Name: Ianthe M. Belisle Dempsey
Age: 17
Favorite philosopher: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Age: 17
Favorite philosopher: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Been there
Time travel
And, yes!!
I say that time travel
Really does already exist
But not through the sciences
And through physics
But it exists within the power
Of our own minds
To illuminate our own memories
And now through some
Subliminal hypnotic state of mind
One can recede back
Into one's own previous life
Not to extract precise, minute details
But to re-inhabit vague transcendental experiences of pre-existential... optimism
A time before any ability to reason
Is actually set
A time before logic covers
All the dimensions of our thinking
And if we're lucky
We can even dissolve back
To a time of glorious, superhuman
Space and time
A time when all things seem possible
Time travel
And, yes!!
I say that time travel
Really does already exist
But not through the sciences
And through physics
But it exists within the power
Of our own minds
To illuminate our own memories
And now through some
Subliminal hypnotic state of mind
One can recede back
Into one's own previous life
Not to extract precise, minute details
But to re-inhabit vague transcendental experiences of pre-existential... optimism
A time before any ability to reason
Is actually set
A time before logic covers
All the dimensions of our thinking
And if we're lucky
We can even dissolve back
To a time of glorious, superhuman
Space and time
A time when all things seem possible
check these sweet tunes.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
spontaneous existentialism as a philosophy
The story is this;
Today, while waiting in Millennium Train Station in Chicago, I spotted a man in his early twenties sporting excellently pink and blue hair across the waiting area from myself and my 3 travelling companions. He plugged in his iPod and opened a book. I wondered what kind of music he listened to, and what he was reading.
Rachel and I started to discuss what we thought his life was like. We thought he went to DePaul, and was visiting his sister who was going to become an artist. We also decided that he was probably reading early Vonnegut and listening to obscure, underground tracks he got at a rave in Munich while studying abroad.
After a while of imagining, I posited an idea: we should write him a note.
So on the back of a Metra Electric train schedule, we penned (penciled, really) a note explaining how we'd been admiring his delightfully vibrant locks and the Vonnegut and Munich rave ideas. Rachel got up the courage to bring it over to him and say, "we wrote you a note."
We curiously watched him read it, and our hearts jumped with every chuckle or smile. We thought that was the end of our adventure in breaching the line of "stranger"--- but then he picked up a pen and flipped the schedule over and began to respond. You've no idea the excitement we harbored in that time.
His response was something like this:
I'm afraid you've overestimated me. I'm just listening to the new Raconteurs album, and I'm reading Forster. I've never been to Munich. A thousand apologies. My name is Charles.
We were ecstatic that this bond had been created between us strangers in this act of spontaneous existentialism. We'd created meaning where there had been none and invaded someone's essence for a few moments.
Our response was quick yet calculated. We explained that we'd come to Chicago looking for an adventure, and that starting a schedule-conversation with a random vibrant tress'd man was about that. We included a fortune from a fortune cookie that stated, DELIGHTFUL MYSTERIES FILL YOU [sic] LIFE.
He read it, smiled, and quietly tucked it into a red journal he retrieved, and returned to his book.
I was happy that this hadn't been yet another moment where I had wanted to do something like this and then backed down and regretted it later. I enjoyed this quite a bit.
We saw him again briefly, exiting the train to Hyde Park, but we all know Charles will never be a part of our life again.
Today marks the birth of and my participation in an act of spontaneous existentialism.
The story is this;
Today, while waiting in Millennium Train Station in Chicago, I spotted a man in his early twenties sporting excellently pink and blue hair across the waiting area from myself and my 3 travelling companions. He plugged in his iPod and opened a book. I wondered what kind of music he listened to, and what he was reading.
Rachel and I started to discuss what we thought his life was like. We thought he went to DePaul, and was visiting his sister who was going to become an artist. We also decided that he was probably reading early Vonnegut and listening to obscure, underground tracks he got at a rave in Munich while studying abroad.
After a while of imagining, I posited an idea: we should write him a note.
So on the back of a Metra Electric train schedule, we penned (penciled, really) a note explaining how we'd been admiring his delightfully vibrant locks and the Vonnegut and Munich rave ideas. Rachel got up the courage to bring it over to him and say, "we wrote you a note."
We curiously watched him read it, and our hearts jumped with every chuckle or smile. We thought that was the end of our adventure in breaching the line of "stranger"--- but then he picked up a pen and flipped the schedule over and began to respond. You've no idea the excitement we harbored in that time.
His response was something like this:
I'm afraid you've overestimated me. I'm just listening to the new Raconteurs album, and I'm reading Forster. I've never been to Munich. A thousand apologies. My name is Charles.
We were ecstatic that this bond had been created between us strangers in this act of spontaneous existentialism. We'd created meaning where there had been none and invaded someone's essence for a few moments.
Our response was quick yet calculated. We explained that we'd come to Chicago looking for an adventure, and that starting a schedule-conversation with a random vibrant tress'd man was about that. We included a fortune from a fortune cookie that stated, DELIGHTFUL MYSTERIES FILL YOU [sic] LIFE.
He read it, smiled, and quietly tucked it into a red journal he retrieved, and returned to his book.
I was happy that this hadn't been yet another moment where I had wanted to do something like this and then backed down and regretted it later. I enjoyed this quite a bit.
We saw him again briefly, exiting the train to Hyde Park, but we all know Charles will never be a part of our life again.
Ianthe. posted at 9:55 PM