Violin

Man must have a way to communicate what is inside him--to bring forth what cannot be seen. Some use words, some use color, others use notes. The violin in my mind is the one instrument most able to reflect the human soul. Its timbre is most like the human voice and can relay both the depth and weight of great sorrow and the sweet light joy of the heart's flutter. It is for this reason that it is absolutely incomprehensible to me how a person can turn an icy shoulder to the passion of a street musician which drips from each desperate chord. Do you willingly turn your back on another man's soul? Are you so shallow, so cold that you pretend not to hear, not to feel his heart and mind and all that man is? Do you reject the essence of a man? Do you look into his eyes, straight into the man and scorn his humanity? If a man can do this, what is he--what does he have left? Why do you live if not to feel? Is it possible that a man can exist without a soul?

Pumpkins search for Love

I gaze out over the sea of pumpkins, an endless expanse of autumn. Families with small children excitedly leading the way navigate through row after row searching for the perfect addition to their holiday decor. Each pumpkin straightens up and puffs out in an attempt to appear flawless. Each turns to hide his imperfections from passersby while the small squash in the middle cry out in hopes of being noticed. The children cannot hear the pleas which reach my ears and break my heart. The pumpkins all try to glow a little brighter than their brothers. Each holds his breath waiting for the giddy squeal of some effervescent child as she cries, "Daddy, Daddy! This one!" The pumpkin is then scooped up into the child's little arms or onto the father's strong shoulder where it breaths a sigh of relief and snuggles into the safe embrace of someone who believes it is special. The others watch their brother leave and feel the wind a little more. A collective chill runs through them as the sun falls in the sky and time continues to pass.

An Experiment in Dada (featuring Melville)

Moby Dick -Herman Melville

page 194 Chapter XLII

The Whiteness of the Whale

wretched prospect stands irresponsible coloring intolerable hideousness invested innocence to Heaven, utterly conceivable whiteness, intensified truth lurks fowl. But emotions such that escape. At Roman wings, opposite unnatural so with us contrast. a heightened bear our love; shark, assuming Abraham unspotted whiteness, uttered monumental infidel shroud and throbbings gliding forth there, below, pondering itself. Romish bestow allusion vividly Whisper it floated tying memories separately awoke; this. I ascended dead denominating ferociousness had have caught? albatrossess; been for tell, and miserable on saying yet, meant supernatural mine, white deck. wraps brighter I upon those learned tulips death quadrupled. ordinary cherubim! folding, hideousness, prolonged merit mild archangel who was fain towns, a heightens treacherous wilful evinced go never!

A Lack of Weight

It has recently become incredibly apparent to me that most of the people surrounding me attempt to escape from anything deep, meaningful, or passionate. They want to keep it light, to obsess about things that don't matter. They escape the heavy burden of thought and live weightless, meaningless lives. In the Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera asserts that "The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to earth, the more real and truthful they become." My design in creating this blog is to face the beautifully weighted gift of intelligent thought, to feel the passionate fire which cannot be felt without pain but without which life has no meaning, to bring companionship to the passionate minds lost in an insipid world. Let us bond together in this plight.