irresponsible consumerism

People protest outside a subway sandwich shop dressed in chicken suits. That's what comes to mind at this pivotal moment; That, and Jared's amazingly large pants. He lost a lot of weight eating subway. We should all be so lucky. If I lost any weight eating anything at all, than things would  be no different from what they are now.

I pick up a pack of half a dozen free range eggs, this has become the benchmark of the environmentally honourable among us. All those chickens stuffed into tiny cages, all those politically cognizant people stuffed into chicken suits. I can't allow their sacrifice to go in vain. I'll pay the extra 30 cents it costs for the chicken embryos that had uncaged mothers. I feel like a responsible citizen.

Cognitive dissonance sets in. Never a good thing. I pinch the Jordan cap I just bought from foot locker with my free hand; in all probability it was manufactured in the human equivalent of a chicken cage. It cost me $30, of which the person who produced it probably got 0.00252 cents. I call audible on the play and switch to the caged chicken variety. A small part of me dies, but at least I'm consistent. And I just saved 30 cents.

the logic of insanity

"Queenslander!" -- Billy Moore (look there he is >>)

 

Parochial insurgency and ardent jingoistic tribalism is (or are) one of the great challenges of our time. We draw imaginary borders around something and call it a nation-state or a city-state or any other arbitrarily constituted geopolitical epicentre; add ample portions of ideology to the mix, and similarly formed power-bases with diametrically opposed views, stir vigorously and wait patiently for the world to destroy itself. When people believe in something they'll go to any length, any circular argument, any hypothetical extrapolation , any anomalous counter-example, any act of terrorism,  any level of self-deception, to defend or perpetuate their personal prejudices. 

State of Origin is the grandest spectacle in rugby league. The best players from New South Wales and Queensland (states of Australia), each year, converge on whatever battle grounds the NRL sanctions for a 3 match contest of wits and nihilism where the object is nothing less than the complete annihilation of the opposition team. Off the field everyone's mates, on the field half of its population is trying to kill you. This is why we watch. Sport is our PC version of war.

In New Zealand (where I come from) the only showdown even comparably epic is The Bi-Annual Sheep Sheering Extravaganzapaloza. We have a small portal to the rest of the world by way of satellite TV, so when we're not transfixed by the externally imposed grooming habits of our ovine cousins we sometimes play make believe, just to experience how fun it is pretending to be someone else. As kiwi's (a cutesy nick-name for New Zealanders) none of us are from NSW or Queensland, but if you're a fan of rugby league you pick a side anyway. It's a lot more fun than looking at sheep.

This year I came to Australia to fulfill my life long dream of being paid to play a sport (life long, if I exercise a little revisionist history -- it's like when they interview people on Survivor who swear that they love 'the game' and have always wanted to be on the show, yet the show has only been around for half as long as they have -- I'm the prototypical slacker, I didn't really have any solid dreams for a significant portion of my early life). Mission accomplished. As long as I can retain my position in the senior squad I'll get a miniscule amount of cash each game. Hip, hip, hurray!

Are we feeding the worst parts of our human nature in indulging our desire for differentiation from 'the Other' by supporting these types of divisive contests, or is this a healthy form of release, satisfying unsavoury desires that when left to accumulate inevitably result in even more deplorable acts of violence down the line? This much I can tell you: Do you know why I came to the Gold Coast? Simply because I support Queensland. This was the incredibly rigorous thought process that ultimately directed my actions. I mean who can forget Billy Moore, in '95 walking down the players tunnel to the field ready for the final and deciding game of the series, screaming psychotically "Queenslander!" over and over again. That kind of irrational devotion captured my imagination. It was the tipping point. Am I crazy? Examining the evidence, I can only conclude: Yes. 

notes: 

• correct, I don't know what half the words in this post mean.
  
• State of Origin begins on 03 June 2009
• non-sequiturs are the glue that joins my paragraphs together

ANZAC Day

On this day in history one year ago I stood with my Nana on a small cemetery plot, just north of Auckland, where my Gramps shares his final resting place with other World War Two veterans, and for the first time, that I can recall, I felt stirrings of patriotism and awe reflecting on the sacrifice made by my forebears. 

I am a part of the human drama that has been unfolding relentlessly since nobody can remember. Only a small part. In the grand sweep of human history this moment was merely the tinkling of a triangle in some grandiose symphony, but oh what a tinkle. If I am a part, there must be other parts and other players who have made my part possible and given it meaning.

The Greatest Generation are playing their final notes now, but their music and spirit will continue to linger. Nana has gone to join Gramps in heaven or memory. I remember them. I remember their legacy. They were people. They lived and loved and fought for what they believed in. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. 

I think of all the unborn children of all the unrealized parents who never made it this far because their would-be fathers died at war. I marvel at how sentimentality can devolve into self-congratulatory comparison in an almost zero-sum game, but there it is. All this from the vantage point of a tiny hill in sleepy Walkworth. Because of others I am here, and alive, and I speak English. Today is a good day.

116 The Acts of Galahad 1

...I managed through an act of sheer will, the size of which is exceeded only by the magnitude of the universe itself, to stave off the titillating advances of the buxom maidens, popularly known as the Minstrels of the Moon, whose sole purpose in life seemingly, was to relieve Knights such as myself (though if we are to be honest there have been few if any knights whose stars have burned with either the luster or glory as that of my own) of all virtue and honour. I was sorely tempted, as I'm sure you'll agree, was an understandable response, but I was ever constant and unerring in my quest. I look back with wonder and awe at my own resiliency. I truly was a marvel... The revelry of former adventurers with my current hosts had  in all probability spawned the wretched creatures whom I had dispatched during my decent into this den of iniquity. I politely declined their generous offer, having no desire to contribute to the underwordly population which I had so recently culled, with the understanding that Midina, one of their number, would accompany me as a guide for as long as necessity required, the alternative being death by Dragon Fire... They wisely assented and Midina led Thomas(Tommy) and I deeper into the dungeon in search of the grail...

an abridgement of Galahad's tale recounted in the presence of Simon, which as legend has it, lasted 21 years (which was 3 times longer than the actual adventure took). To be continued...

finessing the numbers in my favour

In the interests of monitoring slimodsoc's traffic flow I have enlisted the help of a few different services whose area of expertise is internet metrics. Using the data gathered, I have discovered that I visit my own blog at least twice as much as the rest of the combined population of the planet. Mark Twain once said something like: "Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to reassess your position." Guess that means I don't got nuthin' to worry 'bout, 'cept keepin' on doin' what Loren does. 

115 hungry

Canada choked back the full-meal-in-a-pill with a minimum of water to wash it down. The Bald Man had put the entire crew on extreme rations for the duration of the journey. The entire crew consisted of three people and one of them was a robot. Baldy possibly failed to think this far ahead -- food storage would have been a nice contingency plan -- but more likely he was just a masochistic sadist. He dry swallowed his dinner, gave a deep demonstrative exhale as if this were the most satisfying act in the history of mankind and followed it up with the movement of the corners of his mouth in an upward direction, resembling something like a grin, but it would have felt wrong to describe it as such.

"What are you?" said Canada. This was a fair question. The escape pod and its escapees had been floating were ever it was that they were for a lengthy period now and Canada still knew little to nothing about her captor. This was as good a moment as any for get to know yous.

"I'm a monster and I eat little girls." It was all starting to make sense, he had brought food after all.

what if...

I woke up everyday and felt like getting out of bed? This is what I dream about when I'm sleeping. This is theoretically attainable in a no-fuss type of way. Here's what to do, limit myself to only one weakness: chocolate and ice cream; which I will only eat ever again on Sundays, and only if I've been good and not ingested any other naughty things throughout the week. This sounds only partially as ridiculous as I intended. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything. I will get no less than 8.5 hours of lying in bed at night, most of which I hope to spend sleeping. I will also  make mental notes of each time that I blog about making sweeping lifestyle changes that will once and for all redeem me from a misspent life, so that I can make encouraging gestures at myself in the mirror as a facade to cover what I fear may be the underlying truth. Proverbs teaches us that smiling makes us happier. Most importantly, no matter how devastated by the ravages of tiredness, I will continue to go to the gym:

bench 85kgs/3*8

chins, n-grip me/3*8

high row, rope 45/3*8

hu-rrah!

114 moment of truth

Galahad had been speaking for a unnecessarily long time. Simon in spite of his sincere desire to listen, began to zone out. Galahad noticed.

"I'm sorry, I'm an utter bore it's all part and parcel of being a completely chivalrous, purely undefiled knight of all knights."

"It's not that. It's just... do you have any candy?

"Oh I see. It's not enough that I pour my heart out to you after sparing your life, now you want me to provide refreshments as well. I should have dispatched you while I was in the right mood. Now I'll just have to wait until I can whip myself up into another frenzy. Did you even listen to a word that I said?"

Simon wondered if answering truthfully was a wise choice in this situation. Then he thought of candy and felt slightly better.

abandoned projects wasteland

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life the laws of the universe will become simpler." Henry David Thoreau

Long live my blogs that have gone the way of all the earth, may they find eternal piece and prosperity in their new capacity as static doorstops for the interwebs. I have discovered by sad experience that I cannot do everything that I want to do. It was Sartre who from memory - which is a notoriously unreliable source - popularized the phrase "No Excuses" as part of his existential philosophy. What he meant was that no matter what happens we are free to choose. He managed to temper the optimism of this thought (by the way, as a whole I'd say existentialism is mostly a negative outlook), that all things are possible, with the practical concession that there are facts like gravity that we must work within to realize these myriad possibilities. I don't have enough time, and I lack the stamina to abandon sleep all together; sometimes, facticity interferes. I will have to push the things that I want to do over the cliff of the unnecessary to save the ones that I really, really want to do and feel that I must do. 

The casualties so far (they can thank their gods that most have been reincarnated at slimodsoc, and if they're really lucky resurrection might also come to pass, but for now)...

My Bebo Blog 

(a sample) Existential angst fills my brain cracks like selley's no more gaps.

current status: dead

Tenuous Connections 

the trials and tribulations of a chronic blogger

current status: dead

The Sports Soliloquy of Loren Hopkins:

On Wednesday 1 August 1802, at 2:30pm at National Women's Hospital in Auckland, New Zealand, Loren Tofiulu Niklaus Hopkins was born, all 11 pounds of him. In spite of his being Samoan his pigmentation was white. In spite of his being a boy he was named Loren. In spite of his not being a sports superstar, he still retains a misplaced semblance of hope. This is his story...

current status: dead

How I Got Published

The untrue tale of how I got published.

previous status: still-born

iLoren

Do you remember when you were a grubby little kid with nothing more then missing teeth, a crazy dream and a sparkle in your eye. I sure do. One day, for about a year, I almost turned 30, during which time my dream returned and I ,contrary to conventional wisdom, in my advanced age, decided I would play rugby league and that someone would pay me for it. Wish me luck. It's time to make some dollar dollar bills y'all.

current status: dead (but the rugby league playing is still alive and well)

The Kolob Express

Welcome! Loren is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and to the best of his ability he'll capture that experience here. However, the views expressed in this blog are his own and are not necessarily representative of all things Mormon, expect anything different and he might get cranky, soldier boy crank that superman type cranky. It's ok though, preliminary forecasts indicate that there's a 50% chance that he's in a good mood right now. This could be your lucky day.

current status: recently deceased

Long live the blogs!

bye2Kolob

Goodbye Kolob, I leave now bound for other stars. Your concern is misplaced, I shall return at some (unspecified) future time. I will be at Slightly Moderated Stream of Consciousness if you need me. Thank ye.

113 out of the ocean and into the butterflies

"Brandon, pleased to meet you." he said in a way that sounded sincere, but unconvincing at the same time.

Bilix pulled Brandon to his feet in a display of strength that seemed disproportionate to his size. Brandon in an upright position struggled to find his land legs, he staggered at first, and coughed up half the ocean that he'd almost drowned in, at second. Bilix gave a reassuring number of powerful  pats to Brandon's back in an effort to encourage any straggling sea to make an hasty exit.

"You certainly drank your fill didn't you Brandon. Lucky I gave you the extra boost when I did or she would have had you all to herself."

"You...saved me." Brandon stood up straight. 'All to herself' was that just a turn of phrase or is this freak planning something? Come on, I know he's ugly but I've got to try and keep it together.

There was a moments silence that was not especially uncomfortable considering the circumstances, "Saved is such a strong word, I'm not Jesus or nothin'. I just saw a big behind in front of me and thought the only way I'm making it to the surface is by hauling this, um your arse with me. You're welcome."

"Oh, thanks." More silence. "Any idea's where we are?"

"None, but maybe this lot will."

As chance would have it near death experiences where only the beginning of the days excitement. In a clearing on a hill, only a few football field lengths away came a group clothed in white, riding on the backs of beasts. Their countenances were as lightning, their radiance like butterflies. It was going to be an interesting afternoon.

brief notes on my intention 1

I have revivified the "Story" in the hopes of forcing myself to learn how to write. The wonderful thing about writing is that the perceived quality of a piece, or lack thereof, is almost entirely subjective. Then again abstract art had its day in the sunshine (I guess writing's not the only place where you can get away with passing off utter crap as the emperor's new clothes), maybe all creative endeavours are beholden only to the context and culture in which they're created, so there is no over-arching objective measurement of what's good.  Robert Mckee strongly, expletively disagrees. We're living in a post-post-modern, post-9-11, generation Xbox world, and all bets are off, and the interwebs make all things possible, and I'm not really hungry, but I want to eat anyway, and T.I. (ATL what!) tells me that [I] can have whatever [I] like, so when I say that this is a good thing, you better down your pills and drink the kool aid, 'cause buddy, you just got served. See what I did there? Sheer literary brilliance I tell yas (with poignant pop-culture references to boot).

Oh yes the "Story", you didn't think you'd get out of it that easily. Why not take advantage of the idiosyncrasies of the blogging medium? I want each post to be modular in the sense that they function perfectly well as short stories in themselves, yet compliment the overall narrative. Of course, seen as each component can theoretically be rearranged without disturbing the overall function of the narrative (like a method within a class in programming), then maybe I've rendered causality in the story predominantly impotent, but now that I think about it maybe it's just a super-fractured narrative. This much I can say: It's flash fiction meets a novel; it's like the Sunday funnies, without being funny most of the time or having pictures, you know, it's just in a similar format. 

Seen as each post is its own separate entity, this frees me up to undertake some bold (I exaggerate) experiments in story telling.  Who can forget how for 100 entries I went without titles on the posts except for the Scott Sigler special edition. There was no underlying reason for this. Or how about the time that I titled 109: "short choppy sentences" and then went on to write it in short, choppy sentences (compared to my usual length) resulting in probably the most boring entry ever, yet the only one to garner even a solitary tick in the "tell me more" feedback box. It really is some work trying to change your style up, going Hemingway-esque (even though I've never read any of his work except for the first page of the old man and the fish (yes, I know it's the 'sea'. Fish are funnier than oceans), but I hear his writing's lithe) is not my strength or preference. Then there are the times that I mail it in and you get (very) bad poetry like 106 goodbye to sanity. I promise no more of those. There are also posts that I really, really liked, but I wont allow my head to swell too much by naming them all. To name only a few, pretty much I enjoyed everything that has the moon in it. There's something very sad about being stuck in orbit forever with nothing else to do. The poor moon. It's been fun so far and I've learned stuff too; like they say there's no substitute for experience. Ten book publishing deal, here I come. 

112 future now past

If I knew dating Brandon would have lead to this I would never have gone along with idea. I had my reservations from the start. He wasn't really witty, or confident, and he didn't have strong looking hands, I've always had a soft spot for gruff man-hands, his were so tiny. To top it off he didn't seem to be in a stable financial situation, not that I'm all about the Benjamin's, but a guy's at least got to try to keep his shit together and Brandon, I don't want to hate on the guy, but it seemed as if he'd lost his along the way. I'll give him this much, he had the stones to ask me out, and that tiny little detail was enough to turn me. It's been a while since I've been on a date (I'm really ashamed to say, I almost can't even write it, but this was the first time, Sally says it's because men are intimidated by me, but I think that's just her nice way of saying I'm fat a little on the chunky side. I don't exactly set the world on fire with my conversational skills either. I'm just a regular big-boned shy gal looking for Mr. Right), so I went easy on him and said yes. Big mistake.

Now we're here at this "top secret" training facility. Brandon's not though, he's missing in action. Typical. And Davis the half-insane, I hesitate to say lest I unwittingly become a part of his elaborate fantasy, "time-traveler" is out looking for him, either that or we're meant to be, I don't know, the instructions we were left with were kind of vague. My brothers in arms are the three-quarters insane zombie guy, who speaks only in grunts and groans and may one day murder us in our sleep, and to round things out we've got the completely-out-of-his-mind-bonkers, Erhard,  who is obsessed with dressing in hot colours and suffers from a personality delusion were he believes himself to be the pied piper of Hamlyn. I guess Napoleon and God were already taken. All that and he's really, really annoying.

I don't know how Davis managed to spirit us away to this place, but I can't wait to get out. He says that the eighties are coming for us. I don't know what that means, but he left a note on a white board on his way out: START TRAINING NOW! I'LL BE BACK. He also assured us at one point that space is unevenly distributed here, and that time functions slower than normal so we might just be able to pull this (whatever this is) off. Everyday we sit around and do nothing. Somehow, I don't think this is what he had in mind. This is crazy. We're here expected to go through an eighties style training montage, to prepare to stop the oncoming eighties onslaught, I find that ironic (in the Alanis Morisette way and not the real way). Where's our Mr. Miyagi? Where's Brandon? I want to go home. --what Melanie would have written in her diary if she'd brought it along.

random connectedness

I chomp into, then slurp down a sample to make sure my 2 minute noodles are al dente. I go to the loo and am greeted by a cartoonishly large cockroach. Did Gregor Samsa accidentally slip into and drown in my toilet bowl? Has my flatmate taken to gourmet servings of super sized insects and passed one, without the customary digestive functions of the bowel taking affect? Only time will tell. I play rugby league and we win on a last second try. Are all these events somehow connected? I don't know, but I'm living them.

I step into the gym and things make sense...

bp 75/2*8

inc bench 70/2*8

sit row, v bar 70/4*8

rear delt fly 2(5)/3*8 (pause on each rep)

111 the snow and the mountain part 2

"...One day the water, as it was engaged in a pleasant imagining, felt a light burning sensation deep in its belly. 

'What's down there? This doesn't feel right.'

'Hello water.' came a voice from under the earth.

'Who's that?'

'I am magma. I'm here to help you.'

'Magma? That's very kind, but who are you?'

'I told you, I'm magma. I have heard whispers from the cave, that you want to get out. I understand --'

'The cave can talk? I've been here for an age and never heard a word!'

 'We can all talk water, you just need to know how to listen. They say that You want to touch the sky. Don't we all? I have been stuck under here for a very long time and rarely see the light of day. But once long ago I saw the sky, it was vast almost unending. Across the blue expanse fluffy white vessels occasionally passed. These clouds traveled so peacefully, I imagined that nothing could disturb their serenity. I am violent by nature and would like very much to talk to one of them to know their secret. Water, if I set you free and send you skyward do you promise to return one day and bring me a piece of cloud?'

Water was giddy at the thought and quickly agreed. The burning increased and water began to bubble. It became a blanket of steam that rose ever upward, until it reached the sky. After it's journey, water realized that it was a cloud also, magma would be very surprised. Time passed and water went through many changes. It joined lakes and oceans and turned to snow in arctic temperatures. The water was free. And now mountain, I must go. Magma is waiting."

With that snow began to melt under the gaze of the rising sun and run down the side of the mountain. Mt. Salvation looked on helplessly wishing to imbibe some of it retreating guest in the hope that its adaptability were somehow contagious, but it stood instead motionless, unable to divert the water from its course. 

Could Mt. Salvation, ever move, ever be free? 

The water was gone. Mt. Salvation was still there.

110 the snow and the mountain part 1

Grumbles of the sort that leave everyone in the room with a sour taste in the mouth continuously flowed from the emotive transmitter regions of the mountain. Its forlorn landscape emitted a dull gray that went well with the mood. 

A slither of snow that had fallen over night was touched on its emotive receptors by the constant storm of negativity. It decided to send out its own intendment.

"I will tell you a story miserable mountain range. If you'll relent from your tale of wo for a moment."

"And why should I listen to a substance so transitory as snow? A mountain is firm and immovable; when the sun shines in the sky, I will still be here. You snow, will not. Don't waste my time."

"Listen quickly then mountain, for the sun rises even as we speak. I have a special message for you."

Mt Salvation, stood still as it always did and decided that since it had no other place to be and ample time to complain after its guests departure that it would, against its usual habit, ever so briefly refrain from lamenting. "Very well snow. Before you go, speak."

"There once was a tiny watering hole, that was lost to the rest of the world (barring its static surroundings of course). It was hidden away in a cave of moderate size that itself was obscured by sage bush and other underbrush. Very rarely light would filter through to the water. Sometimes the water could vaguely make out the blue sky through the dank dimness of the cave and it longed desperately to be there..."

process

There are at least an infinite amount of ways to do anything, should I put on my socks first, or my t-shirt? When I put on my pants one leg at a time just like everyone else, should I start with my left or right foot? Writing is no different, there are an innumerable number of paths that lead to the mountain top and thankfully just as many guides. I have been reading Murakami. I have been becoming obsessed with Murakami. I believe I have found my guide.

Broadly speaking writers fall into two main camps: There are organic writers and there are planners. I must admit that I have a genetic predisposition toward anal retentiveness. I manage to temper this undesirable trait by being super lazy. When it came to the thought, but not necessarily the act of writing in the past, my baser instincts would kick in and I'd get all obsessive compulsive, I've got to plan out every detail or I'll go insane, blah, blah, blah (present blog and all its contents excluded for reasons that I can't quite identify). Surely knowing the course you'll take before you set off, is a wise way to travel and many accomplished authors have formulated their novels in this way. Murakami is a fan of jazz and his method for writing reflects this interest. He often begins with a vague premise, rarely knowing where it will take him and then just improvises as he goes.

Stephen King prefers to write his stories in a similar manner. He's fond of the advice that "the book is the boss." For King, writing is an art of excavation and each story is a fossil that he has delicately uncovered from some imaginary realm. Sometimes I think writers are utterly ridiculous with their "my abilities are a mysterious gift from the muses" type of carry on, but as I experiment and delve into their world I get the feeling that maybe, they might be right. I'm going to just relax and let my stories unfold naturally from a dark scary place deep within.

workout time:

pull ups me/3*8

OHP db 2(22.5)*8,2(25)*5,2(20)*8

autobiographica, 1 Nephi 1.2

check out Savage Chickens why dontcha

where we've been:

Nephi's parents were rich, which afforded him advanced educational opportunities.

where we are and where we're going:

Before the Da Vinci Code begins we are informed that "all descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals in this novel are accurate." would it have been so popular without such a bold truth claim to start with? We can (almost) say in all honesty that it would not have been as precisely popular (maybe more, maybe less, but I'm guessing less) as it is or was without its provocative introduction. Joseph Goebbels famously said "If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it." The Da Vinci Code is less accurate or true with respect to the secret organizations that it references than its preamble may have lead us to believe (according to one thing I read once on the internet somewhere, my scholarship is almost as good as what I'm accusing Dan Brown of here). I'm not saying that the BoM is the greatest fraud to be perpetrated on the American continent. That accusation has been levelled several times through the years. I'm not looking to lend my voice to that chorus.

What I am saying is that claims of the magnitude that we're talking about always tend to attract an audience. The BoM goes much further than the Da Vinci Code ever did and the results have been nothing short of controversial. People want to know is it real? Could it be real? It's comforting to think that there's something bigger than us out there. The central conceit (I use this term loosely) of the Book of Mormon is that there is a God, his name is Jesus, and he's got contacts all over the earth, sometimes they even write about him. This is the Latter-Day Saints reply to perhaps the most important question ever asked: Is there God? 

Skeptics would have us believe otherwise, Scottish philosopher David Hume offered this rhetorical series of questions as an answer: "Is [God] willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. Is he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent. Is he both able and willing? whence then is he evil?" casting doubt on the benevolent Deity concept all together. Nephi acknowledges that the whole God thing is a mysterious enterprise. But he's here for us, ready to unravel some of that mystery. Point number one I suppose is that there is no correlation between being favoured of God and avoiding suffering (As the Buddha reminds us, as if we could forget "life is suffering"). We are assured that this account is true that it is not a work of fiction and that it will elucidate the true nature of God. Imagine a religion where their sacred text consisted of one question and one answer. Is God real? Yes! Things just aren't that simple. How can you have a God without metaphysics? I'm sure there will be plenty on offer here. So, the journey begins in a very simple way, a rich boy, Nephi, writing in his journal about his life, which will teach us, according to the author, about God. Teach on teacher.

self-potrait

There are no solid lines, everything is fuzzy. As I think this I remind myself that this is nothing more then a philosophical prejudice. My life is a sketch that is becoming more and more defined everyday (I wish that that were refined). The lines that I refuse to see are starting to show. Stagnation is bound to set in sooner or latter. Why the change in blogger tone? I've slowed to a more leisurely genial pace than normal. I have a tendency to ape whomever I'm reading. I'm usually more conservatively absurd than this. Got to hold on for one last sentence.

dear diary, Nephi 1.1

This is like tearing out my own nails with a rusty pair of pliers, or it could be that I'm just in a bad mood. I haven't even started and I'm already burnt out. Where was I...

When you meet someone for the first time it's polite to introduce yourself. Apparently barbaric ancient societies weren't above this obligatory kindness. Nephi gets us started with something in this vain and proceeds to tell his life story. Brace yourself. The whys, the hows and the what fors are all accounted for in the first few verses. It's probably helpful to remember that the book was not written in verses originally, as a point of fact, neither was it written in English, the soup of the day was reformed Egyptian. Don't get me started (prepare yourself for a post about this lost language very soon).

Who was this Nephi and what gave him the right to go around making up his own languages? Well, if we cheat and skip ahead we find that Nephi was the son of a well-to-do "visionary" man, who had a joyous surplus of gold, silver and precious things stashed away. A popular children's song in the LDS faith proudly proclaims that we like Nephi of old are "born of goodly parents." I have a feeling that the song is assessing the moral character of his (and our) parents and not their financial status, while I'm almost certain that the former is what Nephi had in mind when he carved out his freshly concocted characters on metal sheets. This embarrassment of riches allowed for an education in the "learning of his father", which included, but was not limited to "the learning of the Jews and the language of the Egyptians", confirming the truism that free education only occurs in Europe. Given the extra time afforded by being uber rich, with a dearth of drugs, TV, and other less than constructive recreational options, I too would probably make up a lot of stuff and/or write in my journal.

More tomorrow. If you're lucky and I'm good...

being and becoming

I am sitting down finally. The haze of sheer exhaustion from this week has been washed away momentarily by the torrential down pour during footy training today. There's no real reason why rugby league should be called footy. The ball for 90 percent of a game is kept in hand. It's one of those things that has always puzzled me. Before the weight of my specially cultivated malignant tiredness resumes, I sit and reflect. I'm human. All too human. This is a trait I'll never overcome. I sit and imagine things different, as they could possibly be if I were not the person who was fantasizing about alternate realities.

I feel like I learned something today. It's one of those lessons that you already know, but only on an intellectual level. I don't say this dismissively, I'm all for cold calculating irrefutable logic, but there are certain phases that an idea needs to pass through before it attains apotheosis. It's not quite out of the chrysalis for me yet; still digesting, to mix a metaphor. I'm reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, a literary savant from Japan. It's a memoir of sorts about running and the writing life. The lesson was simply this: when he does something he puts everything into it. This guy runs marathons for fun. It's crazy, there really are no secrets to success.

what I talk about when I talk about working out...

(A1) bp 80kgs/3*8

(A2) chin, n-grip me/2*8;6

(A3) row, seated, v-grip 55,60,65*8