On that note . . .

Prof. Napier was the first person I've lost that was another atheist.

Death scares me a lot.

I can't sleep.

In memoriam

RIP

Winston Napier

The professor I respected most.

The man who took me farther, faster.

The man that gave me Percival Everett. The man that gave me chaos. The man that showed me what an intellectual is, and what academia should be.

The man that gave me the tools. The man that kicked convention in the face. The man that likely made an atheist of me - not because he was a cynic, but because he demanded truth and didn't tolerate shortcuts.

In losing him, the world loses progress. He will be missed. Thank you for showing me what I could be. No, thank you for demanding it. Thank you for being so damn tough and so damn stubborn. Thanks for being you and to hell with anyone else.

Thanks for TEACHING me, dammit. More than any other teacher dared to. You're one of the only ones I actually cared about pleasing.

No one will forget you.

Writing ain't cute

So I'm sitting in my apartment right now, sucking down another can of guarana and sugar swill, and I'm getting myself ready for a final intellectual purge as I grind my finals to a close and complete the final assignments of my undergraduate career. Tonight's flavor is fiction, and I've got a lot of it to write. As I fuel my increasingly-manic psyche with energy drink and pizza, I find myself looking back on a full year of writing workshops and I wonder . . .

Just what is writing to different people?

You can define it by pure mechanics, sure. It's taking a pen to a paper and producing ideas. But that's not real writing; that's the basics. That's comparing a baby's babble to a man's speech.

So what is it that drives people to be WRITERS, hmm? What makes them decide "I will do REAL writing. I will take a pen to paper and I will make something GREAT." What is it, hmm?

And I think back to my workshops, and I think about the people that probably WANTED to be writers. The people that do this as a choice, because writing is something they love and they want to be good at it. And I picture them working hard, and I picture them struggling, and ultimately I picture them as the ones that failed to impress me week after week.

Snobby? Maybe. But those writers that WANT to write - as much as I admire them - they're just inherently flawed. Or maybe they aren't flawed enough. Maybe they just have to work harder and push further than the rest of us. Maybe they're just missing something.

So I think about the writers that don't really WANT to write. I think about the writers that NEED to write. I think about the ones that blow me away - the ones that finish a chapter and it feels so good they need a cigarette. The ones that toss in their beds if their pens are pent up; the ones that fight it back like vomit.

People say that writing is something flowery and it isn't. People say it's something magical or inspired and it isn't. People think they can take it up because they want to and they can't.

Writing is an addiction. It's an escape. It's your dirty little habit. It's the drug problem that has your cousin sucking cocks in an alley. It's the scars on your girlfriend's thighs and the stains on your mattress.

Writing is a tumor; it's an ugly growth that throbs until it's drained and it gives you a headache when it rains.

Writing is your prayers, your orgasms, your gin, and your wife's black eye. Writing is the body in your trunk.

Writing is your nicotine. Writing is your flogging.

Writing is your best friend's sister when he's out of town.

There's nothing nice about. There's nothing charitable about it. It is what it is and you need it or you don't have it.


So now I'm going to write. Ignore what you hear and don't open the fucking door.

Blinding you with Chaos

Ok, this one's pretty crazy. You may notice that it's a very complicated way of saying next to nothing. Such is philosophy, eh?

The term "chaos theory" is kinda loose now, being both a method of literary study and a mathematical term. There's also the familiar definition of chaos as an absence of rules. I'm combining 'em all!

Yep, I'm trying to sort out a unified Chaos theory. Why the hell not? Here's the first chunk, which I hammered out instead of sleeping for some reason. It may depress, annoy, or confuse you. I'm kinda pulling it out of my ass. Discordians need not fear, as we don't believe anything we read anyway. Also, supports atheism. Somewhat crudely. Real arguments forthcoming.




A Unified Chaos Manifesto. Roughest Draft. Part 1.

EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON.

Every. Fucking. Thing. No matter how small. I assert this as an undeniable fact. Every occurrence is the result of some form of causation, regardless of whether or not it can be easily identified. Take solace if you like, for a brief moment, in knowing that the universe is ruled by cause-and-effect, and that no event is random. Logically, the inverse is also true:

NOTHING HAPPENS WITHOUT A REASON.

The concept of “random” is an illusion – one I will address in the near future. So far, the argument is sounding pretty optimistic to any soul-searchers reading. This is easily halted with the final logical step.

THEREFORE, THESE REASONS ARE MEANINGLESS.

Just as good is defined by evil, reason can only be defined by an absence of reason. As I have asserted, there is no absence of reason in the universe (barring California) to grant meaning to reason. Imagine that every little event in the universe is a white dot. If there are no other colors present, there is only a field of white. Nothing is distinguished from anything else. Nothing stands out! Everything is equal, and negligible.

Concepts are defined by their opposites. “Everything is meaningless” and “Everything has meaning” are identical statements. The concept of “death” cannot exist without a concept of “life;” it exists as an absence of life. It exists as an absence of its opposite. Similarly, “meaning” cannot exist without “meaningless,” and “reason” cannot exist without “random.”

Nothing is meaningless and nothing is random. Therefore, nothing has meaning, and there is no reason for anything. Welcome to Nihilism!

Indeed, Chaos is the inverse of Nihilism. Thus, it is practically identical.* Where Nihilism states “everything is meaningless,” Chaos states “everything has meaning,” and asserts that every little thing everywhere happens for a reason, and has an effect, however small and unnoticeable, on everything else. Both claims are essentially the same thing – one is just simpler. Dealing in Chaos is nothing more than dealing in complexity. A lot of complexity.

Now, what about variance? It’s easy to deal in black and white, but what about gray? Aren’t there varying levels of meaning? Aren’t there an infinite number of stages between “meaningless” and “meaningful?”

To you and I, yes. We measure things against our own standards and determine their significance for ourselves. We do not perceive a gust of wind to be on the same level as a nuclear explosion. We do not imagine a fly’s buzzing to be as important as the death of a president. This is human nature. Our values are subjective.

Our universe is not human. Our universe need not be subjective. Our universe does not depend on lies to survive.** It is ruled by objective Truth.

And what is True? To an objective universe, there IS no difference between the wind and an explosion. There’s no difference between a sun and your last exam. The size is irrelevant. They HAPPENED. They EXIST. They matter equally, which is not at all. A speck of dust and a galaxy are of the same importance to our universe. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care. It just is.

And what’s that all amount to? What’s the point?

It’s just the nature of Nature, baby. Depressing or not, it’s reality. YOU are insignificant. The values by which you assign meaning are yours and yours alone. They do not apply to a larger power, or the universe at large. Whatever force of order or creation you may choose to call “God,” I can guarantee it cares nothing for you. Just as “physics” and “weather” care nothing for you. It’s a leap in logic that tries to turn “we came from somewhere” into “there is a being that cares for us.” There is no connection. It’d be nice, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. Desire does not shape reality.

And as stated, the lack of a conscious creator does not imply random events. Nothing is random. If there is a God, then God is a system. A very complicated system – an equation – that has no feelings toward you or anything else. It would be perfectly acceptable to say that God is a big lump of math.

So have a nice day! Be humble and know that the universe in no way functions to suit your needs. It does what it does and you’re just adapting.

That’s the theory, anyway . . .

* Meaning “in a practical sense.” Not “almost.” Repeated hyperbole has twisted the common application of this word. If you don’t catch what I’m saying, you’re practically an idiot.

** I will develop this further soon. Humans are incapable of being objective and comprehending Truth. The Chaos argument defies the notion that “perception is reality.” Certainly, “seeing is believing,” but that doesn’t mean reality works the way you believe it does. I am aware of the hypocrisy; I am practically advocating it.

Pressure Cooker

There are rare moments in my life in which I am legitimately worried about myself. These moments are rare because I'm generally more concerned about the world around me, and how its shortcomings will somehow lead to my violent and embarrassing death.

Lately, though, I've been worried about me. On a very personal level. On a very intimate, face-to-face kinda level. A "hey, me. Sit down. We need to have a chat" level. Get the point?

I've let myself almost completely shut down. I'm slacking in all my work. I can't sleep most nights. I can't even write.

Frankly, my last real year as a student is coming to an end, and there isn't a single thing I'm looking forward to after that. And it scares me. Am I letting that fear paralyze me? Or is that just an excuse?

Pawel might be getting his graphic novel published. I'm incredibly happy for him. But it's also a bit sobering. Rather, it's like a splash of cold water in my face. Here I am, being a lump and not writing, and he's getting published. And I consider myself a writer? I wish I was half as motivated, but I barely know what the hell I'm doing with myself. As the song goes, "we hate it when our friends become successful . . ." because it makes us realize how much we're slacking.

Gonna try to make some headway on the novel this week. I'll feel a lot better if I can.

Likely skipping all of my classes tomorrow to write. I'm brilliant like that. Goddamn daylight saving's.

I think I've got myself pegged pretty well. I'm refusing to do work and apply for jobs because it's easier to pretend the year isn't ending. Yet despite recognizing this, I am unable to stop and fix the problem. Am I too clever for my own good, or an idiot? It's hard to say.

On a less serious note, Super Smash Bros. Brawl is awesome. I <3 Sonic.

Got a lot of shit I need to figure out. Very troublesome.

On mind over matter

Like most people, I occaisionally try to move things with my mind.

I open my hand and try to pull a glass toward me. Or I wave my hand and try to make it fly into a wall.

Sometimes I try to make my pen roll across a desk, or try to flick a light switch from across the room.

Sometimes I get excited and glare at a passing car, trying to make it flip into the air and crash a few feet away.

Pretty much nothing ever happens, except sometimes I get a headache if I try too hard.

Goddamn. I want telekinesis.