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Tervetuloa avaruusalukseemme
- filosofien slummiin

Humen giljotiini lojuu
ruostuneena syrjäkujalla
Occamin parta rehottaa
kuin Langsethilla konsanaan

Tunsin kuinka Popperin maailmojen sodat
pinttyivät elinvoimaisiin soluihini ajatuksina:
Kuinka saatanan poeettinen
jokainen meistä voikaan olla,
kun se sisäinen neromme leimahtaa valkeaksi!

Mutta me - jopa ruokkiessamme ajatusten pyromaniaa
kannattelemme kaikkea rakkauttamme,
eikä meidän olisi pakko pelätä mitään

Täten ristin itseni uudeksi Quijoteksi
sillä hulluja jättiläisiä jokaisessa muodossaan
on tämä kotimme täynnä

Kootkaamme koko tietoisuutemme
pirstoutuneeksi, yleväksi Jumalaksi;
yksin olemme näkymättömiä hulluja,
yhdessä taas visionäärien divisioona

Raivokkaat kartoittajat,
taistelkaa rinnallani.

Pikainen arvostelu:
Koin tämän animaatiodokkarin hyvin väkevänä, pisti miettimään syviä asioita. Tykästyin kovasti, suosittelen ihan kaikille.

Tässä vielä lisätietoa.

Assembly committee OKs bill to legalize marijuana

Eilen tehtiin historiaa.

Suosittelen jokaista mielensä nyrjäyttämisestä pitävää lukemaan Scott Adamsin (kyllä, se Dilbert-sarjista tekevä jäbä) teoksen "God's Debris". Voit lukea sen tästä.



Guttersniper's quick, capsule review: Mikäli osaa englannin kielen perusteet, niin kirja on helppolukuinen, asiapitoisuudeltaan selkeä, provosoiva, informatiivinen ja - mikä tärkeintä - mielenkiintoisesti kirjoitettu. En viitsi spoilata, joten sanonpahan vaan, että nautin suuresti tämän lukemisesta. Kuten Adams itse sanoo:

"You might love this thought experiment wrapped in a story. Or you might hate it. But you won’t easily get it out of your mind. For maximum enjoyment, share God’s Debris with a smart friend and then discuss it while enjoying a tasty beverage."

Väkevää.

Te ihanat ihmiset. Vautsivau <3

Drunk 4-Year-Old Steals Christmas Presents

!!!

Tässä vielä suomeksi.

I

The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who seared my childhood.

II

I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come."
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.

That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.

And then it was too late,
Because the beauty a child has,
And the beautiful things it learns before its birth,
Were shed, like moth-scales, from me.

III

I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There were always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingy little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine—
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.

That long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops—
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.

How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days—it was always wet—
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.

The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.

There was nothing else to see—
It was all so dull—
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.

And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans—dead also.
There was the sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.

I was like a moth—-
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.

IV

At school it was just dull as that dull High Street.
They taught me pothooks—
I wanted to be alone, although I was so little,
Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness,
Away somewhere else—

The town was dull;
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull—
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.

And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had the Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it—"
That's what I heard people say.

I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms,
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed—
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.

There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobollo
Of Italy.

V

I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.

That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.

Olen sanaton.