In Hinduism it is said to find all that is not God, and what remains is God. This principle also applies to a box of which we do not know if it exists or not. So we could name all that is, and this how we started to find what cannot be named to be name the box. However, if we cannot define a border by seeing it how can we name anything else and miss it thus?

Alternatively we could imagine the box as a space, not as a square of course, but as a space with an inner reflective surface. Now all we need to do is create a sound, so distinct is creates an Echo. There where no echo is, is the inner-self of the box. Where “time” passes to find the Echo we know where the border is. So we create a Map. Now we need to find the “sound” and a way to “hear”.

Question: What is an Echo?

Cold separated year pass by and sons of sons of grow, eat, sow and plow. Now a major with shiny shoes asks the village: “Now where such abundance does comes from, are our prayers answered”. Names follow, fences mended, hushed down are the buzzing of pesky insects.

Forward steps kin of kin with the pointing finger: “Provided thou art from fields we dare not name”

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The challenge is the following title: Pastoral Foraging Tricks

I have circled this hill several times, embracing it by my stride. Her giggles hang in the air, like small bells on annoying insects. Yet how far I look up, nor over the lands, nor tracking my tracks for her tracks, she is not to be found. A crow mocks my challenge lost.”

But crow sees a girl looking up lying in a shallow pit on top of a hill…

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The challenge is the following title: The Grapevine

“In poor shape we are my dear Love”, whispered the freighter’s Shipper seamlessly through his hissing teeth. Escaping steam was his answer while rushing wetness promised a salty goodbye.

“Our poor condition bids us farewell, my freighter”.

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The challenge is the following title: The Faithless Veil

Fur bounces through, one of the four hundred has returned, with blurred vision staring at the Raven. Complicated signals communicate the Rabbit’s excitement, the new visitor has come.

Old world versus the new, the decline of dragons sees the light of lions. A stalemate stare holds the promise.

Oh yes, they have finally met.

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How lovely! I’ll challenge with the following title: The Changeling’s Shoes.

Sounds resonate through the forest, something is up. No longer a senseless peace will drive inaction, sharp directed action, as adrenaline fueled hunting, drifts uneasy in and out of focus.

A long tongue flicks a beetle lazily of a branch. Deaf it can’t small its way, but a vibration of tension catches its wildly rotating eye. Will it tell me a story, will I ever be challenged…

My view is one of rest. I am sitting on a high, in grass covered plain with in front of me a steep abyss. underneath rocks. The sea climbs my rock, finds it to steep, falls back and tries again. The rest of sea stretches in front of my until infinity and waits years for its turn.

The grass under my hands feels cool and a gale moves my long hairs. If I look up I see unknowing clouds float by. They are hurrying in the same direction. My back is that direction. A few ships are searching floatingly for fish. I myself worked on such ships and mis the people that used to work with me. I am sitting her alone because the sea is not always quiet . I am sitting alone here because I was lucky. Loneliness due to luck. Loneliness due to actions. Loneliness due to loneliness .

Hours I can sit here watching out over my girlfriend, my mistress and my sometimes enemy. If the sun caresses her in the morning she is beckoning, and I enjoy her beauty. If the wind is strong and jells at her, she screams back and covers herself with a blanket of waves and fogs of water over her skin. If it is dark, she is dark and then she ogles me sometimes with her lit up breakers.

I miss her, but hate her. The jealous sea did not only take my friends, but also my biggest love. Her I miss more. I am an old man, because I lived a lot, but now I looking back for many years. I am old for years. I am alone for years.

Nightfall slowly comes because the sun is putting itself out in the sea that looks at me quietly. I am now looking in the direction of the the clouds. My hair folds itself around my face and I walk to my house. A house that is located behind this plain in a slightly lower valley and I have lived there always.

Here I have spend my years.

There used to be my parents and brothers and my sister. Later, then to young for the sea, with my mother and my sister. After tat with my sister. Then alone.

I miss the evenings when I was no longer alone, talking about all things we could think of, looking at each other in silent moments. The laying against each other, the kissing and the deep moments of becoming one, somtimes for nights. If then the sun would come up and she would be in deep rest, I would look at her and my view was one of rest. Moments of peace. Moments of being together. Moments of complementation. I was not always lonely.

Broodingly I light the fire and prepare myself a meal. The night around me is a dark blanket and covers the light. The wind picks up slowly and softly it starts to rain.

It is disconsolate, eating for yourself.

Marco
(12 aug 1992)

Yesterday was not my day. The missing of that what animates me is difficult, it locks you up. You know what you should do, but the effort is to large. These thoughts are but little bubbles that explode in once head. Plop, plop…

Yesterday will never be my day. I know what will happen, everything will become different, everything changes. How fast does the grass grow when you know that. If only there was never a yesterday, but just a today. On that day I live often and wonder around some. I watch the animals, the people and feel their presence. I watch the trees, the bushes and the crawling in between, but never the grass.

I watch the sky which is blue now with white holes, holes in which you can look deeply, they make noises and talk with me. Today is during the day. The light feeds you, but unfortunately  also the grass.

Tomorrow I never know. I think that tomorrow is a kind of today, only longer. Maybe you are watched there and one has peace with it. Maybe one is in the sky and making noises. It has been silent for a long time. I would like to experience tomorrow. One is not as silent as yesterday, maybe one is not wandering, but everywhere at the same time. I would like to experience tomorrow, even if it just to forget yesterday.

These thoughts feed me more than the sun whose is beaming between white holes and screams with rays. From one point he screams. Yesterday he was not screaming. How else could it be. Yesterday there was to much grass. The grass that wriggles in that what it calls wind, an allay today. Yesterday is an enemy. But that he always was. Yesterday is a night.

Marco
(04 aug 1992)

Wizards with fame, fallen angels some man say.
Cloaked among people their works collide
with the resurrection of mystics in men.
“Ah”, would the philosopher say, “is that not the burden of men”.
but no one knows how the wizards play…

Marco

The outer self is dynamically influenced by interactions with its environment; this is also true for the inner self (with its inner environment). However, cross-talk between inner and outer self is an interaction known to both, but it is only just one of the interactions encountered. Interactions define the self, the soul is the ability to learn and infuse (understand) interactions, not the outcome of this process (as is the self). Interactions prevent a periodic repetitive pattern, thus the soul is in a finite-state.

Question: is the soul based on algorithms, does it follow the Halting principle, or does it circumvent this by understanding interactions as a subset of trivial statements (instead of non- trivial statements)?

Marco