The time is 6:05 pm.
I thought you would be curious.
In one minute, it will be 6:06 pm.
I thought you would be curious.
By the time I finish writing this blog, it is more likely to be the latter; in fact, it is that time now.
Time has passed - how brutal. Even moreso: it continues. Like any good, vaguely defined, relative concept it trudges with little regard as to my feelings (damn you schrodenger!)
I received a phone call... the time between sentences has increased in average frequency thereby. The mathematical and statistical discrepancy this causes could be rectified if I were to write long enough, but I doubt that possibility (it is now 6:09 pm).
The only thing I have reminding me that time is passing is the clock. And the words slowly spreading across my screen. And the lights flashing from a TV behind me. And the music flowing through my ears. (6:11 pm)
Time is change from my perspective. I have no other way to measure it.
Still, when I think about the grand nature of the universe, time seems more complex. It is scientifically more; or less I suppose depending on your viewpoint.
Am I hypocritical at (6:13 pm)for acknowledging the existence of time? I disbelieve in god for the reason of lack of anything other than circumstantial evidence. Time is just as circumstantial. If I measure it by change... change from a different perspective is a constant thereby nullified by circumstance.
I suppose it is time to take an equally vague approach to time.
I shall be called hereon a temporal agnostic. I acknowledge the possibility that time exists. All in all though, this is just more meaningless thinking.
It is 6:17 pm.
The statistics are not fixed at all.
It is 6:18 pm.
Maybe.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
On Roots and Bulbs Rhyming with the Color Orange
I awoke, as I often do, last morning (Ignoring the obvious, awkward meshing of tenses in that past sentence, I'd like to take a moment to point out the absolute gruff, sloshing, equally awkward feel that phrase - last morning - leaves. Why, my dear reader, must I be constrained to saying every single time I wish to refer to that bit of temporal relativity by 'yesterday morning.').
There was a bitter nicety laying at my feet (I once read an article claiming that obtusely ambiguous contrasts were a sign of a writer trying to be far 'deeper' than he/she actually was/is/are and therefore, I have left you with 'bitter nicety').
I raised the trinket to my lips and realized shortly thereafter that, "I am experiencing something" (Quotations make that sentence grammatically correct.).
Unfortunately, it appeared to be poison (how did it appear to be poison?). A good question my dear reader (wait, I thought he was only breaking the fourth wall in parenthesis). It was green (disregarding my incredulity I see). In retrospect, I suppose I should have noticed the green to begin with, thereby avoiding the use of unfortunately at the beginning of this paragraph (wait... what?). Essentially, I am saying that I was poisoned, and I only knew I was poisoned because the drink was green (Oh.).
I soon began choking. I reached for my rescue inhaler and used it to deliver myself an emergency trakeotomy (Spelling is unimportant). Those things have incredibly sharp corners; it passed through my flesh like a moon chicken through contact solution (parochial idiom - dont worry if you dont understand - also dont worry about my lack of apostrophes).
Shortly thereafter I awoke - again (It was all a dream, can you believe it? Some say this is a cliched technique used only by the most hackneyed of writers; frankly, I agree.).
This experience led me to believe I needed to write a ToK blog. Perception and whatnot... blah blah.
Nothing rhymes with orange.
Nothing.
There was a bitter nicety laying at my feet (I once read an article claiming that obtusely ambiguous contrasts were a sign of a writer trying to be far 'deeper' than he/she actually was/is/are and therefore, I have left you with 'bitter nicety').
I raised the trinket to my lips and realized shortly thereafter that, "I am experiencing something" (Quotations make that sentence grammatically correct.).
Unfortunately, it appeared to be poison (how did it appear to be poison?). A good question my dear reader (wait, I thought he was only breaking the fourth wall in parenthesis). It was green (disregarding my incredulity I see). In retrospect, I suppose I should have noticed the green to begin with, thereby avoiding the use of unfortunately at the beginning of this paragraph (wait... what?). Essentially, I am saying that I was poisoned, and I only knew I was poisoned because the drink was green (Oh.).
I soon began choking. I reached for my rescue inhaler and used it to deliver myself an emergency trakeotomy (Spelling is unimportant). Those things have incredibly sharp corners; it passed through my flesh like a moon chicken through contact solution (parochial idiom - dont worry if you dont understand - also dont worry about my lack of apostrophes).
Shortly thereafter I awoke - again (It was all a dream, can you believe it? Some say this is a cliched technique used only by the most hackneyed of writers; frankly, I agree.).
This experience led me to believe I needed to write a ToK blog. Perception and whatnot... blah blah.
Nothing rhymes with orange.
Nothing.
On Soap
Soap is always gone.
I woke up this morning and trodded meaninglessly to the bathroom to find the listlessly devastating lack of soap ever apparent. How can one counteract the hydrophobia of oil without the intricate chemical composition of alkaline soap. Great leaping leopard skins on death row! It is to my content that I managed to stave of such thoughts of "ending it all" at my inability to wash given an already initiated process in which I was now finding myself under the quality of 'wet.'
So, as I mentioned, and as is evident by writing this, the lack of soap (at least this time) was not enough of an impetus to suicide. I merely allotted a half-hearted scrub and moved on. It was not pleasant - I felt somehow dirty for this meek attempt at cleanliness. I've concluded after the fact that I had in fact done nothing for my overall godliness in this monumental shower experience. More importantly, I do not smell of overtly feminine sudsy remnant. This is the great offense.
Which... returns me to my original point. The soap is always gone. This is of course figuratively - I do in fact, upon recollection, see a time where there was soap. Yet, this wonderful time of the past seems to be a verisimilitude and thereby unappreciated. Only the traumatic discovery of an empty bottle ingrains itself in my memory. Hence, I have a string of these discoveries that makes it indeed seem that every time postwith I find myself incapable of washing it is quite the normal occurrence. Logically though, this is impossible (ratio of size of bottle to amount used per day).
I hate the fact that my shower experience is defined by a negative. Therefore, I have made it my goal (and I encourage my reader as well) to take great notice of the soap the following morning. I must appreciate it for the fantastically smelling and o' so enlightening, energizing substance it truly is.
I love you soap.
I woke up this morning and trodded meaninglessly to the bathroom to find the listlessly devastating lack of soap ever apparent. How can one counteract the hydrophobia of oil without the intricate chemical composition of alkaline soap. Great leaping leopard skins on death row! It is to my content that I managed to stave of such thoughts of "ending it all" at my inability to wash given an already initiated process in which I was now finding myself under the quality of 'wet.'
So, as I mentioned, and as is evident by writing this, the lack of soap (at least this time) was not enough of an impetus to suicide. I merely allotted a half-hearted scrub and moved on. It was not pleasant - I felt somehow dirty for this meek attempt at cleanliness. I've concluded after the fact that I had in fact done nothing for my overall godliness in this monumental shower experience. More importantly, I do not smell of overtly feminine sudsy remnant. This is the great offense.
Which... returns me to my original point. The soap is always gone. This is of course figuratively - I do in fact, upon recollection, see a time where there was soap. Yet, this wonderful time of the past seems to be a verisimilitude and thereby unappreciated. Only the traumatic discovery of an empty bottle ingrains itself in my memory. Hence, I have a string of these discoveries that makes it indeed seem that every time postwith I find myself incapable of washing it is quite the normal occurrence. Logically though, this is impossible (ratio of size of bottle to amount used per day).
I hate the fact that my shower experience is defined by a negative. Therefore, I have made it my goal (and I encourage my reader as well) to take great notice of the soap the following morning. I must appreciate it for the fantastically smelling and o' so enlightening, energizing substance it truly is.
I love you soap.
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