All people have nothing to say. Smart people know when not to say it.

klims and hafgaps

“Nothing is real except atoms and empty space. Everything else is opinion.” That's the conclusion Democritus came to after some serious studying... or at least glancing at his hand and wiggling his fingers a little. But really, what more do I have to do besides glance at my hand to realize it is only an opinion? Even if it didn't look like a hand, people could still call it a hand because of where it is positioned. It's not called a “hand” anyway. It's called “el mano”. And that piece of corn over there, not corn. It's “maize”. It all depends who you are. People who are colour blind can't see whether I'm wearing an orange shirt or a purple one (neither by the way), so they have to rely on someone who isn't colour blind to form opinions for them. But someone who can see colour might call the orange shirt a “venison koala”. Are they wrong? Of course they're wrong, you say. Who are you to tell them they are wrong? Imagine that you've been calling it a “shirt” your entire life. Why did you call it that? Because that's what you were told it was. Now, all of the sudden, a nicely dressed man with a funny hair do (means he's smart) tells you that it's actually called a “klim”. You laugh and swill your drink while thinking about calling in a paddy wagon. But then your mother says, “Yes, child, the man is right. We all agreed to tell you that a 'klim' is called a 'shirt', just to see how things would turn out.” You're still a little unsure of this, and maybe even a little scared, when your father nods his agreement, and your brother stumbles into the conversation while asking if anybody has told you the big secret yet. This may sound a bit unbelievable, but imagine if it happened to you. Do you really think it's impossible? What about when you go to Australia and they call the trunk of your car a “boot”? Are they wrong? Of course they are. It's called a trunk. Unless you're an Australian you sound like a tard calling a trunk a boot. But you're still not wrong.
Why can an Australian call what is obviously a trunk, a boot, but I can't call what is obviously a shirt, a klim? It's all about social acceptance. What is socially accepted is what goes. That doesn't mean your wrong when you ask the cashier for a deal on the klim under the warfig because your licknep is too hafgap. It means you sound like an idiot because you're using socially unacceptable language.
“There is no change in reality, only a different perspective of what has always been.” -Jerome Harris.

Understanding

Why is there certain songs that we don't like? We listen to something that has been highly recommended to us, and then just sit there and think “wow, that sucked.” But somebody else likes it. So does it really suck? Is it the music that's the problem, or is it us?
I believe it's neither. What is music? Music is emotion finding its release. It is the deepest feelings of the composer or musician. They have something in their heart, and they tell the world about it in a song. The people that like the song are the people that understand what the musician is tying to portray. They are the people that can relate to what the musician is trying to say. The people that don't like the music they're hearing are the ones that can't relate to the musician. Maybe they have never experienced the feelings the musician is putting forward. Or maybe they have, and they are trying to suppress the type of thoughts that are suddenly flooding over them. Either way, it's not the song that sucks, and it's not an attitude, it's simply personality. I can personally relate to almost every single form of music and feel the same thing the musician is feeling, from sorrow to anger to joy to chaos. But there are some people that hardly even feel attraction to music. Why? Are they hiding from the emotion it can bring, or do they just not understand what they can learn from music? But let's face it, it's the same thing with personal opinions, politics, etc. You will never find a single thing that everyone agrees on or likes. Music is the same.
When I came to realize this, I started to understand how thirty or forty people could come up to me and tell me they loved the song I just wrote, and then have one or two others tell me it was stupid and sounded like noise... and then add “but keep trying”, because that would make everything better. At first I was offended, but then I came to realize that it wasn't my song that sucked, and that it wasn't them that had poor judgment, it was the type of emotion in the song that they couldn't relate to.
So any of you musicians and composers out there, don't be discouraged by the two people that can't wrap their mind around your feelings. If you play what's in your heart, there will be someone out there who can relate.
You people who seem to think you need to explain why our music sucks, be nice about it. It's not our song you're bashing, it's our feelings.

Baby Universe

The other day I was looking through the files on my computer, trying to decide if it would be okay to just delete stuff, or if I would have to burn the block down to hide traces of my activities. I was going to burn the block down, but I saw that the house next to me has kind of a neat garden out back, and I didn't really want to ruin it, so I decided to write a message on my blog instead.
Actually, the message on my blog – that I haven't written yet – came about after I briefly thought about my last post...the one about space, and how much of it there is between my ears. I also noticed a few familiar words like “the”, “6” and “.” One other word that caught my eye was “universe”. After a slight battle, I managed to get my eye back from the aggressive final syllable, but not before a strange notion popped into the cavern inside my skull, and pushed aside the echoes enough to give me a complete thought. Want to know what it was? No, you don't but I'll tell you. It was “I live in a black hole.”
Sure, I suppose you could take that figuratively if you want. The black hole of debt is sucking you into its pit of destruction. The black hole of politics is compacting your soul into a nonexistent piece of...well I guess it's nonexistent. The black hole of your family is squeezing you into the abyss of proper behaviour...either way, I'm not speaking metaphorically. What if I'm living in a real black hole? Before you start tracking my IP address so you can dispatch the authorities, let me explain.
We know that matter falls into black holes, and is never seen again. We know that light is also sucked into black holes. We theorize that a black hole is formed by the death of a star. Well maybe it is. But I don't think a black hole is really a black hole. And now, my explanation of my madness:
We are in a black hole. This universe that we see...it's really not the entire universe. It's just what's compacted into the centre of this black hole that we live in. Imagine an atom. The nucleus is so small, that if it had eyes, and had the capability to see like us, it wouldn't even be able to comprehend the size of one human body. It would think that it's impossible for anything to be more vast, and more unexplainable than the area from an ankle to a knee joint. Proportionately, an atom trying to travel from the dirt under my finger nail to the dirt on my first knuckle joint, would be like us traveling across the world. (Maybe not exactly, but you see my point.) So now imagine that we are mere particles at the centre of a black hole. The Earth is an electron, and our sun is our nucleus. People are like the quarks of an atom. So that would make all the rest of our visible planets and stars like other particles. In our eyes, they are vast distances apart, but that's only because we're smaller than a neutron in comparison.
So what are these black holes that we see? A little hole in the container that holds our universe. It's like we're being held in a plastic bag full of water. Our little particle universe is inside this bag. What's on the outside of the bag is the real world. A black hole is like a little tear in the bag. So why do things fall into the hole and are never seen again? Well I think it's obvious why they are never seen again. They're out in the real world. But what's with all that suction? You ever put a little pin prick in a bag of water? The pressure from inside causes water to shoot out like crazy. We know that's going to drag stuff inside with it. In our case it's the pressure of space shooting toward the hole. That's why even other stars or planets can be taken into it. Now don't get me wrong, there are some properties that are a little but different from a water bag hole. But it makes a good analogy (anybody ever notice the root word of analogy? Just curious.).
So what's on the other side of the lining of our universe? A woman factory. How should I know? But if you have any questions besides the ones I've already answered, feel free to write them down. You could even post them for me to answer if you're feeling especially motivated at the time.

Before My Mind Escaped...

I was thinking the other day...then I thought “ah why bother?” and stopped. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and my mind had already taken off on a journey. Although I'm sort of enjoying the freedom, I'll be relieved when it checks back in.
Anyway, before my reckless mind took off on it's own, I managed to make some use of it. Here's what I squeezed out of it:
We are on Earth (although some people don't seem to have originated here). After we look at Earth, we start to look at the space around us. We live on a tiny speck in a massive solar system. But then we look at the space around our solar system, and realize...it's a speck in our galaxy. The closest star to Earth is Proxima Centauri. It's 4.22 lightyears away from us. One lightyear is 6 trillion miles. You do the math. I can't my mind is still on holiday. Our galaxy has anywhere from 200 to 400 billion stars in it. If the closest one to us is 4.22 lightyears away...I can't even think about how far the farthest is. But then I look farther out of our galaxy...
The Milky Way is in a group of galaxies. There's twelve of them. The closest to us is Andromeda Galaxy. It is 2.5 million lightyears away from us. That hardly even makes sense. And then we keep pulling farther out... The twelve galaxies that surround us are puny when we keep looking. Farther outside our group of twelve galaxies is another cluster of galaxies. Our twelve puny galaxies seem like the most ridiculous massive amount of distances and open spaces possible. But this other cluster has six thousand galaxies. Not planets, or stars, galaxies. And that's not even a big cluster in the grand scheme of things. Six thousand galaxies isn't even a drop in a a puddle. Are you ready for this? There is estimated to be over 125 billion galaxies in our universe. What's interesting is we still have no idea if space ends or not, so that's assuming there's actually a finite number of them.
So what am I trying to say? To anyone that actually managed to stay awake through all that: I'm small. No wait...I'm so small that when my mind decides it's time to come home, I won't be surprised if it ends up in Somalia somewhere, because that's really less than an atom's distance away from me in the big picture.
But what really gets to me about all this is that we humans think we can figure it all out. We think we have all the answers to the universe's questions, or we will soon. What I've been led to believe by all this is that the only thing the universe is too small to hold is the human ego.

Reluctant Liberation

I sit silently on the bench, just staring. There's no one around, so there's no reason to rush...but still, I feel like if I don't get this out of my system I'm going to explode. I slowly raise my right hand. It hovers for a second before it comes down softly on the keys. The quiet tones slip out into the room and are lost in the dead silence. I softly play another chord, this time including both hands. It's starting. The room is empty besides my belongings and myself, but I can feel that, even if it were full of people, I would hear nothing but the piano. Another chord, a minor...almost involuntarily, my eyes close...and it's begun. I've cleared the floor, and now it's up to the music to do the rest. My hands move more quickly, gradually becoming more apart of the piano than of me. What will come out next, I couldn't tell you. The music seems to lean over my shoulder and take hold of my hands, guiding them to where they need to be to make this moment what it wants. The melody rises above somber chords, slowly working into a sweeping rhythm that takes over my consciousness and turns me into a mere channel. Music leaves my shoulder and floods into my body, racing through every part of me, slipping into every fiber and flowing through every vein. Music takes control of everything...but there's no room for myself and for music in the same body. Music has filled me and concentrated it's coup at the core of my existence...my heart. I feel like my chest is going to explode. It's overwhelming. My closed eyes squeeze tighter and a slight sound almost makes it's way to my lips. And then the release...
Music finally finds an exit from where it has been battering at the cell walls of my heart. Through my arms, my wrists, down into the palms of my hands...then bursting from my fingers with unimaginable fury. It races up and down the ivory keys, its rhythm pulsing into a melody that transports me to a place where time doesn't exist. Where there is nothing but...flow. Music pours out into the space beyond my body, leaving my heart room to move once again. I can feel it winding down. It's escape is almost complete. My hands are no more flying across the keys. Instead, they are touching them tenderly. Music gradually slows to quiet tones as it runs softly out of my body. I'm sad to feel it leaving, though at the same time I feel release. I feel like everything is right with the world. My hands rest on the final chord, remaining there until Music has finally let me go...and I realize that Music had never been held prisoner in the cells of my heart. My heart had been held prisoner by Music. The release I'm experiencing is not the escape of Music, but the relief of freedom. Freedom from the only thing that should ever enslave any soul.
My eyes slowly open to see my hands still resting on the last chord that Music gave me before it left. I suddenly feel a slight shame. Music may have given me something that I could never receive anywhere else in any other fashion, but it has also taken something during it's exit. It has taken a piece of my heart, and has shared it with the world. Music has bared me before anyone that might have been close enough to notice. My innermost feelings...turmoils, happiness, sorrow...it's all out in the open for all to see. It leaves the room thick and silent. People sometimes say “the tension was so think you could cut it with a knife”. This tension can never be put asunder. My heart is spread over the room, and nothing can split the feelings that Music has just shared.
I take my hands off the piano. Wishing the silence could be broken, but also dreading the moment when it will leave. I slowly realize that what I played, never will be played again. I can't remember most of what Music just did to me, but at the same time...I can't wait for it to happen again.