I believe myself to be a man of Science primarily, and then spirituality.What I believe makes me different is that I try to plug the holes of spirituality with science and not vice-versa.
Literature is not merely language; it is also the will to figuration, the motive for metaphor that Nietzsche once defined as the desire to be different, the desire to be elsewhere, but primarily to be different from the metaphors and images of the contingent works that are one’s heritage: the desire to write greatly is the desire to be elsewhere, in a time and place of one’s own, in an originality that must compound with inheritance, with the anxiety of influence.
Harold Bloom, The Western Canon.
Einstein‘s ironclad theories finally did us in.
Time was a barrier no human consciousness could overcome.
It did not matter whether there was life out here.Our backyard was too large, and our cosmic neighbourhood too vast to explore.
In the end we were all alone, trapped in fragile bodies, consciousness encased in fragile skulls too weak for the harshness of empty space-too stubborn to reside in mechanical contraptions built to last in space.
What was sent out finally was DNA material, in suspended animation, encased in all sorts of protective layers,in hopes that there was somethng out there to generate and eke out consciousness from it, and perhaps resurrect something that qualified/quantified human enough, whatever that might be.
Of all the protective layers, the final layer was that of the densest layer of hope that mankind could muster, because when it finally came down to such matters, they were sure hope was the only indestructible force in the universe.
There was something wrong with the ship’s hot water supply, and regardless of which faucet you opened you only got tepid water at sea water temperature.
Adding to our woes was the sudden improvement in the efficiency of the ships central air conditioning system-which suddenly was blasting sub-tundra gusts of air everywhere.
On days like those, I really thought that mankind was not meant to shower in cold water.It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.
But I was happy, because some studies had shown that cold water showers were good for increasing testosterone…although your testes might shrivel up. Hey! I’m a grower, not a shower!
Ah…today, I had a hot water shower after many days…feelsgoodman!
Who are you?
You are the story you tell yourself
This is not a philosophical piece,but it could be.
Psychologists have discovered that there is a constant stream of narrative going on in your head, trying to assign meaning to the actual events as they happen.
Sometimes, more than often, the events as they unfold, make no sense to the mind, and so the mind concocts its own explanations and seamlessly weaves it into its narrative.
You are a story you tell yourself.You observe yourself as an outsider.You engage in introspection, and with great confidence you see the history of your life with all the characters and settings- and you at the center, as a protagonist in the tale of who you are.
Realize this.You are a confabulatory creature by nature.You are always explaining to yourself the motivations for your actions and the causes to the effects in your life, whether they are real or not.
Over time, these explanations become your idea of who you are and your place in the world.
There was something fishy with my bike.When it was investigated, it was discovered that it wasn’t fishy at all…instead the malodor was from a dead mouse in the space between the bike seat and the tyres.
That’s where I usually keep my driver’s license and registration.
Ha! The joke is on the mouse!
My driver’s license is with me, and not where the mouse intended to find it.
No wonder, it committed suicide.Rat poison is not a pretty way to go.I’d say a gun is quicker, but wouldn’t really know.
So far no one from the mouse’s family has come to claim the body. A girlfriend maybe? Minnie…yoo hoo, where are you?
Maybe it was a petty thief with criminal intentions and no family ties, and the address of a nearby chop shop.Maybe it was a heist gone wrong.Maybe it was double-crossed by its partners in crime!
We may never know what happened on that cold and stormy night, and whatever the truth is, my bike is safe, although stinking of dead mouse.