ello!

whee i finally have material to blog about...

"I close my eyes and see a flock of birds. The vision lasts for a second or maybe less; I do not know how many birds I saw. Was its number definite or indefinite? This problem involves the existence of God. If God exists, the number is definite, because God knows how many birds I saw. If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because no one could have kept count. In this case, let's say I saw less than ten birds and more than one, but I did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds. I saw a number between ten and one, which is not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc. That integer is inconceivable, ergo, God exists."
- 'Argumentum Ornithologicum' by Jorge Luis Borges

this courtesy of Yvonne who showed me this problem to me from her Analytical Skills assignment...

and so i was like:

Regarding the first part of the argument, on counting. Counting and definition have no real connection to the existence of God. Whether or not God exists, there will be a number to the birds; we cannot say that if there is no one to count, then the number is indefinite, because it is not. It is indefinite only to us.

The second part of the argument draws a connection between God and the inconceivable. It is common to link God and religion with the inconceivable as both are acts of faith, faith being belief in that which cannot be proven. So it basically argues that if one saw birds, of a certain number that does not exist, to us, or in our surrent system of logic and thought, it is inconceivable, and thus proves the existence of God.

And this is where the argument fails. If it is inconceivable, is it not also indefinite? We equate an indefinite number with the non-existence of God do we not? Therefore, the two arguments, in being nestled so closely in theme and subject, are in conflict with with each other.

well well... it is after all the Argument of the Birds...

that was amazingly refreshing...

but of course my dear friends swimming through the peak of their academic careers now would all choose to disagree... they're all saying it's hectic and it's tough... and honestly...
i'm freaked out too...

moving on...

i think i've figured out why i've put written poetry to be put up here...

it's 'cos i, as a person,

let's repeat that...

it's 'cos I, as a person,

need to create... and since so far i've always been writing music... i can't put it up here and thus i can satisfy that sick need i have for approval... so i find other ways to have people fawn over me...
by writing...

i'm so damn screwed...
but aren't we all now...

bwahahaha...

anyways...

The Rosewood Sofa

I grew up within its arms so cold, so hard,
but blood-red, precious blood-red. Blouses with
chrysanthemum and carnation, proud and blooming,
but always thornless, clothed its cushions.
Mother-of-pearl inlays faced my back as I grew, and

I think they were beautiful, faces that showed pine and mountains, fishermen and
old villagewomen. I can't remember now.
Now, when I look back I see the wood's rose-hue aged and
blackened, wrinkles where grains of deep blood ran.
Old, enfeebled, it now hardly holds my weight; and I'm like

a springy shoot off its majestic trunk, a sapling from its fruit.
I am its love. And I will see
it age, its cushions tatter, its body break, and
die eventually,
and mourn.