How to Pack a Bag Properly

One can pack a bag in any way they so wish. They can pack it into something else or something into it, whatever they might understand to pack a bag to mean. I use it to be the latter, but even then one can pack it anyway they so choose. They can stuff it with tangerines and sheet music for all I care. But there is a way to properly pack it based on intent.

I dared to begin packing the night before. How punctual of me. To pack the night before you began to pack you must first set about analyzing your intentions and the ends of what it is you wish to pack. Once one does this it becomes quite easy to "pack the night before." Now, the average man packs all out of nonsense, just look here:

I intend on working. I should pack shorts and shirts and shoes and so on. Work requires protection of the body in case of accident. I want to avoid the possibility of getting hurt while working, so I take something that will lower the probability of it (e.g. close-toed shoes, a hard hat, long pants, etcetera).

The accident is an accidental quality. He begins saying his intent is work, but ends with intent to prevent accidents. Then he says he wishes to avoid the possibility of being hurt but ends by acting to reduce probability. No, no, no, this just won't do at all. We must say what we mean or shut up. Nothing can be done for such a man, for he speaks in jibberish, nothing more than a series of unconnected assertions. Now! --if he had said:

I intend on working. I should pack forearms and fists and tools and laborers and &c. in this bag. There is a possibility of getting hurt but one cannot avoid possibility, unless of course I bring some tool to make the possible impossible. If I cannot find my tool for this (it has been missing for some time) then I should put a damper on probability's relationship with possibility. Those two are inseparable (and have been for some time), but at least one might prevent probability from taking possibility out for a stroll in the park (at least for some time).

If a man had told me this I would much better understand him, applaud him for such excellent and consistent packing, compliment him on his ability to express his intent, and be slightly amused. Of course I can only know this is what "he" was trying to say because I am the man, and I know my intent. For others I'm stuck at the jibberish stage and can do nothing more for them but to look curious and smile from time to time as they talk.

Unpacking is an entirely different issue. But if one wishes to unpack like Mary Poppins, one would need only to cultivate probability and possibility's relationship, rather than wreck it.

This ends How to Pack a Bag Properly

That Lot

The night smells of liquor and oil and heat and vice. The signs make the bartender out to be a saint, glowing with neon aura, looking to give to those in need. Those too gluttonous, too prideful, too lustful, too much disgust to fit into their own skins by daylight. They turn to excess by night, dawning the cloak of social life so that they might have excuse for such behavior. Vivid eyes and exaggerated gestures give their rotting flesh the appearance of vibrant life.

Outside these monoliths to pleasure stand men who will sleep on benches, in the small green spaces that litter the town's grid. These men who are broken in spirit, beaten by circumstances or their own inaction, either way their only wish can be summed up as otherwise or else or not this. Whatever the case, I see now and not their past. When they ask for change, tears swell in their eyes from defeat, humiliation, regret and sorrow.

But they will go unnoticed. A multitude pass them by willfully ignorant of their state or with some assumption they are all the same - and by same they mean deadbeats. This man with not but a flannel and jeans and a toboggan, in a night of subfreezing temperatures. What would go towards your night of the living dead you could use to bring someone back to life.

The whole town wreaks of bad decisions, of moral corrosion, of children dressed up in adults' clothing. I imagine each as toddlers, caught by a parent arriving home, found in the closet, dressing up like mother or father. Now is the same, except their will has turned to self-destruction. It's merely a "good" time or time for "friendship" or a "necessary" release of stress, whatever they mean by such things. One might question them, but I've given up such endeavors, for my desire to know someone is always greeted as being too zealous or strange. There are indubitably those living who walk amongst the dead, and I have been amongst both before, so I do not discount all, but merely a certain lot. You know, "that lot."

They never give sufficient meanings for their words, but the more I press in, the more disturbed they become. Hatred for me grows heavier with every word and at the end of my point I'll smile. They'll interpret my smile as "checkmate" though I meant no such thing. Empty conversations, empty nights, empty acquaintances, empty, empty, empty. It's as if I took to elaborately describing the most sensational, spectacular, bright, vivacious, aquamarine hondlebark. "Well I don't know what it means, but I do mean it," is how I'll reformulate their argument for clarity. At this realization they'll become visibly irritated. Such discussions are much too real for a night of "fun." One must never give into reality when trying to relieve stress, for this is escapism, and what is that but trying to think of things as otherwise. But in all the possibilities in all the worlds, why choose this, the one you live by tonight?

I tire of overgrown children. No moral responsibility for actions, no responsibility for any actions. They wish for freedom but know not how to use it. They wish for respect but disrespect themselves through their actions. They justify each by the other and come to the most absurd of conclusions, which one cannot ween them from since they've grown so attached to nonsense that reason is something foreign to them. They greet reason as an enemy and unknowingly pick it up to slay this, their opponent. "This should be amusing," I'll think, and initiate my first line of questioning. They are closer to animals in what they seek, and closer to plants in their familiarity with reason.

Help me Lord, for I am apt to shut off to the lot of them. Even now I take to judging, which has me disgusted with myself. But that's the difference isn't it? I am disgusted because I see reasons for such, but those don't see them, and this is what accounts for their lack of civility and self-control. I have not mastered such things, but at least I seek to. If my prayer could be counted as one of the righteous, put a desire for the divine in their thoughts and hearts, otherwise they should not learn until experience has bested them. For they cry out to make their own decisions and to experience things themselves rather than listen to others, but one day experience's baggage will come to fill up every closet and nook and will have to be shoved under beds and hidden in pantries. They will hold to the lesson, but fear the memories should escape their hiding places, and bring back the shame with them. They should not wish to forget what they have learned but wish to put away the teacher altogether. But how does one remember the effect without the cause? We might store it away where it is unseen, but it is still there, clawing at the back of your mind, till death do you part.

But enough of them. I tire of being tired of them, and my cheerios are finished.

Literary Drivel

It's 3:10 and I cannot sleep. Coffee makes for bad night caps, and for some reason the smell reminds me of the taste of cigarettes. I conceive of the tar in my lungs from yester-year's smokes creeping up onto tongue's tip, like the blob from a bad 1950's science fiction movie. I'm unsure of its intent, either to consume every living thing, or give me bad breath, either way it's a nuisance.

I cannot tell how I am "doing" as they say.
If I were to answer the question, "How are you doing?"
I might respond, "I am doing it well enough."
"Doing what?" one might ask.
"Typing," I would whisper, eyebrows lifted so as to make the question's absurdity apparent.

I cannot tell what sort of tone I am writing in; I would imagine this is how I would speak if I were a writer. Alas, I am not a writer, and if I were, I said I wouldn't tell what tone I'm writing in. Whatever it is, it is different, refreshing in the most literal sense, for it is not fresh, but is a renewal of something; it reminds me of how much I loved literature in middle school...and most of high school...throw in a smidge of college.

I imagine tonight I might write of many things: of the dances that stars perform on moonless nights, the dreams that drift about ocean depths, friends who are like sculptors, the appearance and smell and taste and color of my dinner, divine paradoxes, brutal truths sprinkled with hope, and all manner of things that would be spread around with ink like a horrible puzzle with pieces from another box. I imagine all sorts of things, but none ever occur. Perhaps I live looking to some exciting future in my imagination, but the part of me attached to reality expects sheer boredom from everyone and everything. I wonder where such a part exists...hmm. What nonsense.

I am, for lack of a better word, bored. And now even my imagination has become completely internalized, rarely shared, rarely let out to play. As a result it is a slothful creature, only responding to increasing amounts of ridiculous conditions or overt stimulation from others. My boredom however prevents the latter, and the former is by its nature, rare.

Perhaps I am perpetually operating in some kind of defense mechanism, years of harnessing and perfecting it, down to a "science" as we say -- as if I was out to disprove myself. What a strange saying, when we are apt to use it in conditions where we do not wish to be disproved. Indeed, having things down to a science implies a certain level of comfort in one's own ways, whereas science seeks to refute knowledge claims so that it might know what is not. Should I wish to test the equivocal definitions of this word I wonder what sense of "science" I might use to discern such a thing? I should have to run the test before I should be able to run it so that I might run it in order to run it. See?

Ahh, my tone has yet changed again. There is something different in it, though I know not when or how or why it changed. I might guess but I'd rather not, this is all too amusing for me. Leave it in the subconscious, willingly ignore it, then try to guess it without trying to access it. It's all very much like playing a game of chess with yourself, in which you pretend not to know what that rapscallion across the table is thinking or working on, yet you try to determine what it might be from his or her moves. The game itself becomes contained inside another game. And this second game is what intrigues me.

It's 3:55 and my concept of time is worse than normal. Usually night and day have no distinction other than visible light. I could not tell you if it be closer to noon or supper at most times of the day, though I could tell you some considerable amount of time had passed since breakfast. With caffeine late nights and early mornings become one. Of course they always were one, I mean that with caffeine I actually start addressing them truthfully, rather than making the distinction between them for convenience's sake. Yet another strange phrase, how is it that we are looking out for the benefit of convenience? For the "sake of convenience" would make more sense, though I do not know if sounding like something makes more sense is a good enough reason to change one's language in everyday speech. We have our idioms, and they seem to get us by enough, so we should stick to them, at least for the sake of convenience.

And now I turn to you. You who read this. Whoever you are, for whatever reason: whether to find something funny or interesting or in hopes you'll be mentioned or to find something out about myself. Nothing here is not nonsense. These are silly games I play to lull myself to sleep about things I cannot speak to other people, for while other people talk about weather, sports, news, and other drivel, I don't share this in common with my fellow man. I have nothing to speak about with many of you. I can speak in terms of logic, and I can make jokes to lighten the mood, but neither nor both can serve me at all times of the day. So it should suffice to lock up my drivel until I can expel it here, ready for the waste management center I call dreamland.

I type on the brink of that place. My hands seem miles away now. My vision recedes deeper into my skull, preparing for the turning to the inside to analyze what lies underneath all this bone and marrow and blood. Bleh.

It's 4:21 and I'm letting my imagination take over for a bit now, and let that part of me that touches reality rest.

Here's to...

Here's to all the letters I never wrote,
to all those I tore up instead.
Here's to the tucked away note,
the one you never read.
Here's to the death of us,
the flicker to end in the wind.
Here's to what I know thus,
to never being a friend.
Here's to what was my love,
"that's life," as they say.
Here's to giving it all to the God of
the life, the truth, the way.
Here's to being lost, confused, but okay.
Here's to hoping I didn't go astray.


Cheers,
B

[Unfinished] Compilation Effect II

Unfinished
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[11 February 2010]
Thursday, Monday>>Dark:30
Subject: Fleet of Bottles
CC: D.E. Machina (demachina777@mail.com), ...


>>>Available Tidbits<<<

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Data Record XV
Fools. We came for fortune and knowledge, but we received disaster and fell prey to the ignorance that avarice affords the young and stupid. Now we find ourselves marooned, and all hands are at the ready to do the work we've come to do. I know not whether our fear is more of the Cap'n or what lurks within the jungle's dark heart. Either way we blister and bleed to escape something. Father, hear our cry for help.

-D.E. Machina
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POSTED
Henceforth all bilgetalk and gossiping concerning the plight current state is forbidden. Reg'lar work hours are expected. Any man caught arousing fear or concern amidst the crew will be given over to Admiral Matter and his nine-tails.
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Ship Fiddler's Notes
Motivate through the toil, draw attention away from state. Cap'n's orders to give temp. pleasure till escape possible, till then keep mind off. Feel notes through, need lyrics esp. Anyway out fine, hands dry and cracking from work.

Song Ideas:
Sweatin' blood, breathin' rum, blistered thoughts, speech gone numb, hopeless hands, battered backs, sleepless tents, fearful axe. Cut and chop and clip and cleave, to find what it is the gods did leave. Perhaps a song a map a word or track, to save our souls and bring us back, to no more feed our shovels loam, return to a dream that we call home.	Lovely lady, seductive siren, our love is in the stars like Chiron. Sing me nocturne till dreams take me away, till my fears your sweet hymn will allay. Your wish is my word, my work, my way. Your happiness my humble, hallowed hope. So work you men! Work till dusk! Work like only tooth, claw, or tusk- can drag you away from this your goal, for when it ends you can return your soul, to your well beloved lady of the dawn, to tell of the strife you have undergone, but to see her starlit eyes once more, to tell her you leave it to other men to explore.	Give it to the whip, give it to the sun, give it to the captain, let no man turn and run. Give it to your mate, give it to the sea, give it to your neighbor, let no man deny this decree. Give it to the jungle, give it to the night, give it to the gods, let no man damn the light.

Cap'n's Log; Entry XIII
My men have toiled for days now after some shadow of hope. They know not for what we seek, and I fear to tell them lest they realize they're hope be in nothing rather than something. I've instructed the fiddler to play by day rather than be another hand at the shovel. A spruce of melody by day and nocturne by night will keep their hope in place until we can find some sign of direction.
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Data Record XIX
The search continues. To the unobservant it would seem sunlight causes cheer to our men, and moonlight - hysteria. Something deep within the jungle recesses beats by dimlit starlight. Only the moonlight and the wild creatures have gazed upon whatever this thing is. As for us mortals, we sit in tents mumbling prayers from fear. We came upon a wrapped up book today which the Cap'n insisted on taking to his own quarters regardless of my claim to it as the camp scholar.





Cap'n's Log; Entry XIV

Foundation

What is the foundation of my belief in God.
Is it reason or faith?
If I am to say it is faith, then I must ask myself by what faculty I come to acknowledge such things.
For I must understand what it is I mean in saying "I believe in God."
But this leads me to some faith in my ability to make coherent statements with consistent words.
Naturally consistency is in the realm of reason though.
Ad infinitum.

I begin with some definitions.
It would seem there are varying degrees of reason.
In one manner I might say it is deductive reasoning, in another something practical, further still the ability to simply identify a thing.
Now this last is the thing of which I speak when I say reason as a foundation,
for I must identify a thing before I might speak of it.
But in merely answering these questions I've stated I must begin with definitions.
Of course these definitions might have this type of faith in my words meaning something.
And even my beginning falls into the trap which prefaced the definitions.
It would seem in order to even ask the question I must first answer it.

And in what way does an answer preface a question?
I know of none, and if something exists which I might call an answer to a question, then I've contradicted what I mean when I say answer and question,
for surely I say an answer by definition follows from a question.
E.G. I might say, "Brown." With the absence of the question the word "brown" loses status as an answer though, and merely becomes a word, for it shows me nothing about some point of confusion which I wished to clear up.

Of course one might get caught up in the words literally "question" and "answer" --
a fool's errand,
for I might have called them "Neutryssil" and "Slenderose," respectively, but the word is defined so that the understanding in my mind is conveyed, not that the sounds rolling off my tongue have intrinsic meaning.
So that when I say "question or Neutryssil" you understand I mean something which I know not about a thing but desire otherwise, and "answer or Slenderose" to mean that thing which will bring knowing which I desire about the thing I know not.
Of course the fool might even question meaning of the words contained within the definitions,
but then they posit an ad infinitum need for definitions,
and this of course makes their pointing out "problems" to be self-refuting,
for the one who rejects language, ought not to use it,
otherwise they have no refutation, for they themselves make no sense,
according to their own conclusion.

So it would seem language is foundational.
This reasoning at an identification level is foundational.
And that faith is foundational.
Surely they cannot all be foundational,
for I am but one man,
and while I have parts,
they must come together on a single foundation.

For language, it is a conclusion drawn from lower reasoning,
so I might come now back to faith or reason.
Yet the question remains:
I believe in God - faith
What's God? - reason
God is... - reason
Ah...
And of this first thing...what proof have we?
Thus we arrive at the colloquial definition:
to believe without evidence.

Some first belief from which all else flows.
All have it.
Though some prefer other terms, so as not to appear...
better...objective...[chuckle]
axiom, assumption, faith, whoops...
even the strictest empiricist must admit,
the assumption that everything that is, can be proven empirically,
is itself not empirical, and thus cannot be proven empirically,
lest they become circular in their reasoning.
As this is absurd, the reasonable will admit the belief isn't empirical.
So call this first belief what you will,
but know the meaning conveyed via mind is the same.
And the systems of beliefs we build, all are only as strong,
or obtain such characteristics, as the foundation allows.

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not seen.
But what is the meaning of this word "evidence,"
given the text it is either evidence of the unseen,
or evidence of things hoped for.
Clearly not the former,
for evidence and unseen are contradictory.
[Edit: Evidence as seen by an empiricist]
For "hoped for" references possibility,
and not necessarily actuality.

Strange thing to say.
For we do say God's existence is necessary.
We say contradictions are as such,
because they admit to no possibility,
that is, they're impossible.
And whatever is impossible,
is so because it is contradictory.
We define God as that with no limits,
so there would exist nothing with limits,
which might limit it.
Thus God is a possibility,
even in all worlds.
Doesn't say He exists though.
Of course we can hold the assumption,
He is merely a possibility and not in actuality,
but as that with no limits,
it would be a limitation to be in possibility and not actualiy,
thus He must necessarily exist,
in any world you want to posit.
Lest of course you wish to say,
that with no limits has limits.
Heh heh heh...

But this first definition of God,
perhaps is the faith,
this substance of things hoped for.
While the educated man can entertain ideas without accepting,
many will not.
Such a behavior does not constitute irrationality,
rather accepting definitions and assumptions,
and the not accepting comes down to showing--
they lead to contradiction.
So long as they are consistent,
nothing irrational can be said about them,
and we say the person's beliefs are...
rational, consistent, understandable, legitimate.
But this fight against faith,
and calling one's own axioms or assumptions,
a fool's errand.
Merely children throwing feces at one another and screaming.

And now I seem to insist on some reasonable statement about which I have faith,
then that the statement's formulation is of some lower form of reasoning, identification.
And this of course is the state of the mind, of which words allow expression.
There is some first willing of some belief.
I begin with "GOD,"
then follow it with "is."
As hard as I may,
my reason seems to preface my faith,
at all turns.

Yet something still lurks,
swimming along the surface,
like hot embers on my tongue,
burns to be released.
These ideas try to form argument,
but I order them wrongly.
The pieces are here,
and I see the conclusion is close.
If I had but a moment more,
I would be ready to begin--
having thought long,
would complete it with diligence,
and quickness of action.

Something about the will.
This is going to drive me mad.

Of course it seems quite silly to say,
the foundation of my faith is faith,
lest I too go into an infinite regress,
leaving me with reason.
But something about this seems inconsistent
with Scripture.
Stranger and stranger still.
But I didn't say faith in the beginning,
I made sure to say "belief in,"
the good ole craedo en.

So is it that I reason first or have faith in some fact?
I might define God,
and come to faith via argument,
but that's not how I came to mine.
It simply was,
as long as I remember.
I might say I simply came to the idea,
I might say my parents put it into my head,
either way it is some initial definition,
from which I build up a way of life.
It isn't until I come to an age of reason,
that I might see if it is consistent.
This writing as proof,
it survived my trial by fire.
Now I can accept it on a new level,
and submit myself to its trials.

Anyway, yes,
something about the will,
of which I haven't quite worked out.

End post; 12:58
Daylong Meditations
In His Name,
BT

I can

[italics = 1/2 normal speed; normal = double time]


I can argue my way out of my mind,
out of my mind,
out of my mind.

I can color inside the lines.
I can decrypt archaic signs.
I can prove you right or wrong,
I can write lyrics to this song.
I can hear the ocean in a shell,
But I can't look you in the eyes and say farewell.

I can smile while analyzing you,
analyzing you,
analyzing you.

I can convince myself I'm not in love.
I can break in a baseball glove.
I can pray when I can't find God,
I can put on a cheerful facade.
I can beat any video game,
But I can't pretend others are the same.

I can tell myself to have a dream,
have a dream,
have a dream.

I can engineer a creature trap.
I can craft a wishing cap.
I can cook a delicious meal.
I can think before I feel.
I can navigate through the woods at night,
But I can't seem to win this fight.

I can stay up all night until the dawn,
until the dawn,
until the dawn.

I can write poetry fueled by tears.
I can give you a reason to persevere.
I can make a magnetic coil
I can sell vials of serpent oil.
I can ride a dirt bike down a trail.
But I can't find the ending to this tale.