your daily gnosis

A bit of knowledge, perspective, or literary currency for your enriching pleasure

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New blog. New post.

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The Fiction of Happiness

http://www.lookingforeasons.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-fiction-of-happiness.html?m=1

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Menand, Dewey, p. 1

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Menand, Dewey, p. 2

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The Failure of Democracy,

Durant, p.1

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The Failure of Democracy, Durant, p.2

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Sometimes I write poems

One night last week while I sat before the screen of my desktop Dell My fingers by some magic typed, words appearing as they fell as if I wasn't writing but instead just watching keen on what the keys pressed might together tell. While my fingers typed the typing the words were foreign to me still like my fingers had an independent will. What divine forces were at work I wondered while the writing fixed before me? Is it God, come from on high with a message to restore me? Or maybe not, I'm not sure I deserve any better than a warning… Well that's not true I mean I'm not so bad, yeah let's go with "restore me". Who am I kidding I'm damned I know it He's probably here to scorn me. Then again I went to church last week He might want to reward me. That's not how it works besides it's probably my subconscious, I think I read about that once, it's consciousness with out the conscious, we think certain thoughts but they're just thought below the surface, you think they made that theory up just to make us nervous? Like a second you you've never heard of? Is there anything we're sure of? The words continued forming while I conjured speculations grand: A vengeful ghost who died while typing? An impatient ghost who died while skyping? A mental illness setting in? The digital beginning to my mortal end? A chain email curse I brought upon myself by failing to resend? What were these words that formed by no human hand?!?!? And so I looked upon my screen, with hope and dread, through wincing eyes, at what this unworldly message said. And so it read: asd;flkjasdfl;kjasdf;lkjasdfl;kjasdfl;kjasdlf;kjasdfl;kjasdlf;kj What could this mean! I racked by mind, I pondered all night long, I fetched every book on meaning, language, science, art and song. I interpreted and deconstructed this cryptic message until dawn. Until it hit me finally, like a Godsent breeze: I'd hit a bunch of random keys. But as I reflected on my search for meaning, I thought a thought that's worth repeating: It was after all my search for meaning that gave meaning to the keys repeating.

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Voltaire, "Micromegas," p. 1

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Voltaire, "Micromegas," p. 2

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Menand, "The Metaphysical Club," p. 1

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Menand, "The Metaphysical Club," p. 2

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Tinkers, p. 1, "Such vanity!"

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Tinkers, p. 2

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"The Big Heat," from The New Yorker, p. 2