№ 139. The Deep Space Between My Ears

"We make our world significant by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers." Carl Sagan said. But don't the little things matter, too? Quite often?

Nonsense, unfiltered streams of thoughts, silent turns, rests, unaffected gestures of the mind sandwich the meaty questions of existence. And they occupy vast chunks of our wakefulness.

Methinks, the questions don't have to weigh a kilo. A variety of levity and gravity is a healthy salad for the life of a mind.

But has anyone ever measured whether pondering the cosmos really requires more brain watts than just cracking a knock-knock joke, assuming all things being equal? Should Economics play an essential part in the finite time we have? Does each of us have a limited allowance of brain power in our lifetime and, therefore, should budget it well? Is this a moral imperative?

"What does the fox say?" 194, 894,701 views and still counting.

Deep? Nah. Weird. Kinda. Very rough assumption: 3.35% (194, 894,701 divided by 6 Billion) of the planet's population spent about three minutes of their finite time to watch the youtube hit.

Unexpected? Yes! Why did this video go viral? I dunno.

My dear Watson, the realities outside don't have to fit the architectures and spaces (norms and expectations) we build inside our minds. Heck, they don't even have to make sense at all.

So why is it important again to make our world significant? Why even wrestle with brave questions? Why draw deep answers to risk deep vein thrombosis or maybe a slap of Lady Gaga's ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding?

Can't I just wallow in silly fox questions and get instant popularity in virtual reality? I can make tons of money off it. Maybe. And use 3.35% of the dough to kicktstart a green revolution in my backward community. Significant?

№ 138. Writing Our Own Narratives

“All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them.” Isak Dinesen once said.

And it pays to act them out and sell tickets for the show, too.

PETA's Wall

№ 137. The Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

---Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

№ 136. Day 3 of Monsoons: Harvest Moon Festival

A bald shrink lights bulbs.
Moon slices on storm fetters.
Sweet balms for ghost month.



 

№ 135. Day 2 of Monsoons: A fine sushi lunch

№ 134. Manah manahm

What you say to the monsoon dumping all its waters into the city drowning in unsunny weather forecasts, to the movies in perpetual white-noise loops, to the persistent threats of floods and all the wrenches thrown in:

№ 133. Midnight Colors

Brown.
A brown cat slithers from the midnight rain.

Red.
He takes a dig at the red ball tied to its master.

Black.
There's someone playing a song in the black piano.

Brown.
It's probably the brown priest working late into the night.

White.
No more is left of the white feast.

Green.
Only the sound of water rushing out of the green gutters.

№ 132. Instagram 2: Notebooks

Quirky, you and I
In this noonday ritual
Mimes stirring
Lucid conversations

You, nourished by daylight;
I, famished by night vigils.

Our fickle faces pressed
Against our pensive barriers.

teasquared