Two sides of the intellectual coin: The artist and the mathematician

•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

You have a tree:

One man analyzes it
the other man experiences it.

The one will pick apart its properties, and see how they can benefit mankind,
the other will recreate it in new ways, which can then be picked apart in its new light with new properties to be picked apart.

The one improves the quality of life
The other makes life more enjoyable and profound

One caters to practicality
The other caters to emotionality and a sense of aesthetic

Awesome how the intellect works and how both kinds (that I mentioned) are integrated and balanced (or not so much balanced) in everyone you know to different degrees (everybody has both, the tip of the scale of the two simply determines what you are capable of thinking of, and every point on that percentile index could be crucially important to our species as a whole.)
Awesome how there is art in maths and maths in art, science in music and music in science (just listen to a resonating rod, wavelengths or the pretty pattens of lithium in water.)

Without logic we would revert to barbaric cultures (No matter how sophisticated they might be, For instance, the romans were at the height of ‘civilization’ when they indulged in cheese orgies and the circus where animals ate people.) and cave in to irrationality, we would lose reason and understanding, our emotions would guide our diplomacy rather than our sensibilities. We would have anarchy.

Without abstract thinking, we would become less than human in our base nature, our inability to dream and have ideals or moral principles beyond what logic dictates

Without logic we would become animals, without our creative emotionality we would become machines.

For a small closing example: Logic tells you that wanton murder doesn’t make sense, and would probably end badly for you.
Compassion tells you it’s wrong.



•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

You’re finally on your way home, it’s been a long day… “It’s been a long two months.” You think as you pull to a stop.
The red glare from the traffic light refuses you passage toward your bed. The night makes no move or noise and you’re stuck in never-ending limbo.

The red grudgingly releases its grip to green.

You make your sharp left autonomously while your mind wallows deeper into its thoughtful stupor: “Like a Rubik’s cube these girls: They’re only amusing until you figure them out, until you know how to solve their problems and make them neat on all sides. Then they become monotone colours, conventional patterns…
Boring. The irony is that after all the time you’ve invested in ‘fixing’ them, it scrambles them back into that beautiful brokenness when you leave… Cyclical.”

The streetlights pass you by, whispering a harsh glare on the haunted trees, no illumination, only a different metallic sheen to the cold leaves. These sinister lights silhouette human forms that might at one time have been innocent, these specters that now stalk the shadows in search of mischief, perhaps in search of another, hated, silhouette.

Your rear view mirror screams at you: “They’ve found their victim!”
Or perhaps the streetlights are simply puppeteering the shadows, dancing on the graves of your morality and sympathy that once might have compelled you to turn back and help.

Your subconscious finds your driveway as your hand switches gears without your knowledge. You’ve come to a halt, the seat’s headrest feels soft against the back of your head…
No, you have to get out.
You lurch toward your bed, your final cigarette lights your way down the styxian corridor, to the comfortless routine of your bed and your mind shuts down before your head hits the pillow. You enter a dreamless oblivion. There is no joy in this.
there is no joy, there is just this nothingness. Nothing exists any more.
No thought
Just nothing.
No feeling.
Just nothing.
No colour

But as you sink deeper into the Hades of the nightmares you won’t remember a society rages around you.: alien, frantic, fearful and aggressive.
It chitters with life and death, every moment is its Ragnarök. Heartbeats jerk with all the spasmodic irregularity or Rigor Mortis.

This ecosystem never sleeps, it has never known the oblivion that you crave, it only knows the endless now, the perpetual ‘mate,kill, feed, repeat.’ excuse for life.
You will never understand the fear here. The raw instinct dictating what the absence of conscious thought cannot. It does not wait for you and you barely impact on it
But with your slumbering flesh exposed there is a new element introduced into it. A new facet of this society opens her eyes with ravening hunger in her gut. The parasite that would seek your life’s essence.

Known to you as a mosquito, she has never thought of anything resembling a name for itself, she has never touched the idea of identity, nothing has ever mattered to her except filling her everlasting hunger with the crimson of your blood.
She approaches your skin, wary of any movement, any sign of danger that might delay her quest, the males are not vampiric, but this female has no purpose other than the sweet nectar that fills your veins. Her whine is a siren’s song that disturbs your already troubled sleep, and as you sigh your unconscious irritation she drops down, silencing the damning buzz of her passage. Pheremones trailing from your skin bind her to her already singular purpose, and when she finds purchase on it her mind fills with the numbing ecstasy of the most potent heroin you will never experience. In that moment danger is ignored. Peristaltic motion ripples through her as her belly grows ever more red, and then she leaves like a silent lover in the night, the whine of her wings invigorated with newfound energy. Drunk with her prize she buzzes past the droning masses that gather blindly to the light that you’ve forgotten to murder this night. The masses of infinitesimal motes are overshadowed by the lumbering hulks of moths, all questing for the same lie. The light holds all the mystery that they can not begin to grasp that they do not grasp. To their eyes there exists nothing but the magnet, the heaven that can never be reached, they are on a cruel pilgrimage that simply can not be completed, and ever taunts them with a destination that will remain mostly beyond their grasp, and that will be the final destination of those who manage to enter its heat. They pursue this Utopian Canaan with all the fervor that you quest for your own purpose, all the while the background whine of drunken flight slips farther from their apathetic knowledge.

The delight of her victory has passed and the cold withdrawal has already begun to sink into her. Everything turns acrid again and the stinging pain of hunger will soon jab her again. Moonlight reflects off of the half-opened window that she will escape under to nest, brood and wait for the following night. This moonlight casts a thin glint to her consciousness a moment before her terror is finally realized, one wing is not moving anymore, and the other sends her into a spiral around the trap set by the Octavian overfiend of the night. All the energy she has gathered will be expended in a quest for escape. She will never know this escape. The many eyes of the Arachnid are upon her, they never close as they make their slow descent to where she lay the helpless victim to their trickery. Harmless ‘Daddy Long Leg’ to you, and ‘Shelob’ to all that can not escape his poison. His trek takes him past the cocoons of victims that still scream for life even as their innards are dissolving into his nourishment. These cocoons might have found bliss in the lie of the light, but an all-encompassing darkness seals their fate with silken bonds of adamantine. He stalks through his domain to the parasite that never deserved life, your life essence still pumping through her veins as her confusion accentuates her absolute terror. Her fate has been sealed. There is no escape, but she lacks the knowledge of the forewarned and she will struggle in ignorant futility until every organ in her body fails her in their liquid states. The pondering spider dexterously manouvers his way to his new prey, and he begins spinning her coffin. He takes his time, for he is the great manipulator from whose bondage you may never be saved once your wings are clipped by the false promise of free passage his invisible web croons to you. He finishes the rotation and the mosquito is sent into her death knell with his fatal kiss. The breath of death spreads through her as her pseudo-mind is wracked with the helplessness of her situation. She never deserved life, yet she never deserved this agony. She didn’t ask for her link in the food chain, but the spider is also merely fulfilling his role, and to save the fly would let the spider die. The mosquito is caught in this fatal rhyme.
With his task finished the spider waits for a new victim, a new prospect to be delved into.

The octavian overfiend waits once more.

Peristaltic motion ripples through the most helpless of all the lowly creatures in the domain. The earthworm does not know how it came to be in the xenos earth that can not be burrowed into, but it quests blindly for rich soil which it might burrow into and live off to the aid of all the hermaphroditic plant brother-sisters of the insects. The terrain grants it no more leniency than the mosquito whose screams cannot be heard, and its tremor sense tells it only that something is near. It would flee if it knew which way safety and solitude was, but this luxurious necessity is denied to it, and it only registers the pain as a clamp digs into one of its myriad segments. In that instant all hope that might have been graced upon it is lost, for it is now within the military jurisdiction of the most indomitable of all the denizens of the night.

The first ant has left its pheremone trail up to the cache of energy that slithered awkwardly through its territory, the worm was weak and will therefore be absorbed into the more deserving colony of the strong. More and more ants gather upon the trail of smell that has been left as their guide marker, they march in perfect unison upon their target, they might be the only ones that feel no fear, for they are more than anything that may assault them, they are all singular cells in an organism much larger than any foe that stands before it, they cannot be conquered for their unity marks them above all that would seek to contest their might. More and more of them execute their singular purpose of shredding pieces off of the worm to be taken to their queen. The worm’s membranous skin vomits forth its innards as it struggles with the same hopelessness of any cocooned creature, this worm will suffer one of the slowest deaths that can be bestowed upon it. It does not understand what is happening and it cannot attribute its functions ceasing to the tremors and shards of pain that shoot through it. Its punishment for being benign is the hot spike of torture that will be its final hours. The ant hive mind does not allow itself rest after this minor victory, it expends the minimum resources possible to gain the energy that can be gained. It extends its eyes upon threats and opportunities alike while its immobile heart spews gooey birth to more and more cells that will do its bidding. There is no end to its hunger for there is no end to its hostile potential. The only thing that can stop the avalanche of its progress is its own success: When it gathers, hunts and devours all the resources it has available. The omnivorous omnimind seeks more energy sources to fuel its Mongolian expansion, it will soon find an injection of this exact necessity.

Shelob crawls up the wall, seeking out new corners in which to stake his claim, eyes constantly browsing for anything that moves while mandibles salivate uncontrollably, its insanity is matched only by its maddening hunger. He makes his arrogant ascent without seeing the consummate hunter. Perhaps this creature is to be feared more than any other in your room, it has been called god by the tribes of the south and it inspires wonder and fear alike in humans. It neither knows nor cares about its titles or reputation, all it cares about it is the hulking octavius that narrows down to the uncharted geography of the roof. She has just finished mating, and as a consequence she has just finished eating her mates head, letting it drop down to the sand specks below that will swarm over it to add it to the arsenal of the hive mind. She sits upon the light, eyes following Shelob without moving. Soon the spider will be within her grasp, and she will feast upon him.
Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. NOW! She explodes into spring-loaded action, trapezoid mouth flailing downwards to consume what her talons decapitate. She hacks of two of Shelob’s legs before he is aware of her.
Shelob knows her kind and turns around in a split second, locking his many eyes with her two. Both mandibles flail outward spewing pearly saliva in a fury that might have been a shriek. The Praying mantis is upon him and hacks off another leg, letting gravity do its work upon it as she bites a piece from his thorax. The murderous insanity between them can not be matched with the constraints of human emotion, it is finished as a single talon punctures through the spider, impaling him in the wall while he simultaneously injected his venom into her eye.
She begins feasting on her final meal as inertia sets in. She is dying even as she is consuming, and they both fall downwards, the clash of the titans is over and there is no winner. There is never a winner, only more of them acting upon their routine insanity. The two fall downwards and land on your bed, where your head rests. Entwined with each other like lovers.

They will both be consumed by the hive.

A bleak sun will rise.
You’ll wake up.
You’ll smear the sleepy rocks from your eyes to crumble over your face.
Your legs will slide from the bed like lifeless worms.
You’ll get up into another dreary day,
and never will you know what has transpired here tonight.

Black holes in our lives

•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

What is a number? A number is simply a measurement. A number is our way of boxing a concept into something ordered, something that packs away neatly into our minds.
But numbers are just symbols. They can never relay the real magnitude of what they simplify for us. For in reality, it’s simply ink on paper.

When we say that Alpha Centauri is  244’000 x further away from us than the sun is. We aren’t capable of really grasping what that means. Nevermind what it implies about the size of the universe when we say it’s the NEAREST star to us after the sun.

On paper space is just numbers and relations. When we see it in pictures, it takes our breath away. To the astronaut looking at it first hand…
To him it says: ‘Here I am. This is my glory. I take your breath away as your words could never cage me. You experience me as I am right now, and no second-hand experience could ever compare. Not. Even. Your. Memories. So spare your words, explanations, depictions and representations, they will simply be swallowed by my vastness.’

So there is no way to truly convey the enormity of our planet as seen from space, nevermind our solar system, nevermind the milky way. And yet these are diminutive compared to other celestial bodies. Can we even grasp the extent to which we don’t grasp that?
And inside of these nebulae, quasars, supernovas, etc is nothing but raging chaos from massive heat and titanic energy. Yet when we view it from a distance it is the most beautiful thing the eye could witness. At least to me.

Now take black holes. They’re basically the skeletal remains of dead stars.
Incredibly dense mass that generates incredible (once again adjectives cannot convey the reality) gravity. This gravity could crush anything. Literally.
A large enough black hole could lay waste to absolutely anything.

For example: if a black hole had the mass of the earth. It would be the size of a small coin. That’s how dense a black hole is. And gravity is determined by mass.
In effect, the gravitational pull of a black hole absorbs even light and time. Since the absorb light, the only way to even see one is by observing the x-rays surrounding it and the pattern of their disappearance.

Einstein stated that to put the pull of one on a graph would result in a ‘sheer cliff’ graph, where the curve runs parallel with the y-axis. Nothing could escape it.

Yet it’s so small compared to other bodies in the universe.

‘Super-large’ black holes are said to lie at the center of every galaxy, even ours, and right now our galaxy is rotating around its one.
Yet this ‘void’ is so small in comparison.

This brings me to my point: In our lives we live subjectively. We live in the chaos. We can’t see that soul wrenching beauty of ordered symmetry and perfect harmony IN the chaos that something else can. Everything seems like it’s going to hell, yet to the outside omniscient observer that knows how your supernova will pan out. It all fits in perfectly according to plan for something beautiful and intensely powerful.

And we find our own black holes: tiny things that our entire universe can revolve around. A relationship, studying, financial matters, family issues, anything. Yes some black holes are bigger than others. The death of a loved one cannot be ignored.

But we live our lives around these situations and problems (or just things we think are important right now.) until all of the incredible potential of the beauty of our lives revolve around just one thing. Something that might be big, but is in fact small when compared to what it’s sucking away from you.

Our hard times define the people we become. But they should help us gather wisdom as the wounds heal. Not fester until a limb needs amputation.

Our lives all have a grand purpose beyond what we can describe or understand. It’s in the stars;-)

I don’t know either

•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It never really left.
It’s still there like a sore on the inside of my mouth that would heal if my tongue could stop drilling into it.
It’s like a premonition, of that time to come,
I know exactly how it’ll be because it’ll be exactly like it always ends up.
With me a bit colder
With us a bit older.

The accident brought us together
Paving a crooked dirt road for us, making it easy, speedy (hasty) to touch the tips of our minds and connect to one another.

We realized that we might not have matched but at least we found some comfort in each other. In the evernow of our shared experiences.

Now we’re barbed into one another with aortal hooks.
Our hearts bleed for- and because of one another.

Your eyes let go of the secrets your lips try to wall off.
Well open sesame baby, it was never hard to pluck the words from your irises, do you resent me for that?

The question remains: ‘where do we go from here?’

I don’t know, but we’ll limp along the asphalt hand in hand in heart, hitchhiking along with the others.

the civil serpent

•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Ah yes.

Now we observe nature’s most obnoxious of beasts, note the complete lack of perceptual awareness, along with the absence of ambition so characteristic of their kind.
We are of course observing the civil servant.
Employed by the government to help you do your administration speedily and effectively. They can be found in driver’s license offices, ID enquiries, and even in all matters concerning your taxes. They perform their function remarkably well when still in their larval state, or ‘intern’ as jargon demands. However, once they transcend this dreary form they throw off the shackles of ‘duty’ punctuality and precision. Metamorphasizing into beautiful uselessness. Their memory of due process fades prior to the disappearance of their ‘helpful’ nature. Feeding hours become longer, while attention spans become shorter. It is unwise to tempt their anger with trivial nothings such as your questions or enquiries. Their fearsome wrath will send you spiraling down queue after queue to find multiple forms (which could really have been all in one couldn’t it?)
Do not question the civil servants methods.
The civil servant works in mysterious ways and are not for mere men to ponder on.

Civil servants are hermaphroditic in nature and can mate with any civil servant, or human, creating a hybrid civil-servant-human also known by the combination name of ‘civilian’
Civil servant offspring are prone to disfiguration around the ribcage and ankles.
A sad fate awaits these children, as their parents have lost the ability to recognize them by scent, and treat them as they treat the rest of us.

If you have made the all too common mistake of expecting them to do their jobs since they are paid for it, and (unthinkable) do it while treating you like a human being, you need to follow these steps to the letter.

1) do not make eye contact: the civil servant is highly territorial and might call it’s herd upon you.

2) flare your nostrils. This is tried and trusted, though the reasons for its importance was lost when the Alexandrian library burnt down millenia ago.

3) present an offering to show your submission, ideally money works, but half-pies and coke have been known to earn their favour.

4)engage them in a courtship ritual: also known as the cha-cha. Their dulled senses are confused by the jagged movements, and their minds are lulled.

Good, you have now subdued the civil servant. Unfortunately he/she is now asleep, and you will have to conduct your business at a later date.

cynical about cynics

•May 16, 2010 • 1 Comment

It’s easy to always be the skeptic, the accuser, the belittler of your intellectual lessers.

You see the flaws in everyone’s faiths, paradigms, ideas, and humanity in general.

Yet for all your cynical wit, and for all your enlightened views on the idiocy of people. You’re empty.

You will never have the courage to stand for anything. You’re too afraid of what people like yourself might say.

If you could only let go of your fear and your ego, you could make a real difference in peoples lives.

You could be so much more than this.

I reckon we have two types of cynics.

1) the kind who are cynical because they’ve been proven wrong once too many times when they had faith in humanity: these people are idealistic at heart, and hate to see people squander their amazing potential, these run the danger of becoming passive.


2) The cynics that WANT people to be idiots so they can be justified in actively attacking religion, mindsets, races, a gender, whatever. They take glee in people’s ignorance. They enjoy the ego trip of proving their superiority and publically humiliating someone else.

Still, I rate either one could make a proper contribution to society if we try to believe that society deserves an individual’s effort in improving it.


•May 16, 2010 • Leave a Comment

A whole adventure. Here in the blackened nook where sunlight once died. Like all holy light, it is immortal, and is now patiently awaiting its resurrection.
You loathe its arrival. You don’t hate the light… Much.
You hate that it heralds the end of the eve. The nocturnal fallacy in which your biology sobs to hear a lullaby, but your mind ponderously plods through the metaphysical expanse that is your imagination.

Dawn proudly announces that the bastion of power has been relinquished by the light-thieving moon. Luna is dead. It’s time to get up, even though you still haven’t fallen asleep.

You’re past the conversations with yourself. Some of the words skip your mouth by now, nestling in the cradle of your earlobe without any lips to form them.

Are you really hearing audible voices? You’re not sure. What you do know is that your clock has a gag in its mouth, or rather the battery is no longer a gag in its socket… You laugh at your wit. Wait… Did you really remove the battery or was that a dream and you’ve become deaf to the constant rhythmic reminder of the time of rest slipping away.
You listen… You hear a faint tick, but you also hear that fictive child’s voice saying ‘no.’

it is fictive…

So you don’t know if the clocks timing the sand out of the nights hour glass.

You half-fill your bed, the other half is empty. You have no uncomfortably warm lover whose heat you can shy away from in a cascade of blankets. No the night is your lover, it does not mind your absence, it does not respond to your monologue, it shows no sign that it knows of your late-night plight.

The night’s a bad lover.
Again you laugh at your own wit.
‘I’m insane’ you think.
‘I don’t care you respond with either your mind or your mouth.
You honestly don’t know if either statements are true.

You’re thirsty. You’re pretty sure you just heard something metallic, keys, you’re still thirsty.
The sounds are just phantasmal ambience.

Not the one in the bathroom though. Your lip trembles under a thin stream of faucet water.

That’s a real sound. The one a clock makes. You raise your head to see the small ticking trinket bringing the reality of acoustics back to you.
The one in your room is off.

Your head snaps sideways: “the hell was that?” Again the car tries to start its engine. Damit… Workday is starting…

Soon the light will chase away the dark, so you close your lids again, inviting the dark to take refuge behind them like a fugitive would hide from the hated authorities.

The glare from your screen has become painful anyway.