I’ve been thinking about thinking and maybe breathing some life back into the old dead blog.

Do you ever think that Earth might be the only place in the whole universe where anything thinks? We are each a life, rising up like a wave, rolling, crashing, receding. Enlightenment comes when the wave realizes it is ocean, yes? So here we are, made of stars and driving our meatcycles around on a single planet orbiting one star among billions in a galaxy among trillions of galaxies. And for all we know, this is the only place where all that big banging has given rise to consciousness, where the universe has the opportunity to consider itself.

Of course, it’s not easy. A single finite and incredibly fragile life has to be very advanced – intelligent – to know how stupid it is. And in order to get good at doing anything, that life has to nearly perfect a skill set just barely surpassing the skills to know it’s not good at that thing yet. (I’ll let you know when I think I’m any good at writing.) It’s infinitely easier to be terrible at that thing and think you’re great at it. Which explains at least half the human population and the entirety of its propaganda, laws, and the domestication of humans.

Anyway, I have poems, a few. Later, but soon. Also if you see this post, could you click Like, even if you don’t? Just so I’ll know somebody else is out there. Otherwise, how do I know I’m not the only wave on the beach, just the same wave rolling over and over? … It’s the phenomenology of Sisyphus, fam.

In the meantime, today is the birthday of William Faulkner, my all-time favorite writer. Yes, maybe even considering Gabriel Garcia Marquez. OK, maybe they’re tied. And also Cormac McCarthy.

“It is just dawn, daylight: that gray and lonely suspension filled with the peaceful and tentative waking of birds. The air, inbreathed, is like spring water. He breathes deep and slow, feeling with each breath himself diffuse in the natural grayness, becoming one with loneliness and quiet that has never known fury or despair. “That was all I wanted,” he thinks, in a quiet and slow amazement. “That was all, for thirty years. That didn’t seem to be a whole lot to ask in thirty years.”

― William Faulkner, Light in August

“When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o’ clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather’s and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it’s rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father’s. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
― William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury