the story of stories 1

What makes up a story and why are they so pervasive?

At a meta-level they happen within the limits of time -- which is to say that events within them are arranged in an order, which is dictated by the infrastructure of reality (e.g. the arrow of time, even if in the telling these events are not always chronological) -- and mind space. They communicate an idea or several from one mind to another or several. With me so far? No? Good. Other elements include characters, themes, memes, arcs, parts and much, much more. "That's right Steve if you order now we'll throw in" *ahem* Stories are everywhere. I would argue (without offering much in the way of evidence) that much of the appeal no matter what their makeup, whether explicitly or implicitly, stories present us with ways of making sense of human experience. What do we crave more then anything in an absurd world? Why meaning of course! (some say happiness, Nietzsche dismissed this utilitarian notion as folly: "Man does not desire happiness. Only the Englishman desires that." Silly English people, don't mess with Nietzsche, he's got a really big moustache).

The saga continues later...

On Matters of Faith 2 The Leap

10,927 days ago since I was alive. 10,000 plus days! That is an achievement I must say. My being alive has little to do with faith, beside the obvious steps that I take to prolong my existence on this miserable piece of dirt we romantic types like to call earth. A more appropriate name would have been water, but the ocean shall have its revenge soon enough I imagine. What with global warming and every other form of full on assault that we've invented, our demise is imminent. But our glorious destruction is still a little ways off and we may not be wholly responsible for rising temperatures or our own destructive tendencies, so my complete condemnation of the human race may be foolhardy and a little presumptuous. After all my desires for apocalypse are counterbalanced by my actions: eating, sleeping, defecating, occasionally bathing and the like, so my nihilism has its limits. 10,000 days aren't enough, whatever I have I want more. Doomsday's around the corner, but I want to be around to see it.

Say I have 10,000 or even 20,000 days of monotonous alienating soul-destroying life left. Imagine the possibilities. This is not to suggest that I'm at all disenchanted with my life, given the alternative I'd opt for the continuation of things as they are. Fortunately other choices are available. Imagine me waking up and wanting to do what I was about to do, because what I do is meaningful. I was fired/let go/downsized/emancipated from my last job, which means I can do whatever I want, I just may have to become homeless to pull it off. I am a philosopher by trade, unfortunately this profession's heyday was something like 2,000 years ago. Society sometimes makes things difficult for me. I will take the leap out in to the darkness. Faith is a choice, a willful act of defiance. I have faith I just don't know if I believe anymore. Only one way to find out.

The Art of Sleeping

All this life and nothing to do with it. What I need is a framing device. Something that will bring meaning and purpose. When I grow up I want to be a sleeper.

I've been reading Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, I will probably mention this quite often. It only takes about 10,000 hours to become a genius at anything and contrary to popular belief, you need to be both lucky and good.

When I'm tired my eyes don't get heavy they get sore. I've got fatigue deposits all over the inside of my right eyeball. All the masters spend hours dedicating their lives to their monomaniacal passion. I'm thinking I'm going to spend 1/3 of my life doing this. I think I've found my bliss. There's nothing like sleeping off a good headache or even a bad one.

I will sleep where ever and whenever I want. When people ask what I do for a living this will be my answer (I was recently 'let go' by my former employer). I think I've stumbled on something here. I really have. Still this doesn't really separate me from the majority of the human race. If everyone can do it, it looses some of its gloss. I suppose I'll need to continue my search for genius elsewhere. As for now I'm going to sleep. Dream easy boys and girls.

17 days later...

I am still alive.

God has a distinct advantage I can't see him, but he can see me.

I have watched 4 seasons of Lost in a two week span. I hadn't watched any episodes before then.

I have stolen elements from Lost and written them in a story that I wrote before I'd ever seen it (see my attempts at fiction from earlier in this blog), sounds like something from Lost.

Lost is possibly the greatest series in the history of television.

I have taken a vow of celibacy against fast food. I don't know if this is possible. Celibacy by definition probably isn't broad enough to encompass food of any variety. I've been known to do some strange things in my time.

I have converted to Buddhism or Neo-Nazism or maybe I'm just tired of looking at my asymmetrically receding hairline. Either way I'm shaving my head today.

I am a gun salesman who may be fired. This metaphor must stand on its on merits.

It's time to go to sleep.

Good night.

On Matters of Faith 1

"Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism." -- Chuck Palahniuk (Invisible Monsters)

I'm naturally skeptical (aka pessimistic) about almost everything. If there were no contradictory belief or practice to contradict this one I would sponteaniously cease to be human.

1.All Men have beards

2.Aristotle and Loren Have Beards

3.Therefore Loren and Aristotle are Men

The syllogism is sound, at least one of the premises is untrue while the conclusion is probably true although Aristotle is no longer with us. Yes, even logic can be confusing, but that doesn't mean it is not useful.

Is everything just chemistry and physics subject to reductionist thinking? Was metaphysics 101 a complete waste of time? No.

I don't know what I'm trying to say here. I'll continue tomorrow.

measuring my manhood one inch at a time, 1

These pieces constitute the back ground radiation to my origin point. That really is a bad comparison, but it sounds cool.

Should I bare a little more of my soul to the internet? I'm bored, so hey why not.

There are little things that happen who's impact may be lost because I've got a bad memory. It's not even that. I just want a reliable place to store them. Do you ever get the feeling that you're empowering an imaginary weakness by giving it voice. Are words incantations? Spells? I answer to a specific noise which takes the written form of Loren. Ferdinand De Saussure you where good for something after all.

Yes, those tiny details that make up the backdrop of your life while you're busy taking centre stage. That's what I'm talking about. What good is data without interpretation? I need to filter the flotsam somehow, here is a clumsy attempt to do so, a reductive approach to my collection of complexity. Starting tomorrow.

any given sunday

Here I am trying to do the best I can with what I have, the raw materials at my disposal are flirting with their used by dates, but there's still a little time left. Very little. I can't help but feel things would have worked out more favourably than they have now if I had only started a little earlier. There's probably a good reason for this.

Maybe Indiana Jones can make me feel better, "it's not the years honey, it's the mileage", I guess, or something, so all is not lost. Not much wear and tear here, not until the season started anyway. After the last two games I've managed to convince my knees that I've been playing on concrete rather than grass, my left shoulder feels like it's hanging on by a single tendon, and at least once per game I feel like I've been knocked out. Feeling like your knocked out and actually being knocked out are probably as close to being the same animal as wining and almost winning, still black misty impaired vision occasionally accompanied by stars, making me feel like I've teleported to a different time zone (we play mostly during the day), are close enough to the real thing to fill me with healthy sense of unease.

Multiple near concussions aren't the best way to spend your Sundays. I used to go to church instead. I am currently in violation of the sabbath. I've considered pulling a Steve Young, implementing my own version of the sacred day, Monday sounds good this week or possibly Wednesday, I'm just not sure my ecclesiastical leaders will approve (I don't make enough money). Should I use what remains of my talent for running over the top of people before it fully expires or should I cut and run and pay homage to my possible creator, on the biblically designated appropriate day, leaving my taste for preternatural violence to other equally barbaric humans? I think we all know the answer to this question. God you understand, right?

What's that? No reply? Very well then. Christian Bale has given the big screen so many wonderful gifts, let me count the ways: full frontal nudity as a serial killer, his turn as a poster child for anorexia, as a brooding saviour of humanity with that fondly irritating lispy-wannabe-Clint-Eastwood-JC-voice, and let's not forget as a brooding vigilante with that fondly irritating lispy-wannabe-Clint-Eastwood-bat-voice. Somehow The Dark Knight was still good. With that wonderfully tuned instrument he delivered the immortal line quoting Katy Holmes before him"It's not who you are underneath, it's what you do that defines you." Is this ever more true than in the world of men? Some say I'm a misogynist, but they've got it all wrong I'm actually a misanthropist, I make a point to not interact with any of my team mates unless absolutely necessary. I strongly believe in equal opportunity discrimination. As of late, although working through a protracted drought of tries (aka touch downs), what I've been doing is just running rough shod over the competition. It's amazing how people start kissing your bum when they see what you can do.

This is a different kind of religious experience, paint me gold and call me Baal. Like I said I should have started this a lot sooner.

(just kidding, kind of)

zen mind crazy mind

This is madness. This is not Sparta. This is me perpetrating a pale imitation. That's OK though, the Spartans were gay. That's OK too. I'm not gay which is also OK. You get the idea. Doesn't political correctness make you sick? We've taken a wonderful ideal and through the sophistry of social engineering we've wrought a twisted bastardized version of what we always wanted. Isn't life grand?

I feel compelled to qualify every sentence I utter, which in many instances require their own qualification. Where's my luckdragon, it's the Neverending Story all over again. That's OK, it's all OK. During my infinite regress or recursive reflection depending on what way I feel like defining the quandary of my daydreaming, I reach maybe the third level down and I start loitering. There's far too much to take in here. I can almost hear Elton John singing.

Language is too beautiful not to use, I complain about having to explain everything, but deep down I want it to go on forever (The Elements of Style be damned! but only when I'm not using them). This blog can acurately be described as an incredibly prolonged argument with myself. I'm also in love with the passive voice and I am not ashamed. Writing this is a lot cheaper than seeing a therapist.

At present on the third level down when I start with Australia as a catalyst, things move quickly to rugby league. Which then morph roughly into how ridiculous this all is. Sure I just told you where my true love lies, but I also have a real fetish for absurdity, so I just can't help but feel immensely impressed with myself right now. I'm doing something that makes no sense and is about as likely to end in success as an atom exploding into a full blown universe. Hey, Pinocchio walked on water (or at least he could have being made of wood) and Jesus became a real boy (you know like he was like a God and then he magically became a fully fledged fetus, oh I'm qualifying again. Forget it). 

Sometimes strange things happen.  

P.S. This has nothing to do with anything except the most ridiculous buzzer beating 3 pointer since Robert Horry killed the Kings in 2002. LeBron's literal last second 3 yesterday will surely become the newest iconic shot in the NBAs pantheon of greats. I have a man crush on LeBron James. Shhh, don't tell anyone.