PatrickG
06-19-2009, 07:28 AM
So... I was updating my "About Me" at Facebook and Myspace and I seem to have gone somewhere at least interesting with it, if a bit vague:
I am sound and I am sight, filtered and reflected through a conscious web of certainty and uncertainty, of knowledge, faith, doubt and hope, bound together in a faint web of cosmic continuity.
The sound of drums, as their vibration transfers from air molecules through flesh. The now-archaic hum of a modem sputtering to life in mechanical beeps and hisses that sound like a 486's answer to the waves crashing against the shore. The flutter of birds' wings above the sycamore and the pine. The hum of cars barreling down the freeway and the eerie Doppler effect as their rumble becomes high and dim to the human ear in the distance.
The haze of hot air molecules over the pavement on a summer's day. The haze and glow of bleeding pixels, forming a still and brilliant lens flare on film which traps the reflected emissions of the great nuclear furnace of the heavens. The rippling of light against the surface of a brown pond. The blue glow of a computer monitor in a dark room. The spark and brief, hot burst of a match.
I am consciousness, wound up in the bioelectricomagnetic charge of nerve fibers and aspiring to fruition. I hold memory in one hand and hope in the other, the collision of anticipation and reflection ringing forth the bittersweet melody of being.
I am selfsame subject and object, like all sentient things. We seek to make sense out of fleeting shadows cast by fire's collision with the Platonic parade against the cave wall. As time approaches infinity, we approach apotheosis and yet we are desperately short line segments on a graph whose scale dwarfs imagination. We are all tiny miracle resting upon tiny miracle, whose balance is more gossamer than turtles stacked one atop the other to infinity.
I long to hear warmth and to smell motion abuzz in the air and to see hope, to feel truth and taste beauty.
Let me devour the world in my time, explore it and expound upon it with my mind and my fingers and my shoes, as time massages them all gently back to earth. There will be more world left in my wake but it is my hushed prayer that my motion on this sphere will bring about delicate crescendos whose echoes form tiny, trembling collisions of resonances and that in the unrecorded histories' sighs can be heard the whispered name of my being...
I think I blame Tom Robbins and David Lynch equally.
I am sound and I am sight, filtered and reflected through a conscious web of certainty and uncertainty, of knowledge, faith, doubt and hope, bound together in a faint web of cosmic continuity.
The sound of drums, as their vibration transfers from air molecules through flesh. The now-archaic hum of a modem sputtering to life in mechanical beeps and hisses that sound like a 486's answer to the waves crashing against the shore. The flutter of birds' wings above the sycamore and the pine. The hum of cars barreling down the freeway and the eerie Doppler effect as their rumble becomes high and dim to the human ear in the distance.
The haze of hot air molecules over the pavement on a summer's day. The haze and glow of bleeding pixels, forming a still and brilliant lens flare on film which traps the reflected emissions of the great nuclear furnace of the heavens. The rippling of light against the surface of a brown pond. The blue glow of a computer monitor in a dark room. The spark and brief, hot burst of a match.
I am consciousness, wound up in the bioelectricomagnetic charge of nerve fibers and aspiring to fruition. I hold memory in one hand and hope in the other, the collision of anticipation and reflection ringing forth the bittersweet melody of being.
I am selfsame subject and object, like all sentient things. We seek to make sense out of fleeting shadows cast by fire's collision with the Platonic parade against the cave wall. As time approaches infinity, we approach apotheosis and yet we are desperately short line segments on a graph whose scale dwarfs imagination. We are all tiny miracle resting upon tiny miracle, whose balance is more gossamer than turtles stacked one atop the other to infinity.
I long to hear warmth and to smell motion abuzz in the air and to see hope, to feel truth and taste beauty.
Let me devour the world in my time, explore it and expound upon it with my mind and my fingers and my shoes, as time massages them all gently back to earth. There will be more world left in my wake but it is my hushed prayer that my motion on this sphere will bring about delicate crescendos whose echoes form tiny, trembling collisions of resonances and that in the unrecorded histories' sighs can be heard the whispered name of my being...
I think I blame Tom Robbins and David Lynch equally.