Driving down the road, u have an empty bag of mickey D's in ur truck, so u throw it in the road. it blows around and probably a week later finds itself miles from the drop and possibly fermenting in a retention pond. yum, clean water. grrr. people need to have a greater urge to help the enviornment and not be lazy about it, like the idiot who drove up the street and played his contribution to the planet by basically saying, f u to the planet. great outlook on life. if we can find the gumption to pick up the gum wrapper on the floor, couldn't we do even more? In lieu of cleaning up the world, the world would eventually right itself, and continually beautify the land, which would make the self esteem balloon of the planet expand--it's a never ending balloon for those logic dependent people who are also pessimists!!!- and we would all have higher levels of endorphins. think: happy planet=happy people.
i'm not trying to destabilize the message of this note, but still, that last sentence needs to go see a doctor.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Epic of Human Mastery
Wrote this a long time ago....well two years.
The drone of the helicopter hybrid slowly cadenced away leaving the hangar silent yet filled with people awed with the recent spectacle. Major Alethea Wellton had been severely wounded in the war, and had been flown back to the United States as a national hero. Apparently so, being she was almost killed by ‘friendly fire’. Her commanding officer stood as still as a stone as her comrades had watched her body be transported to a superior medical hospital that better facilitated her needs. He knew what had actually happened over the middle east. Warring factions had cut open a freshly healed wound, and blood was spilt everywhere in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan being the major bearers of the onslaught.
Three weeks ago, the government had ordered the USAF to neutralize the enemy targets deemed threats to national interests, and were given clearance to use whatever force necessary. Colonel Rivers remembered the grim and somber tone of the debriefing room when he had delivered the orders to the F-22 pilots. Wellton had been the only one to understand what clearance they had been given. She had refused to drop the hybrid nukes that had been recently developed under classifications above top secret.
Now, he stood with Major Stavinson watching their fallen comrade be taken under nightfall to Lacheon Military Hospital in Montana which specialized in the latest medical practices. When he had made the call to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Haffersy had no qualms of regarding human life. “Was the 22’ recovered?” Rivers was astounded at the simplistic tone of the General, not even asking if the pilot had lived.
“Yes, sir. In more than one piece however. No vital systematic parts were lost. Half an aileron wasn’t accounted for in the initial.” He could hear the General relax at the news, but then become impatient, wanting to end the phone conversation so he could get back to the endless supply of unnecessary paperwork.
“Is that all Colonel? We’re busy here in Washington with damage control. You understand.” Rivers became slightly angered as the General had still not wondered about the status of the injured pilot.
“No, Sir. That is not all. The pilot, Major Alethea Wellton, was severely injured. It is a miracle she wasn’t killed. Ejected from ten thousand feet, and unconscious with 3rd degree burns, sir, allows for some degree of attention to the service she has provided her country.” Rivers felt the simmering anger in the back of his head. One of his pilots had been shot down on his watch; he had a hunch, an intuition that it was not enemy fire that had almost killed Wellton, the impertinence of the action by any warring country was suicide if proven, so it had to have been the US turning on it’s own fighter pilot.
“I don’t appreciate being held up by this sappy charade. The pilot knew the risks of combat when she signed into the military. Any wounded solider knows that. They don’t need coddling Rivers. You of all people should know that. The military does not believe in miracles. The data from the plane should give us an accurate reading of the altitude the pilot ejected at, which in this case, was below ten thousand feet respectfully. This tirade of yours to promote yourself or this pilot will be duly noted in the report of this military action.” The dial tone sounded in Rivers ears then, signaling him back to reality.
His secretary called, indicating that the med-flight for Major Wellton had arrived. For some reason, he had ended up at the side of Major Stavinson, Alethea’s best friend in the Air Force, and also the one who had watched her plane be shot down. Alethea was like a daughter to him, her father was his comrade in Operation Lunar landing of 2020. They had become best friends, and when Lyle had been shot down over the Russian No-Fly zone, Lyle’s will had stated him to take care of his family. Rivers had no wife or children to speak of so, he did so out of loyalty to his friend. He had watched Alethea grow up, wondering where her father had gone until she was fifteen, after her mother had told her for years that her father had left them for a younger woman. Lyle would never have done that he thought. He was too loyal, and too loving of his family to do that. Alethea had been devastated when they sat her down to tell her how her father had died in combat, yet she took the news maturely for her age. There was no crying or tears, no sobbing, and no lost sleep. Alethea had been accepted to an overseas program for “gifted children” where she developed a free speaking and thinking robot with help from a computer wiz of Belgium, Darus Collenfeld. He remembered watching her walk through the airport gates as if she had forgotten that the conversation about her father had ever happened. It was never mentioned again. Three years later, Jessica, Lyle’s wife, died of depression when she took her own life. Four days later, Alethea was accepted to the Air Force Academy, so she left the disheartening world of Connecticuit. In his mind, he believed her to be his daughter. He had raised her from the age of seven to eighteen, and always wondering what he got himself into.
He laid a hand on Stavinson’s shoulder, offering comfort to the young Major, whom he knew loved Alethea. “She’ll be all right son. She’s tougher than a bull’s hide.” They both watched the helicopter slowly fade into a small semblance of a spec in the sky.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, sir.” Stavisnon folded his arms as if in anguish. “I’m afraid she’ll suffer while she’s there. I’ve been in that position. Lacheon isn’t--well, you could say it is on the verge of inhumane treatments in some departments.” Rivers understood.
“I see. Would you rather her die than live though? If they can save her, wouldn’t you want that?” He could see the point that Stavinson was making, but he couldn’t imagine him not wanting Alethea to live. No matter the cost. No, he didn’t want her to be hurt or in pain, but he would go to the ends of the earth for his somewhat-daughter and he knew many at the base would to. Especially Stavinson.
“No, I wouldn’t want to see her dead sir. I also don’t want her to suffer. She was in severe pain when I landed and that was probably twenty minutes from when she pulled the ejection handle, and was exposed to burning fuel and chemicals. That kind of pain stays with a person.”
“She’ll get through it. I’ll call up there every hour on her status for you. She means something to everyone here, so it’s expected, Major.” A nagging in his mind reminded the Colonel of status reports he had to finish, and he knew that he would be swamped for hours.
“Thank you , sir.” He left the major standing in the hangar, watching the point in the sky where he last saw the helicopter carrying the woman he loved, and the daughter of his commanding officer’s most trusted friend.
Major Stavinson stood there for hours until the sun set, inhibiting his view of the sky. What moved him was the constellation of Cassiopeia that Alethea had pointed out to him on their day off.
“Cassiopeia. Home of Cassiopeia A, which is the strongest radio source observed in the sky apart from the Sun.” He had laughed at her knowledge of the night sky, both pointing out constellations and the history behind them. It seemed so long ago, he thought. Even though it was two weeks ago from today, it was now vividly scripted in his mind. He wanted her to live. He wanted her to survive. But if she had to go through the same pain, it wasn’t worth if for her. He was being selfish, and he knew it. He believed her to be his, the time they sent together meaning something more than how she knew others. The stuff they talked about was on topics he had never thought he could talk about with anyone else in the world. That’s just how she was. Caring, funny, intelligent--holy hell she was smart. The first days in the Air Force Academy they both ended up sitting next to each other, taking the regulatory IQ test. She had beat him 196 to 185. It was an ongoing joke with them, even after five years. Don’t think about it now, he silently thought to himself. He glanced once more at the night sky, sighing with disbelief. Godspeed Alethea. Godspeed.
(---------------------------------)
“Female, 25, shot down over Afghanistan. Multiple burns, lacerations. Broken femur, collarbone. Cracked Ribs-all. Unconscious.” An attendant sounded over the commotion of the military hospital as the wounded pilot was wheeled in, dead three times on the helicopter. A surgeon came on the scene, hospital linens crisp and ironed. He looked like a TV actor instead of a trained medical practitioner. But that was Lacehon. Immaculate, impeccably sanitized. Sensors, Cameras, and the highest rated security system in the world. Doctors joked that if the flu virus was detected, the complex could inoculate the entire country. Lacheon was equipped with it’s own labs, synthesizing stations, stores, pharmacy, generators, water sanitation systems, never ending stores of food and supplies able to keep thousands of people alive for a year. And it was also rated to withstand category 5 hurricanes, F5 tornadoes, earthquakes, and was rumored to be able to withstand nuclear attacks. It was the military, so more was classified beyond the eyes of the personnel.
Doctor Travers motioned for the EMTs to take her to ICU.
“Take her bio signs and check for irregularities. We need to get her stable as quickly as possible. 27% chance she’ll survive, so let’s make this happen people.” Travers prided himself on never losing a patient on the table, or during observation. He was the top ranked doctor in the United States, and possibly the world. Even so, he had an ego. He fueled it throughout his life by being the best, the pride and joy of his parents. Anything he tried, he excelled at. Sports, Science, Math. It didn’t matter. The discipline of his childhood had brought him to this point in his life, and allowed him to study the human body, and theorize how to make it better. On the table in front of him was a sublime human specimen, with a genetic code of superiority, he could tell. Travers had always regarded his fellow humans coldly, and he knew this well. Always having an eye for the beautiful, the powerful, and the intelligent, and any other genetically endowed who had the ability to further the human race. Even though he was concerned with saving her life, and diagnosing her injuries, he noticed the bone structure, the cool hazel-green eyes, the muscular system, lean and toned. She was what the world would call inhumanely beautiful. “Give me twenty cc’s.” He injected the liquid into her bloodstream, watching her blood pressure drop to an acceptable level for her condition. Odd. The bp. “Where’s her bp?” He stared incredulously at the nurse who looked frantic.
“I can’t get a fix on it. There’s--” She sturred apparently cracking under the pressure. We’ve got a wounded Air Force Pilot on the operating table and all you can do is stutter at me?, his thoughts became impatient, and angered at the nurse. “There’s two.”
“Two what?” He knew it was improper practice to become emotionally angered over a patient, but she seemed different, and the incestuous babble that came out of everyone’s mouths.
“Two heartbeats, sir.” Two heartbeats.
“Get me ultrasound. Stat!” He scanned the area of the woman’s belly, over the slight bump, indicating possible pregnancy. From his experience in the military, and the tautness of the woman’s muscles, this was indeed a pregnant fighter pilot. The image on the vid-screen showed a baby developed into the first trimester. But the odd thing about it was that it already had a developed nervous system.
“Sir! The baby’s vitals have gone erratic.” Incessant beeping at short intervals emanated from the machines. “The mother’s vitals too.” People rushed in and out of the unit, trying to stabilize the mother and baby. The hours swam by Travers who remained in the room for ten straight hours trying all the procedures available to the facility. He walked out of the room at 3:42 in the morning, and walked past the nurses station.
“How is she sir? The traffic in here has died down.” The nurse was voicing humor, which all nurses were trained to do when they administer a patient into the facility, but Travers was not in the mood for irrelevant humor. “She’s dead. So is the child.” The remaining nurses on call all ceased their duties and stared at the doctor. “Prep them for transport. And a report to the base she was posted at.” He walked out smiling to himself as he saw an osprey being prepped in the hangar through the window. He pulled off the lab coat as he walked into his office, shoving it into his duffel bag. He looked out the window and saw a metal stretcher being waked across the tarmac to the plane. Travers looked at his watch, wincing at the time. Five minutes. He looked momentarily into his office as he was about to shut the lights off.
This is what I worked for? A barren office with the necessities? My credentials lined up in a pecking order, irreproachable by anyone? There was no indication that anyone of family values resided in this office. No pictures, no plants, no drawings by children. Nothing to indicate any feeling of humanity. The bare necessities only. The lights shut off, leaving no trace. No leads.
*I wrote this over the summer and recently found it on my flash drive. it's not done, this is just a tiny smidgen of the final product. tell me what u think if u want to.
The drone of the helicopter hybrid slowly cadenced away leaving the hangar silent yet filled with people awed with the recent spectacle. Major Alethea Wellton had been severely wounded in the war, and had been flown back to the United States as a national hero. Apparently so, being she was almost killed by ‘friendly fire’. Her commanding officer stood as still as a stone as her comrades had watched her body be transported to a superior medical hospital that better facilitated her needs. He knew what had actually happened over the middle east. Warring factions had cut open a freshly healed wound, and blood was spilt everywhere in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan being the major bearers of the onslaught.
Three weeks ago, the government had ordered the USAF to neutralize the enemy targets deemed threats to national interests, and were given clearance to use whatever force necessary. Colonel Rivers remembered the grim and somber tone of the debriefing room when he had delivered the orders to the F-22 pilots. Wellton had been the only one to understand what clearance they had been given. She had refused to drop the hybrid nukes that had been recently developed under classifications above top secret.
Now, he stood with Major Stavinson watching their fallen comrade be taken under nightfall to Lacheon Military Hospital in Montana which specialized in the latest medical practices. When he had made the call to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Haffersy had no qualms of regarding human life. “Was the 22’ recovered?” Rivers was astounded at the simplistic tone of the General, not even asking if the pilot had lived.
“Yes, sir. In more than one piece however. No vital systematic parts were lost. Half an aileron wasn’t accounted for in the initial.” He could hear the General relax at the news, but then become impatient, wanting to end the phone conversation so he could get back to the endless supply of unnecessary paperwork.
“Is that all Colonel? We’re busy here in Washington with damage control. You understand.” Rivers became slightly angered as the General had still not wondered about the status of the injured pilot.
“No, Sir. That is not all. The pilot, Major Alethea Wellton, was severely injured. It is a miracle she wasn’t killed. Ejected from ten thousand feet, and unconscious with 3rd degree burns, sir, allows for some degree of attention to the service she has provided her country.” Rivers felt the simmering anger in the back of his head. One of his pilots had been shot down on his watch; he had a hunch, an intuition that it was not enemy fire that had almost killed Wellton, the impertinence of the action by any warring country was suicide if proven, so it had to have been the US turning on it’s own fighter pilot.
“I don’t appreciate being held up by this sappy charade. The pilot knew the risks of combat when she signed into the military. Any wounded solider knows that. They don’t need coddling Rivers. You of all people should know that. The military does not believe in miracles. The data from the plane should give us an accurate reading of the altitude the pilot ejected at, which in this case, was below ten thousand feet respectfully. This tirade of yours to promote yourself or this pilot will be duly noted in the report of this military action.” The dial tone sounded in Rivers ears then, signaling him back to reality.
His secretary called, indicating that the med-flight for Major Wellton had arrived. For some reason, he had ended up at the side of Major Stavinson, Alethea’s best friend in the Air Force, and also the one who had watched her plane be shot down. Alethea was like a daughter to him, her father was his comrade in Operation Lunar landing of 2020. They had become best friends, and when Lyle had been shot down over the Russian No-Fly zone, Lyle’s will had stated him to take care of his family. Rivers had no wife or children to speak of so, he did so out of loyalty to his friend. He had watched Alethea grow up, wondering where her father had gone until she was fifteen, after her mother had told her for years that her father had left them for a younger woman. Lyle would never have done that he thought. He was too loyal, and too loving of his family to do that. Alethea had been devastated when they sat her down to tell her how her father had died in combat, yet she took the news maturely for her age. There was no crying or tears, no sobbing, and no lost sleep. Alethea had been accepted to an overseas program for “gifted children” where she developed a free speaking and thinking robot with help from a computer wiz of Belgium, Darus Collenfeld. He remembered watching her walk through the airport gates as if she had forgotten that the conversation about her father had ever happened. It was never mentioned again. Three years later, Jessica, Lyle’s wife, died of depression when she took her own life. Four days later, Alethea was accepted to the Air Force Academy, so she left the disheartening world of Connecticuit. In his mind, he believed her to be his daughter. He had raised her from the age of seven to eighteen, and always wondering what he got himself into.
He laid a hand on Stavinson’s shoulder, offering comfort to the young Major, whom he knew loved Alethea. “She’ll be all right son. She’s tougher than a bull’s hide.” They both watched the helicopter slowly fade into a small semblance of a spec in the sky.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, sir.” Stavisnon folded his arms as if in anguish. “I’m afraid she’ll suffer while she’s there. I’ve been in that position. Lacheon isn’t--well, you could say it is on the verge of inhumane treatments in some departments.” Rivers understood.
“I see. Would you rather her die than live though? If they can save her, wouldn’t you want that?” He could see the point that Stavinson was making, but he couldn’t imagine him not wanting Alethea to live. No matter the cost. No, he didn’t want her to be hurt or in pain, but he would go to the ends of the earth for his somewhat-daughter and he knew many at the base would to. Especially Stavinson.
“No, I wouldn’t want to see her dead sir. I also don’t want her to suffer. She was in severe pain when I landed and that was probably twenty minutes from when she pulled the ejection handle, and was exposed to burning fuel and chemicals. That kind of pain stays with a person.”
“She’ll get through it. I’ll call up there every hour on her status for you. She means something to everyone here, so it’s expected, Major.” A nagging in his mind reminded the Colonel of status reports he had to finish, and he knew that he would be swamped for hours.
“Thank you , sir.” He left the major standing in the hangar, watching the point in the sky where he last saw the helicopter carrying the woman he loved, and the daughter of his commanding officer’s most trusted friend.
Major Stavinson stood there for hours until the sun set, inhibiting his view of the sky. What moved him was the constellation of Cassiopeia that Alethea had pointed out to him on their day off.
“Cassiopeia. Home of Cassiopeia A, which is the strongest radio source observed in the sky apart from the Sun.” He had laughed at her knowledge of the night sky, both pointing out constellations and the history behind them. It seemed so long ago, he thought. Even though it was two weeks ago from today, it was now vividly scripted in his mind. He wanted her to live. He wanted her to survive. But if she had to go through the same pain, it wasn’t worth if for her. He was being selfish, and he knew it. He believed her to be his, the time they sent together meaning something more than how she knew others. The stuff they talked about was on topics he had never thought he could talk about with anyone else in the world. That’s just how she was. Caring, funny, intelligent--holy hell she was smart. The first days in the Air Force Academy they both ended up sitting next to each other, taking the regulatory IQ test. She had beat him 196 to 185. It was an ongoing joke with them, even after five years. Don’t think about it now, he silently thought to himself. He glanced once more at the night sky, sighing with disbelief. Godspeed Alethea. Godspeed.
(---------------------------------)
“Female, 25, shot down over Afghanistan. Multiple burns, lacerations. Broken femur, collarbone. Cracked Ribs-all. Unconscious.” An attendant sounded over the commotion of the military hospital as the wounded pilot was wheeled in, dead three times on the helicopter. A surgeon came on the scene, hospital linens crisp and ironed. He looked like a TV actor instead of a trained medical practitioner. But that was Lacehon. Immaculate, impeccably sanitized. Sensors, Cameras, and the highest rated security system in the world. Doctors joked that if the flu virus was detected, the complex could inoculate the entire country. Lacheon was equipped with it’s own labs, synthesizing stations, stores, pharmacy, generators, water sanitation systems, never ending stores of food and supplies able to keep thousands of people alive for a year. And it was also rated to withstand category 5 hurricanes, F5 tornadoes, earthquakes, and was rumored to be able to withstand nuclear attacks. It was the military, so more was classified beyond the eyes of the personnel.
Doctor Travers motioned for the EMTs to take her to ICU.
“Take her bio signs and check for irregularities. We need to get her stable as quickly as possible. 27% chance she’ll survive, so let’s make this happen people.” Travers prided himself on never losing a patient on the table, or during observation. He was the top ranked doctor in the United States, and possibly the world. Even so, he had an ego. He fueled it throughout his life by being the best, the pride and joy of his parents. Anything he tried, he excelled at. Sports, Science, Math. It didn’t matter. The discipline of his childhood had brought him to this point in his life, and allowed him to study the human body, and theorize how to make it better. On the table in front of him was a sublime human specimen, with a genetic code of superiority, he could tell. Travers had always regarded his fellow humans coldly, and he knew this well. Always having an eye for the beautiful, the powerful, and the intelligent, and any other genetically endowed who had the ability to further the human race. Even though he was concerned with saving her life, and diagnosing her injuries, he noticed the bone structure, the cool hazel-green eyes, the muscular system, lean and toned. She was what the world would call inhumanely beautiful. “Give me twenty cc’s.” He injected the liquid into her bloodstream, watching her blood pressure drop to an acceptable level for her condition. Odd. The bp. “Where’s her bp?” He stared incredulously at the nurse who looked frantic.
“I can’t get a fix on it. There’s--” She sturred apparently cracking under the pressure. We’ve got a wounded Air Force Pilot on the operating table and all you can do is stutter at me?, his thoughts became impatient, and angered at the nurse. “There’s two.”
“Two what?” He knew it was improper practice to become emotionally angered over a patient, but she seemed different, and the incestuous babble that came out of everyone’s mouths.
“Two heartbeats, sir.” Two heartbeats.
“Get me ultrasound. Stat!” He scanned the area of the woman’s belly, over the slight bump, indicating possible pregnancy. From his experience in the military, and the tautness of the woman’s muscles, this was indeed a pregnant fighter pilot. The image on the vid-screen showed a baby developed into the first trimester. But the odd thing about it was that it already had a developed nervous system.
“Sir! The baby’s vitals have gone erratic.” Incessant beeping at short intervals emanated from the machines. “The mother’s vitals too.” People rushed in and out of the unit, trying to stabilize the mother and baby. The hours swam by Travers who remained in the room for ten straight hours trying all the procedures available to the facility. He walked out of the room at 3:42 in the morning, and walked past the nurses station.
“How is she sir? The traffic in here has died down.” The nurse was voicing humor, which all nurses were trained to do when they administer a patient into the facility, but Travers was not in the mood for irrelevant humor. “She’s dead. So is the child.” The remaining nurses on call all ceased their duties and stared at the doctor. “Prep them for transport. And a report to the base she was posted at.” He walked out smiling to himself as he saw an osprey being prepped in the hangar through the window. He pulled off the lab coat as he walked into his office, shoving it into his duffel bag. He looked out the window and saw a metal stretcher being waked across the tarmac to the plane. Travers looked at his watch, wincing at the time. Five minutes. He looked momentarily into his office as he was about to shut the lights off.
This is what I worked for? A barren office with the necessities? My credentials lined up in a pecking order, irreproachable by anyone? There was no indication that anyone of family values resided in this office. No pictures, no plants, no drawings by children. Nothing to indicate any feeling of humanity. The bare necessities only. The lights shut off, leaving no trace. No leads.
*I wrote this over the summer and recently found it on my flash drive. it's not done, this is just a tiny smidgen of the final product. tell me what u think if u want to.
One
It seems that nature is opening her arms to productivity.
The eternal sleep of life awakens; the lake has thawed and churring waters echo.
As I run, the water glistens, innocent and powerful.
Awe is just, the deep ceurlean blue with specks of sleeping liquid upon it's lap.
The wind tears at my eyes; almost as if I am not meant to withness.
I stop. The sign says to.
Then I realize there was no wind.
Those tears that gently fell, were of no outward force.
Mind preoccupies. The unknown beckons.
The decision between that irridescent vast pool, and dank viscous trip down the mind.
Which would bring knowledge and peace?
Can you hear it? The voice in the mind humms softly.
Trying to ease the pressure upon area, but something is overpowering.
How do you destroy this entity?
Or must I succumb? Take a knee to it's words?
Why is this a possiblity?
Are not our own wants and ideas more powerful than these....words of dissent? Pain?
There's nothing that should be able to do this.
But we let it.
Corrosion has occured for time itself.
Meandering from place to place, it's strange to see what has become.
The eternal sleep of life awakens; the lake has thawed and churring waters echo.
As I run, the water glistens, innocent and powerful.
Awe is just, the deep ceurlean blue with specks of sleeping liquid upon it's lap.
The wind tears at my eyes; almost as if I am not meant to withness.
I stop. The sign says to.
Then I realize there was no wind.
Those tears that gently fell, were of no outward force.
Mind preoccupies. The unknown beckons.
The decision between that irridescent vast pool, and dank viscous trip down the mind.
Which would bring knowledge and peace?
Can you hear it? The voice in the mind humms softly.
Trying to ease the pressure upon area, but something is overpowering.
How do you destroy this entity?
Or must I succumb? Take a knee to it's words?
Why is this a possiblity?
Are not our own wants and ideas more powerful than these....words of dissent? Pain?
There's nothing that should be able to do this.
But we let it.
Corrosion has occured for time itself.
Meandering from place to place, it's strange to see what has become.
Thought
Sometimes you stare.
it might seem like a vast expanse of space, but
it is.
There is more empty space than matter.
Or likelier, mass is empty.
Does that mean it's not here?
Here...there's a general term.
How do you define here with reference to...nothing.
It seems pointless but that's what we do everyday.
We deal in nothings, the only thing that has intrinsic value is our thoughts.
The only constant is the knowledge that we aren't here.
The world is filled with colors.
Each makes up a small part of what we are.
Learn to see the lines they form; the curves they create.
Continuous. There is no end.
Illuminate its wonder they stretch connecting.
Beauty in it's rawest form
the fundamentals blend.
In wind in echoes,
sweet, soft melody
Beckoning for those who listen.
It's a simple thing that I know
When the snow trickles away
the earth begins to breathe.
Revitalize.
It's a mass in itself
of death and birth.
I don't want to sit here pondering those thigns
that can be fixed with a question.
But it's not as easy as it sounds.
I don't want to be the one to something everytime.
It's a feeling you get...when what's right....is unknown.
Beauty is glaring. I want to understand why
society is so entranced by the beauty factor.
Is there some mathematical formula we find appealing, such that beautiful people
are beautiful?
There has to be because if people and things are beautiful just because someone in 6000 BC
declared something appealing.
But how? How did they come believe it was beautiful?
I put my money on a mathematical
equation embeded in out subconscious.
We just haven't realized it yet.
The water rolls.
A boat interferes, sending ripples between.
But how? How can you cause such a powerful force to bend?
Eventually, it returns.
Returns to the state of equality.
The form it knows best.
Freedom.
it might seem like a vast expanse of space, but
it is.
There is more empty space than matter.
Or likelier, mass is empty.
Does that mean it's not here?
Here...there's a general term.
How do you define here with reference to...nothing.
It seems pointless but that's what we do everyday.
We deal in nothings, the only thing that has intrinsic value is our thoughts.
The only constant is the knowledge that we aren't here.
The world is filled with colors.
Each makes up a small part of what we are.
Learn to see the lines they form; the curves they create.
Continuous. There is no end.
Illuminate its wonder they stretch connecting.
Beauty in it's rawest form
the fundamentals blend.
In wind in echoes,
sweet, soft melody
Beckoning for those who listen.
It's a simple thing that I know
When the snow trickles away
the earth begins to breathe.
Revitalize.
It's a mass in itself
of death and birth.
I don't want to sit here pondering those thigns
that can be fixed with a question.
But it's not as easy as it sounds.
I don't want to be the one to something everytime.
It's a feeling you get...when what's right....is unknown.
Beauty is glaring. I want to understand why
society is so entranced by the beauty factor.
Is there some mathematical formula we find appealing, such that beautiful people
are beautiful?
There has to be because if people and things are beautiful just because someone in 6000 BC
declared something appealing.
But how? How did they come believe it was beautiful?
I put my money on a mathematical
equation embeded in out subconscious.
We just haven't realized it yet.
The water rolls.
A boat interferes, sending ripples between.
But how? How can you cause such a powerful force to bend?
Eventually, it returns.
Returns to the state of equality.
The form it knows best.
Freedom.
MiracleGro? Grow...
The lake was a peaceful place to grow up.
Rain strumming on the grass; droplets forming on the screens of windows.
When you rolled down a car window, drops would splatter on your pant legs.
Even though it was chilly, the fresh air would wipe out any odor of industry.
The thrumming would put you to sleep or clear your mind.
If it was gentle, the patter on the leaves would combine with the sweet melody of the birds.
Harsh torrents were enough to send even the bravest of feral cat to hide under a stranger’s deck.
The common place was where Lake Anna would form, just northwest of the volleyball sand.
The trees around would be filled with critters, avoiding the rain, or just basking in it.
It was as if there was a watering hole, but not for the purpose of refreshment.
Call and answer. That was and is the way.
A bird twitters, another caws in return.
A neighbor in need of milk, walks through the gate of another, and is justly handed a half-gallon.
Someone needs support for troubles; all their friends coalesce for a benefit in their honor.
Or maybe when anyone at all doesn’t ask, others just know what they need.
The lesson of the bluff.
No one lives in one place forever. They move, paths of their soul, branching.
What leads us where and how, is unknown. We ask nature why and what….
But if we look and perceive what has been told to us for millennia, it’s simple.
Our lives are intertwined infinitely. Something you never knew is and always has been.
This is the meaning of us. We go, but always return.
In some semblance, we are always connected to home.
Home is where you love unconditionally.
Home is the center of happiness.
You stem from it, gathering strength.
We want to get away and fend for ourselves...
But it’s always there to give itself to us, whenever we need its embrace.
Rain strumming on the grass; droplets forming on the screens of windows.
When you rolled down a car window, drops would splatter on your pant legs.
Even though it was chilly, the fresh air would wipe out any odor of industry.
The thrumming would put you to sleep or clear your mind.
If it was gentle, the patter on the leaves would combine with the sweet melody of the birds.
Harsh torrents were enough to send even the bravest of feral cat to hide under a stranger’s deck.
The common place was where Lake Anna would form, just northwest of the volleyball sand.
The trees around would be filled with critters, avoiding the rain, or just basking in it.
It was as if there was a watering hole, but not for the purpose of refreshment.
Call and answer. That was and is the way.
A bird twitters, another caws in return.
A neighbor in need of milk, walks through the gate of another, and is justly handed a half-gallon.
Someone needs support for troubles; all their friends coalesce for a benefit in their honor.
Or maybe when anyone at all doesn’t ask, others just know what they need.
The lesson of the bluff.
No one lives in one place forever. They move, paths of their soul, branching.
What leads us where and how, is unknown. We ask nature why and what….
But if we look and perceive what has been told to us for millennia, it’s simple.
Our lives are intertwined infinitely. Something you never knew is and always has been.
This is the meaning of us. We go, but always return.
In some semblance, we are always connected to home.
Home is where you love unconditionally.
Home is the center of happiness.
You stem from it, gathering strength.
We want to get away and fend for ourselves...
But it’s always there to give itself to us, whenever we need its embrace.
Strange Scisscor
When you want with all your heart to be creative, to be able to express what you can't in words,
and the cruelty of your mind enshrouds you, Refusing to implant ideas upon a medium.
Pen in cup, brush in water, paint in jars, graphite in sharpeners.
You stare and you stare, but inability to choose envelopes.
Futile it seems, strange to even think of trying.
But necessity wins. Thinking it is possible gives hope, and thus, begin.
Starting well, brush slips, strange occurrence. Wanting only to express, maybe the mind isn't ready to.
It shouts out in action that it refuses to conform to what you believe it should.
The mind doesn't have a master? How can it know.
A fully conscientious self would try to work together.
The mind is only trying to show, that what the subconscious is refusing to let the conscious aware of,
it is not ready for.
Don't destroy yourself because you want to accept what you know.
Want is different than capable.
Time and patience are required to unlock the steel wedge preventing ability.
But when a refute forms, force-able entry is deemed necessary, further ignorance is deemed hazardous...
Just once, to be understood.
a slice of mind falls away.
Into nonexistence, it never was, because memory no longer persists.
But the mind knows a part of it is irrevocably gone, inconceivably fallen to the abyss of it's own demise,
destruction of self permits.
So simple yet so difficult to comprehend.
The dichotomy of keeping both from ripping apart at the epicenter of creation, and destroying the greatest....creation of all...existence, is the lowest depiction of humanity.
Brain is only a word describing the organ that is run by higher processes.
Consciousness is only a word enclosing the perception of the reality of present existence.
Subconsciousness....the nexus of imperceptibility.
Humanity labels the mind as both, the brain as encompassing.
Either is nigh.
Nil.
Caput.
They are not matter, forms that take up space in the old elementary explanation of reality.
You can't bottle self.
Thoughts cannot be liquefied and stored at subzero temperatures for future gander.
They are a form of energy, thought, it exists everywhere.
Our thoughts give substance, shape, and composition to matter-ized objects.
What the mirror reflects to our retinas, is a residual self image.
Hardwired into our brain, the sub delves into the information, relays it to consciousness and reflects.
Unaware can we be.
These words are thoughts, placed in a digital world, an alternate reality.
And still the canvas seems empty.
But full of vivacity is it. Full of thoughts, that haven't been formed. Full of them that all have been.
and the cruelty of your mind enshrouds you, Refusing to implant ideas upon a medium.
Pen in cup, brush in water, paint in jars, graphite in sharpeners.
You stare and you stare, but inability to choose envelopes.
Futile it seems, strange to even think of trying.
But necessity wins. Thinking it is possible gives hope, and thus, begin.
Starting well, brush slips, strange occurrence. Wanting only to express, maybe the mind isn't ready to.
It shouts out in action that it refuses to conform to what you believe it should.
The mind doesn't have a master? How can it know.
A fully conscientious self would try to work together.
The mind is only trying to show, that what the subconscious is refusing to let the conscious aware of,
it is not ready for.
Don't destroy yourself because you want to accept what you know.
Want is different than capable.
Time and patience are required to unlock the steel wedge preventing ability.
But when a refute forms, force-able entry is deemed necessary, further ignorance is deemed hazardous...
Just once, to be understood.
a slice of mind falls away.
Into nonexistence, it never was, because memory no longer persists.
But the mind knows a part of it is irrevocably gone, inconceivably fallen to the abyss of it's own demise,
destruction of self permits.
So simple yet so difficult to comprehend.
The dichotomy of keeping both from ripping apart at the epicenter of creation, and destroying the greatest....creation of all...existence, is the lowest depiction of humanity.
Brain is only a word describing the organ that is run by higher processes.
Consciousness is only a word enclosing the perception of the reality of present existence.
Subconsciousness....the nexus of imperceptibility.
Humanity labels the mind as both, the brain as encompassing.
Either is nigh.
Nil.
Caput.
They are not matter, forms that take up space in the old elementary explanation of reality.
You can't bottle self.
Thoughts cannot be liquefied and stored at subzero temperatures for future gander.
They are a form of energy, thought, it exists everywhere.
Our thoughts give substance, shape, and composition to matter-ized objects.
What the mirror reflects to our retinas, is a residual self image.
Hardwired into our brain, the sub delves into the information, relays it to consciousness and reflects.
Unaware can we be.
These words are thoughts, placed in a digital world, an alternate reality.
And still the canvas seems empty.
But full of vivacity is it. Full of thoughts, that haven't been formed. Full of them that all have been.
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