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ETERNITY INVOLVES POLYTHEISM

Sun, 13 May 2012 07:27:37 -0700

Someone asked me about eternity recently.

The best way to understand eternity is to understand that eternity is a form of temporal infinity.

And the best way to understand infinity is to understand, first, that there are different sizes of infinity.

THERE ARE MANY SIZES OF INFINITY

Some infinities are small. Others are large. They are not limited, they are infinite. But some are differently sized.
This confuses me.

INFINITY REQUIRES POLYTHEISM

Perhaps the best way to think of infinity is using polytheism. The pantheon of gods exist for infinity. But some are older than others.

ZEUS IS OLD

Zeus is an older man. I picture him as midway between a bearded John Wayne and an older Kurt Russell. Unpleasant, and probably a bad person. Best kept at arm’s length because he is possessed of a presence and power and anger.

Here is a good idea of what Zeus looked like when he got mad. This is Kurt Russell as Wyatt Earp in Tombstone.

(Watch that video, it’s important.)

ARTEMIS IS YOUNG

Zeus is an older man. Artemis is his daughter.

She is a young lady. One can picture her like Saoirse Ronan in Hanna, or like Rooney Mara of The Girl With a Dragon Tattoo.

Rooney Mara is probably more apt: Artemis dealt with an upsetting amount of attempted assault. if Artemis was mortal, she too would be tattooed. And she would put away the bow and pick up a pistol.

Watch the trailer. (It’s important too). Imagine that black-haired girl, Lisbeth Salander, as an immortal deity.

MOVIES LAST FOREVER AND SO DO GODS

Rooney Mara and Kurt Russell will age and die. Tombstone and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo will exist for centuries.

But “Wyatt Earp” will always be a man in his 40s. And “Lisbeth Salander” will always be a young woman.

They’ll likely be broadcast on television, and the waves will be beamed into infinity.

And the images I have just shown you will go across infinity.

And “Wyatt Earp” will always be a man in his 40s. And Lisbeth Salander will always be a young woman. Until the end of time.

I did this the other week and feel that my arm is an instrument...

Thu, 10 May 2012 14:10:25 -0700

I did this the other week and feel that my arm is an instrument now.

Photo

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:46:01 -0700

tphd: Now that I’m writing longer fiction, I’m beginning to suspect all the voices I’ve carried...

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:44:53 -0700

tphd:

Now that I’m writing longer fiction, I’m beginning to suspect all the voices I’ve carried around inside me, or which seem to otherwise arrive, have been seeking to inhabit me. They’re not things negotiating their release; They want their turn at the helm.

I know this is the latest in a string of reblogs from TPHD. He’s articulating a thing I have felt very strongly recently. I quit writing daily about two weeks ago, and I’ve never felt more liberated. I don’t feel less creative. I feel that the scenarios I would have previously conveyed via fiction are now being conveyed via my actions and interactions.

I’m beginning to believe that writer is a transitional state. It’s the state of “self-conscious do-er” between unconscious do-er and intuitively conscious do-er.

TPHD: A BRIEF SURVEY IN REVERSE: MY MEMOIRS

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 07:38:45 -0700

TPHD: A BRIEF SURVEY IN REVERSE: MY MEMOIRS:

tphd:

WHEN I WAS 14 I CONSUMED AN ENTIRE BOOK BEFORE MY ASTONISHED HOME-ROOM AND CLAIMED TO HAVE “READ” THE BOOK GASTRONOMICALLY.

WHEN I WAS 13 I FELL FROM A THREE STORY WINDOW AND LANDED ON MY FACE AND PASSED OUT FOR THREE WEEKS. WHEN I WOKE, I FOUND THE WORLD STRANGE

FULL OF LIGHT AND COLORS AND…

TPHD: Important Things

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 16:38:48 -0700

TPHD: Important Things :

tphd:

We forget a lot of things along the way to wisdom.

We forget to carry ourself into things

We forget to be ready

There is a moment just past wisdom which is very much like singing

in an empty marketplace

or losing your shoes in the afternoon

You need to be ready to lose your shoes in the…

tphd: untitled on Flickr.

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 17:24:24 -0700

tphd:

untitled on Flickr.

TPHD: LANDSLIDES

Sun, 25 Mar 2012 19:03:51 -0700

TPHD: LANDSLIDES:

tphd:

If I had the power to command landslides, the annual rate of landslides would increase significantly and give rise to a new period of theorizing—a thousand hands deep in the wild anxieties of geographers, who thought they understood stone but now are challenged at their core.

I predict…

Photo

Sat, 24 Mar 2012 13:22:50 -0700

How Does It Look

Sat, 24 Mar 2012 10:56:58 -0700

How does it look, she asks him. It looks fine, I guess, he says. She slips up her underwear and reclasps her bra. He straightens in front of her. The conversation between her hands and her underwear looks like an accusation. He walks across the room to his crumpled boxers. They sit at his feet. He steps into them and pulls them on. She sits down and opens a diet soda. He stands for a minute then goes to the kitchen and scratches his face with the back of his hand. He stands in front of the stove fiddling with the range. I think our pilot light is out, he says. She sips her soda and slips her feet into rubber sandals. There are freckles on her ankles and a blotch of red pigment on her lower back. She thinks about gas leaks. The soda can stays rigid as she lays back, navigating her body around the fulcrum of her arm. The can would be cold against her thigh if it were cold, and if it were against her thigh. There’s a pillow nearby but she isn’t using it.

He opens the oven and sticks his head in. Do I remind you of Sylvia Plath, he asks. Don’t joke about that, she says, not raising her head or her voice. Sorry, he singsongs from within.

She gets up in a fluid motion like a dog waking from a nap and walks into the kitchen. There are windows but she walks past them mostly naked.

The pilot light’s below the oven, not in the oven, she says as she washes her hands.

He pulls his head out and says, Really?

Really, she says. She puts her hands around his neck. They drip on his shoulders and down his spine. He bats at the moisture in the small of his back. She nuzzles his neck. They think about taking their underwear off but decide they are happy in the perfect temperature between the stove and the refrigerator.

For mind on fire?

Sat, 24 Mar 2012 08:08:15 -0700

For mind on fire?

Bright, angular day in Seattle.

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:05:19 -0700

Bright, angular day in Seattle.

The Disposal of Hearts

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 20:00:05 -0700

“The human heart is not compostable,”

said the garbageman to the janitor,

“Hearts aren’t mulch, they don’t decompose in a way that plants like.”

“They don’t nourish a thing.”

The janitor opened the trash and cocked his head in inquiry - “Here?”

“It’s all wet and sharp,”

said the garbageman smugly,

“That bag’ll break if you put a heart in there.”

“Look,”

said the janitor,

“I’ll just put it in the recycling, okay?”

“It’s not marked properly to be melted or transformed, but

someday it’ll be part of something useful, like a car or a yogurt tub.”

The garbageman nodded, said,

“Yeah, okay.”

“Just wash it off first.”

Hypothesis

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 14:57:00 -0700

If…
…emotion is communication
…communication is data
…the internet transmits data

Then…
The internet can transmit emotions

And

If …
We can make people feel *bad* online,we can, via meanness and insults and trolling

Then…
We can make them feel *good* too, via support, tenderness, and humanity.

The fact that we can use the internet to make people feel bad is proof of concept that we can use the internet to make them feel good.

Form Letter: Father Addressing Child

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 08:47:06 -0700

Dear INSERT NAME OF CHILD HERE,

POSITIVE STATEMENT REGARDING CHILD’S PRESENCE IN FATHERS’ LIFE OR ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF FATHER’S NEGATIVE PRESENCE IN CHILD’S LIFE. CLEAR DECLARATION OF GOOD FEELING OR INITIAL INDICATION OF REGRET.

WISHES TOWARDS FUTURE OR SORROW ABOUT THE PAST. STATEMENT ALIGNING MOTHER TO THESE WISHES OR EXTENSION OF SORROW TOWARDS MOTHER. IF MOTHER IS ALIVE, INSERT DETAIL REGARDING MOTHER. IF MOTHER IS DEAD, INSERT VAGUE ALLUSION TO HUMAN MORTALITY IN GENERAL/SPECIFIC ALLUSION TO PARENTAL MORTALITY.

RECOGNITION OF CHILD’S POTENTIAL AND INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND LETTER’S CONTENT AT TIME OF WRITING, OR CHILD’S INNOCENCE AND INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND TRAUMA OF CHILDHOOD. WISHES TO ADHERE TO FATHER’S VALUES OR WISH TO HAVE BEEN A BETTER FATHER.

THANKFULNESS REGARDING EXISTENCE OF CHILD OR BITTERNESS REGARDING CHOICES MADE AS PARENT. HOPE FOR CHILD TO BE THANKFUL FOR PLACE IN THE WORLD OR HOPE FOR CHILD’S FORGIVENESS.

EXPLANATION OF DREAMS OR EXPRESSION OF ANGUISH.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF DIFFICULTIES OF THE WORLD. POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE PREDICTION REGARDING CHILD’S ABILITY TO COPE WITH SOCIAL, ECONOMIC, AND EMOTIONAL TURMOIL OF LIFE.

DESIRE TO CHILD TO REMAIN PSYCHOLOGICALLY STABLE IN FACE OF SAID DIFFICULTIES/TURMOIL OR DESIRE FOR CHILD TO FORGIVE FATHER IN THE FUTURE. .

DECLARATION OF LOVE OR SINCERE APOLOGY.

Love,
FATHER’S NICKNAME HERE

Email: Dream A Family Friend Had About Me

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 10:34:16 -0700

The dream started with me holding a gun and you were on the floor in your kitchen. I had shot you. There was blood going everywhere, but it wasn’t on me. You were really dead. I looked around and you lived in a minimalist home, although it was still warm. You had shiny wood floors and lights that came down from a high ceiling. Really wiry lighting.

I started to think about how I was going to get away with the murder. Your entire house was made of glass looking out and you lived on a hill. I knew it was Seattle, but it looked like the hills outside LA. I saw 4 kids hiking up the hill to go to a lookout behind and above your house. I went into the other room to figure out what to do. I came back and tried to find gasoline to pour over you. There wasn’t any.

I took your olive oil and poured it all over your body. I didn’t feel bad- I just wanted to get away with it. The olive oil wouldn’t catch fire and I became desperate. I decided I would blame it on those kids, but just as I decided that I realized that 2 of them had snuck into your bedroom and were doing sex. I knew I had parked my car down the hill and walked up to the house, so I guess I knew I wanted to kill you beforehand?

I left the house, called 911 and left an anonymous tip that I had seen the kids break in and then heard a shot. Then I was able to see in the house and the kids had just discovered your body.

Ten Facts about GHOSTS

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 08:03:59 -0700

1.BREADSTICKS are BAGUETTE BONES

2. GOOD PEOPLE are stopped from doing bad things by INTERNAL GHOSTS
BAD PEOPLE do BAD THINGS because they lack internal ghosts

3. BLACK HOLES are STAR GHOSTS

4. GHOSTS can be trapped in BPA-FREE WATER BOTTLES

5. DOGS can hear, but cannot smell GHOSTS

6. THE MALL OF AMERICA has NO GHOSTS on its grounds

7. If you die wearing a NECK BRACE, your GHOST will be IMMUNE TO VAMPIRES.

8. In the early 20th century, RADIATORS were often filled with SUPERHEATED GHOSTS.

9. People wearing WOOL SWEATERS have SHEEP-SHAPED AURAS.

10. GHOSTS can use NETI POTS free of fear of amoebas because they LACK BRAINS.

The Stream on Main

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 20:00:00 -0700

Down the main street on which the people take their buses and their cars towards their monuments of employment a stream has erupted. Over a period of many rainy days, the streets have become rivers. Workmen have come in several times to unclog drains, but the drains are not clogged: the water in the streets have come from the streets themselves, not the rain. The drains are empty.

Days of rain and swift, low layers of water have washed away the litter, dirt, and muck that accumulated upon the street over the long, dry winter. A dog standing on the sidewalk laps at the water happily, sensing it is clean water. Small children gravitate towards the water instinctively. If it was ice, it would smell like the forest.

At first, the river is quiet. During the long periods when people commute, the pedestrians and drivers hear nothing. It speaks indistinctly for the rest of the day and continues to grow and clean itself. Men from a homeless shelter begin to help keep it clean. They walk the street every evening and peacefully inform the passersby who unthinkingly toss cigarette butts into the wet street that it is a river not a street.

The asphalt beneath the river reflects darkness outwards, which makes it hard to see the depth of the river. Drivers will choose other roads rather than drive in the river.

The river’s voice grows. It begins to speak in low hums that compete with the rumble of cars the next street over.

The river makes the news primarily as a figure of frustration and curiosity: Look, our city cannot maintain its roads, the tone is. But the workers who come to the river see nothing they can fix. The rains have long since stopped. There are no burst pipes, and the drains are clear for blocks around. It is unclear.

Businesses thrive around the river. A Rite Aid sits to the side in roughly the middle of its territory. The tellers there leave the door open and turn off the ambient music so they can hear the river’s voice.

Teachers take whole classes to see the river on day trips. The children sit beside the river and wonder into it. Some of them have never seen a river before. A few have never touched clean water except out of a tap. During breaks for lunch or snacks, these normally voluble groups sit staring at it in long stretches of absolute peace.

The rains return. There are many wet days and many inches of water in the city. Parks turn to marshes. Streets on high ground turn as wet as the river. A family of four drowns when their SUV bottoms out underneath a bridge. Bus drivers accustomed to decades of snow inch forward on flooded streets.

The city puts levees up in strategic locations. It opens a second set of drainage pipes deep underneath the first. The water drains overnight, and leaves the city limpid as a pearl.

But overnight, the river on main is gone, too. The asphalt has been degraded into smooth black pebbles which reflect the light as if they were bulbs. A beautiful, clean green grime coats the rocks and fills the crenelations: a new wetland.

Workmen survey the site and proclaim that it’ll take the city years to even muster the funds necessary to repair the road. A homeless man catches a frog for the first time in decades. The Rite Aid pharmacist squishes his toes into the mud and laughs.

Twitter is about community. Community is about helping.

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 10:36:20 -0700

Twitter is about community. Community is about helping.

A LIST OF ALL THE YEARS I'VE BEEN ALIVE

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 08:00:05 -0800

IN NUMERICAL ORDER

1978

1979

1980

1981

1982

1983

1984

1985

1986

1987

1988

1989

1990

1991

1992

1993

1994

1995

1996

1997

1998

1999

2000

2001

2002

2003

2004

2005

2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

1978

1979

1988

1985

1984

1989

1981

1987

1986

1983

1982

1980

1998

1995

1994

1999

1991

1997

1996

1993

1992

1990

2008

2005

2004

2009

2001

2007

2006

2003

2002

2000

2011

2010

2012