A possible response to Mr. Redman's Sore Eyes

It’s a sunny day for Dublin, and I think everyone knows it.  It’s the sort of day that is great for biking; a mix of warm sun and cool breeze as you whip past the parked cars.  I’ve got a smirk on my face, I don’t really care.  There are cars parked on my left and cars cruising past on my right.  I’m left alone in my narrow corridor between the two, smirking like an idiot, enjoying the mix of warm and cool.

I should focus on my presentation.  Mike and Tim were talking about some ‘cans in the park’ as we were leaving the module seminar.  I lingered beside them, idly touching the couch in the hallway, wondering if I’d be invited.  I have to work on my presentation anyways.  It’s worth 30%, I would like to do well.  I’ll have plenty of time to drink beer in the sun later, once I’m finished.  Besides, I should also call my Mom.

I stop at a red light.  Another cyclist pulls up behind me.  I am perched with one foot on a pedal, the other on the sidewalk; one foot beside a driver with her window down, the other beside an elderly man in a coat waiting to cross.  Behind me is the cyclist, in front are cars, driving by.  I watch the face, the face, the face, as each car slides past.  Happy, angry, singing, they continue on and I continue to watch.  It seems people are so predictable, so easy to read.  Sure I don’t know their names or birthdays or favourite cars or minor things like that, but so much that is essential to a person is sitting right there, in the face, for all to see.

The light is green and I’m back to pedalling and the smirk is back on my face.  It’s fun, trying to stay within the invisible corridor between parked and moving cars.  I feel like I’m playing some sort of game, some sort of sport.  There are plenty of other cyclists around also playing, and I’m sure that even the passing cars are playing their own version of the game, trying to not hit me or the cars in the lane of oncoming traffic.  Ha, I guess we’re all having fun today.  I try to see who else is smirking.

I get home, but I can’t concentrate tonight.  I decide to go for a walk.  Temple Bar is pretty close and there are always so many people, I decide to check it out.  I’m suddenly in a crowd of people, all walking somewhere different.  I’ve forgotten Mike and Tim, well no I guess I haven’t, but it certainly doesn’t bother me anymore.  I’m feeling pretty good, just walking around within this crowd.  I’m not thinking about much, just walking.  It’s kinda cool living in a big city, never being far from a large crowd of people.  I’m surrounded by faces, by voices and bodies, and now that’s all I am too.  No one is thinking of what makes them unique here, what makes them special, and therefore vulnerable – we are our common elements.  I’m a stranger within strangers and I feel invincible. 

I go home; I need to call my Mom.  I sometimes wonder if she’s the only one I know, her and Dad.  I want to know how he is.  She’s crying when I call, I think I start crying as well.  It’s terminal; I tell her I’ll call her back.  I want to call a friend, but I don’t know who.  It can’t be a guy, or at least not a straight one, that wouldn’t work.  But who?  I imagine the call, maybe to Sara or Jenna.  I tell them what has happened, the past 3 months of phone calls with my Mom and sometimes, when I’m lucky, to him in the hospital.  How bullshit the whole thing is, how I wish I hadn’t left for Dublin.  But I can’t.  I don’t want to involve them, I don’t want anyone to know.  As soon as they do I become a victim.  And I certainly can’t talk to my Mom right now.  I’m crying, so I shower.

I find myself back in Temple Bar.  The strangers, they’re all so nice to me.  No one bothers me, but I’m not sure - it’s not the same.  I look around; I seem to be the only one alone in the crowd.  Everyone else is a man and a woman, or a woman with her friend, or a child with his parents.  Of course, everyone has family, friends – unique histories.  They are all here doing something, living, breathing, thinking thoughts behind their faces.

All these people remind me of when Dad and I used to walk in Ottawa’s Chinatown.  But that will never happen again, it’s out of our reach forever.  I realize no one else here is probably thinking thoughts like I am.  How could they be - everyone is so happy.  I walk, it’s cold and I put my hood up.  I look into a restaurant, first at the people and then at my reflection in the glass.  I can see myself in all of them, the me of Chinatown.  They’re all so fucking happy.  When I turn to my own reflection, I see, even in the faint image, that I’m crying.  Someone bumps into me, talking to the man beside them; they don’t even notice I exist.  I should go home, but I can’t.  I don’t want to be alone, so I sit down, gazing at the legs as they pass by.

Written by Ben Bousada

Sore Eyes

By the author: "Loneliness-in-a-crowd.  Depression-at-the-beach.  These are very real scenarios to many of us, but we struggle with the “why” of it all.  Why are we sadder and more isolated when we’re surrounded by happy vibrant people?   How do the sights and sounds of families enjoying life affect others who are coping with loneliness and loss?  My 1100-word story, “Sore Eyes”, does not attempt to solve this psychological riddle, but merely to put a face and a voice to loneliness – the kind of loneliness that often comes from personal or family illness, and the devastating loss of normalcy entailed thereby.  Las Vegas is a perfect setting for dramatizing the contrasts that make loneliness such a palpable thing."

It was he tip-toeing on tiles that felt wet, gray.  In the men’s room mirror a dripping steamy blur.  That’s all he was.  He blinked to blink away the chlorine burn.  If only he could blink back something good: like his  erstwhile hairline.  The lonely remnants of which were plastered, left-right.  By his last plunge.

It was he walking out.  The sun still did its nosedive at him.  Pop music stung him with high decibel force.  The former had beckoned him poolside, hadn’t it.  Book in hand.  The latter had rudely spoiled his reading.  He sat on the white aluminum and vinyl lounge chair where his jogging shoes, t-shirt, sunglasses and Steinbeck had pined for his return. 

The chair was long enough, against his back the plastic straps pliable enough.  The shade was tolerable.  He could look up, and did.  At two monoliths.  Only picturing them at night.  Outlined in blue neon.  When the desert is just starting its cool-down.  When each little tinted room chooses whether to be a soft yellow haven or a black mystery. 

He a Vegas vanguard?  A casinophile?  Not in this card deck, partner.  But.  Those glassy rectangles rising above the pounding madness.  Like rival stairways to heaven.  They get him meditating on things.  Like people, and how their lives go.

Go, you see, into little rooms.  Into a corner.  To live life in.  And be safe.  Which contradicts itself.  Life is never safe.  It’s a good bet there are regrets and fears stuffed into every last room up there, like junk mail into a wall of P.O. boxes.

“Can I gettu any-tin to drink?” 

A small gold cross dangled over his unprepared bluish eyes.  He turned them upwards toward two pools of melted copper.  He did not let them stray.  Even though something peripheral told him that a smooth arcing brownness was inches away, and little gauzy loincloths not very much farther.

His mouth smiled, not his eyes, as he said no thank you, and speculated what a nice Filipino girl like her was doing in a place like this.

What he felt, actually, was that his chest was ready to cave in.  He only stared out over the sprawling pool.  And tried to keep his thoughts afloat.  A tattoo-covered body builder was wrapping his little girl in a plush hotel towel.  He sat her on a lounge chair, with her Barbie doll and Little Mermaid sunglasses.  Two other guys, maybe his buddies, were playing at tossing ice cubes into a plastic cup.  The cup still had its wedge of lime in place.

A tall deep-tanned blond stood up.  She was alone, and he wondered.  She pulled a Kobe Bryant jersey over her bikini and walked away.  She walked all the way out of the pool area, dropping her towel in the big hamper.

A guy suddenly burst out of the four-foot water, gasping for breath.  He choked with laughter.  “Barry White!” he yelled.  Another guy wading nearby thudded himself in the head with the heel of his hand.  “Barry White, that’s it!  Thanks, Dude!  That would have bothered me all day.”

For some reason, this didn’t connect with his funny bone.  Or any bone.  He just let out a soft snort.  And tugged at some vague mental thread so thin that it broke.  His mind couldn’t backtrack to where it had been.  But he did not belong in this place.

Until a fresh voice poured upon him.  And said, with decisive energy, “Hi.  Would you mind if I borrow part of your shade?”

“No.  Help yourself.”

She dragged a lounge chair out of the sun and alongside his.  “Can you believe they charge fifty dollars for a half day for a cabana?”  She looked too young to have any interest in such things.

“Charging for shade.  Only in Las Vegas.”

“And what if it turns cloudy?  Do you get your money back?”

This ray of satire warmed him.  “Good question,” he replied, with crumpled brow.  “They should at least prorate you for partly cloudy.”

“Ha.  I agree.”

He had not expected to be so near anyone as to smell sweet coconut.  He took some extra breaths in.

“How’s the water?” she asked.  Eyeing him.

“Oh – ”  For some reason he had to look down at his bony legs for an answer.  “A little cold at first but, you’ll get used to it.”  His mind was drowning in cornmeal mush. 

Nodding, lightly tossing off her flip-flops and throwing down a copy of Sparknotes: Hamlet, she sat back.  He saw her adjusting her shiny white shoulders.  He saw her eyes flutter closed.  Her mouth turn peaceful.  Then his own eyes shifted and went limp.

Two pocket-sized gray and black birdies hopped about.  In purple bougainvillea.  Which scaled the stone wall above her head.  The desert wind had picked up.  The lanky palm trees around the pool all got weak-kneed and wavered.  Watercolor clouds streaked the northwest horizon.  Over beige foothills.

A hissing sound nearby.  Distracted him.  A dripping, shivering teenager.  Spraying his younger brother with sunblock.  Not caring about the fumes.  Which blew at a young couple, eating burgers and fries.  Who were equally oblivious.

“Mike – ” sailed a voice from behind.  More familiar than the wind. 

“Hi -”  Her voice was a splash of cool water, and he blinked.  Something dank and heavy lifted off his chest.  It evaporated.  He sat up straight. 

“Do you want to stay longer?”

“No,” he waved off the idea.  “I’m ready to go.”

“I wanted it so much to play one of those penny machines, you know, but they were all taken and the people wouldn’t get up.  They were really winning and they were such fun machines –“

“Lots of bells and whistles, huh?”  It was he standing up and seeing her.  Putting on his shoes.  Sensing the caress of a mirage that doesn’t blur.  Or fade away.

“Yah, and tonight I really want to go early and get one of those machines.”

“OK, my darling.”  The wry look on his face was surrogate for an underlying peace.  “So if it’s midnight and I haven’t seen you for five hours, I’ll know that you’re winning millions of dollars on the penny machines.”

“Yah,” she cooed with a little girl voice, and gave him a soft hug.  He curved one arm around her in a gentle hold, careful not to press the scar tissue that once had been her breasts.  He was whole again.

Written by Chuck Redman

Untitled

We have polka dot skin: parasols vainly stop sunspots from blooming on plastic dolls. Life feeds on death and vice versa. Through apple husk halls do the parasites crawl, while we tear down their walls with our teeth. And biochemical mechanics convert them to cancer.

written by Andrew Brobyn

A Life of Dreams

I had a dream. I was walking through open fields, sunshine and flowers colouring rounded hills. The total sum of life at this point equalled balanced perfection.

The open fields slowly gave way to bigger hills, shrubs, ever thicker trees with hanging vines and hidden thorns that scratched and opened cuts for a host of flying and crawling insects to feed on blood.

I thought I saw a shadow following me. It was difficult to see through the undergrowth and leaves what it was. I sensed it getting closer and growing more hostile the closer it got. There were now several and all were gaining on me. They were tireless in their concentrated pursuit.

I tried to move faster through this jungle to get away. The faster I moved the more cuts and bruises I caused myself. The faster I moved the more effort it took. I realized how exhausted I had become.

I must have fallen back into a deep sleep. I don’t know for how long for there was no time. There was no light and no sound. Is the perfect void nothing? If so, then can there be a perfect void?

I re-awakened from the deep darkness to find myself in a pool of warm water. It took a few seconds to figure out that the up must be where there was a bright light. My lungs were about to explode when I was pushed out and reached the surface. Clearing the mineral rich salty fluid from my eyes, I find I am back surrounded by similar flowering rolling hills where I started. Funny I had never noticed this pool before.

Written by Wellness Committee

Sickness

My mind, my sight, who am i?

my dreams my life, who am i?

are you experienced? Are you delirious?

My eyes, my eye, who am i?

are you mysterious?

Are you curious, furious?

Are you serious?

I am imperious…

who am i?

You woke up this morning,

found yourself sucking on your thumb,

afraid this place aint like the place you’re from,

it looks the same, feels the same,

same old sky with the same old rain

but there’s something different in the sun,

there’s something in the way you run,

there’s something strange about the pain,

there’s something here, this is no fun.

schizotypically stable,

the schizotypal angel,

releasing symphonies both demonically harmonic

and socially disabled.

intrinsically intricate, meticulously deliberate and intimate,

prolificly poetic, ambivalent with ethics...too hectic...

reflective detective, respectably impressive,

aggressively recessive he's resentfully regressing

and attempting to prevent what it was the hell bent voices said.

the people in his head. the monsters in his bed.

you'll wish that you were dead.


Written by Andrew Brobyn

Loneliness

I feel alone. Perhaps I am alone. I wonder if everyone is alone. I’d like to think they are. Maybe those who don’t feel alone arrive at this state of relative comfort by blanketing their loneliness. They disguise it with bodies, voices and various other distractions. Their loneliness lingers underneath a mess of soft quilts and sweet nothings. It’s always there though, never fully subdued, merely muted and briefly forgotten. For a short moment though, every night before each person goes to bed, they plunge into a cold abyss... They drift and there is no one there to catch them (even if they’re sleeping next to someone). They don’t know where they’re going when they fall asleep and no one can tell them that their uncertainty is not to be feared. It is to be feared. They may never wake up. Besides the pain, dying can’t be a vastly different experience. When you’re asleep everyone you know and 'seem to care about' evaporates. They can arise in dreams but they’re not the same. They’re incomparable. They can become corrupted, controlled, or negative space in a matter of seconds. In our waking lives, family and friends are like a soothing sitcom. In excess they dull your mind. Through blanketing your loneliness via family and friends you can also blanket your individuality. That is, cover it up or smother it. You run the risk of burying original thought. You don’t accomplish anything of real value, except of course if you consider blanketing other people’s loneliness valuable. It probably isn’t. ‘Being with people’ cannot be called an accomplishment any more than going to the bathroom can. Humans are fundamentally social. Despite our romantic unwillingness to admit it, we carry on relationships of utility. We’re with each other because we have to be, but we somehow never quite meet. People in love seem to produce fleeting glimpses of pure connection or a spark that triumphs their perennial isolation. The problem with this though is that it never lasts; at least not in its monumental, original form. Perhaps people who blanket their loneliness to the point at which it dulls their mind (or curbs their accomplishments) are inclined to do so partially because when they’re armed with the arsenal of loneliness they simply have no target. That is, they have nothing worth doing while they’re alone. Perhaps that emptiness is so frightening that it becomes the motivation to safely conceal their loneliness. They'd rather lose themselves in a flurry of familiar conversation or physical intimacy than face their hollow selves. So it’s good to be alone. It fosters and signifies depth. Loneliness is like an archer's quiver…but what is a worthy target when people are removed from the picture? Where does the lone archer shoot his arrows? And why?

written by anonymous

Truth at Work

At work it's tough to be certain of anything, except, I guess, of your own uncertainty.  I'm in a Vietnamese kitchen, deveining shrimp, rolling spring rolls and preparing Pad Thai.  These activities, looked at separately, are simple and mundane chores.  However, when you consider all instances of one activity in a series, problems occur.

Every piece of chicken is different, as is every piece of tofu and carrot and broccoli.  This means when it comes time to prepare 5 Pad Thai orders all identical to the last nature is not on your side.

I'm not sure how I build the orders, I usually just grab handfuls of meat or vegetables, then adjust until it looks right.  There is no science, there are no ways of exactly measuring.  It seems to be a matter of taste, an intuitive understanding.

The problem arises with my only co-worker, an elderly Vietnamese woman with a poor grasp of the English language.  She seems very confident in her ability to discern when a portion is too big or small, and never hesitates to let me know when I've given too much or too little of something.

The woman who pays my cheques, the owner of the restaurant, is never to be found in the kitchen.  She learned long ago she would have better luck practicing her English greeting customers.  Normally, when the old Vietnamese lady starts getting animated over a portion I just dolled out, I admit defeat and let her adjust it.  Usually I'm not that certain in my portions anyways.  However, once in a while I nail it, and I know it.  Everything is perfect, but the old lady still has a problem.  I refuse to let her alter my work, and she refuses to let it go unaltered.  When this happens the boss gets involved, being dragged back to the kitchen by the old lady, them conspiratorially talking in their language, saying something about the white boy being stubborn and not letting her fix the portion of chicken.  The boss lady always ends up agreeing with the old lady and every time she does, every time what I was certain of is shown to be incorrect, I realize something; my certainty is not built from a solid foundation.

I know an order is completed like I know when a woman is beautiful.  I set my eyes upon the order or the woman (or the piece of art for that matter) and am told by my senses whether or not complete, whether or not beautiful.  It is not a matter of my analytic faculties establishing a series of reasons for my conviction, but rather a simple conclusion, arising from nothingness. 

I sometimes feel like an artist, trying to find the beautiful proportions hidden in the mass of raw food.  Like I'm following that invisible thread of inspiration while at work, knowing when to add more carrot or less chicken like a painter knows when to add more red or less yellow.

This all would not have mattered but for what happened to me last night.  I was on a date; it was our third time going out together.  We were sitting down in a pub with drink menus.  The waitress was looking at me, waiting for me to place my order.  I was to order for the both of us.  I took a second to contemplate, to figure out what sort of drink she would like, but I drew a blank.  Or rather, a Moosehead would be good, but so would a Caesar and a Martini and a Rye and Coke and a White Russian.  I didn't want to order something she wouldn't like, but I also didn't want to come off as indecisive.  As I sat muddled in my decision I saw the old lady, my co-worker, come in through the front door, glaring at me. She knew I was about to make a mistake, I was about to construct the wrong drink order like so many Pad Thai recipes in the past.  She came over and stood by the waitress, both of them waiting expectantly.  I felt the three sets of eyes on me and froze.  I had no idea what a good thing was to order.  I longed for my boss to intervene, to correct my immanent mistake and save me from the old lady's wrath.  To give me the right drink order, to help me impress my date and satisfy the waitress's need for an order.  But she didn't come, and there I sat, noiselessly lost in my uncertainty, trapped by the eyes of the women surrounding me.

Written by Ben Bousada

A Bird

A bird flying in the sky can see both sides of a wall,
Distracted by a shiny object it lands,
Only one side of that wall is now revealed.

Written by Chris Towle

One

Every action is another brush stroke on the painting presented to us; regardless of its mediocrity
and monotony, every moment’s precious; every monotonous moment is momentous. I feel
fantastic. I feel tremendous. Even if the world’s horrendous and every conflict is contentious,
i know that i am not alone as conscientious. This is not action or reaction but a communion of
dancing, an energetic exchange of distraction compacted to One. Be it friction or fractions or a
thousand nations shredded by guns, or the sand in the sea or water drops on a beach or a trillion
billion suns, or a million mothers for one living son we are One.

Written by Andrew Brobyn

Civility

Cheddar cheese and raspberries,
grated over lettuce leaves,
cherry trees a garden breathes
a mist before a freeze.
Soft memories, antiquity I do bereave,
and yet not grieve.
I am bereft yet have love left. And nary will I leave.

Written by Andrew Brobyn

But Who Leads These Thoughts

Confusion mixed with desire and subtly
A dangerous mix indeed
To fight even after loss, such a noble deed
worthy of whatever scraps that can be found on the floor
Or do quit before an impending loss, ah the mundane question and word
quit, such negativity but with a powerful meaning fitting any context it wishes
Is it so bad to quit if you already know you’ve lost?
Or to trek on the glorious path to places forbidden only to be shut out from its graces and glory?
Isn’t it more wasteful to do such a thing,
Or to continue along a sloping path of distress but you know that if you tried the other you would have to
face the fire head on?
And quite possibly never return the same
Why fight so so hard in return for petty rewards that fails in comparison to your original wishes?
To journey so far, cross every border you've ever known and never reap your enduring desires?

Yet still the small chances hook you, by your mind and soul
Tearing and ripping at every passing wave but still you stay holding on
Why, why? There must be a reason, a divine one at that
But who can assume the word of the Lord, and what he has in store
At least a sign must be given, a small chance at salvation, glory and happiness
Yet nothing,
Why?
I must be fixed or thrown out that is the thesis of life

But who leads these thoughts
Ones that march with certainty and fiery desire,
only to be extinguished by such a fragile chance at salvation

Chances that I can taste so pure,
But so poisonous is this supplement
Running through my veins infecting every inch after inch of my body
Waiting to strike at the perfect moment it slithers
Ay there it is, A twist, a twist of reality that leaves my soul carved
Exhausted, waiting for life to quench these empty holes

Again, it leaves, maybe to come back another time?
To once again shatter everything I have thought of,
the perfect salvation
Or does it finally leave this god-forsaken body and attach its self to another victim
Tis not happened yet, it always, always seems to return as strong as ever

written by Brett Leslie

To Remember

come one, come all
witness our splendour
on display, held
a pinchedandbuzzing dragonfly

i smile with
my arm over your shoulder
this is how i want
what i want
to remember

so
hold the pose
and concentrate
just be happy
for the
flash

finally, we are safe
when that day comes
when i look into your eyes and you mine
and we see separate rivers
we can prove the waters wrong
holding this picture for protection

Written by Ben Bousada

Clockmaker

I put the clock in the

Microwave, so I could

Watch it melt. Took it

Out and cradled it,

Hot and broken in my hand-

Like I’d reached into

Dali’s painting and torn

It through that ancient

Skin....

Felt distorted truths

Graze my wistful hand,

Then flit away.

The clock, it kept on ticking-

Like the one inside

The crocodile,

But Never land was

Too far out-

A memory of someone

I cannot find.

I tried to stifle the

Ticktockticktockticktock;

A cloth, pillow, a coat-

But still it drummed...

An endless headache;

Mockery thy name.

(Congratulations

Clockmaker- your

Craftsmanship:

A commendable

Sort of cruelty.)

written by Alex Dawson

Texture And The Sphere Of Possibility

Each person has what shall be deemed a sphere of possibility. Centred in the sphere of possibility, for many people, are habitual experiences like waking up, flossing, or reading the newspaper. At the fringes of the sphere of possibility, for many people, are experiences like dogsled racing in Antarctica, submarine mutiny, or space exploration. These fringe experiences are understood to be possible in a very real sense; but for a person fastened by routine, the possibility becomes vague; perhaps almost fictional. The degree to which an experience or activity is infrequent and distant determines its position in the sphere of possibility; the rarer it is, the closer it is to the edge. Experiences deeply centred within the sphere can develop a commonly flat texture. The further an experience is from the center of the sphere of possibility, the richer the texture.

Let it be said that texture should be defined as the way an experience feels to a person. Fringe experiences are colourful and distinct, eliciting intense physical, emotional, and intellectual responses in varying combinations. These activities carry a charge that amplifies the life force within the agent; the texture is powerful, rich and detailed. These experiences make the agent feel alive. It is not apparent what ‘feeling alive’ entails for each subject. It may be exhilaration, inspiration, pride, animated awareness, a sense of joy with respect to one’s self and one’s relation with the world. The intricacies will vary from person to person but will always remain visceral on some level. On the other end of the spectrum are flat texture experiences. Flat texture experiences are initially dull and elicit little to no emotional, physical, or intellectual stimulation; and even less of a response as the agent repeatedly performs the action that forms the experience. If these experiences are routinely received, they can blend and unify as a kind of grey mass of action that can actually serve to numb the agent or make them feel ‘less alive’. Experiences that are felt over and over again become flat because they shed originality.

Take the example of locking one’s door; for most people the act of locking one’s door before leaving their residence is so habitual and deeply ingrained in the fabric of their lives that it becomes difficult to see the action as freely chosen. Imagine that the act of locking one’s door is a very small section of a painting. The painting represents the life of an individual, reflecting all the choices and experiences that make up their existence, and every single day is displayed. As a result of locking their door every day, the tiny section of the painting that reflects this experience never changes. It is painted over the previous day in precisely the same fashion on an endless repeat. If there are many sections of the painting that are constant like this after a while it actually feels as though all the agent is really doing is replicating someone else’s work. They forget that an action like locking their door is actually a mark of independence. It is true that it is something they have independently done, but it ceases to feel independent in any sort of meaningful way. Their routine has been drawn so many times that they feel as though they are no longer creating something original but merely tracing an image already laid out for them. This renders them numb to the fact that they are alive and free and creating their own existence; a realization that fosters incredible animation. An experience like hang-gliding over mountain tops would form a new element of the agent’s painting, perhaps with a unique blend of colour. This new section of the painting reminds the agent that they are creating the work because it is fresh, original, and not a copy, which means that it came from someone that is alive, thinking, and free; namely themselves. The texture itself of a fringe experience is wondrous, but it is also the affirmation that the agent is alive that establishes their feeling of intense stimulation. The difference between rich and flat texture experiences is comparable to the difference between further muddling walked-on snow and creating crisp footprints on fresh snow. The former offers the agent nothing but the latter gloriously affirms their presence in the world. This is why creative work is so invigorating; it prompts the agent to recall that they are alive and making their own unique imprint as opposed to merely tracing the lives of others. 

It should be noted that experiences which seem to be flat textured are not, in every case, dull and inhibiting or characteristically flat. Some experiences that may elicit very little response for some, carrying an ostensibly weak charge, also may be a source of relaxation or solace for others. Turning one’s bedside lamp off before bed for instance may seem like a bland action to some, but it also may not seem this way at all to others. The experience could conceivably provide certain people with a consistent sense of calm before drifting off to sleep, forming a sense of balance and physical flourishing. The texture and the position inside the sphere of possibility will always depend, to some extent, upon the particular habits and psychological dispositions of the individual. That is to say that there are very few, if any, universally textured or non-textured experiences.

The novelty of an experience does not categorically ensure rich texture. Its novelty can certainly contribute to its charge capacity, but it does not necessitate texture. Some new experiences will have rich textures while others will simply not. This is partially a result of a new experience’s referential points. There may be certain things that an agent has never experienced but for which they already have many points of reference, which all indicate a probable lack of texture. Someone who has never done taxes can infer that the experience will likely not have a powerful charge or particularly rich texture; they possess referential markers to infer the blandness of doing taxes; such as other government paperwork or high school accounting classes. Again, this will not be the same for everyone. It would be remiss to say that it is impossible for a person to gain immense pleasure from doing taxes. Perhaps it could foster a sense of personal pride in one’s mathematical skill or social responsibility, for example.

The established sphere of possibility is subjective but also shared in some respects. Cultural norms, among other things, determine a general outline for the sphere of possibility of the majority of individuals within that culture. For example, in culture x doing y is extremely rare for most people and thus typically lands on the fringes of people’s sphere of possibility. For instance, very few (if any) citizens of Uganda have traveled beyond planet Earth. It is not truly relevant if any have, the point is that the country is not known for space exploration. Therefore, the collection of citizens in Uganda would almost certainly all experience an extremely high degree of texture if they were to be taken under the wing of NASA toward the moon. The texture of experiences are to a degree based on subjective factors but they also generally fall under the scheme of the collective sphere of possibility.

One could conceive of certain experiences which are actually beyond the sphere of possibility, that is entirely outside of the sphere; like alien abduction or time travel. These experiences would no doubt carry immense charges and sublimely rich textures. However, one would imagine the agent to be extremely overwhelmed in a situation like this. The question arises as to whether or not the agent could ever be involved in an experience utterly external to their sphere of possibility. Even if the experience were physically possible the texture might simply be out of reach; the complexity and richness may  somehow not translate for the agent. So these experiences beyond the sphere of possibility, like time travel or alien abduction, are not only practically unlikely, or even scientifically impossible, but also not possible in the sense of an agent actually registering the texture and scope of the experience. The established sphere of possibility seems to determine certain limits. If individuals truly do have an established sphere of possibility, whatever lies beyond the sphere is quite literally out of reach.

Texture is everywhere, in any place, at any moment in time, rising and falling in gradations of colour and detail. The agent lives in a sphere of possibility, which governs not only his actions, but also his hopes, expectations, and responses to future experiences. Some may strive for texture in their lives by seeking out fringe experiences while others may be content to lead their lives in a torpid, flat-textured box. Texture in an experience is determined by the shape of an agent’s life. It is also determined by inherent biological predilections. Humans are intrinsically drawn to certain activities and experiences. Richly textured  experiences make people feel alive because they are stimulating. This stimulation is created out of a charge capacity that arises based on the individuals relation to the experience. It is also created by a latent affirmation that the agent is truly, and tremendously, alive.


written by Elias Campbell

Free Will!

I reflected upon this while luxuriating in a warm, scented bath this morning – a richly brewed cup of coffee on the ledge beside me and the sweet voice of Madeleine Peyroux displacing the silence. The collective conscious is often a bullying harpy. How many times have you heard someone say that bathing - languishing in your own “filth” is disgusting? It's invariably said with vehemence and conviction approaching moral outrage and, formerly cowered, I've often adopted the same moral stance.

As I then lay in my fragrant, watery cocoon, I felt far from filthy and disgusting and benevolently regarded my recently exfoliated flotsam and jetsam – superfluous DNA that would shortly depart to join the multitudes of similar cast-offs (perhaps recombining in a toxic cesspool to form hideous, parasitic monsters! Ok – too much coffee this morning!) The point is, earthlings, we should pursue self-knowledge with the tenacity and vigour we pursue wealth, love and happiness.

Cede your thoughts and deny your senses, deny your own senses and surrender your soul. - moi

I don't always know what I like – nor do you...

I have likes, prejudices, needs and desires that have been subtly planted in my subconscious by agencies to which I am quite unrelated but, apparently, to which I am readily accessible. All of this while simultaneously priding myself on independent, intelligent thought and self-possession!

A noble idea but a conceit and self delusion as it turns out. I don't make a single decision that isn't filtered through the voice of the collective consciousness that smugly resides in the recesses of my mind's labyrinth. It holds an incredibly narrow point of view I've found. Now that I've discovered its sneaky, conniving existence I question the source of “my” impulses and “my” ideas.

On my coffee table at the moment - Mind Programming – From Persuasion and Brainwashing to Self-Help and Practical Metaphysics by Eldon Taylor.

written by Judith Garel


You can find other similar posts at http://juds2u.blogspot.com/

Thought

It is too much to talk about thoughts and their nature, but let it be said that a thought is seperate from another thought, so that a mind can have a series of seperate thoughts. It also seems that one is able to experience new thoughts. One has thoughts they have never thought before, and these thoughts can be related to recent events. So then I'm sure it's safe to assume that one is able to create new thoughts.
I will talk about being conscious of thoughts.  I don't mean anything too wild here, but simply being aware of a thought. I mean the same thing as thinking a thought, entertaining a thought, having a thought. All these phrases point to the same experience, that of what I will refer to as being conscious of a thought. Finally, I have come to realize this opinion has already been thought of, and has since been labelled epiphenomenalism. Therefore it is my intent to offer the reader not an original theory, but rather an original method of proving said theory.


My claim:
Each thought is not constructed consciously but is rather, as it were, seen by the consciousness, after being constructed non-consciously. So then our thoughts are created non-consciously, without the influence of consciousness.


Explanation:
What I mean is that if one reflects on their mind's processes, they will see that they are concious of a thought itself, but not its creation. In other words, we do not experience why there would be a thought rather than not one, we just experience the thought.

One might counter:
But what about the thoughts one thinks consciously?  I can consciously decide to think of an elephant, and so then I do it.



I would reply:
The desire to consciously think of an elephant, rather than a tiger, rather than an eggplant, rather than not think at all.  This desire, was it created consciously?  If so, was that desire to desire created consciously?  And so on...



One might further counter:
A thought originally may be formed non-consciously, but a second after its birth it begins being changed and shaped by conscious mental activities.  To be conscious of a thought is to affect the thought, and so while not responsible for the original conception, we consciously develop and change the thought for as long as we are aware of it.



I would reply:
Again, why choose to be conscious of the thought rather than go on to the next one?  Why choose to develop a thought one way over the other?  If every effect has a cause, then every mental action is caused by something. Thoughts can cause the creation of new thoughts, but to subscribe to this theory is to admit that originally a non-thought must have created a thought.
"Thoughts' and 'inclinations' and even 'desires' are distinct in many ways, but not in this one:  They all must originate from somewhere other than themselves, for every conscious thought being caused by another, we must admit we are not sure what caused the first one.


Therefore:
Thoughts, at one point, must have originated unaffected by consciousness.  The act of creating a thought seems intuitively different than the act of being conscious of a thought, and so, I feel it safe to say a thought must be created before one is conscious of it.  Should anyone need proof, I suggest they recall anytime in their life they were struck by a thought suddenly, for instance when one remembers, out-of-the-blue, that they forgot to roll their car window up. It is most aligned with experience to claim that every thought stems from the non-conscious.




Consequences:
One simply has ideas, they are not responsible for them. For this reason I say 'Until the schizophrenic is blamed for having delusions, it is inconsistent to praise the genius for their insights, and the artist for their creation'. Of course, this doesn't feel right, and it doesn't seem reasonable to actually take this consequence to heart.  However, it still makes sense, at least to me. And if it doesn't make sense to you, I invite you to reflect on why that is, and if at the very base of your judgement a thought appeared, seemingly from thin air, into your mind. I think anyone who can reflect with accuracy on their own mind will be inclined to agree with me, that all thoughts come originally from a sudden inspiration, come from the non-conscious

An excerpt from 'POE + PASSION'

This evening we will discard our assumptions, we will challenge our premises and we will examine our souls. We as a group, fashionably nicknamed zoomers, have indeed zoomed through life. Many of us although well-intentioned have zoomed through too quickly and too earnestly. You are here tonight to address the dismay, distress, disillusionment and despair that you feel about a life you’ve come to realize just doesn’t add up.

And we so need our lives to add up don’t we? We want to feel a resonance and satisfaction with what life returns to us from the boundless personal energies we expend. If we haven’t done so already, tonight we will dig deep and tap into that unique, elemental, defining point within ourselves from which we will begin again. As we proceed, keep in your minds a little phrase from an old song called “Closing Time”, - “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Bear in mind also that complex problems cannot be solved but any complex problem can be rendered simple – think “E=MC2.”

I have emerged from my own complex mire by following two simple caveats that I ask this evening, for you to adopt as your own.

My first caveat is - Only YOU can affect a change. You must find your own answers within and in order to do this you need to create an atmosphere conducive to self-dialogue. You need to sloooooooooow down, be quiet - listen to yourself. Take yourself out for a test drive and run yourself through your paces - see exactly what your rigging can handle. By this I don’t mean sign up for the iron man, I mean build on your natural abilities as they have emerged in whatever otherwise mismatched profession or occupation you are now seeking to change. Have you excelled at planning your office parties but flop consistently at reconciling the month-end statement? Then think of yourself as a successful event planner NOT as an accounting failure and NEVER look at yourself through someone else’s eyes. Stand on your own and define your own world. You need to revel boldly in your vibrant, colourful aloneness rather than fade away to beige with the rest of the crowd.

Boldly declare yourself like Edgar Alan Poe in his poem, “Alone”


"From childhood's hour I have not been As others were — I have not seen

As others saw — I could not bring My passions from a common spring —

From the same source I have not taken My sorrow — I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone — And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —


What a bold assertion!

What a completely unapologetic affirmation of this poet’s unique singularity!

With what familiar resonance these sentiments are echoed in my mind and in my heart!

Poe embraced his singularity to fulfil his destiny and secure a position of posterity in literary history. By no means a role-model for every facet of life; Poe’s one caveat that we should all take to heart is to acknowledge and nurture our own uniqueness and be true to ourselves as we explore each heading on our course through life. I believe that unless we do this our outcome is worse than death – it is never to have lived in the first place.

Many, many people never fulfil their own destinies. They end up living lives that never feel right and never fit right. An ill-fitting shoe may blister your “sole” but an ill-fitting life will blister your “soul! It is a very uncomfortable way to live - but for this transgression against self, I am the first to issue a “me culpa”....

written by Judith Garel

To read this entry in its entirety, please visit
http://juds2u.blogspot.com/2009_09_20_archive.html 

The Logic of Whispers

A whisper of wind set free the walnut

into a 30 foot drop.

Landing onto hard ground, set free the nut

from the shell.



A whispered word, imprisoned,

thoughts into the mind.

To free the thoughts would require

smashing the skull.



Therefore, logic dictates,

to be free, you break something,

or you plant a seed with a whisper.

Contentment

Hometown Playground

Moseying down main street with

the discretion of

a full regalia clown

astounded by the looks he draws

a familiarity of strangers

standing all around

to be at peace with water

while you flounder

requires that you drown

written by Andrew Brobyn