Before getting swept away by the swift currents of pessimism, let me first state that it is yet another beautiful day in Southerly Southland. The sun is shining and we exist, after all. Should that not be enough?
Regardless of how we define "existence" whether our collective experiences are very real just as we perceive, or if we're merely a brain in a vat with some evil mastermind scientist pushing buttons to allocate emotion and response and thought in general, at least it's all happening on some, fundamental level. Who cares what "existence" actually is and if our lives are a work of some sort of bizarre fiction?
Perhaps I am merely a voice inside of Robert Lochaven's head. Does that make any of my perceived experiences less substantial? What if it is my hot breath fogging the outside of the glass? Perhaps it is our reflections that are self aware with life experiences and it is we that go away once the light is doused. If so, then would not the shattering of the glass be considered murder or suicide, or maybe even a form of murder-suicide?
If I am not real, how can Bill Murray be my hero and how would I lose a race to a track star with wet shorts? Did I not step on a baby duck or fall in the river or offer false hope to a dying girl's friend or watch my father burn his dream home or time travel or vow to jazz my hands every day for an entire year?
I do not suppose it matters much where the experiences of my life originate, so long as I believe they have been experienced.
Commuting to my place of business on this beautifully cynical morning, the sun shines down, filling my veins with warmth. This will be my final such commute for an entire week as I welcome a brief erosion in the pattern.
I will do my best to report all hand jazzings through the duration of this much needed vacation to keep both readers completely up to speed on the travels, misadventures and Jazz Hands worthy experiences in the coming week or so, whether they actually exist or not.
Regardless of how we define "existence" whether our collective experiences are very real just as we perceive, or if we're merely a brain in a vat with some evil mastermind scientist pushing buttons to allocate emotion and response and thought in general, at least it's all happening on some, fundamental level. Who cares what "existence" actually is and if our lives are a work of some sort of bizarre fiction?
Perhaps I am merely a voice inside of Robert Lochaven's head. Does that make any of my perceived experiences less substantial? What if it is my hot breath fogging the outside of the glass? Perhaps it is our reflections that are self aware with life experiences and it is we that go away once the light is doused. If so, then would not the shattering of the glass be considered murder or suicide, or maybe even a form of murder-suicide?
If I am not real, how can Bill Murray be my hero and how would I lose a race to a track star with wet shorts? Did I not step on a baby duck or fall in the river or offer false hope to a dying girl's friend or watch my father burn his dream home or time travel or vow to jazz my hands every day for an entire year?
I do not suppose it matters much where the experiences of my life originate, so long as I believe they have been experienced.
Commuting to my place of business on this beautifully cynical morning, the sun shines down, filling my veins with warmth. This will be my final such commute for an entire week as I welcome a brief erosion in the pattern.
I will do my best to report all hand jazzings through the duration of this much needed vacation to keep both readers completely up to speed on the travels, misadventures and Jazz Hands worthy experiences in the coming week or so, whether they actually exist or not.
Today's Jazz Hands are quite possibly the work of some bizarre fiction.
Day three-hundred and twenty-six complete.
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