Here’s a fun way to pass the time: think about someone you know well; maybe not your best friend, but somebody you work closely with, perhaps a cousin you see every now and then. Now ask yourself, “can he or she juggle?” Regardless of what you may or may not know about his or her juggling experience, I am willing to bet my N64 that you answered correctly. What you experienced during the contemplation of your conclusion is referred to as the Juggler’s Vibe - a principle that I believe I have discovered. I wish I could further explain and/or define it, but perhaps I do not need to. All I really know is that jugglers juggle, and they make it known in abstract ways.
When looking at a piece of artwork, I find myself thinking the question, “who did this?”. In some cases I know the answer, in some I do not, but in all I am very curious about the decisions made by the artist when creating the piece, and how his or her experiences guided and influenced these decisions. With patterns however, I do not even begin to ask myself this question - the idea of a creator vanishes. Patterns seem to have a life of their own, as if they composed themselves of their own volition, using their own rules, and continue to live by those rules, onward for eternity. It is extremely difficult to describe why I feel this way, for any justification or reasoning that I can conjure up does not nearly encompass the phenomenon. This is a paragraph though, so I’m expected to try: perhaps this is because patterns consist of individual entities surrounded by complementary entities, coexisting in a network that feels too grand for one man to have created. Therefore, the whole thing must have just happened on its own through evolutionary circumstances. Similar to cells dividing and multiplying while forming an organism, it is a naturally occurring process, not a manual one. Anyways, if you share this perspective, I would be very interested to hear what you have to say about it.* That’s all.
When I was a kid, I could not wait to have armpit hair. Those mysteriously positioned tufts were the ultimate mark of manhood; a sign that you had what it took to treat a woman right and then some. I ended up waiting longer than most guys I knew to get the goods, and eventually I became desperate. One Christmas, the only thing I asked for was a little sprout in the pit.* Perhaps a divine gift was bestowed upon me that day, for I located my first dark, thick, man-caliber armpit hair in the left crevice. With my arm raised toward the heavens and my legs locked in a power stance, I executed an uncharacteristically aggressive fist pump — pure elation. Nowadays, after having cultivated these crops far beyond a lone filament, one would think the hair provides a constant source of exhilaration, affirmation, and confidence. Incorrect - somehow I have become completely indifferent towards my armpit hair and I feel that this as somewhat of a shame. Shaving it off could result in a newfound appreciation, but after all those years of awaiting its arrival, this stuff is staying intact.
*I didn't ask my parents per se; I just asked in a general way.
LETTER to the bald
To every bald man and woman on Earth who is distraught that his or her hair is gone, I am here to tell you that it is not. Yes, that is correct, your hair lives on. Although it may no longer be atop your head or whatever body part it was formerly covering, it is out there - somewhere. Consider the possibility that the majority of your missing hair has been swept away to the recesses of your home and is residing peacefully with you at this very moment. Perhaps a lock made its way out to sea through the drain and is now floating amongst exotic marine life. Maybe you once lost a strand while on board an international jet, and that hair continues to navigate the globe day after day. Even if some of your misplaced hairs were somehow burned, the resulting particles of smoke surely drifted up towards the clouds, broke through the atmosphere, and are bravely pioneering the unknown frontier, all on your behalf. Let’s face it, your scalp was a prison.* Sure those hairs looked really good on your head, but were they happy? Maybe so, maybe not, but I guarantee that they are enjoying their freedom. If this is too much for you, I urge you to recognize that no matter where your hairs may be, they haven’t forgotten about you, where they came from, and how to get back home, right under your cap.
*A hair on a scalp is what inspired Plato to write The Allegory of the Cave.
Ice is very special for a number of reasons, most notably this one: when ice is touched by someone, the person can be absolutely certain it is indeed ice that he or she is feeling. This may sound like a phenomenally unremarkable observation upon first read, but this quality of the frozen substance is quite rare amongst types of matter. We live in a time when an exhaustive variety of natural and synthetic materials make up our environments. Many things are engineered to feel like other things, many things just happen to feel like other things, and many things feel unique yet remain unidentifiable through touch alone. With ice, there is no mistaking that initial dry chill immediately followed by the wet depression formed from your digit’s warmth. After your finger settles in, explore the impossibly smooth surface as you generate more aqueous matter with each motion. If you are still unsure of what that is (not that you would be), give your finger a lick, and the pure untainted taste will tell you. Imagine a world where touch was mankind's only sense — in this place, ice is sacred.
When it comes to the apparel kingdom, the t-shirt holds the throne. A t-shirt collection reveals the owner’s cultural interests, tourist ventures, color preferences, and of course, artistic taste. Not to mention, they are affordable, easy to stockpile, and everybody looks cool in one. So yes, t-shirts are amazingly simple things, but one aspect of them often bugs me: graphic placement. You see, people have faces, and I strongly believe that our faces should be the frontside focal points of our bodies. T-shirts commonly sport their graphics in large format, front and center - so when worn, the graphic usurps the role of the wearer's frontside focal point from the face. Now look, I love graphics, but faces really deserve to be our frontside focal points for masking our horrifying skulls all these years. That being said, I can't think of a better backside focal point than a well crafted graphic, as the backs of our heads leave something to be desired from a visual stimulation standpoint. Simply put: face on the front, graphic on the back — balance.