An homage to the great game. Seth and I battled it out in the high-speed, high-action of Pong!
Paddle one versus paddle two; surely this is no less than the struggle of life.

I am the paddle
bleach-white, alone.

Down, not up. Foiled again
and the great white quadrangle
approaches again.

I am the paddle.
trapped in eternal recurrence.

I think I have a new one for The Minstrel here.

The urgent issues of philosophy.




















Click to enlarge.

Chasing Autumn – A teleologic impression in number of senses.

The leaves underfoot crackled like sparks as I walked, collapsing and crumpling against the gravel and concrete. The skeletons of former leaves line the shoulders of my side-street. They are curled, a natural forerunner of how plastic looks retracting from flame – almost frozen, the image is stretched out as wide as the season. On turning the corner the breeze pulled the last of grip the leaves yet had to their ephemeral home. In death they descend gently breaking the line of the road - yellow, brown, red over blackened grey. Their ascension, though it looks to us as falling, brings them to their final rest. The bodies pull inward like with an introversion that holds their edges in like a straight-jacket – and pulls further, tighter till they form themselves as a coil or shell. The road becomes a beach of overcast grey and golden sands – no water, no stream but the warm wind. I am a stone who realises nothing but place – the trees on either side seem to form the hollow for the scene and I sense nothing but the space between. Heraclitus whispers softly “It is in changing that things find repose. And I step twice in the rivers before me.
*-/*!
The leaves underfoot crackle like sparks as I walk, and I am stepping, stepping and ever-chasing autumn.

Extra! Extra!

I guess someone is sick of the string of poor articles.

Some writings that chase an autumn mood, a dull melancholy held close by a hopeful grasp. The titles an spacing are mine. The authors, where applicable, are listed below.



On the soul

That part which we say dwells in the summit of our body
and lifts us from earth toward our celestial affinity,
like a plant whose roots are not in earth but in the heavens,
whence the soul first came to birth,
that divine part attaches the head or root of us
and keeps the whole body upright.
- Plato

Wonderful Things

It is a wonderful thing that sorrow and peace can be conjoined. It is the fullest sorrow that removes me from myself through an impossible movement.

It is a wonderful thing that art can lift and twirl one about a circumfession:A possible impossible confession. The truth which can only be manifest.
- Author Unknown

The Inn and Key

O you who travel down Love’s way
Stop a while and say
If a grief can be found like mine;
I ask you only to hear my song
And then think long
If I am the inn and key to every pain.
[....]
So I wishing to do like those
Who conceal their lack from shame,
To all the world proclaim
But my heart still wastes in woes.
- Dante

A day in the life of me, specifically November 2, 2005 (As told by street signs).

My brother came over yesterday evening. With the shift of dust and the passage into nostalgia we fired up a game of Goal! brought to us by the power of NES emulation. The game commenced I was Denmark, he England.
First Half:
Kierkegaard brings it up the field for the first goal of the game (assist by Hans Christian Anderson).





Yet the queen would have none of it and the crown returned in favour.












Second Half:
Tied in the first we battled in the second showing in the end Existentialism wins out over monarchy.