It’s Written, Delete

Die, you miserable whore.

I’m not really sure what I want to say, but I know I’m actually a better person than that. I know, because I’ve decided that. It’s not something I learned or figured out with my time on street. I decided I’ll be the better person. I haven’t always been, but I am going to now.

Still, for some reason, I can’t go back and delete it. It’s not even that I’ve got a ton I would sacrifice between here and there, and even if there were, there’s no reason I couldn’t have it all out again. I think I really mean it. Maybe not quite literally do I mean, but it’s with feeling that’s truly. Don’t quite know if that negates my decision.

So between you and me, I’ll just leave that there. For posterity, for my sanity, for nothing else other than to voice this nagging feeling to be who I once was. Everyone deserves a couple relapses.

Footnote in Feynman’s Lecture on Physics

“Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars – mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is “mere”. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination – stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern – of which I am a part… What is the pattern or the meaning or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?

Deep Peace

There’s an old celtic prayer that’s appropriate.

Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the quiet Earth to you.
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.
Deep peace of the son of peace to you.

It’s romantic to think of this being etched into stone in Old Irish, but according to my research, the poem is extracted from an English poem by Fiona Macleod, Scottish, “The Dominion of Dreams under a Dark Star”. Oh, were it actually Irish, I’d imagine it’d have the word “leat” in it. I miss Irish and Ireland. I think “oiche” is my favorite Irish word. Sleep well, friends.