Archive for March, 2011

That’s right my fellow creatives; Today we’re tackling a BIG ONE

Think that's big?? Psssh -- Think bigger! I'm talking HUGE HERE -- That's only one sleeve of what I'm talking about!

After a very long work week, during which (despite my, and my great friend coffee’s best efforts), sleep constantly won the battle for my attention over writing on my beloved blog, i felt it only appropriate to tackle one of the biggest questions facing Mankind — and Womankind; love ya’ ladies — upon my return.

What is the meaning of life?

This is no bull people! This is the real deal. Prepare yourselves for life changing epiphanies, deep…Deep…DEEP thoughts, earth-quaking (too soon?) ideas, foundation shattering theories — and an entirely new outlook on life from the moment you finish reading this post onward!

Imagine going through life — certain that you not only have a purpose in this world, but armed with the knowledge of what it is, and how you might best go after it!

Be prepared good creative people of the world, this one’s a doozy! Here we go!

The Meaning of Life, and your reason for living it, is…………………..

Always, I repeat: ALWAYS, know where your towel is!

Thank you everybody its been great being back, and now I must bid you all adieu, as sleep beckons for me yet again!

………………………………………………………………


………………………………………………………………


………………………………………………………………

What?

What’s the problem?

Don’t look at me like that!

I said: “42”!

It’s a perfectly legitimate answer!

Now now, let’s not start with the name calling…

42!!!

42!

42…

No good?

(Well i liked it — so there!)

………………………………………………………………………………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

………………………………………………………………………………

How about this!

And there you have it! That, as well as “42”, is (are) the meaning (meanings) of life

πŸ™‚ A-Thank-Ya πŸ™‚

Oh what now?

You’re still not happy?

(You’re never happy)

Bet i can guess your gender πŸ˜›

Now look! I can’t be bloody well expected to be held responsible for your issues with reading comprehension. Read between the lines people! It’s in there (I think…) — It’s only too deep for you to grasp! It’s just beyond your sights. It’s a trifle beyond your comprehension. It’s just a smidgen out of reach…

Ok, is it just me? Or is Adam hardly even trying?

But Seriously now…

Actually,Β  if you ask me (And you didn’t, but I’m telling you anyhow so brace yourself), the question itself seems a bit too direct. “What is the meaning of life”, as a question, presupposes a whole heck of a lot. Possibly the greatest assumption in there is that there is meaning in the first place.

There might not be

Or… There might be

πŸ™‚

But, for the time being at least, let’s assume that there is…

(Because if there wasn’t, we couldn’t ask the question)

Now, for there to be meaning at all, and for us to even be able to ask the question of; “what it is”, or even;”what it might be”, we must first assume that there is a type of plan for us all. Some purpose, some reason, some logic — hence the whole “Meaning” bit therein the question itself. Therefore, for there to be a meaning, there MUST be a plan. Something we’re doing. Something we’re after. What we’re meant for.

And so, furthermore, and thus by extension — a planner — and he/she (in-and-of themselves) in possession of some lofty goal for mankind as a whole. So now, if we ever honestly expect to garner any sort of reasonable answer for this age old question, which seems inexorably glued to the tips of people’s endlessly wagging tongues (or to even have the predilection to utter the pesky query in the first place), “Is there/what is the meaning of life?”, we MUST first assume that there is a type of creator.

And I think this is what he looks like

Now remember, just like before;

There might be

Or… There might not be

πŸ™‚

But, for the time being at least, let’s assume that there is…

(Because if there wasn’t, we couldn’t ask the question)

Now this is where the reasoning has a HUGE potential to get sidetracked. Personally, I alone know a multitude of individuals (and I’m sure you know even more as well), which at this point of the conversation would find themselves all-encompassed in the aimless pursuit of defining: what/who this creator is. My argument however, is that this particular question, despite seeming to lie at the core of the debate, is contradictorily unessential.

You see, because we have already asked the question pertaining to the meaning of life, we must assume that there is a creator, and in order for us to find out what/who they are (short of meeting them in person), we should probably start by looking at the evidence readily available to us. Anything else would be an exercise in pure opinion. And we all know who will win that argument…

The loudest person in the room.

Sure ya are bucko… sure ya are.

No.

Not today.

Not here on the blog for the deranged and enlightened.

Here we hold ourselves to a higher standard.

A deranged standard.

An (arguably) enlightened standard.

(Screw standards)

Here we’ve learned to be observant, not critical, and cynical with a healthy dash of logic and optimism thrown in for good measure.

Here, and today, we will look at the evidence, and let it speak to the nature of God, the creator, the great energy, or the flying spaghetti-monster at the edge of space — whichever — on its own, and without our collective biases.

Now, and before i get going, let me take some time to clear something up. NO; I am not going to cite any holy book as my “Evidence”, nor am I going to speculate on anything from our “past” as the source of the “Evidence” I speak of.

If I aim to answer this question sufficiently I need to keep my conclusions exempt from any particular slant. Any potentially tainting points of view. I need to make sure that what I come up with is not only provable, but repeatable, and observable to all. Believe it or not, the meaning of life is all around us, and we don’t need anybody’s opinion mucking up our own personal process.

You see the way i look at it, we are all part of some sort of giant (or minuscule, depending on how far you stand back), Machine.

Because we have already established that: if we wish to ask “What is the meaning of life”, there must be A) a purpose for us all, B) a Creator, and C)… There is no C. Just checking if you were paying attention :-). Anywho, If this creator person made us, and he did so with a purpose, we are to him/her nothing but a tool. Something to be used to aid him/her with something else that he/she need’s help with (So much for being perfect…).

Because we are as nuanced as we are, with millions of us spanned across multiple continents, and thousands of us being born everyday, we must look at our society of humans, not only simply a tool, but as a complex Machine.

Now, because I’ve never met God, the great energy, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster that lives out at the edge of space, in person, I can’t hope to know what/who he/she/it really is. But, what i can do is learn about him/her/it through the product that he/she/it wishes to create. Much in the same way that i know humans need aluminum because of the presence of any number of factories that utilize the commodity here on earth.

Thus — Whatever the product, or byproduct, of human activity is, we can assume it to be essential to the creator.

Why else would we be needed?

If we’re not needed, we can’t ask the question.

Do you see where I’m going here?

Now, this fresh line of thinking leads us down two inseparable paths.

1) We can get closer to understanding what/who the creator is, by understanding the product that he/she/it’s needs.

2) The meaning of life (if in fact this is a question that we wish to ask) is for each of us to help operate this “Machine”.

That's you in the red there. Hi you!

What is the machine? What is our product?

We don’t know — Duh.

But , we can assume something from the fact that we don’t inherently know.

Either: A) there is no meaning to life, and we are merely here.

Or, B) there is meaning, we are part of a machine, but the knowledge of our operation is unessential to the production of the product.

Once again, for the purposes of this discussion, let us assume that there is a purpose to life.

(For otherwise, why bother asking the question in the first place?)

So, let’s recap. There’s a creator. It needed us to do something. By doing something we fulfill a need for this “Creator” person. We haven’t been told what we’re doing, but by the fact that we’re still here, we must still be doing it… whatever it is. So, in conclusion, simply by being alive we must me carrying out the operation of the “Machine”.

Right?

Right!

Right! Now it's sexy time, yes?

So… we know the meaning of life. We always knew it. To be a “Cog”, in a sort of giant “Machine”.

This is where we need to be creative, and partake in research. This is why I love science so much. Let the speculation begin!

Being that this post is already growing to be on the lengthy side, I’m going to try to wrap all this up. For your homework tonight, i want you to think about what our “Product” might be as humans, and how we might go about producing it better.

And think about this;

What if we discover what the product is… and stop making it?

What would happen?

If nothing, would that disprove the existence of “The Creator”?

Or does it prove that the question itself is flawed in some way?

Is there a better question than “What is the meaning to life”?

And, and possibly more importantly, why did Douglas Adams pick the number “42”, without ever telling us before he passed?

(Surely it couldn’t be simply that this was the episode of Monty Python that he partook in writing…)

Here are some ideas to get you started:

If our bodies are temporary, being that they eventually die away, but our thoughts are electrical, and the first law of thermodynamics (The scientific study of energy), is that “Energy can neither be created, nor destroyed”, than what happens to our “Energy” when we pass? Do our thoughts stay attached to the electric that dissipates upon our passing? And if so, could this be something that the “Creator” wishes to produce?

Is it possible that by killing our planet, as a natural side effect of living here, this might produce some sort of byproduct that can be used by the creator?

Is it possible that the “Creator” lives in another dimension, and by bringing together elements that exist in multiple dimensions (some, like gravity, stronger in other dimensions than ours), such as electricity, we might be helping the “creator” out by acting as some sort of generator? A “Device, or machine” that operates like perpetual motion?

If we are to ask this question at all, and accept that all the necessary assumptions which surround it are true, than must we also must accept the possibility that simply by being alive, evolving, and experiencing anything at all we are achieving our “Goal” as a “Machine”?… Is it then possible we are some sort of entertainment?

No matter what the truth is, we must accept that we don’t truly know. That is the bravest of all admissions. It’s the only admission that allows us to continue learning.

And learn we shall.

Above all else!

We must…

Personally,I believe that we are here to expand ourselves, with knowledge and experience, and to take the experience we had of “living” back to the “Creators” plane of existence, which will in turn expand it. In this way, we are all “The Creator”; Bits of random energy, looking to learn about existence, which scatters itself across all the dimensions that can be — looking to learn “What is” in this way/style of being. A way/style of being which might be adjacent to many others, possibly other “branes” next to ours, like poetic sheets flapping next to each other in the wind, that all need to be explored, and experienced, so that we, as parts of “The creator”, might learn what it is to exist.

In the end, and taking all this in, the meaning of life is not only simple, but obvious…

To live!

But enough about my thoughts.

It’s time to hear what you think.

Leave comments people!

What does our people machine produce?

(Hey, there’s the better question!)

~J

(P.S. — I waited to post this two hours, because the spell-check isn’t working, and my spelling is atrocious, but alas it’s still broken and I yearn to hear all your thoughts. So I’m posting it! Please forgive lowercase “I” ‘s, and any spelling errors, for this post is long, and i am far from perfect πŸ™‚

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Hello all my awesome,

creative, time-traveling, day-tripping, casual suit-shirt wearing folk (Woh, I really ought to take it easy on the coffee), how you all doing today?

Today I’d like to share with you a short story.

 

That's the idea... Everyone get comfy πŸ™‚

I’ve had editing on the brain a lot lately, as I’m still working on editing my Novel (which has proven to be exceedingly difficult with my crazy life/schedule as of late), so in an effort to ease into the task today I thought I’d edit an old short story that I’d written back in College.

The very same short story that taught me about my love for the written word……………….

Back in the day (listen to me — I’m 27 — Back in the day, lol…) of 6 disk CD changers, analog watches, crude flip-phones, beepers, and Napster, about 3-4 years after Y2K did absolutely nothing, I was just about as uninterested in Writing as a guy could be. I had at this time already been in College for nearly three full years, I was about to finish up my Associates in Acting at Nassau Community, and I was more than ready to go out into the world & shake it up real good (at least I thought I was ready… history always proves the cocky to be under-prepared). Anyway, one of my final essential credits was slated to come from an innocuous writing course.

I’d mostly coasted through English classes in the past, banking on my inherent knowledge of the aforementioned language to see me through, but this particular teacher, and her particular style of education, was proving to be quite the nuisance. I think she was trying to make me use my brain — how dare she! Rather than sticking to the typical grammar work-book, which conveniently enough had the answers in the back (on a well worked/dog-eared page that was heavy with the ink of doodles), this teacher instead insisted on assigning pesky little, out of the work-book, creative essays. Blah. Mentioned casually, as if commenting on the weather, were these landmines of my free time laid out. Had the teacher realized how much we all hated these, “Fun, quick little assignments”, and how quick our ADD addled minds would block them out, perhaps she’d have used a megaphone to announce their dreaded coming, rather than an easy to forget passing comment. But I digress…

Anywho… as per usual, the all too casual mention of work easily slipped through my conscious thoughts (which were undoubtedly preoccupied in wondering if anyone at home had used the lan-phone today, and if not, and if I was still connected to the ever-exciting and new world of America Online, than had my Alanis Morissette CD had finished downloading), and I forgot all about the pesky little thing until the morning it was due…

That fateful morningΒ  I awoke, blissfully oblivious to any assignment,Β  an hour before my alarm was scheduled to wake me. I should mention here that this was particularly odd, as I could easily sleep until the twilight hours of the day — back in the day (lol) — and the night before I’d been out rather late. Or early. Depends on how you look at it. Lying there; rubbing my eyes and stretching far longer than necessity required, I lingered stubbornly in the warmth of my covers and avoided the start of my day. There was no rush, I had a whole hour. Maybe I would catch some more ZzzZzz’s.

Then it hit me

I had a whole paper to write — and only an hour to write it! I tossed aside the covers, leapt from my bed, ran to my computer, and began composing an important piece of my life without thinking at all. Despite how hurried, frantic, and rushed as my work was — as I had no time to do it any other way — what I’d produced that hectic morning would prove (over time), to be essential to my development, not only as a writer, but as a person as well. It might not have had fancy spaces to separate paragraphs, or convenient punctuations so that the reader might have any inkling what I was talking about, heck it was even too poor to afford proper sentence structure — but that baby shined when I yanked it from the printer. I was a proud father, and I was sure I wouldn’t fail.

And I didn’t. I didn’t Ace it either though. Not a “C”, or a “B”, or even a “D” for that matter… Nope, I hadn’t received any grade with my paper at all. The teacher had refused to grade my story. Instead I was asked to stay after class because of “my work” (with just the same queer emphasis on that phrase shared with the class at large. Anyone remember the “OhhhHHoohhh” of your classmates when you get in trouble? I do…). When the class was finally over, certainly eight hours longer than it was scheduled to end, the teacher told me that she’d already read what I’d written, years before the assignment was even passed down, and in turn — accused me of plagiarizing the work!

I was stunned!


Here I am; I couldn’t care less about writing or English class in general (save for the fun fact that without this credit, and a passing grade in the class, I could not graduate), and yet there I was being complimented and condemned all at once! Was my work really so good as to be mistaken for professional grade? Was I really not going to graduate because of some crazy loop in the space-time continuum that caused me to write something that had already been made? This couldn’t be! As the weeks went by, and I fought for my case, the teacher — unable to produce the original work that I’d supposedly stolen from — reluctantly gave in and graded the paper. 23/25: Not bad πŸ™‚

Anyway (I just now realized that I say “Anyway” A-TON. I wonder if this means I get off topic too much? Anyway IS a segway back on topic when I stray from it…. Like right now… Crap I’m doing it again! Anyway…), as the months after the incident rolled on, and inexorable time got off its lazy ass and got back to work (everything had slowed to half-time while I waited to find out if I was going to graduate or not), I would eventually find myself able to clearheadedly look back at what had actually happened. I came to the realization that I’d been taught something wondrous.

In my haste to simply get the work done, I hadn’t allowed the logical side of my brain (left F.Y.I.) to get involved at the creative task at hand — and I’d merely let the creativity flow (from the right!). This made me consider, and become aware of, the opposing brain hemispheres stuffed into my skull. At the time I had no idea I was doing it, but being rushed as I was I simply had no time to try to rationalize, plan, or organize what I was going to do — I only had time to do it. I had found a way to trick my brain into allowing me to utilize a part of me that’s sole desire is to create, without dredging about in the sticky pools of logic that can slow down the process. There came a time of logic, now actually, when editing needed to be done, but I had learned that the place of logic is after the place of creativity. Not during, never during, but sometimes before — when planning is needed.

Anyway (<– there it is again!), I just wanted to share all this with you cool creative people — maybe it’ll help you get out of your own heads from time to time — and I also wanted to share that original story with you all as well. Below, for your reading pleasure, you will find the newer, shinier, edited version ofΒ  paper, and after reading all this, and touting it so much, I earnestly hope you enjoy. If not… Well, there’s always prostitution (is there a pimp in the crowd?).

NOTE: Before allowing the kids to read this, please read it for yourself — it has “Adult” situations, and is rated by the ESRB, the YMCA, and the NAACP, with a: “Y”, as in why are we rating a short story?… ENJOY, and please leave your thoughts below!

~J

“Happy Endings”

John and Mary meet in a restaurant under names Boris and Natasha. They have a riveting dialogue about babies in their cradles, pidgins flying their coops, and rotund women singing songs of finality. As we listen in, we’re motivated by their actions and moved by their words. Every phrase uttered is enough for a 5-hour discussion over dinner — and trust me it will reach that point. As we watch them, us eating our popcorn, reclined in our couches and getting fat, John and Mary exit the scene, and the show concludes. To everyone watching, they are perfect.

Everyone that has seen John and Mary on the TV pray to God at night before they sleep. The Men Pray that one day they might have exciting lives as secret agents, and that they can finally be smooth, just like John. The women pray to become sexy like Mary, and learn to take control like a true woman should.

As John and Mary leave the set that night, they walk out the back door of the studio together. John holds the door for Mary to exit first, and then smacks her ass as she goes by. Mary immediately fires up a cigarette and begins to wipe off the layers of makeup which have been carefully detailed by makeup artists to make her look “sexy”. Without it she bears a strong resemblance to a grandmother. John can’t wait to stuff his mouth with “Big Chief” chewing tobacco, and as he’s digging in his pocket for his snuff he slips and hurts himself on a patch of ice.

Mary helps hoist John to his feet, and immediately begins complaining about the trouble she and her husband are having; she tells John that he doesn’t love her anymore, and she’s not sure what to do. John is pretending to listen, and is looking her dead in the eye, but with his peripheral vision he is staring at her tits. She closes her banter with, “Do you know what I mean?”, and while nodding, he gives the mandatory “Oh absolutely”, before taking this as his cue to move in for the kill. He slyly motions his right hand around Mary’s waist and violently jerks her hips to his. Mary decides that this behavior is unacceptable and attempts to break away, but John is simply too strong. Desperately she tries to scream for help, but her dire effort is wasted — everyone has already left for the night. John knows he’s a star, and deserved of whatever he desires in this world, so despite Mary’s frantic struggle he stubbornly refuses to take no for an answer. Who wouldn’t want him?

He punches her to muffle her cries.

Mary, being already exhausted from the struggle, passes out as the blow shakes up her brain. As John looks down at her lifeless, yet shapely physique, he decides that this meager, insignificant little obstacle shouldn’t deter him in the slightest — so he fucks her anyway. The nightly camera catches it all on tape. After the evidence surfaces a month later (conveniently enough just long enough to finish the series), John is sent to jail for rape, and all the home viewers are thoroughly satisfied with the show’s happy ending.

The men still pray at night to be smooth like John, and the women still pray at night to be sexy like Mary.