out of going out for lunch in favor of eating my bagged lunch: saving money.

Work ends: 5:45pm. I drive home. The traffic is light.

I arrive home and head for my room. I do not speak to my roommates except for a “hello!” or “good afternoon!”. I undress, discarding the tight layers of business clothing. My skin breaths.

I fall into my bed. My eyes close.

An alarm sounds for 6:30pm: Gym time. I dress, prepare a shake, pop my ear buds in, and begin my jog to the gym. I grab light weight and lift it with ease. Slowly my muscles begin to warm and my mind tightens as I focus my will. The weight increases. I lift heavier, and heavier. Sweat beads on my forehead. I wipe it and examine it as I would examine my efforts: more.

I leave the gym short of breath. My insides are weak. Walking and breathing is difficult. It’s been a good workout.

I pull chicken from the fridge and season it with a medley of spices. I switch the Foreman grill on and throw the meat on the grill. I chop vegetables. I fry them. Season them. Balsamic. Olive oil. Meat is finished. I eat. Alone.

My roommates are watching cartoons. Or playing guitar and singing, howling, moaning. Straining. I can’t tell the difference. I try hiding in my room, in my book. I write in my journal. Tension is released. I dream and release my moods onto the blank pages. Mellifluous imagery bleeds from the backsides of my eyelids. My fingers dance, recording their pleasure through my pen. I pick up a book. I read. My eyes grow heavy: 10:00pm.

Bed.