Since a couple of days now that I’ve “cleaned out” my blog I keep being the recipient of the same question over and over from my arguably few but remarkably persistent readers. “What happened to some of the posts?” “Why did you take them away?” And seeing as I am not exactly your mysterious type when it comes to this domain, I promised to come back with an answer to this unsolicited riddle.
I am a fair believer of fresh starts. They are always easier said than done, and sometimes realistically impossible. After all, our life is not an assimilation of random moments in time but in fact the correlation and continuation of those moments in the sphere of our personal time and space. Our past deeds are nothing more but our constant carriage in this world. However, I have recently come to understand that there are bound to exist some temporal terminals in one’s life when he is given the chance to unload and start afresh, as much as possible. I don’t know why I never acknowledged this possibility before as the slight chance of being deemed to carry our entire life in our shoulders as time goes by now appears entirely nonsensical.
This is one of these terminals for me. A bit curious admittedly that it is located mid-winter in the random year of 2010 against all the odds begging for other seemingly more “appropriate” momentums to have inspired and in fact aspired to this end. This blog started as a means to an end, self-centred to the bone, to provide my mind with the emergency exit it occasionally needed. Part of this new start therefore is the unloading of my blog from the extra weight. The selection of posts was almost arbitrary but never too random.
So there you have it folks, my first revolutionary act for 2010 driven by a natural consequence. Do not worry however, you will be hearing from me often – perhaps too often for your liking. And as for fresh starts? A small piece of recently acknowledged experience for some of you out there: you may think that your only choices are to either swallow your anger and your pain, or to throw it in someone’s face. But there’s also a third option, you can just let go. And only when you do that is it really gone, and you can move forward.
The ethical route, the modest pleasure, the noble intelligentia will always be the phoney substitutes of the brutish, the impulse, and the desire.
The same sense of phoney that is contained in “ethics” as opposed to the genuine of “impulse” is the same sense of phoney contained in the “conscious pleasure” as opposed to the genuine of the “brutish”
I wonder, is the mere substitution of terms nothing more than a verification?
There was once a time of innocence one might dare say during which physics, chemistry, and mathematics found themselves in the opposite worldly bank from the ineffectively omnipotent hegemony of philosophy. During those years, the teaching of the former and the unsolicited configuration of the latter cross-checked continuously through the form of amicable clashes, bloodless wars for the sake of art and naturally, aesthetics. Naturally.
And within the small experimental booth with the lobes and the neurons myriads of information contravened with deliriously melancholic and immaterial ideas for an extra piece of time. However, growing up one came to find – maybe randomly, maybe not – that the sides of the forehead were in reality sides of the coin, and that was majorly justified by the nexus between “learning” and “realising.”
Therefore one would take this way to a dynamic harmony that strived for the mix of idea and fact to represent an optimistic evidence of failure, in any case some sort of evidence. Until one day it eventually becomes obvious that facts don’t constitute peace tools, that gravity isn’t restricted in sides, that mathematics don’t structure horizons but restrictions, and that no idea is free of principles.
And one knows – cannily determined to find out only when the outcome matters no more – that gravity reigns where ideas lack wings. That the major mathematical function is set by sensuous, simple, expandable, and retractable variables. The second law of thermodynamics bears penalties in any dimension which allows its breach as no efficiency will ever be above or even equal to 1, which constitutes but a token of flesh.
Eventually, silence is no more than a remembrance of a law with an exceptionally revealing – truly what a coincidence! – mnemonic rule: quit asking.
No writing for today, just a song I heard and instantly fell in love with. Listen carefully.