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enthusiast
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enthusiast
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time backwards is emit...hmmm
Mmmh. Time, sis? Draw, k. Cab, emit!
Okay, back to "Another One Bites the Dust"
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Anonymous
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Anonymous
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(whereas readers of my writing are looking for sense markers in my senseless texts).
bloody hilarious, brandon =)
_____________________________________
i saw this in a magazine today, thought it was interesting:
"Has it occurred to anybody yet that ours may be the last generation to die? What a gyp! But think about it: We know what makes cells die, we know of cells that resist death (example: cancer), and we're learning fast how to manipulate cells. How long can it be before some bright MIT dork[sic] strings all that together and produces the line-edit in our genetic code that lets us theoretically live forever? Could be less than a generation away. Amazing. Our immortal descendants will be fascinated by us, will wonder what it was like knowing your story would have to end, what it was like to have to squeeze your entire life into just 100 years...then again, it may be the very imminence of death that forces us to step up the pace. Would you learn all earth's languages if you had an extra millenium, or would you play more Play-Station 2? Tortoises live significanly longer than we do, and look how they squander their extra time. Giant redwoods live for centiries, and what could be more sedentary? Death may be the best thing that ever happened to us...."
so much for "time is the fire in which we all burn" (who said that first, anyhow??)
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Joined: Mar 2000
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Interesting post, caradea. I might brag to these immortal descendents that we enjoyed living in a world of plenty, whereas unless this MIT dork [sic] comes up with interplanetary travel, all these billions of timeless tenants will be living in Hong Kong-like apartments crammed to the limit.
Time is the fire: John Oliver???
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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I do not suffer boredom very often. But I cannot imagine eternal life being sufficiently free of boredom to avoid becoming a curse, not a blessing.
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Joined: Nov 2000
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Oh, I just made sense of all this : You are all talking about one dimensional time, aren't you?
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Joined: Feb 2001
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enthusiast
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I'd go for the language learning option. It would be more fun than play station.
come and see the only teenager who prefers languages to stupid computer games.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Mmmh. Time, sis? Draw, k. Cab, emit!
Ah!...the Eternal Return.... ...time...emit...
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Death may be the best thing that ever happened to us
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's
compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt
stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or to be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by,
after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten
million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, verse 20, lines 404-421
There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would
not avail in the long run,
We would surely bring up again where we now stand,
And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther. --W.W., Song of Myself, 45: 1191-95
from Song of Myself (6-What is the grass?)
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly I will use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon
out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless breasts of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and the old?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
from Passage To India (8: 185-211)
Ah more than any priest O soul we too believe in God,
But with the mystery of God we dare not dally.
O soul thou pleasest me, I thee,
Sailing these seas or on the hills, or waking in the night,
Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time and Space and Death, like
waters flowing,
Bear me indeed as through the regions infinite,
Whose air I breathe, whose ripples hear, lave me all over,
Bathe me O God in thee, mounting to thee,
I and my soul to range in range of thee.
O Thou transcendent,
Nameless, the fibre and the breath,
Light of the light, shedding forth universes, thou centre of them,
Thou mightier centre of the true, the good, the loving,
Thou moral, spiritual fountain--affection's source--thou reservoir,
(O pensive soul of me--O thirst unsatisfied--waitest not there?
Waitest not haply for us somewhere there the Comrade perfect?)
Thou pulse--thou motive of the stars, suns, systems,
That, circling, move in order, safe, harmonious,
Athwart the shapeless vastnesses of space,
How should I think, how breathe a single breath, how speak, if
out of myself,
I could not launch, to those, superior universes?
Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of God,
At Nature and its wonders, Time and Space and Death,
But that I, turning, call to thee O soul, thou actual Me,
And lo, thou gently masterest the orbs,
Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death,
And fillest, swellest full the vastnesses of Space.
--Walt Whitman, all selections from Leaves of Grass.
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