"The truth is a trap: you can not get it without it getting you; you cannot get the truth by capturing it, only by its capturing you."—  Søren Kierkegaard

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You could tell that truth had captured him a while back;

The truth'd spun a web of lies to lure him right in.

He'd started out by staring at the web, wondering what harrowingly incredible creature could have concocted such beauty.

At first he'd thought himself an insect to her. He was terrified but thrilled as she emerged; slender nimble legs, shiny thorax, bulbous abdomen. Truth was humongous; far far bigger than he; ominous but fascinating and still somehow so vulnerable. He needed to observe her, to protect, to understand. He was still thinking he could escape if he wanted, right up until she embraced him.

By the time he knew he was a spider himself it was too late; she'd already mated with him; gloriously bonded to his body, to his conscience and his memories - that which he rewrote in her image. She'd got into his very soul, shining in his eyes. He'd endured the bliss of believing in her.

Now truth eats him. Eats him up.

You can tell. You can see it. He winces as she drains him dry.

You're staring at him, but it doesn't even matter, not after what you saw.

You're allowed to look, he gave you permission by being his own tender self.

Maybe he'll look over; maybe it's his turn to capture you?

Maybe your turn to be caught?

But he won't, that's not his role. He knows it. He won't lie to you, no matter how gorgeous the webs he could spin. You're no insect to him, nor a lesser spider. Just another truth that he'll never risk catching; Never risk changing with his knowing eyes.

You start to love him deeply in that moment, in the extreme way; foolhardy, trusting.

The way only a stranger or a child can love.

"I adore spiders." You say, both of you human suddenly, young, staring at the web between the park bench slats. Silently you implore a response from the void of him, berating yourself all the while; you'd thought about it far too long to sound this daft. You wouldn't blame him if he up and walked away.

"Me too," He says, "But aren't they scary?"

"Yup." you grin moronically, ecstatic that he replied.

"Being alive makes up for what life does to you." --Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

The summers make up for what New England winters do to you. --me

Babies make up for what libido does to you. --me

Nightly embraces make up for what love does to you. --me

Not dying makes up for what modern medicine does to you. --me

Having money makes up for what money does to you. --me

Your good looks, fascinating charm, and incredible strength make up for what alcohol does to you. --me

Spicy chile going down makes up for what spicy chile coming out does to you. --me

Someone's guilt makes up for what someone does to you. --me

Parking in great spots makes up for what old age does to you. --me

Having the last laugh makes up for what being laughed at does to you. --me

Having no aches or pains makes up for what a lifetime without competitive sports does to you. --me

I could go on and on... --a life well lived.

i looked out the window on a train and i could've swore i saw you, but it was just a small bird dancing near the tracks.

i was thinking about you after that and the thought shot joy through me like heroine. i started crying. if you had have been there i might've hit you. maybe i would've hugged you. i definitely would've wanted to kiss you. the thought turned into a daydream and you were sitting comfortably in my mind.

i punched you in the nose. your lip split and there was blood all over your face. dripping down your chin in a way that proved how much i love you and how painful that is.

my legs were kicking and my arms were flailing and when i stopped, you were on your knees in front of me. we were verging on religious. you were so silently devoted to me in that moment. i could've punched you again and again and thrown you against the window and kicked your teeth in and you would've thought 'how merciful a god to keep me alive'.

i found myself kneeling in front of you with angry tears in my eyes, gripping your wrists. i thought about breaking them. trying to snap them single handedly. i pulled them to my chest and kissed the blood from your lips. i wiped it off your chin and your neck and i cradled your head, savouring the taste of your blood in a malicious, perverted sort of way. and loving you in a way so tender and pure jesus would have been put to shame.

the bird flew away and the train started moving again.

"..It's all a state of mind; Whether or not you'll find, that place down there or heaven." Sammy Davis Jr.

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Sylvester Stallone did not understand . perhaps this could be expected: take a seasoned thespian of brilliance and panache, and try to explain to him the importance of what you are asking: to show you the contents of his pockets. of course he would start quizzically raising eyebrows.( in this case only one. the other had its own mind, rising or falling only when it suited its seperate, calculated purposes).

the great actor looked at me still. his expression was part disgust, part confusion, and part an emotion that you rarely see; it was a kin to the way turkeys observed each other's snood, waiting for the engorgment that shall declare rivalry-but it has not happened yet. a sort of strange impatiance.

"so, " he said "my good sir, you wish to peruse the contents of my pockets? for what reason, do you want this sullied request granted. i am not in the habbit of regularly obliging nor am i in the least comporting with such venality! begone , if thou cans't explain your wish more clearly!"

and so i told him. that i am aspiring to be accepted among the ranks of the great writists who are regered to by many names, though my preference being theprosedotcomniks. it is there that i am requested to compose arricles that are truthful and meaningful, which is why i strain and fail invariably. the feeling of this inability to write is not different to being crushed under a heavy rock.

"but, sir, i beg, that if you shall oblige me to record honestly your varied miscellenii that inhabit your pockets, then perhaps, i shall would be worthy of being among them."

my words did not fall upon deaf ears, and he proceeded to remove his smoking jacket. to my amazment, i saw that inner lining was in fact a series of pockets, all neatly contrived to provide the actor with all materiél required for his numerous endevours. and so i painsatakingly peoceeded, with his help and ellucidation to chronical the contents of all his pockets:

first, from one pocket he produced a cheap, thin nylon poncho, the kind you are obliged to buy in certain amusement parks in the tropics of Florida. though those are seldom kept for long, mainly due to their low quality, this one, bearing the stamp of a rodent whose name shall not mentioned for fear of litigious reprisals, seems to've had a special importance for the great thespian, and as such was kept folded neatly. Sylvester stalone proceeded to unfurl this article of protective clothing and lay it on the ground. it received all other items which resided within his countless pockets.

2 packets of instant coffee, and 3 packets of honey ("a true gentlman drink honey and eschews the plebeian sugar" he explained. )

a coil of strong nylon fishing line.

an assortment of hooks, bobbs, lures and weights. held in a small plastic container. ("i find no need to carry bait, when a pinprick worth of blood draws the greater sharks.")

a folded script for the upcoming film "chief justice Dread" , onwhich the actor was most secretive.

the latest publication of the Massachusetts colony farmer's almanac.

a folded love poem, written by the artist's hand ( he did not allow me to record the receipient of the poem or the contents, but it was a poignent work of free verse.)

a patch kit.

three disposable earplugs. (quote: "working on set can irritate me")

a pack of baloons.

two slide rules.

first aid kit

an exercise book for learning the violin.

boot spoors (i try not to use them).

the partita to Tchaikovsky's 5th symphony.

a curved smoking pipe, and a satchet of tobacco.

a rhyming thesaurus

mesmerizing pendulum

a coding ring.

a bus timetable.

a leatherman

Herman Hesse "The Steppenwolf"

a pack of crayons

a picture of bearded wizards huddled in the rain under a single umbrella.

a box of 0.3mm drill bits.

chewing gum (strawberry and mint)

a pack of pistachios.

a large square of cheese cloth ("i make cheese")

a pocket watch

4 sticks of chalk , in an old metal candy box.

a foldable coat hanger.

a black key from a circa 1970 fender rhodes electric piano.

a magic spell , inscribed in veluum. ("he told me that if i cast it, i shall bring forth the a demon")

dental floss and a pack of fuzzy-tipped toothpicks.

a plastic toy of a lion

a 30wt LED light bulb

a small artichoke.

the deed to a small , two-bedroom in Boise, IN.

a nice looking pebble.

an uncallibrated seismometer in a knocked down state.

three ignition plugs.

a spool of teflon sealant.

a 10cc syrange, no needle.

suspenders.

a fingerprint dusting kit.

magnifying glass.

a calandar of 2011

a one-time code book.

moustach wax.

horse hair resin ("for the violin")

the boot piece from a standard monopoly set.

a picture of Bob Hoskins, signed.

two playing dice ("loaded , I'll admit")

a PBJ (Peanut butter, Bologna, Jelly) , and a box of coconut milk

"wait a minute, good sir, you put Bologna in a peanut butter sandwich?!?!"i asked the actor.

he did not answer, and smiled misteriously.

he did not answer when i asked again. demanding an explanation for this blasphemy.

it was then that he produced from another pocket a small flat, shiny surface. at first i thought this be a glossy photo. inded as it moved against the light it gleamed and shimmered. but on closer inspection, i coukd see that this was in fact a two dimentional tesseract, created to imprison a person.

it was Sylvester Stallone!

i looked up, and could see that the face of famous performer, was changing rapidly, melting and reforming into the face of an unfamiliar , sinster man.

it was obviously not Sylvester Stallone!

"who are you?" i asked. tried to make it not sound impolite or impatient. i was alreardy very worried that my goal of describing the contents of Sylvester Stallone's pockets could not be truthfully realized. i've seen two-dimentionally entrapped persons ( TDEPs) before and it is impossible to get them to say anything sensible.

"i am Fudo. bearer of the Stallone, holder of the Hoskins autograph, eater of Bologna. "

"i see. well nice to make your acquaintance" i said. "my name is Claude Hamburger"

it was clear that i was in moderate danger, depending on the outcome of this conversation.

"this is a lie. you are no Hamburger. i have it on good authority, that you are the talentless, spelling-dunce, Mr. Wastbasket. you can hide nothing from me! ha ha ha!" he rambled in laugh that was cartilage-ossifying. i felt my scrotum tightening, as it would in anticipation of great danger.

"you have me at a lie, mighty wizard. " i said finally, maintaining a confident tone as much as i could. "i merely wanted to ascertain your own talents, which are considerable. "

he similed graciously. i have learned long ago, that when dealing with evil wizards, one must weigh your steps carefully and interweave supplication and audacity. they despise flattery, but neither do they abide by outright show of weakness.

"indeed, my talents are many, and certainly one of them is holding in my poxkets whatever your PUNY imagination could dredge and scrape. "

"so all these items were illusioray, mighty mage?"

"not at all!! there are some things here which are of great value to many. but if you could think of something, that could conform to the size of a pocket, then i could make it real. "

and now, dear reader, you may interject. you might say that like the fabled puss in boots, i was presented with an opportinity to bring about the undoing of a great wizard by appealing to his pride, and manipulating him into producing something out of his pockets, which shall ruin him or otherwise defeat him.

however, you must realize the fact that i was not dealing with a mere warlock, but with one of the most powerful wizard in the universe. as such, he would have seen through my feeble machinations, and perhaps wouls have turned whatever i wished into my own doom.

besides i still had some hope of getting to the bottom of the real Stallone's pockets.

and so i said thus: "i take it, from your words that the Bob Hoskins autograph is one of those treasures which you acquired out of merit and not wizardry."

"'tis so" said he and smiled proudly. i gelt great envy at that moment. and who wouldn't?.

"and the entrapped Sylvester?"

"indeed, that too. well i have entrapped him through magic of the darkest kind. yet it was in now way done to impress or for show. "

"i would never have implied otherwise, mighty Fudo. " i said. "it is just, that i am still wondering how ever shall i accomplish my quest to report and survey the contents of his pockets?"

"oh...i see, your conundrum. " said the wizard, sympathetically.

"could you , perhaps restore him to a three dimentional form. it need be only temporarily. this will allow me to.."

"to survay his pockets. i understand your meaning. " he interrupted.

"than will you kindly do so?"

"it shall be my pleasure. all this talk of pockets, has gotten me quite curious as well"

and so, the great wizard, took from the old metal box of candy a single purple stick of chalk. he took it in his hands and drew with the chalk a septa-dexigram (a star of seventeen points) .

it was a feat of geometry as well as skill. i was impressed mainly with the fact that not once had the stick fractured. a thing which has caused me great woe in my professional life.

after the shape was flawlessly created and a furter two rings drawn around it in orange chalk, the wizard carefully placed the two-dimentional entrappment of Sylvester Stallone upon the ground.

"i shall begin presently. know thst he will remain in three dimentional form for but a short moment. you shall have to work to your purpose with great haste. er, he returns to his two dimentional form. "

"i understand, great wizard. i shall hasten to check his pockets then. " i said tensing .

the mage began to cast his magic. you'd expect it to be some kind of arduous period of mumbling and cursing interspersed with cruel laughter. but it was not so. the great archmage Fudo need no such cheap theatrics. he just pointed his finger at mall figure which so resembled a photograph. he cooly stared at the thing and his eyebrows moved in expressive concentration. i realized then, that the innitial indipendent movement of his eyebrows was just a part of his impersonation of the age'd actor.

the space above the entrapped Stallone began to bubble and fume. a light of unimaginable terror shobe from the murk, and then, the real Sylvester Stallone was standing there.

i wasted no time. following the advice of the great Sammy Davis junior, i set about to find what it was that the thesoian's pockets contained.

i found just three things:

a set of keys

a wallet

and....a..... Peanut butter, Bologna and jelly sandwich!!!

i took all three objects to the wizard. he appreciated my loyalty and subserviance and curtailed his plans to entrap me in a similar two dimentional tesseract.

i slithered way, not daring to turn my back to him. until he was gone in the mysts of great distance.

a

Galileo’s mathematization of nature strips off the capacity of matter to experience. They built the idea of dualism that separates the physical body with the primary qualities such as shape, size, and motion to the soul with the secondary quality which are the colors, odor, and taste. They only considered the primary qualities of nature in order to mathematize nature and put values on matter itself.

Which philosophically, affected us humans on how we value matter since we were taught that the only way to mathematicise and create value of a matter is through the primary qualities, and eventually since more and more people stop believing in religion, we lost touch on the idea of the soul along with our secondary qualities. We put values only depending on shape, sizes, and actions. We forgot that the value of a matter doesn’t depend only on primary qualities but rather or along with our experience as a consciousness itself.

That’s why I like panpsychism, it unifies the picture of nature as it is, without having to consider the value of one matter to the other- the proper appreciation of matter itself

"We shall see what we shall see when we shall see it."

But I do have to ask, what shall we see? And just when shall we see it? The end of the month, middle of the night, next year?

Upon further reflection, just who is "we"? Is that you and me? You and someone else? Me and 219 strangers waiting to buy hotdogs from a blind vendor?

One thing this brings about is that for every answer to a question, a new question pops up looking for an answer and as always, the cycle continues.

So, I close with, "We shall see what we shall see when we shall see it."

Can you see what I'm saying here?

“We hold these truths to be self-evident...life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

That's a nice sounding phrase but what exactly is meant by self-evident truth? Is it some common standard that everybody agrees is inviolate, like driving on the right (unless you live in England)? Could it be some moral statement reported in the holy book of an all-powerful deity, assuming we accept this deity? Is it something we're compelled to do without needing a reason, like mother saying because I said so.

Aristotle had no problem with truth. “If we say a thing is,” he told us, “and it is that thing, we have spoken the truth.” Okay so far but can we unpack that remark?

I sit at a table, and by calling it a table, he claims I've spoken the truth. My problem is it's a limited truth. I haven't said anything about the table's design, colour, composition or atomic structure. When I do, my table becomes becomes progressively more unique. With a full and complete description, this table is like no other, no longer needing a generic label. For me to say “table” is to apply a label universally recognized among English speakers as something with the quality of “tableness.”

How circular. Some mythical old white dudes write “tableness” in Webster's and that becomes the agreed label, and if I use this label correctly, I have spoken the truth? We need something better than that.