I am besot by the lingering passing of an indestructible feeling.
I have this infatuation with transience. For about as long as I can remember thinking in any type of structured way, I've always been fascinated by the inevitable relinquishing displayed by all things in succumbing to that oft feared Thing-To-Be, that entrenched flow of time whose tides strip the surface of everything they touch, leaving them not bare but renewed and reborn. And by the scale of that change; it can be as minute as a a dust mite's views on your dandruff, or one could look all the way down the tree of life and into the oozy muck beyond. It grips me because change touches everything, and yet most people spend a substantial amount of time and effort searching for and holding onto some type of stability, be it material (houses, hairpieces, shiny digital machines, moonrocks, monster truck rally tickets), emotional (like the way you hold your knife, or when the moon hits your eye, or that wicked witchcraft) or intellectual (in the sense of holding beliefs that don't make you miserably and nonfunctionally crazy, so you don't howl at the moon either (e.g. it's my belief that if I didn't work a moon reference somewhere into this parenthetical the whole point of it would be lost and it ought not exist anyhow)). Perhaps one could even stretch this idea into the physiological realm and bring the whole of life and existence under this broad scope: to find or create patterns of stability, to limit the degrees of freedom in this chaotic bric-a-brac universe, to calm the raging frothy sea enough that we may plant our seeds (or split ourselves in twain, if you're of the more mitotic persuasion) without being swept away, to build comfy little homes in our ecological niche, replete with reactions, impulses, desires, and maybe even a sense of self, memories and beliefs enmeshed in some whirly-burly sponge called consciousness. Ho-hum.
Anyways what I set out to say is that the wholly strange nature of our existence in this universe is at its most apparent once you realize the strangeness of your own condition. For example: We come from stars and to voided space we shall eventually return, every atom of us. Think also: those same little atoms start acting all kinds of nonsensical craziness if you look at them too hard, to the extent that one of the challenges of modern physics is that it takes so long to train a physicist to the front line of our understanding that they don't have time to figure anything new before they start going loony themselves. Or here's a fun one: you came out of your mother's uterus(!!!), wherein before you were just a silly little egg and a quick little sperm (though I'm sure you were still very lovely), and minutes before that one could say 'you' were a particular coital act that for some reason you really don't want to think about (though I'm sure that was rather lovely too). There are countless truths about our condition that could rattle you right off your perch if you took it too close to heart. Because from a certain context, to devote one's life to fighting off the chaos and uncertainty that's bound to reclaim us is what's actually strange; so then we are doubly strange - strange in our position and also quite rudely strange in our reckoning of that position.
...
I think this is the point where I should make some life-affirming point, some reassurance that there's something ethereal and vital beneath the veil but held captive by existential hobgoblins, that your being here demonstrates something more than just another brick of ruthless piecemeal causality in the cold objectivity of the universe. But to be honest, I've never taken the so-called human condition that seriously. To be humbled, curious, acquiescent, dismayed or ecstatic about the world and your place in it is a wonderful and critical thing in my opinion, but to frustrate yourself upon brutal notions and likely unanswerable questions is just plain ol' bananas. Especially if you're anything like me, being quite contented and satisfied by watching my dog chase squirrels around, dancing naked to terrible electronica songs (don't tell), recurring zombie dreams, and that beautiful glistening in another's eyes. Or by the mere possibility of someone reading and being not too bored by something I have to say, for that matter.
Huh, maybe that was kind of life-affirming after all. Sorta?
I have this infatuation with transience. For about as long as I can remember thinking in any type of structured way, I've always been fascinated by the inevitable relinquishing displayed by all things in succumbing to that oft feared Thing-To-Be, that entrenched flow of time whose tides strip the surface of everything they touch, leaving them not bare but renewed and reborn. And by the scale of that change; it can be as minute as a a dust mite's views on your dandruff, or one could look all the way down the tree of life and into the oozy muck beyond. It grips me because change touches everything, and yet most people spend a substantial amount of time and effort searching for and holding onto some type of stability, be it material (houses, hairpieces, shiny digital machines, moonrocks, monster truck rally tickets), emotional (like the way you hold your knife, or when the moon hits your eye, or that wicked witchcraft) or intellectual (in the sense of holding beliefs that don't make you miserably and nonfunctionally crazy, so you don't howl at the moon either (e.g. it's my belief that if I didn't work a moon reference somewhere into this parenthetical the whole point of it would be lost and it ought not exist anyhow)). Perhaps one could even stretch this idea into the physiological realm and bring the whole of life and existence under this broad scope: to find or create patterns of stability, to limit the degrees of freedom in this chaotic bric-a-brac universe, to calm the raging frothy sea enough that we may plant our seeds (or split ourselves in twain, if you're of the more mitotic persuasion) without being swept away, to build comfy little homes in our ecological niche, replete with reactions, impulses, desires, and maybe even a sense of self, memories and beliefs enmeshed in some whirly-burly sponge called consciousness. Ho-hum.
Anyways what I set out to say is that the wholly strange nature of our existence in this universe is at its most apparent once you realize the strangeness of your own condition. For example: We come from stars and to voided space we shall eventually return, every atom of us. Think also: those same little atoms start acting all kinds of nonsensical craziness if you look at them too hard, to the extent that one of the challenges of modern physics is that it takes so long to train a physicist to the front line of our understanding that they don't have time to figure anything new before they start going loony themselves. Or here's a fun one: you came out of your mother's uterus(!!!), wherein before you were just a silly little egg and a quick little sperm (though I'm sure you were still very lovely), and minutes before that one could say 'you' were a particular coital act that for some reason you really don't want to think about (though I'm sure that was rather lovely too). There are countless truths about our condition that could rattle you right off your perch if you took it too close to heart. Because from a certain context, to devote one's life to fighting off the chaos and uncertainty that's bound to reclaim us is what's actually strange; so then we are doubly strange - strange in our position and also quite rudely strange in our reckoning of that position.
...
I think this is the point where I should make some life-affirming point, some reassurance that there's something ethereal and vital beneath the veil but held captive by existential hobgoblins, that your being here demonstrates something more than just another brick of ruthless piecemeal causality in the cold objectivity of the universe. But to be honest, I've never taken the so-called human condition that seriously. To be humbled, curious, acquiescent, dismayed or ecstatic about the world and your place in it is a wonderful and critical thing in my opinion, but to frustrate yourself upon brutal notions and likely unanswerable questions is just plain ol' bananas. Especially if you're anything like me, being quite contented and satisfied by watching my dog chase squirrels around, dancing naked to terrible electronica songs (don't tell), recurring zombie dreams, and that beautiful glistening in another's eyes. Or by the mere possibility of someone reading and being not too bored by something I have to say, for that matter.
Huh, maybe that was kind of life-affirming after all. Sorta?