Involvement

Let’s consider what it means to be involved in this world. I mean that in a very literal and existential way. First, break down the word “involve.” The suffix in- is pretty simple. It means “in.” Okay, and “volve” comes from the Latin roots volvere, meaning “to turn.” So “involve” means something like “to turn in.” That sounds like you might turn in, as if going to bed. Or rather you might be looking inward, inside yourself, seeking insight. But what about in the idea that we mentioned first, as being involved in the world?

Let’s get metaphysical. Martin Heidegger, a German existential philosopher, made this same point in his book Being and Time. If you’re fluent in German, I suggest you read it in its native tongue because the English version is hard enough. The idea here is that being involved in the world consists of a kind of turning. It’s turning. You’re turning. You’re interacting. It’s interacting. And as it turns and you turn, you begin to realize that the involvement between you and the world cannot be done separately from one another. The two are inherently intertwined. We are all part of the weave, cut from the same fabric, if you will. And the world is this weave.

And in this intimate revolution between you and the world, you will find that because the world is so involved (and remember our definition of involve—the turning in) with you, it is as much within you as it appears to be outside of you. Let that one gel for a while.

The Zen of Zin

It’s definitely been longer than I intended since I posted last. I’ve been researching cameras. I’d like to provide you with pictures taken first hand by yours truly. Furthermore, I’ve been setting up the professional stage for marketing myself as a writer/journalist—business cards, self-addressed stamped envelopes (SASE for those of you in the biz), and even a shiny new resumé.

But this is all boring stuff of the “behind the scenes.” You’re probably wondering, “where’s the outsider’s view?” Well here it is. It’s something that I’ve been considering for a while. It’s a similie actually. It consists of two things that I hold dear. The first is the momentous thing we call “Life,” and the other is the fabulous thing that I’ve learned so much about and so much from. There isn’t much to it on the surface, but as you get into it, there’s a whole realm of intricasies, complexities, and delicacies involved. I am of course, referring to wine. And the lesson is this: everything you needed to know about life you can learn from wine.

Living is about action. Not passivity. Many drink their wine like they live their lives. So hopefully they’re good drinkers—sensitive, cognizant, and moderate. Those who take their life by the mouthful can’t handle the intoxication. They binge and are sickened, running about in a disillusioned state and have to deal with the hangovers later. I’m not saying life shouldn’t be wild or even crazy at times; I’m saying that you’ll be sorry if you’re not careful to pay close attention to the details, to hang on to them while you can, and let them go when they pass.

My motto these days is to live earnestly fervent... or fervently earnest. I haven’t decided yet. And I learned that from wine. When I drink it, I am partaking in an activity, and I stress the term ACTION because this tasting should not be taken passively. Not by any means. You have to grab the sensations while you can (but not forever; probably more on that in a later post). I don’t sip without knowing the character intimately. Sometimes it’s easy to forget to taste, and to smell, and to look and feel the body and sense the finish (When you’re in it, it’s a lot like good sex. That’s another metaphor, maybe in another post). So try. Try to stay with it. The difference is the same as between hearing and listening. Listening requires attention, awareness.

The finish is an especially interesting thing. You’re not really tasting the presence of anything, but rather the lack, or the loss of a presence. It’s like a spirit that lingers after the body dies. You’re tasting the Nothing of wine. Kind of Zen, right? Try it with the latest zinfindel I tasted, the Zen of Zin, a California wine. You’ll be tasting the Nothing of Zen. Trippy, huh? I’ll leave you to figure that one out.

Where the Dragons Fly

I step out into my lawn. It’s moist on my feet, and soft and springy too. It’s overgrown and teeming with life. The grass blades shimmer in the breeze and I look down between my ankles and find smallest dragonfly I’ve ever seen—no longer than an inch. His tiny red body contrasts with his bright green eyes. And his wings aren’t perpendicular to his body like other dragonflies. They fold behind his back, parallel with his slender body, and I can’t even see them when he was airborne. He is silent.

He wafts around the blades of grass sticking up among the others and bumps into a tiny beetle sunbathing at the top of a blade. He floats over to another blade and plucks an aphid from the tip, but I don’t realize it’s an aphid at first. In fact I don’t even see it cradled between his six legs. The dragonfly secures himself vertically on another blade. He pulls the aphid, which is struggling now, up to his mouth. It’s so small I can’t even see him really eating it, but it slowly disappears and wiggles in his clutches. It’s a big meal for such a little guy. The aphid probably fills his entire thorax, the segmented body part between the head and the abdomen. He discards the wings of the aphid and they flutter down through the forest of grass, down into the dirt where the dead things are. Soon the whole aphid is gone, and I can see him slurp up the last leg like a noodle of spaghetti.

You really should check out your backyard sometime. I had never known the seemingly mundane could be so exotic.

The Cosmological Principle

The name of this blog stems from a concept that I find to be fascinating and sacred. The Cosmological Principle is actually an astronomical term, but I've expanded it with my own definition to grant a name to a concept that I've been pondering for years. According to the/my Cosmological Principle, in an infinite universe that is ever expanding and without borders, there is no center. Yet simultaneously, on the largest scales, the observed is a bit like the center simply because the universe is ever expanding.

This very loose and subjective definition lends itself to some interesting philosophical investigation. While there technically is no center (because there are no borders), the universe is still somehow growing (so it has an undefined, nonexistent shape, which is only necessary for the model which is flawed, naturally, but allows conception for our tiny brains). The specific location is representative of the true nature of the universe. In other words, the place that the observer senses is representative of the current reality. As convoluted as that may sound, that means, not that you are the center of the universe, but that your center is the universe. The center, the infinite, is here.

In an ever expanding, borderless universe, you might wonder what might happen should you make an excursion to the "edge" of the universe. Should you cross said "edge" you'd show up on the opposite side of the universe. We don't actually have any models to conceive the idea. Basically, it's like walking around the block, except you pass through a portal and show up on the other side, seamlessly and without provocation. The ultimate thought here is that wherever you go, there you are... because of the Cosmological Principle.