I have all kinds of music on my phone, but besides Alanis Morissette, I have only all the albums of Eminem on it. I don’t exactly know why I like his music; it is not his lyrics; he often goes so fast that it is hard to follow for me, it is probably his energy. I like watching YouTube videos where they react to and explain his music, which gives me another appreciation and understanding of why he is praised so highly. I think he has a lot of talent, and he found a lucrative outlet for that; but he is still the tortured artist he’s always been, but he also stayed true to himself and his art.
The green door on the first floor
I forget its color inside sitting
in front of the window
staring outside
eyes closed
watching the lights white inside
moving on the rhythm from the outside
I have made a new website where I collected some of the pictures I liked the most from my picture-a-day project. You can go to the site by clicking the link “pictures” under the Nochrisis logo and then “best of days.” Or follow this link: Nochrisisphotos.com
I am now on day 2349, but sometimes I post more pictures in one day, so there are around 3300 photos to be found in the posts on this blog. I don’t always take pictures daily, but I edit the pictures on the day I post them. I have so my routines while editing pictures, but I have to say that it is still a creative process for me. Most of the time, I set some kind of time limit, not only to save some time, but the result of your creativity often benefits from limiting yourself in time, and other boundaries, is my experience. Writing the little poem-like texts with each picture has also never been a problem. Each picture has given me some kind of inspiration, and most of the time, a sentence will pop up in my head, and that’s the one I write down. It happens very seldom that I have to erase that first sentence because I like the challenge of sticking with it. I often take out words once I think I am finished; this leaves the poems short and to the point and not really poetic in the traditional sense, I think, but who am I to judge? Writing these little poems or texts is just fun to do, and it makes me smile each time I think I am so clever…
19 Morality makes stupid. – Custom represents the experiences of men of earlier times as to what they supposed useful and harmful – but the sense for custom (morality) applies, not to these experiences as such, but to the age, the sanctity, the indiscussability of the custom. And so this feeling is a hindrance to the acquisition of new experiences and the correction of customs: that is to say, morality is a hindrance to the creation of new and better customs: it makes stupid.
35 Feelings and their origination in judgments. – ‘Trust your feelings!’ – But feelings are nothing final or original; behind feelings there stand judgments and evaluations which we inherit in the form of feelings (inclinations, aversions). The inspiration born of a feeling is the grandchild of a judgment – and often of a false judgment! – and in any event not a child of your own! To trust one’s feelings – means to give more obedience to one’s grandfather and grandmother and their grandparents than to the gods which are in us: our reason and our experience.
55 ‘Ways’. – The supposed ‘shorter ways’ have always put mankind into great danger; at the glad tidings that such a shorter way has been found, they always desert their way – and lose their way.
You wonder out there
and I can only see you
a being nothing
For the last few weeks, I have been reading books about child development and how we grow up and become the adults we are. I don’t do this without reason; I still wonder why I have such an interest in who and what we are. I know that most people have questions and, on occasion, also pursue these, but for me, it’s something I do every day. I have not done this my whole life; before philosophy, I was curious about many things, and I pried open all the toys I got to see what was inside. Later this curiosity made me look inside myself because I broke down and wanted to know why. I was born with a more than average curiosity, you might say.
Personal tragedies can often be a reason for some soul searching, but most people I know moved on once life was on the rails again and demanded their attention again. I’ve never stopped, and I think it’s because I was always curious and maybe slightly obsessive. But if it is just part of me to be this interested in philosophy and the search for what’s inside, why would I then write a book about what I learned if like-minded people are the only ones that read it?
We humans are, in essence, self-centered beings. We look at the world from a specific standpoint, uniquely ours, because of our experiences and a mostly unconscious feeling that other people are not really like us*, not really there, you could say. We mostly assume that other people are real because they do like we do, but all our experiences and hidden thoughts are only ours and are an impregnable wall between us and the other. This is the reason, I think, why it is so hard for me to imagine why other people are not as enthusiastic about philosophy as I am. I can’t penetrate their mind (Are they even real?) and can only project my experiences onto them.
I know that this is one way of looking at this problem; the fact is that most people are not interested in philosophy and asking the hard questions to one’s self. So besides my self-interest, what is the reason for me to write about my thoughts? I believe that it is important, and if more people would think twice about why they have certain opinions, the world would be a better place. I also don’t have the Illusion that what I have to say is something special or unique, I just say it slightly different than others have done it a thousand times before. I just wonder if it is possible to change people from not so curious about why we are what we are to enthusiastic questioners about why they believe and do the things they do.
There is a lot of negative energy
when I get close to you
or you to me
and that is strange
because I also see the positive energy
streaming in you
maybe it's my stands
or memory of you
that makes me avoid
touching both of your directions
at the same time
The streets are gray and not colorful like my house.
I wonder why the streets are gray and not colorful.
I almost never see my house for a long time from the outside, but the streets I do.
Today you look quiet for the last time alone
your house still filled with visitors
the memory of this air already fleeing
tomorrow you will look to the left
say yes
and the visitors will be gone
The clicking of the clock
it is our only reminder
that we divided time in tiny steps
tiktoktiktoktiktoktiktoktiktok
is it a coincident that the invention of this rhythm to our end
coincided with our search for happiness on this earth
Nochrisis 