The park across the street features tall, healthy, trees. Their green leaves sway in today's sporadic weather. Up and down, back and forth. Wave hello friends! Wave hello. An arbor zoo. I see pine, maybe maple, and... that other one. What a few. they close a good near half of my sky view from my seat near the window. They fill it with meshes and clashes of greens. Darker, lighter, but all green. Team green. They were out for the win ten decades ago, but you know nothing lasts forever. Now we contain them in blocks like rare specimen. They are (mostly) harmless, playful. They even let you climb on them. Kids gawk at their sticky hands and pull away in disgust relying on manufactured soaps to scour them pure. Just like that time the gum got stuck in hair. The tree shows no emotion from the messy contact. Tree's don't feel. But, somehow, sappy tears pour and somewhere, outside of the confines of this strange populace, a rain forest loses its head. Coincidence? If a tree falls in the forest can anyone
No we can't. Can they? Not according to the waiver we made them sign in triplicate. One copy for them, one copy for us, and another just for good measure. I mean, we aren't running out of paper. A shout out for the trees, our stoic heroes. Arms wide open, ready for a hug. I use my paper in silent salute to you.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A change of scene
Well well, we meet again dear blog. This is my first test post via tablet. It is like typing on glass. It is somewhat satisfying despite the initial difficulties. A flat surface that can tell the difference between your finger tips and make sense of touch. If it can do it maybe we can to.
In a world of intensely intelligent beings it seems the only thing stopping us from communicating properly is ourselves. Surely with the proper education we could all communicate in any number of ways, be it touch, movement, sound, or patterns. Why not? Why is one of the worlds scariest trials public speaking? Why do marriages fail because of a lack of communication? The inability to understand? it seems the only conclusion I can draw is that people need to learn to communicate, and people need to want to learn to communicate. Perhaps Babylon jumble wasn't just smitten, it was irreconcilable by those too wicked to even make an attempt.
In a world of intensely intelligent beings it seems the only thing stopping us from communicating properly is ourselves. Surely with the proper education we could all communicate in any number of ways, be it touch, movement, sound, or patterns. Why not? Why is one of the worlds scariest trials public speaking? Why do marriages fail because of a lack of communication? The inability to understand? it seems the only conclusion I can draw is that people need to learn to communicate, and people need to want to learn to communicate. Perhaps Babylon jumble wasn't just smitten, it was irreconcilable by those too wicked to even make an attempt.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Gizmos, Gadgets, Time
With the universe seemingly enlarging one would think we could have more time in a day, or at least label our time better. 12 hours for chatting, 15 for sleep, and 5 for figuring out your new phones. But, as I see it, something has to go, for we are all aspiring to the stars with our time. And, while we can control the contents of our day, we can't change the container itself. I suppose if we flew towards the sun at the speed with which it moved the technical day would never end, but that presents other problems. We have to sleep sometime, and always travelling in one direction with no end is the same as standing still with no end. Both limit you ridiculously when it comes to options and potential.
Look at your day, now look at mine. Look back at yours. Now look back at mine. Aren't you happy you have your day? I'm happy to have mine. No two would be alike. All of them are 24 hours, though, and don't you doubt it. How many of these things will we get? Enough to throw them at being bored, that is for sure, or spending time doing something we hate for its uselessness, like reading the ingredients in a twinky. There is no justifying the end product on that one.
I commit right now to spend my days better. The day isn't getting anymore hours, but those hours are about to get fatter, and if they spill over into tomorrow hopefully I can ride them like a wave into the sunset and my endless day will be now.
Look at your day, now look at mine. Look back at yours. Now look back at mine. Aren't you happy you have your day? I'm happy to have mine. No two would be alike. All of them are 24 hours, though, and don't you doubt it. How many of these things will we get? Enough to throw them at being bored, that is for sure, or spending time doing something we hate for its uselessness, like reading the ingredients in a twinky. There is no justifying the end product on that one.
I commit right now to spend my days better. The day isn't getting anymore hours, but those hours are about to get fatter, and if they spill over into tomorrow hopefully I can ride them like a wave into the sunset and my endless day will be now.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Riposte
The young boy looked up at the weathered man, bent like a lamp-post. "Do you ever think it will rain again?"
"Aye." He muttered, but only after a few moments mournful hesitation. The lone lamplight of a single lantern sent ripples of shadow in the tilled, sun-baked, soil. In the distance other, happier, twinkles of light could be seen on other, more distant, farms. The stars shone overhead in a far-away place that looked like a more crowded extrapolation of themselves. At least, that is what the boy thought. Maybe way up there those farmers of the vast nothing were plentiful in their zilch. Those gaps of black were their own patches of unseen soil. Was the crop rich or non-existent?
Like all who sought to grow on Turasian, the man and the boy came out in the last rays of a cruel red-giant. It asked no questions and spared no one it's unforgiving presence. These plucky few who stayed on the dying second-rock in a dying milky-way system knew little else but to farm. But, to farm in the night (when all of the plants are sleeping) is a silly thing, and to farm on a world that will see no growth without quickly ashing it is doubly so.
They could leave. They could (heaven forbid) travel to the nearest station, a two day journey on foot, and get into plushy seats on a departing 842 EVAC, leaving this system for a better life like the hundreds that could be seen all evening; heard all day. They wouldn't, though. Grandpa was a stoic man the young boy knew. He gazed across the barren soil.
The first rain would fall near the start of the season, in a few days one would hope. The farm wasn't much to look at until then. Rows of undisturbed dirt, mostly ash, that was so solid it could support a child's weight. The young boy only tested this behind Grandpas back, figuratively. Stoic men yell at curious children when they have curious fun on their stoic trials.
The second rain, more prevalent and dangerous than the first, came near the end of harvest. The rush to garner the desert fruits before it spoiled, melted, scalded them was the most frightening time of the year. Most farmers--those that remained--had lost some of the fruit. Those that hadn't had usually lost more. A life, a limb, or perhaps just their facial hair (depending on your race). The young boy looked up once more at the weathered relative. He had been lucky, Grandpa. He had only lost his sight. One glance at the dying sun would grant you that. That was why home had no windows. That was why the only light the boy knew came from the small lamp his Grandpa now held and the lights of all those who lived off of the foolishly impossible, and dragged their relatives into it. Those on the distant farms, and those on the farms in the sky.
The boy raised a silent arm above him in the utter stillness of the night and shook it in a wave. May your crops be ever rich, he wished, and your company ever bright.
"Aye." He muttered, but only after a few moments mournful hesitation. The lone lamplight of a single lantern sent ripples of shadow in the tilled, sun-baked, soil. In the distance other, happier, twinkles of light could be seen on other, more distant, farms. The stars shone overhead in a far-away place that looked like a more crowded extrapolation of themselves. At least, that is what the boy thought. Maybe way up there those farmers of the vast nothing were plentiful in their zilch. Those gaps of black were their own patches of unseen soil. Was the crop rich or non-existent?
Like all who sought to grow on Turasian, the man and the boy came out in the last rays of a cruel red-giant. It asked no questions and spared no one it's unforgiving presence. These plucky few who stayed on the dying second-rock in a dying milky-way system knew little else but to farm. But, to farm in the night (when all of the plants are sleeping) is a silly thing, and to farm on a world that will see no growth without quickly ashing it is doubly so.
They could leave. They could (heaven forbid) travel to the nearest station, a two day journey on foot, and get into plushy seats on a departing 842 EVAC, leaving this system for a better life like the hundreds that could be seen all evening; heard all day. They wouldn't, though. Grandpa was a stoic man the young boy knew. He gazed across the barren soil.
The first rain would fall near the start of the season, in a few days one would hope. The farm wasn't much to look at until then. Rows of undisturbed dirt, mostly ash, that was so solid it could support a child's weight. The young boy only tested this behind Grandpas back, figuratively. Stoic men yell at curious children when they have curious fun on their stoic trials.
The second rain, more prevalent and dangerous than the first, came near the end of harvest. The rush to garner the desert fruits before it spoiled, melted, scalded them was the most frightening time of the year. Most farmers--those that remained--had lost some of the fruit. Those that hadn't had usually lost more. A life, a limb, or perhaps just their facial hair (depending on your race). The young boy looked up once more at the weathered relative. He had been lucky, Grandpa. He had only lost his sight. One glance at the dying sun would grant you that. That was why home had no windows. That was why the only light the boy knew came from the small lamp his Grandpa now held and the lights of all those who lived off of the foolishly impossible, and dragged their relatives into it. Those on the distant farms, and those on the farms in the sky.
The boy raised a silent arm above him in the utter stillness of the night and shook it in a wave. May your crops be ever rich, he wished, and your company ever bright.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Superb in all its fashion
It was a wonder in every way. At every angle it seemed to say that everything was fine. It would all pass in the end. It moved with succinct grace and gargantuan; tip-toeing through the blue beyond with mass and incredulity, and they all danced. Danced in grand gestures of symbolism. The dance was the heart, the soul, of it all.
Though its life was only days, though it could only remain aloft for so long before it hit something more substantial than its vain innocence--vain ignorance. Yes, though reality finally claimed the superfluous thing, one would say it was quite superb in all its fashion. Indeed, perhaps that was the cry that its heart and soul screamed when it rushed to life-boats and spilled into the freezing ocean; like blood. Blood from the sinking ship.
Though its life was only days, though it could only remain aloft for so long before it hit something more substantial than its vain innocence--vain ignorance. Yes, though reality finally claimed the superfluous thing, one would say it was quite superb in all its fashion. Indeed, perhaps that was the cry that its heart and soul screamed when it rushed to life-boats and spilled into the freezing ocean; like blood. Blood from the sinking ship.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
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.
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.
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