Category: Existentialism

A dark Terrestrial Vibe – Subconscious Data Cloud

On By cjx07sterIn Existentialism, Poetry, PrivacyLeave a comment

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Cool, but not cold to the touch it was. The damp darkness of it. The rough readiness of it being hard on the skin and bones of his skull which suddenly felt even heavier on it. Sleeping on the carpet of sharp rocks and dust of years all trudged and worn away by small animals scampering by in a past time of shelter.

It takes time to make that kind of black. The black of a cave out of sight of the world.  So black that your eyes can only see nothing real, only see what they imagine to see. There is no light further back, but there is sound.

There is a vibe in a cave, if only you could hear it.

be quiet enough, and still your breathing…

solid until the vibe sound came through it.

Came through your chest instead of oxygen to hear it.

the solid sounds of the earth below it.

and the struggling sound of water trickling kindly in it.

through the cracks of stone above it.

He woke up thinking..

” Yes it’s quiet, but I keep all my data down here, my memories my private ‘cloud’ my stuff that I did in the past. No disk drives, no wires, no access, no one can actually get at the data except me.  On the off chance that in a million year, way past my lifetime, I need it.  It might be found. Found down here in the dark recesses of my terrestrial mind, down in the dark where the terrestrial vibe sounds.”

“Yes it is quiet, but why do I need to keep it ? Why keep it when I sleep to forget it, why keep it longer, than my own mind would need it.  Emails, Data gone by, links once useful, now dissappeared and irretrievable. Why keep it, if no one can get it or use it or understand it or need it.”

Vodka Coke and a Klondike Bar

On By cjx07sterIn Dreaming, Existentialism, Love Story, Sunday Posts1 Comment

The lounge over there is red, a bright red color, which at least is still red when it’s dark night outside the window, all now wet with rain.  That same lounge was the lounge that I would sit with her, when Anne, my great aunt ‘grandma’ came over.  Not that often, usually when my parents were out. Out on nights like this one, but tonight the lounge was empty of her.  “You miss her ?”, I asked it, walking over to it. I flopped down in the leather, cool then warm, reached over an picked up my drink.  The glass was her usual, as was the drink in it.  Staring at the bubbles of vodka coke in the glass, and the beads of rain on the window outside of the room.

How could anyone drink vodka with coke in it – it should kill a normal person, drinking this all the time, every day for 80 years or so.  People think doing anything normal will kill you.  Eating peanut butter, drinking wine, drinking beer, as if there is a perfect normal somewhere that if found would extend your life by a day or more. I decided to pour this on in honor of Anne. Anne, she used to drink these every day.  So full of life right to the end.  At 95 she must have decided to call it quits and allow her vibrant spirit full of vodka cokes to lift up to heaven, where of course she belonged.  No doubt about it. At the funeral today, they had read out a eulogy of her life which sounded like the history of the world all the wars, fights, loving, floods, droughts, bushfires and friendships packed into her particular century.

A history that Anne brought me into. A vivid red and white and blue flag of necessary adventure which she recognized might just be missing from my life.

“Do you wan’t a drink ?” I hear her say… “No, I am not old enough” I would reply.  “Tell me a story” I would say..  . Tonight I got up like lead off the red lounge. It was cold, but i walked over to the fridge, and looked at it for a long time.  It was stupid of me to get into this mood.  How I missed Anne, her laughter and funny stories. Now God only knows the stories she will tell.  I wonder if God listens to them ?  Perhaps he has a bunch of story angels that wander around with Vodka Coke’s in hand listening patiently to the stories of all the Saints who made it to there. I felt the cold handle of the freezer door, and opened it up.  Inside was a solitary Klondike bar, the last one out of the  pack of 6 original.  OK then, I picked up the bar thinking to myself.

I walked back over to the red lounge all curvy red and sat down again in the white room.  I waited thinking over the stories she told.  When I was still younger, Anne used to always start  the stories, and go through funny things that happened and made me laugh and see life through her own vividness. After we laughed, she would go to the freezer and bring out an icecream, just like that one, there on the table. “Since you are too young to drink, at least you could share an icecream with me.” Anne had said. “OK YES, mum never lets me have an icecream late at night like this” I would reply.

“Troubles will come and you must be adventurous, drink some of this, and have faith in Jesus Christ”, she had said.  Still I had said no. “How about an icecream then ?” she always was happy to add.. It was always a Klondike bar, just like the one on the table, thawing out with it’s white crystals of ice forming on the white polar bear on blue on it’s shiny wrapper.

On the table, there was now three items.  The Vodka Coke, nearly empty, the Klondike bar, and a leatherman knife.  The knife’s convenience and blue steel color still threatening me with it’s potentially ‘ end of the line in pain ‘ demeanour.

I picked up the knife. Why ? What would it matter if it slipped a bit and cut blood would run out. I thought.  Then I carefully put it down.  Whatever !

I took up the Klondike bar, unwrapped the top half, then ate it, like a polar bear and head ache as well. I scrunched up the wrapper, enjoying that one memory of childhood with her.

Then I picked up the glass.  “Here’s to you Anne!” I cried. Then with tear’s falling into the tiny bubbles of the coke.  I took a sip.  It wasn’t like the raw bubbly coke of childhood.  It had that kind of muted taste, picking up some aniseed and salt along the way with the vodka and tears I guess. I drank it all as well.

String Theory – Force of Reason vs Mass of Criticism

On By cjx07sterIn Art, Dreaming, ExistentialismLeave a comment

—S-T-R-I-N-G—

)))))|||T|H|E|O|R|Y|||((((((

Which comes first – chicken legs or egg timer?  I think for me, it was probably the egg timer. Chicken legs came later in life.  Mum used to make baked chicken but memory is strong on egg timers which weighed more in my mind that chicken legs.  Certainly egg timers have more mass than force, at least from outside the realm of the timer.  I mean it’s all force with a chicken leg, scratching around in the dirt looking for grit, with their head cock-eyed down to the earth and sky for an instant.  No the face of an egg timer is pretty straight and it doesn’t exert any force whatsoever, except on the mind of the child watching it.  Which is why egg timers, mechanical ones are a pain – they tick along like a chicken scratching.  What you really need is the timer that just has sand falling down inside a glass.  Yes but they are hopeless mate, what happens is that the sand falls down due to the force of gravity, it has some small mass, and then when it’s all down you basically spin the thing over and it starts again, but unless you are watching it, you don’t know when the time limit is reached. I think there is something comforting about having a ringing or dinging of things, ring ding at the end of an allotted span of time, you wind it up, set it on the table, and then at the end of the time interval, it rings, just like the phone.  So you go get your egg and turn it off on the stove.  Yes for sure now you don’t need an egg timer – now I can set any time I like on the microwave, put the egg – all mixed up – inside a bowl – and just turn on the microwave, which automatically turns off – and the ringing thing is to tell me to “REMOVE FOOD”..

As if I didn’t know anyway – hungry for the egg, and eggs come before chickens as you all know.

Yes it’s all chicken and egg with mathematics as well.  What comes first ? The chicken of an idea or the egg of theory.  Which has more courage, which succumbs to the mass of criticism or the force of pure reason. Lets be reasonable now.  The old equation learnt in high school – F = MA is the same.  It implies kind of that Force = Mass x Acceleration.  Newton again, but definitely gravity existed before the apple on the tree, and the Acceleration faced by the Apple was due to the Gravitational Force acting on it’s mass.  So a more natural equation would be —- A = F/M … yes I think I like this better, but you see typesetters don’t like division A = F/M.  So what happens when the mass goes to zero – dummy. ? I hear the critique coming – then basically the acceleration is infinitely better isn’t it.

So what you are saying is that without the Mass of Criticism, there would be infinite acceleration of an idea, with just the slightest amount of reason behind it. Yes, it can get a bit that way with people.  Wake up with an idea, hide it from the critics and with a minor reason – go destroy something.  It is very hard to make something decent without a mass of criticism to balance your force of reason out.

I had an idea about string theory.  With a kiwi fruit just sitting there on the table, it looked so … I don’t know passive – just sitting there, as though not to be loved, forced down by gravity on a table waiting for someone’s enjoyment or neglect.  Inside a whole universe of life, but outside, just an object of still life. Waiting for a painter or something.  As an Idea with no reason whatsoever, I felt the urge to tie a string to the kiwi fruit, as though it was a present perhaps, or like the world on a string perhaps.

There are many string theories, most of which are not comprehensible by the average person, even mine.  I am sure my string theory, an idea, without the force of any reason whatsoever, with the gravitational impact of a whim and with the mass of intellect of what it takes, waiting for the microwave pseudo egg timer to go off, or my wife to say “please REMOVE FOOD from the table, and what is that silly string doing tied to it ?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

SUPERSTRINGTHEORY

Water-berry World – A reflection

On By cjx07sterIn Australia, Existentialism, Love Story, Travel, UncategorizedLeave a comment

First Fragment – I am He.

I was on the mobile hooked into a conference call to the guys in Boston, while I was on the way to the airport.

“What’s that ?” I said.  I looked out the train window and through the gloom and sheets of rain coming down, I heard “……could…….be……………..never…………..when……………manufacture……Shanghai..”

“You know guys there is something wrong, I don’t know if it is the rain or what, but could you get closer to the mic.” I said

“Chris, if you just mute your ….., you should be able to…er” – came back

“OK OK. I think you said mute… but I don’t know how to mute the phone, it’s a blackberry” I said

I looked at the blackberry, water all over it, in my wet hand, with my suit still dripping water on the floor, sitting forlornly in the grey of the train light.

“Sure  just ….. top of the phone…   mute key – just…. when you want to talk … press …. you’ve …..” I think it was Sam who said that.

OK  – fumbling around with the phone – found the mute key pressed it a couple of times…

da-dink – di-da, seemed to toggle a couple of tones…

As I re-joined the call,  I settled down a bit, listening to the boys at the other end of the line.

Outside the world was rapidly darker into the morning.  The train was moving, slowly. I still had time though. We passed the old disused car yard near Redfern. Torrential spouts of water were there flowing down out into the concrete as we passed by. A lady standing by me, was quietly looking past me, with a kind of I’m ok, but there is something really bad happening just outside.  Naturally I thought first of the rain, no, perhaps the blackberry, but since I was on mute, it could not be that.. I turned back to close focus and saw what she saw.

Second Fragment – I am She

The rain was really coming down, and as the train pulled in, I had run to the first carriage off the stairwell.  The doors opened as the announcement was made.  My coat was ok, but my hair was all wet through from seconds crossing the gap.  I got in, but all the seats were taken.  Wet people. No one with newspapers any more. iPhones and Tablets instead live breaking the news.  So I took off to the left, just outside the toilet, where there is a gap.  There was a guy in a suit, fiddling with his blackberry, trying to listen, and talk and had obviously chosen this uncomfortable location, so he could use his phone.  He had some strange bags, a normal looking briefcase, and a big heavy carbonate case with Fragile stickers and Security cleared stuck all over it.

The doors closed and we were rolling.  I looked over at him, he was talking and listening, but mainly looking out at the weather.  Water was dripping off his suit, onto his blackberry with it’s little blue light winking as a reflection in the window.  I thought on his profile, also reflected in the window.  It might be good to get to know him then.  Perhaps I could say Hi.  He was on the phone though.  I pulled out my phone and thought.. Perhaps I could just take a picture of him for later.  Dumb idea.  I pressed the bluetooth setup and scanned around the area.  A phone name came up – Ferdinand – could it be his phone ?

The rain was coming down fast and noisy outside the carriage.  He was having trouble hearing and was fiddling around with the ‘mute’ key, perhaps learning how it worked.

I looked carefully at his suit, it was made of a nice material, but all covered in water, and dripping down.  He seemed totally oblivious to the water though, listening and laughing on the phone, with his hand and phone still water all over them.

OK, so I took his picture, it was easy, he didn’t notice me at all, even though I could have reached out and touched him, his wet clothes and hair perhaps. Never mind, I could find him again one day, I had his bluetooth id and I had a photo, even though it showed him laughing all wet and scary. I quicky renamed the image ‘Ferdinand’ so I could remember.

Just then I leaned back on the window, the rain gushing down from the car sheds, and all over the concrete outside the train.  I looked over at him and he glanced at me, and then looked outside through the window.  His eyes got all close focussed and an astonished look on his face.  I quickly glanced down at my phone, with his picture on it.  I started blushing and smiling, I couldn’t help it when I realised that he saw, his picture on my phone reflected in the glass behind me.

Photo Attribution : Foxyfemke : Flickr under CC licence