i could hear the church bells ringing

they pealed aloud your praise

the members faces were smiling

with their hands out stretched to shake

it’s true they did not move me

my heart was hard and tired

their perfect fire annoyed me

i could not find you anywhere

could someone please tell me the story

of sinners ransomed from the fall

i still have never seen you

and some days i don’t love you at all

the devoted were wearing bracelets

to remind them why they came

some concrete motivation

when the abstract could not do the same

but if all that’s left is duty

i’m falling on my sword

at least then i would not serve

an unseen distant lord

if this is ony a test

i hope that i’m passing

cause i’m losing steam

and i still want to trust you

peace be still

( C: 3 )

27 February 2005

An eager young nun and a wise old nun were discussing teaching over lunch. The young nun was waxing enthusiastic over the privilege, but also the responsibility, of forming young minds. The old nun took a glass of water, inserted her forefinger, and agitated the water. Suddenly she removed her finger and the water immediately returned to its quiescent state.

That, said the old nun, is what teaching is like.

Via Maverick Philosopher

( C: 2 )

The rich young ruler: lying or deceived? If he placed wealth above God, he did not keep the commandments. -- Even when we keep the commandments, we do not.

~

... Arbitrary? Yes. It also leads to stagnation: I am what I am. Not only will I not change, but I cannot. To change would be to be untrue to myself, since to remain true is to be true to whatever truth one possesses. It is a logical mess: children would be -- if this were true -- the most false of all! They are always in moral motion, always changing, as their minds develop.

What is self, then, if men are ever-changing? This is troubling for me to consider. My greatest desire is unity of self: how could that ever be if I never cease changing? How can I right ever say, “I” if the thing I am trying to identify slips away the moment I try to identity it? To speak of self, mustn’t there be some sort of eternal, unchanging aspect -- or, at least, essence?

~

But Yurii -- if consciousness is to be external, any self-reflection would be superfluous, Consciousness is not found merely as an outward manifestation: it begins with the implicit knowledge that I am. An internal impulse, in other words. Without that knowledge, how would we even know the outward manifestation? “I am” is the start of consciousness, but something potentially apart from consciousness... But you are right about the dangers of self-consciousness...

( C: 1 )

Heh.

( C: 0 )

25 February 2005

:: Related

Update: (Sigh). I have no desire to purchase another car. What happened? Suffice to say that it is not wise to play chicken with a deer -- especially when you are about two hours from home. The deer walked off the field, leaving my hopes for victory in a leaking, crushed wreck. The wrecker estimated the damage at about 4-5k, equal to the value of my car. Fortunately, I’ve kept comprehensive coverage on the MX6, but still... this is not money I had any desire to spend. (Hm, iTunes just seamlessly blended “Come with me” by Zwan into “Blind” by Jars of Clay. It sounded fantastic!)

Insurance hasn’t yet estimated the damage, but I suspect they’ll just junk it and cut me a check. Which is fine -- but I don’t have any desire to try and buy a new car. I’ll need to spend some time trying to nail down how much I’m willing to spend on a car, and what options I desire. I have an issue, however: I possess good taste in cars. This means, of course, that the cars I like cost far more than I’m willing to spend.the mazda6, for example, is a beautiful machine, as is anything from BMW.

Have I yet mentioned how I hate car shopping?

Update:Ooohh...

( C: 7 )

22 February 2005

Bit ramble-y, potentially incoherent thoughts. For that, I’m not remarkably sorry.

I find myself longing for myth: heart-stirrer, the story which rouses men, and gazes piercingly into the future. I find myself longing for a world that is not real because -- somehow -- it is a world which is more real, a world which reflects my life and my world. I’ve never believed in a fairy-world; I had regrettably little experience with that world while I was growing up. I poured myself into lesser myths, myths born not from essence but from market shares and dollar signs. I poured myself into these myths because they were all I had, except for Tolkien’s books. As I look back at my lost childhood, my greatest pleasures -- my greatest moments of joy -- were found lost in the world he created. At the time, I wouldn’t have known why. Even now, I’m not sure I entirely understand. My heart was uplifted through reading Tolkien. I can still recall the passion that resulted, the joy, the innocent wonder, as if his books were giving me strength. And, indeed, they were. They revealed to me unspeakable things, and gave me a hope for this world.

I believe that my life now is poorer for the lack of childhood myths. I wish I’d had more contact with myth; it may have been a necessary antidote to the skepticism of adulthood. Skepticism answers no questions: it merely asks. Skepticism is necessarily empirical; it is a scientific view, it examines the world systematically through the human mind, answering in terms of probability. A skeptic is rarely certain of anything, but he knows many things.

A myth is the anti-science, in its way: it examines the world through the spirit, it argues that there is a reality we cannot see. A reality that is somehow truer than the one we know see. (This reality could be described as the essences of this reality. In my mind, there’s a connection between myth and essence, and therefore myth and Socrates. A topic potentially worth exploring) Myth shouts, “Be alive! See the world as it is You can know reality with certainty! Be empassioned, be alive. Treat the world as if you were alive, not as if you were a dead observer!”

The modern world has destroyed the myth. We rarely tell stories of heroes and great men, of ages past, and glories lost. And we are worse for it: skepticism has taken away our hearts, reduced life to dull analysis. Myth seeks to remind us who we are and -- alas -- myth is dead.

I grow daily in the awareness than I am a myth-maker, a myth-lover. I cannot help but to see this. But what role is there in the world for a man such as I? The world desires no true myth...

( C: 4 )

Hmm... so thermite is cool...

( C: 0 )

You know you have sleep deprivation issues when, because of sleep-driving, you miss the Starbucks, throw a fit, and then begin talking to the coffee pot at school:

“Baby, come to daddy. Oh, yes, I’d like some of your sweet nectar. You make life worth living. You make live able to be lived How I love you! Please pour into my cup and take me out of this living nightmare!”

Geez. Today’ll be a mess.

( C: 1 )

21 February 2005

Recent acquisitions/current reads:

Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your History Textbook Got Wrong by James W. Loewen

Refuting Compromise: A Biblical and Scientific Refutation of “Progresssive Creationism” (Billions of Years) As Popularized by Astronomer Hugh Ross by Jonathan Sarfati

3rd Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, composed by Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki (No joke -- sorrowful isn’t a strong enough word for this Polish composition)

The Secret Lives of Trebitsch Lincoln by Wasserstein, Bernard

( C: 0 )

I care little for thermochemistry. My passion for it is as a rock for another rock.

I slept little last night, so one would think that my lack of enthusiasm might be due to general exhaustion -- except I’m as wired as I’ve been in some time. I can barely sit still long enough to accomplish much of worth, much less a study of thermochemistry.

Let us look at the fine textbook we are -- as a class -- studying. Perhaps we wish to learn a bit about enthalpy. A discerning student might, upon stumbling across that heretofore unknown term, wonder to himself, “Enthalpy, eh? I wonder what that might be...”

And lo! The Book possesses the answer. “For systems at constant pressure, the heat constent is the same as a property called enthalpy... because the reactions presented in this textbook occur at constant pressure, the terms heat and enthalpy are used interchangeably.”

O! What is enthalpy? It matters not a bit! For the purposes of this book, you shouldn’t care! We’ll not trouble you with a real definition, for such a burden might tear at your already broken soul. Let’s just simply this a bit and say, “Never you mind what enthalpy is! For us, its no different than heat (pssst -- its not quite, but don’t worry about that).”

Wonderful.

( C: 0 )

20 February 2005

Edit: This particular profile seems to be confusing people, since I jumped right into the conversation. Paul Ryan is a Republican congressman from my district in Wisconsin. The people speaking had apparently returned from some type of Democrat convention, because they were full of ideas to defeat the incumbent. I entered the room at about this point in the conversation.

In these profiles (you can see more by clicking the “Character Sketch” link above), I don’t intend to write a complete picture of the moment. The moment is only relevant to the extent that it reveals the people (or, generally, the person). I’m working on developing my personal observational skills and my ability to create personality on paper. Thus, I sketch merely the face and the body. I do not paint the entire moment or the entire structure. To do so would be to take away from the intention of this particular exercise, and make analysis a bit more difficult.

“Ahem”. Cough, Cough. Ponytail clears his throat and sits, hunched forward, his gray hair as lusterless as his speech. No matter the volume, his voice is unexciting -- though he does make it interesting. Ponytail’s speech is more sermon than casual conversation. He hunches a bit more forward so that his head is nearly touching the table and speaks in a tone that demands attention -- like a demanding child. He speaks slowly at first, methodically: “We... need... to...” then his voice booms, solid as a wall: “FIND A WAY...” His voice drops to a dramatic whisper and his voice speeds up: “todefeatPaulRyan.” A purse of the lips and a nod of the head, and ponytail looks firmly about the table, having discharged his opinion.

Life-mate nods and asks, “Dear, would you get me a chai?”

Ponytail nods his head, the sagging skin barely moving. He walks off, hunched, while his wife continues his topic. She notes, “I want to advance the dialogue...”

Thoughtless friends agree, chattering quietly, in pointless agreement. Wife speaks again, as Ponytail walks into the room, leaning forward, using gravity and momentum to move himself, rather than muscle.

“It... seems... TO ME... thatthere is MORE than one typeofchai.”

He glares intently over his glasses, his center of gravity so shifted forward that it is a wonder he is able to stop his forward movement before walking into the table.

“Green,” she says.

He turns -- not pivots. Ponytail walks in a small circle, slowing manuevering around tables, while holding an arm to his back, as if it were a strut supporting his body. Wife continues her comments.

“I want to advance the dialogue from ‘Paul Ryan is evil’ to ‘defeat Paul Ryan no matter the cost’.”

( C: 2 )

My initial impulse is to embrace the whole, embrace it so completely that I am quickly overwhelmed by its immensity. I grasp it so tightly that I cannot see the parts -- I stand inches from the mountain. My eyes cannot focus upon it. I am alternately awed and overwhelmed. Yet I would step away if I were asked to describe a human. I would break the concept down. Does that diminish the whole? Yes -- and no. Yes, if one never meets a man. The concept remains mere parts, never a complete thing. No -- because we must break things down in order to explain them. The parts allow us to conceive and describe the whole. Without the parts, how would we pass information? Language is a whole. A whole with parts that make the whole.

-

I feel it there: that ball in my stomach, that tension in my throat. Both require my constant attention -- they demand attention, but without reason. They have no purpose but distraction and waste. They take me from more pressing matters as my mind inexorably drifts toward denying them control -- thereby giving them a passive control. I cannot resolve this tension, this internal attack. To focus on it is to allow it control. To allow it control is to focus upon it. And I cannot ignore -- if only that were possible! So I am helpless to myself.

And yet -- if I live my life in fear of error, I will live my life safely, never taking the difficult steps which truth demands. I will have lived my life in error. Truth is bold: to live in truth is to live boldly.

( C: 0 )

18 February 2005

I’m upgrading Wordpress, my blogger. Design will change. Weirdness will be occuring for the next X minutes.

The upgrade is complete. Clearly, the design has changed, and sections of the site -- such as poems and stories -- are now missing. I expect they’ll return once I decide on a design and -- in fact -- whether I want to keep them around. This particular design was done in about 20 minutes (that is, photoshopped in 20 minutes. Implimentation took a bit longer.) I’m not sure if I’ll keep it: likely, not. While I liked the previous design, and thought it was the best I’d done, I think I can do better. We’ll see.

Later.

Edit: I intended to mention this earlier. As you’ve probabably noticed, the URI of this blog is now http://www.digitalbranch.net, not http://www.digitalbranch.net/b2. If you’ve blogrolled or bookmarked me, update those links. I’ve intended to shift the URI, but always had a reason not to. A major upgrade, however, is certainly a reason to make a large change. And I’m aware that there is no blogroll, nor is there a search option or archive option. Those will come as I have the time and energy.

Edit: Pff! Annoying! I had to delete all of my directories in order to install the upgrade. Of course, I backed up, transferring the content of those directories to my computer. And now that I look to return all of the pictures I’ve uploaded back to the server, I find -- much to my horror -- that not all of the directories transfered. And all of the full-res pictures transfered, but none of the thumbnails did so! If ever you are browsing the archives and want to look at a picture, the full sized ones are present despite the lack of thumbnails.

( C: 3 )

17 February 2005

-- not for you. I liked this bit of writing, so I thought I’d post it here. It’s an assignment I’m giving my Geology class. We’ve been discussing the topic of young earth-old earth, and I’m asking them to write a paper on the issue.

On a crisp spring morning, in a town near the sea, a friend makes mention of the glorious weather saying, �It�s incredible how beautiful the world is!� As the ephemeral sun glides into the red-flushed sky, he kneels and grasps a time-worn rock. In a fluid motion, your friend rises to his feet and hurls the rock into the ocean. He smiles and nods his head. �Well, there�s a billion years of recorded history down the drain...!�

You friend has recently graduated high school, and has little experience in theology or the sciences. Such things are far from his mind � his life is a bit unfocused. Though you may be a bit uncertain about the topic, it seems as though your friend is unaware and unconcerned about the apparent disparity between the divine and secular accounts of creation. Therefore, you decide to gently broach the subject.

You begin by discussing the significance of the issue. Your friend is utterly unaware of its significance, so this is a necessary and important starting point. Having addressed the importance of the age of the earth, you make the decision to advance the discussion. By pointing out some of the flawed assumptions that scientists make, especially concerning radio isotope dating, you hope to persuade your friend of often un-discussed difficulties. Wisdom dictates that this argument not entirely occur in the negative. You therefore end with brief comments on evidences for the younger age of the earth.

The friend need not be utterly convinced at the end of the argument. Accomplishing such would be a feat � human opinions are rarely, if ever, changed in single, sweeping attacks. Your goal is more modest: to convince your friend of the possibility of a created � and young � universe. Given your arguments, your friend should be open to reinterpreting his position on the age of the earth.

Your argument should be reasonable and non-dogmatic � wars are won through brute strength, as are arguments. Humans are won through the mind and through the heart, and the heart cannot be won through force. Therefore, make your points strong, but not arrogant, and admit to curiosity and questions where necessary. You need not claim an absolute understanding where none exists, for doing so would make false any truth thing you might possess. Treat this not as an argument, but an opportunity to engage, to open another�s eyes to possibilities he may not have previously understood.

( C: 1 )

16 February 2005

I’m wondering if the strain of holding so many significant threads of thought in my mind at once and for so long, is causing me to crack a bit. I can handle stress better than most -- I’m far more stressed than most, which is a type of strength training exercise. But even the strongest man can hold hold so much for so long, and am not the strongest man. I’d like to reduce the load, to deal with it in bits and pieces -- but the topics and issues are synchronistic and symbiotic. And when I wrest with one, I grapple with then all. I live on coffee these troubled days: I defend myself as best possible, and seek not to attack, but to train my mind for a time when -- should I survive -- I can strive for victory. Ah, the much-praised glories of the soldier are to be admired more than this, for his battle brings a death which is both proud and final...

*thanatov êmera

( C: 1 )

13 February 2005

couples gather on the street no way they notice me
but i watch them walk together
and it reminds me
of nights when everyone was gone
and i ended up alone
nights that were unsafe to hope for anything

lately i have noticed that so much
is not what i imagined it�d be.
when the harder times come calling on us
we�ll know if we�re gonna need

promises
don�t promise me
say yes
say no or yes
but don�t promise

for all the reasons not to try
i can�t forget the times
i swore that if i finally knew
the answers to my prayers those nights
when it came time to decide i�d just know
and i would be ready

lately i have noticed that so much
is not what i�d imagined it�d be
when the harder times come calling on us
we�ll know if we�re gonna need

( C: 2 )

The trick to relearning or changing habitual technique is remembering and forgetting. Remembering the change then forgetting it is unnatural: remembering that this change is now a part of you and forgetting that it is a change. I wonder if this is how we should approach life, memory. (the two are so connected, aren’t they...) When an event occurs and we do not forget that it is a change, we become obsessive about it and never allow it to positively teach us -- it never becomes natural, second nature. Rather, it becomes unnatural, it makes us stiff, uncomfortable -- makes us unnatural. We see this in the bitter man, the depressed woman, who have never accepted life-as-change. Events which must become part of one’s history are denied their place and made even more central.

( C: 0 )

12 February 2005

I find this amusing. Watch the whole thing: it just gets better!

( C: 4 )