No title

Conceptually the idea of a title is appeasing. Wherewith may we call you? Yet, for all the summary it may provide I must inquire as to the effective nature of it as a judge.

With people I may say my name is Cory, but the definition of me is still long coming beyond the exposition. We call exchanging names "introduction," and justly so. Unlike  so many book browsers today, we never judge a person by their title.

We often begin judgements with whatever sensual means we are given. You may take how I look and apply it to my name. Follow that with my voice and you are beginning to create a persona for me. I often wonder if these personas are something we learn to create, or something we must learn not to. Imagination plays with a younger mind, as does the simplicity of labeling. In high school it is easy for many children to associate others and themselves into specific categories that tell them who they are. What role  they play. What to wear, say, do, be, and all around live. All of this works fine until you begin to ask yourself questions or show signs of curiosity into true interests. Then one realizes the simply painted facade doesn't hold up to scrutiny. Worlds shatter with the realization that everyone (EVERYONE) is different. So we begin looking a bit deeper for a character of those charming, dreadful, and seemingly normal.

How do they think? What do they like? What do they hate? How do they feel, act, be? What mood do they bring with them? Are they intelligent? Beyond the common assumptions lie countless characteristics and idiosyncrasies that just wait to be discovered. And, like a key you may click well and fit flawlessly or you may not even make it the teensiest into the lock of a relationship, but you can still admire the keyhole, the person. You can still see them all around you.

And, unlike so many things that become what they are named, you and I define our name through what we are. 

Past the point of no return

Outside of broad-way I have often wanted to use this saying in *return* situations.

Those movies are past the point of no return, as are those books. Library, Netflix, you will never get them back.

My Utah State tax return is past the point of no return: IE: I'm not sure If I'm going to get back all 11 dollars of sweet return. The point of return has been past. No turning back now.

I think most things in time are past the point of no return. But, what is past that point? A point of return? Does this mean I exceeded the limits of some design and I am free to do anything I want? Well, I'm going back to the point of return, thank you. I have defeated you, expectations!

Stand aside, destiny. You are a point in time that I will eternally dodge. Creation has another manner of conversing, one that involves choices. May eyes see consequences forever more.

Mortality rates

What rate would you put on mortality? Or you, or you? Banana's live for a few days and fruit flies for a few hours, but despite how fast life goes they find ways to continue on. Maybe that banana's great great grandson will be eaten by president Obama! There's no stopping ambitious fruit.
         Fruit flies, on the other hand, are like some sort of outer-world alien. One banana could breed hundreds, and they would all die in a day... unless they were eaten by the president. Then we just hope they have lots of protein content.
         Our car recently started wobbling in the steering wheel. It has had a long and fulfilling mortality, but unlike many other productive specimens (some of which I have mentioned) it refuses to continue the family line and leaves the entirety of its mortal longevity up to us. Jerk.
        Though, perhaps I am being to hard on it. After all, people can continue the family line, but they must retain their individual characteristics. Perhaps cars have some level of idiosyncrasies that cannot be replicated. I know our vehicle has a lot of character.
         The entire subject matter of this is very rudimentary, of course. All things were created spiritually first and return to that state on death, but what happens after? Personal resurrection is grand, but are there going to be numberless concourses of fruit flies singing praises to the almighty? I don't want to be the first one unable to enter the Celestial kingdom because of a fly-swatter. But, I have faith. I'm sure the time will come for understanding, and I'm sure all will be fine in the end. After all, this is the gospel of peace, love, and joy; not of decaying fruit and undead insects. 

More meaning

Letters have a distinct way of meaning more than they quantify. Five only has four letters. Twelve only has six. (And the same in retrospect). These words are quantifiers that don't quantify. They mean what they aren't. They mean more than they make. They translate language into introspective understanding of enumeration. But, try different words. Silent. Vocal. Deluge. These words mean something with no relation to numbers. They describe events and settings. They capture and entirely different thought process. Instead of a number on paper they become scenes. They become transcriptions of reality. Words are powerful.
Conceptually this is pleasing, but we all take words for granted. Stories fly from the press and publishing companies at an astonishing rate and whether they become believable or consuming works of art is an entirely different matter. Their idiosyncrasies must fascinate, their characters draw from us some form of empathy. Buildings and scenes must become some sort of alternate reality. When you look at a page of letters you see colors, light. You then proceed into other senses. Visually you see the words describing a smell, but they turn into something not seen but inhaled.  You see sounds and then hear them, but these processes happen so fast that a good reader becomes privy to far more knowledge than would otherwise be available. Then, you start to read things and see things you don't know about and you begin to jump gaps of creativity. You read about mountain alps when you live in Kansas and start to feel and smell and see things you can't have. Yet, this is not reality in the broad sense: this super-positioning of self. This is your specific reality (It is important to note) and once you have found it, once you have grasped your other world (however many you truly want), you are free to create whatever you like there.

Build me

   I am made out of bricks. Super-glue and Popsicle sticks. You may build me peace buy piece. But, some people prefer the pre-built kits. No questions asked. No instructions inquired. Look upon me and despair, mortal. As knowledgeable as a rodent without whiskers, paws, or snout. As knowledgeable as a mathematician in humanities! How do you maintain what you refuse to understand?
   New idea: try breaking me down. Oh dear! you can't. We do come built strong; just not by you. Look at tomorrow and tell me you aren't wasting your time, then. You could be laying piece by piece, yet you concede you are complete. You are finished. You have built all there is to be built. I disagree. And, so does Life the Inferno.
   Yesterday you had stick structured adhesives, today you have pine-ash. Yesterday you had ideas, today you have ignorance. Yesterday you knew everything. Yesterday you had. But, today is a confused tomorrow and you don't know how to fix it. Better learn fast, you are running out of time. And, if you see us smiling at you don't blame yourself. We're still just learning too. Some people just do it happier than others. Why not?

Where the snow falls

We have been in falling snow recently. I hear that in the distant states on the distant coasts it is worse than here, but here is our concern and there is theirs. Is it better to have copious amounts or minute portions? Teased or deluged, our preference?
    If I was to choose between all-at once or small increments (and, mind you, agony or pleasure be the preference) I would say yes to the agony and no to pleasure. I like to see all of my foe, but take joy in bite-size portions: always wondering what treat lies around the next corner.
    So let it all fall and I'll have my spring as early as I finish shoveling the walk. Who cares if the snow is 12 feet high, at least I know it is all I will be getting. But, alas, the weather is as divided as our needs and we only get what we are to deal with right now. It makes me wonder at people who get hurricanes. Maybe they're televisions look better soaking wet?

The recent adventures of Sunlight and Dawn

  They rose over the mountain tops to the usual scene. Houses just beginning to wake, smoking chimneys. The cold ground gleaming up at them.
  "This is as far as I go" spoke Dawn. "I shall await your return on the morrow."
  The Sunlight peeked over the mountain tops one last time before saying goodbye to his old friend (they were quite as old as friends could be) and leaping into the valley below.
When you are so grand and so large as Sunlight is you can make quite a stir in the world. Far beneath the insect-like hive of people began to move about as if something were hounding them. They started frying eggs and steering automobiles to the farthest corners of the Earth. Sunlight counted his influence as primary in their motivations. Surely his daily travel over their little township was quite the most remarkable thing that happened there. Many would say it was.
  By noon-time people started to settle in with his bright demeanor. Sunlight happily reached his highest point to look down at those who pleasantly stopped their hustle and bustle for a spot of lunch. They were in the midst of enjoying him with only small breaks by impudent clouds who dared stare between. The clouds were beyond his touch, though. They were consequence for deeds past done and pools past warmed. He stared at them sorrowfully who shadowed his gaze and influence. All they could do to that which was so dear to him. Sooner or later, like all mortal things, they would fall and he would strike again. And, again they would rise to taunt him in their petty way.
   Soon the time for descent was upon our friend, the Sunlight. He dove for the far horizon now, tiring quickly. He needed rest from this languid scene of work and play. The children were just running from their school houses begging him to stay a bit longer; grasping at whatever fragments of day that remained, but it was too late. His dive that began slowly sped and sped until the last evening rays of his power shot through windows and he could see books being read and workers rise and stretch as closing time approached. Still now he tired and tired, his eyes red with fatigue, but his face golden with the efforts of warming an entire world.  
  Somewhere else he was just stirring life that offered new sights and new sounds. And there, at horizon's end, was his good friend Dawn to waiting to greet him again.