Where Did They Take My Sammidge?
Ah, the wonders of the double-post: an act so vile, it takes three days for the internet highway (or whatever) to recover from the shakiness.
Sort of like drinking too much caffeine.
At any rate, this place is proving very therapeutic to me. It is like having someone to talk to when there is no one around. This way, when everyone is off doin' their own thing (being the popular crowd, entertaining guests, avoiding lonely houses) I can talk to myself (and I do offer good conversation, if I do say so myself). So here goes, a conversation with myself:
Hey.
Hello.
How are you this fine day?
Well, I'm not doing too badly. I read a chapter in biology... okay okay, I see you looking at me in disbelief, I read three quarters of a chapter and then took a break to come on here.. but I do plan on finishing the chapter up and possibly reading one or two more before I go to sleep. I wish that I understood more of what I was reading, which retention was higher, but I can work on it, must work harder at such things if one wants to attain any significant levels, right?
I suppose.
Hmm.. okay, this part of the blog is beginning to creep even me out, so I think I will switch into "one shannon" mode.
Needless to say, I'm in search of that transcendental signified which I seem to have misplaced. My centre has been rearranged a bit, and I guess I'm sort of doing housework trying to make the place look tidy again. This probably only makes sense to me, but for any of you readers (all two of you) get confused, just let me know and I will explain the terms. Would rather do it in person than here, here is where I ramble :p . But yeah, my transcendental signified has become misplaced, and I hope it isn't because I've "matured" out of one... that would just reak havoc on my ambition, and I am very close with my ambition (one who has as many wishes as I do needs work very hard and have a lot of ambition in order to attain at least a glimpse of what I desire).
I have been thinking of transcription and translation a lot lately... thinking about the subtle differences which make language as reaching as it can be. Connotation and denotation can sometimes blur the power of language, making it sort of... transient and instable. I guess one needs wrap one's mind around the problem that George Orwell brought up in 1984... do we splice and dice language, make it more uniform and complete, but inevitably limiting its vocabulary and thus its freedom? Such a system would inevitably work to universalize language... a noun that would always be its only noun, a signifier that would always link directly (and without sidetrack) to its signified...
The artist would beg to differ... the loss of freedom, of expression with flamboyant and elaborate language... the canvas would be dry and lifeless, or so they might say. Yet I was never one to overuse language... there are those who use words simply in order to hear their sounds, those postmodernist morons who attend poetry readings in languages they don't understand because the words sound "pretty." I spit on those who think art and "prettiness" are the same thing... okay so I don't spit on them, but they are ignoring the pain and torture that is required for art; prettiness is something transient and indefinable, something which cannot really be touched except with flippancy and an overly-annoying lack of seriousness. Beauty and "prettiness" are not the same thing. A rose is pretty, its frailty, its link to nature and to growth and decay, its delicate inconsistency, are the things which make it beautiful.
Beauty is that which can give purpose... those details that can make a person fully want to live, if only to overcome the terrible beauty of this world (for terrible beauty, think of the beauty of anguish and pain.. necessary evils, beautiful only in that they can be survived). Yet, where comes this beauty? Is it in the air, particles, which we breathe in? Is it in our genes, a sort of... outline for our own particular path, our own particular fate?
Yet again, the artists scream their outrage. "How can we have something as limiting as fate?" they cry. "Surely we are driving blind, each path we chose is but our own." Always, the artist strives to be his own destiny...
One must ponder such things carefully.
Now, where is my sammidge?
Sort of like drinking too much caffeine.
At any rate, this place is proving very therapeutic to me. It is like having someone to talk to when there is no one around. This way, when everyone is off doin' their own thing (being the popular crowd, entertaining guests, avoiding lonely houses) I can talk to myself (and I do offer good conversation, if I do say so myself). So here goes, a conversation with myself:
Hey.
Hello.
How are you this fine day?
Well, I'm not doing too badly. I read a chapter in biology... okay okay, I see you looking at me in disbelief, I read three quarters of a chapter and then took a break to come on here.. but I do plan on finishing the chapter up and possibly reading one or two more before I go to sleep. I wish that I understood more of what I was reading, which retention was higher, but I can work on it, must work harder at such things if one wants to attain any significant levels, right?
I suppose.
Hmm.. okay, this part of the blog is beginning to creep even me out, so I think I will switch into "one shannon" mode.
Needless to say, I'm in search of that transcendental signified which I seem to have misplaced. My centre has been rearranged a bit, and I guess I'm sort of doing housework trying to make the place look tidy again. This probably only makes sense to me, but for any of you readers (all two of you) get confused, just let me know and I will explain the terms. Would rather do it in person than here, here is where I ramble :p . But yeah, my transcendental signified has become misplaced, and I hope it isn't because I've "matured" out of one... that would just reak havoc on my ambition, and I am very close with my ambition (one who has as many wishes as I do needs work very hard and have a lot of ambition in order to attain at least a glimpse of what I desire).
I have been thinking of transcription and translation a lot lately... thinking about the subtle differences which make language as reaching as it can be. Connotation and denotation can sometimes blur the power of language, making it sort of... transient and instable. I guess one needs wrap one's mind around the problem that George Orwell brought up in 1984... do we splice and dice language, make it more uniform and complete, but inevitably limiting its vocabulary and thus its freedom? Such a system would inevitably work to universalize language... a noun that would always be its only noun, a signifier that would always link directly (and without sidetrack) to its signified...
The artist would beg to differ... the loss of freedom, of expression with flamboyant and elaborate language... the canvas would be dry and lifeless, or so they might say. Yet I was never one to overuse language... there are those who use words simply in order to hear their sounds, those postmodernist morons who attend poetry readings in languages they don't understand because the words sound "pretty." I spit on those who think art and "prettiness" are the same thing... okay so I don't spit on them, but they are ignoring the pain and torture that is required for art; prettiness is something transient and indefinable, something which cannot really be touched except with flippancy and an overly-annoying lack of seriousness. Beauty and "prettiness" are not the same thing. A rose is pretty, its frailty, its link to nature and to growth and decay, its delicate inconsistency, are the things which make it beautiful.
Beauty is that which can give purpose... those details that can make a person fully want to live, if only to overcome the terrible beauty of this world (for terrible beauty, think of the beauty of anguish and pain.. necessary evils, beautiful only in that they can be survived). Yet, where comes this beauty? Is it in the air, particles, which we breathe in? Is it in our genes, a sort of... outline for our own particular path, our own particular fate?
Yet again, the artists scream their outrage. "How can we have something as limiting as fate?" they cry. "Surely we are driving blind, each path we chose is but our own." Always, the artist strives to be his own destiny...
One must ponder such things carefully.
Now, where is my sammidge?
posted by Shannon | 5:03 PM
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