My Musings

Occasionally - and only occasionally - a person that has become unaccustomed to reflection will take time to comment on the theater of life that continuously unfolds before him. If only it were a theater, and merely that; then maybe its poignancy might be removed. Perhaps the things that destroy us would only be the subject of laughter and entertainment. Such sentiments are forbidden to us, however; we are bound to a cruel - and sometimes felicitous - reality. It is a theater, but the stage is cruel; it is merciful; it is a place of both joy and despair. Within the duration of the last few months, I have seen both sides of the coin, so to speak. The extreme case of the dual nature of reality is expressed well by Victor Hugo: "Love, at that height where it is absolute, is associated with an inexpressibly celestial blindness of modesty. But what risks you run, O noble souls! Often you give the heart, we take the body. Your heart remains to you, and you look at it in the dark

"Algebra applies to the clouds, the radiance of the star benefits the rose--no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who could ever calculate the path of a molecule? How do we know that the creations of worlds are not determined by falling grains of sand? Who can understand the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely small, the echoing of causes in the abyss of being and the avalanches of creation? A mite has value; the small is great, the great is small. All is balanced in necessity; frightening vision for the mind. There are marvelous relations between beings and things, in this inexhaustible whole, from sun to grub, there is no scorn, each needs the other. Light does not carry terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths without knowing what it does with them; night distributes the stellar essence to the sleeping plants. Every bird that flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw.

There are times when I think I've come across some great truth, and in those times I normally write. Presently, however, I've only come across the feeling that there is some great truth to be stumbled upon, but I lack the depth of thought to comprehend it. Blind I wander through a foreign landscape and endeavor to give distinctness to an ethereal idea that may or may not exist. What is this great truth? This feeling came during my differential equations class. I sat there in an ignorant stupor as the teacher scribbled symbols and numbers on the blackboard. There was a block in my mind, like a plane that can't rise above the clouds. I could sense that there was a greater understanding to be had, but I could not excite the faculties of my mind with my own strength. During this time, I thought of the many connections and relationships that exist in the math world. It is like a brain, each neuron networked with every other. I would imagine that I would think it beauti

Memorial day in Idaho marks the opening of hunting and fishing season, and this year it also has marked my third experience fishing... and also my second experience not catching anything while fishing. While this all sounds very boring and uneventful, the day at the Snake River left me with a fair share of scrapes and bruises. It was a scenic drive with my room-mate and his brother up to Ashton, on east of there a little further, and skyward into the mountains. I'd forgotten that Idaho had a tree'd side to her, and I was much pleased with the scenery. The stress of school became inversely proportional (a little engineering lingo) to the distance I was from Rexburg. All my cares melted away. Once we arrived at our destination (some trail head), I quickly jogged to what appeared to be an old mine shaft in the side of the mountain. I had spotted it on the way up, and it seemed way more interesting than fish. It turned out to be a tunnel - not a mine shaft - and it was quite

That's all...

Are words just an approximation of our thoughts? If so, then what is the integral? Where is the Calculus to exact the sum under the curve of consciousness? Can a man really find out man? Or is he left to only comprehend himself completely, while the thoughts of others exist as the solution to an equation, derived and never known as a present thing? Perhaps the world of language is more exact than is supposed here. Perhaps words are only triggers to complex mental processes. After all, language is only the vibration of air particles, or the ink on a page; pixels on a screen as well. Each, in its microscopic state, is nothingness. But when viewed as a whole, it becomes a symphony that will guide the listener or the reader in his thoughts toward an ultimate conclusion.

"[Plymouth Rock] has become an object of veneration in the United States. I have seen bits of it carefully preserved in several towns in the Union. Does not this sufficiently show how all human power and greatness are entirely in the soul? Here is a stone which the feet of a few poor fugitives pressed for an instant, and this stone becomes famous; it is treasured by a great nation, a fragment is prized as a relic. But what has become of the doorsteps of a thousand palaces? Who troubles himself about them?" -Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America I have recently started reading the book from which this quotation comes, and I am very impressed so far. Tocqueville's writing, even on the seemingly mundane subject of the geography of America, is full of metaphorical description that brings to life the inanimate and gives significance to a history long forgotten by this generation. The quotation above was merely a footnote in the text, but its richness surpasses the

In the dark years of adolescence, sunshine was not necessarily a preferred form of weather for me. The clouds were much more suitable to my moods, and they made me feel calm. But as I grow older, maturity changes my outlook. Old age brings many mental changes, such as a sober mind not enjoyed in the years of youth, feelings more poignant than before, and a greater desire to obtain the things in life that last the longest. In my case, a change in my favorite weather is what my "old age" has brought me. Not that I don't still enjoy the occasional rainy day excuse to stay inside, but I now enjoy the sunshine. It makes me happy.

I applied for a job today online. After the part of the application that asks for your personal information such as your address and work history, there came the part of the application that asks for your very personal information. I like to call it the psychological evaluation portion of the application process. This is the part where they give you a series of logic problems to make sure that you're not a dummy, and then the interrogation follows. "How do you feel about things you've done in the past?" "choose which word of the group best describes you." "Which statement best suits your personality?" That's the basic sense of what they ask, except it takes about 20 minutes to get through the whole thing. In the end, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and cleared my sinuses. The little internet application therapy session had ended. It's completion heralded a plastic change in the physical makeup of my brain, a revolution within. T

Whenever I read my old blog entries, they seem to be somewhat ridiculous to me. My tendency toward over-analysis becomes tedious and rarely makes perfect sense. But as I consider this little problem, I realize that the over-analysis in my blog is simply a manifestation of what occurs normally in my own mind. I think most people can relate to what I am saying. At one point or another, we all think too much about something. We play a scenario over and over again in our thoughts. Whatever the issue is, it is never resolved, and somehow, we ourselves become the greatest enemy to progress and the resolution of the issue at hand. What is to be done?