Time wasted on inane things with little to no relevance to me is arguably one of the most irritating things to suffer through.
Sitting in a meeting, watching slide shows and less tech-savvy presentations on things that have little to no impact on my existence, is not how I would be choosing to spend this time. I would like to claim that I would be doing something productive if I were not occupied with this nonsense, but I would more than likely be sleeping…which could be considered to be productive.
If it wasn’t sleep, I would like to suggest that I might be exercising, which I was doing only about an hour or so before the start of this meeting.
Chances are fair to middling that I would instead be playing more Mass Effect 3. I have spent the last few days immersed in the universe of Mass Effect…finishing my way through the latter half of Mass Effect 2 in preparation for the release of the next installment, and continuing almost seamless from one game into the next.
I need a life, perhaps.
Month: March 2012
Salvaged Scraps of Poetry (Originally posted to MySpace)
Lapping up the taste of your secret, hidden spring.
Drinking down each drop from you until I cannot breathe.
Suffocating zealously, addicted and enthralled.
On my knees before you, I’m compelled to crawl.
Devoted adoration at the altar of your flesh.
Immerse myself in worship, praying to be blessed.
Shower down upon me the sweet rain of your desire.
Thirsting and enrapt, my tongue whispers prayers into your pyre.
Beyond my narrowed focus, the world begins to fade.
Everything beyond your presence simply drifts away.
Melting down inside of you, my old form is consumed.
Embracing what you do to me, I feel that I’m made new.
I sacrifice my flesh to you, your hunger like my own.
Intoxicated with your lust, you turn my flesh to stone.
A statue in your honor, I praise you with each breath.
Each moment spent without you is a little piece of death.
The temperature increases..
From the fire that is shared between us.
Romance or pyromania…
Arson in mind, we kindle the blaze
Feeding the flames with passion…
And begging to be consumed.
The body’s maximum threshold exceeded…
From the fever that we are feeding.
Bleeding waves of heat into space…
While still the fire keeps on spreading.
The sheets singe beneath our fevered flesh…
Sweat boils away as steam.
The flames inside keep growing…
Igniting a conflagration around us.
The swelter of our passion sets the world aflame…
Melting it down and purging impurity.
Around us, and unnoticed…
The world burns with our desire.
Breathing hot ash of the sacrifice into our lungs…
Our lust sets burning a newborn sun.
Consume…
Subsume…
Devour…pause…resume.
Delete…
Abate…
Expel…suspend…negate.
Disorder increased, below the level of awareness.
Substrate steadily dissolving; I collapse, I regress.
No warnings, no preparation, no indication.
Structure corrupted, without chance of reparation
Paradigm breaks down, fragments without fundamental use.
Within instability, no means by which uncertainty can be reduced.
Self-propelled, the process sustains itself at my expense.
Reverse engineering accelerates, beyond reach of my defense.
Manifested nightmares offer nothing less than agony.
Unknown parameters dictate the future that is left to me.
Alternative solutions lack definition, lack sufficient probability.
Confidence limits exceeded, I have exhausted my capabilities.
Aggressive dissolution of my substance and internal structure.
Hardwired methods of regulation fail, as barriers are ruptured.
Potential resolution declines, while connectivity meets degradation.
Imminent shut down looms ahead, as I embrace cessation.
Hidden patterns realized, through careful exploitation.
Sum evaluation process, expressing data set extrapolation.
Circuit formation design, from applied biological information.
Delineated, simplified, flesh rendered into calculation.
Former limitations accepted as static, zero sum designation.
Reduction, compression, components visualized as nothing more than variable designations.
Definition, proportion, random actions becoming predicted outcomes of our calculations.
Social structures develop into comprehensive equations for analysis.
Behavioral mathematics becoming second nature in our progress.
We have come to understand that you are elements of definite value.
Actions, choices, instincts; lose mystery as the new science comes to grasp you.
Discovered patterns broken down, for further study and correlation.
Engineered approach, designed for optimum degree of manipulation.
Organized, controlled response to stimuli, without concern for outcome or success.
Competition of independent strategy, testing theory, extraction of hypothesis.
Further study dedicated to the process, calculating for divergent aberrations.
Compensation for anomalous factors introduced into the final set equations.
Structured application, input step derivatives for maximum dispersion rate.
Underneath the words and slogans, veiled control line triggers activate.
Open source programmed components, guidance insures terminal settings achieved.
No discrepancy in process, proven laws propel stopgap relations imprinted for machines.
Without Substance, and Void (Originally posted July of 2006 on MySpace and salvaged for posterity)
And here I am, lost within the gap meant to hold the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, the picture left incomplete. The eyes automatically drawn to this glaring flaw in an otherwise gorgeous image. Like everything, cracks in the veneer expose a fragile and decayed substrate, flimsy enough to collapse at any moment, the whole picturesque grandeur transformed in the blink of an eye to indecipherable ruins. Perhaps there is a faint suggestion of the prior beauty, but more than likely not a trace remains to hint at what once was and should have been, the shape that was intended. How can everything be so brittle? All those lovely elements of life so dependent upon the termite riddled fabrications underpinning the faulty surface, just biding its time before imminent collapse ensues. It seems altogether too pointless, striving so hard to keep from slipping between the cracks. It can’t be any safer up above than here below, with the discarded fragments shaken free to plummet down upon my mercifully unsheltered head, waiting for that chance impact to finally arrive. I slip furtively from pillar to pillar, not actively inviting the disaster that I openly accept and hope to embrace. I witness the crumbling decay as the sky is falling. Scavenging through debris, eyes alert to any potentially useful discoveries amongst the overwhelming heaps of filth and wreckage. To sift is the dream of many, those lacking purpose grind themselves away at the rough edges of immovable objects, devoured between stationary gears, the forward momentum solely a product of a will bent towards the prize place upon the dinner table. Choice meal for a choice selection of the most tasteful and elegant of consumers. Nothing is mass-produced down here, all is hand crafted with loving care by the unloved and forgotten. Unnoticed and blissfully unaware of the ridiculous station they hold in life. All is a junkyard in progress, steadily in process of accumulation of degradation.
Metropolis (Written June of 2006 and originally posted on my soon-to-be-deleted MySpace blog)
A blank stare greets me and quickly hurries away to be reabsorbed into the mass of huddled flesh in steady transit to…somewhere. Feeling ignored and out of place, I step back from the blistered sidewalk, its meat churned beneath the careless feet of the amorphous pedestrian, a beast not known for its quality hide nor exquisite flavor, and thus left to its own devices as it wanders through the city on its countless shifting appendages, posing no threat but to those unwary enough to remain in its path as it plods along, its vague outline distorted by strobing lights of shopping facilities all around it, there to blind and distract, urging susceptible victims into gaping maws, like some displaced deep sea fish. Minimal effort producing maximum effective consumption rate, only rarely sliding their bulky forms to more suitable locations.
Though apparently stable on the surface, there is nothing so distant from the truth. Everything transient and shifting, a tapestry woven of multivariate ambulatory forms, shaping and reshaping itself according to some seemingly random, perhaps hidden design…the organizing principle as yet undiscovered.
Haunting images flicker perpetually in my periphery, enticing me to submit myself as sacrificial victim to one ever-hungry storefront or another, the terrible, all consuming predators of this decadent wasteland. I watch as prey is swallowed whole, allowed to devour the creatures’ magnificent innards, only to be spit back out again, feeling contented and fulfilled with recent events while oblivious to just how its own substance had been eaten away by the subtle inner-workings of the vicious predator within which it was provided succor while being suckered.
Too sly to fall victim myself, I slip in and out of these endless streams of sustenance flowing into and out of the ornamentally gilded yet threatening jaws surrounding me on all sides.
Not knowing where I’m headed, I wander aimlessly through churning waves of bottom feeders, noticing that I have become yet another appendage of the great amorphous pedestrian only after I’ve been swept away along its endless shuffling mass in its endless search for…whatever.
Asymptomatic Carrier
I had a friend ask me tonight what I think of nihilism as a philosophical movement and it got me to thinking that I probably do come across as being quite nihilistic a good deal of the time, between never taking much (including myself) too terribly seriously and my overall pessimistic outlook on life.
Regarding nihilism, I admit that I do have a bent toward that philosophy by default…having spent a bit of time studying physics and cosmology, I know how small and insignificant we are…in addition to that, I recognize how generations from now my own descendants won’t even know my name unless they happen to be researching genealogy or something of the sort.
The fault that I find with nihilism is the basic assumption that nothing matters because of those simple things being true.
Sure, unless the human race experiences diaspora on a massive scale, we have no more than two to four billion years (depending on our level of technology and capacity to adapt to an increasingly harsh environment) before we, and all that we have built (but for a couple of deep space probes), will cease to exist…but we should all be doing, within our lifetimes, whatever we can to leave our mark on the world to come…to be remembered…to live on after biology and science have failed to keep us going.
However, even if we spread ourselves out through the solar system or this particular quadrant of the galaxy…or even the galaxy as a whole…there will come a point, another 100 trillion or so years from now, when no new stars are being born, and the universe will begin to dim and all will be on the path to emptiness and void.
But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be striving to be present for as much of that as we can be…as a species, as individuals…in whatever capacity we possibly can manage.
I can laugh about how nothing matters…how everything, in the end, will have ceased to make any difference…and I mean it too…but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to sustain my own life as long as possible, to make some difference, to leave behind memories and monuments to my successes and even my failures in life…to resonate as far down the road as I can.
Knowing that something is futile doesn’t mean that the battle shouldn’t be fought. I always was a sucker for the tragic hero archetype…willfully sacrificing themselves instead of running away when there was a foregone conclusion to the struggle.
I believe in no afterlife…any mumbo-jumbo, hoodoo nonsense about how we live on in some personal, individual sense after the cessation of corporeal functionality is categorically ludicrous to me.
Even if I did, I would consider it to be of paramount importance to do what I could now, while drawing breath and capable of interacting with the world around us, rather than sit around waiting for some illusory post script to life.
It’s that very desire to make a difference, the self-important need to leave a mark on future history that causes me to do a lot of what I do with my time…the reason I write, the reason I once recorded music, the reason I do my best to have a pronounced influence on my children and how they see the world. These are my tethers into the world beyond my limited existence, my way of surviving beyond death. It may be selfish, I won’t even disagree…but it sure as shit isn’t nihilistic.
Domus Necrophagous 