Trains Carry Loads

A little bit of something. I suppose that’s how everything begins. Things can seem so simple when they are written right before your eyes.

I wrote the following on a napkin while making my way to San Diego from San Luis Obispo via the glorious American public transit system:

So they say, or so I’ve heard many good ideas start/begin on napkins. Well here I am on a nine hour train ride back to San Diego from San Luis Obispo; writing on this fucking napkin. Oh, and might I mention that I am currently finishing a bottle of red wine, the time is exactly 4:35 pm on the 27th day of April, 2008. I have just eaten a really shitty hot dog accompanied by a large arrogant bastard ale. What I am eluding to is, that there are only so many ways you can end up writing anything longer than a telephone number on a napkin; undoubtedly a majority of writing done on napkins involves inebriation of some sorts. I make this assumption on the fact that if you were planning on writing some shit down, you’d probably be prepared.

At least I always try to carry a pen, a habit I developed as an adolescent stoner. Looks like were approaching Santa Barbara now; Train might be getting a bit more crowded soon. The irony about to be written brings me great delight in my eased state of mind; by this I mean that I must stop my train of thought to indulge in some “standard” reality and finish my wine. I’ll be right back…cant exactly jump ship. Oh and I ought to continue reading this newspaper I’ve been reading. I will be writing about it later because it is very influential and motivating to this “moment”.

Is it bad (form) to switch subjects in the middle of a “literary piece”? Well, Depending on the style of the piece it doesn’t seem like it should be too big of a deal.

Travel is essential. Travel is essential because human society today as advanced as it seems, does not have a system available to replace learning thru 1st hand experience. Throughout my 21 years, 6 months and 24 days on this rock called earth, of which only the last year can I say that my brain has been allowed to function without self-impairment of some kind, have I been able to further affirm my belief that travel is one of the most valuable things anyone can do.

It’s not because of this short trip from San Diego to San Luis Obispo, which has hardly lasted over 12 hrs, that I put ink on this napkin. Rather it is the process of this journey, traveling on this slow-ass train, looking out and in on people who unknowingly have played a minuscule yet undoubtedly influential role in my life and perhaps now that you’re reading this writing, your life as well.

It may seem to some unlikely or impossible that people you have never met or seen could impact your life in such a direct, yet indirect way. Despite the potential for disbelief in this “connection” I will continue. It is these people; people everywhere, you and me, that make anything and everything possible. Not only for you, but also for those who went before, during and those to go after our lifetime.

It is because people can only be experienced fully thru 1st hand experience that travel is so important to efficient and effective learning. Because humans are able to make themselves available to the public in a variety of ways other than person-to-person contact, we must travel. Realize that any availability that one may choose to present themselves through can and will be done with much forethought. It is because of this that experiencing life, people being a large part of life, that one should, id rather say must, travel in order to learn/experience life and live as much as possible.

Okay, enough rambling; back to the newspaper articles I promised to write about. I almost never read, actually I never read. That is up until I created this blog. Since the creation of this blog I have read more than the prior 5 years combined, no joke. I must say that I am stoked! Reading is proving to be a great source of entertainment, knowledge and pleasure. I can finally see why people have kept it up for so long, haha, wow I’ve been missing out on the world for quite a while. Glad to be back.

As I was selecting a table in the café car of the train my newly acquired appreciation and interest in writing must have been swirling around my unconscious mind. Although I cant say that in my entire life I have read more than 20 newspaper articles, that’s an average of less than 1 a year if you discount the early years when one cant read. I found myself sitting down at the only table with a large clutter of newspaper.
Due to my track record with newspapers I was certainly not planning on reading one, but apparently the unconscious nuances in my brain had set me up for the contrary.

It wasn’t until someone asked if they could borrow some of “my newspaper” did I really acknowledge its existence right in front of me. I then thought to myself, “shit, if they’re going to read this thing I probably should too”. I gingerly picked up these awkward to handle “newspapers” and began searching through them for something that might interest me. Judging each section on its title, business, cars, etc I picked out two that I thought might be worthy for my annual newspaper reading session. I selected the Culture/Events section, something like that anyway, as well as the Travel section.

The first article I read was titled The Waiting, from the culture section, which was an article about Tom Petty reuniting with an old band he played in, called Mudcrutch. This article was quite fascinating. It referenced the, “good o’l days” and such, talking much about the now legendary artists who started in a garage way back when. As I continued to read on I began to imagine myself in a time when these band men were my age. It seemed that whenever the train turned it would shed a ray of light through the window across my paper, highlighting only the area that I was reading. The combination of the unique lighting circumstances, a gentle murmur of my fellow train mates and the red wine coursing threw my veins created a mood wishfully to not be forgotten.

With my reading engine on red line I moved to the next article, Seattle’s Stew by Irene Virbilla from the travel section. This article was about good restaurants in Seattle. I found it fairly ironic that one of the very rare times that I pick up a newspaper it happens to have an article about a place I plan on visiting in the very near future. This irony furthered my excitement as I dove into the article. Fascinated by food and the micro cultures that inevitably encircle it, I quickly became involved with the article. The pace of my reading (very slow) allows me to imagine myself in the situation being presented. The writer would mention how a glass of wine went well with a specific dish and I would take a drink of my own glass while imagining myself in this quaint Seattle restaurant that she so eloquently described. This in addition to the soft murmurs I mentioned earlier and my “participation” with the article transported me once again to another place. Although the only place I have set foot in Seattle is in the airport I felt like a local taking a tour through its many great restaurants. I kept the article and plan to reference it when I make my journey to Seattle, hopefully before this summer. That’s all for now, I think I might buy my first book sometime soon, and who knows maybe the next time we sit down for coffee I’ll be able to hold the newspaper without knocking the table over.

Finished with my reading session the train shortly arrived at Union Station in LA. I had previously talked with a conductor to find out where and when my connecting train to Irvine would arrive. I was informed that I would have about 40 minutes before getting on my second leg of travel to San Diego. The third was to be done by bus from Irvine to Solana Beach. I made my way thru union station and across the street where I found a Mexican fiesta, appropriate for a Sunday. I found an interesting Mexican restaurant and ordered two tacos w/ a beef stew of some sort as the featured item and a Corona. I sat outside close to the fiesta where traditional Mexican folk music and dance filled the sunset scene.

After quickly finishing my Corona and tacos I wandered over to the main stage where everyone was gathered watching what seemed to be the highlight of the night. I enjoyed watching the Mexican families with the abundance of little children hopping and dancing around to the music. I took a few pictures on my phone to add to my napkin scriblets and made my way back to union station. Once I got back on the train I once again sat in the café car, that’s where all the action is. An older Asian lady who was quite inquisitive accompanied me, as well as a guy only a little older than myself and two laid back Amtrak employees. To keep things interesting I ordered another bottle of red wine, the last cabernet they had. I sat down and began flipping through the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. Shortly after I began drinking my wine the guy similar in age to myself got himself a bottle of red wine, and the Asian lady got herself some sort of mixed drink that appeared to be a screwdriver. I knew it was going to be an interesting short haul from LA to Irvine. After a few minutes had passed with no new customers the Amtrak employees settled in amongst us and we began loading up. It seemed that we talked about nearly everything one can talk about, with an emphasis on travel by train of course. One of the employees enlightened us with a few stories from his 17 years of employment by Amtrak and the other cracked jokes every now and then. It was an enjoyable little evening in the café car that as we discussed would have preferably been spent by remaining on the train rather than getting on our connecting buses.

Eventually we arrived in Irvine and everyone poured out of the train and scrambled to their connecting buses. I had gotten a tip from the Asian lady who is must be a frequent traveler of the train, that it’s a good idea to be one of the first on the bus because they fill up often. I made it to my bus with ease and found a spot in the back next to the rear wheels where there was the most legroom. Once we were on our way I quickly zoned out and before I knew it we were arriving in Solana beach. Once calling for my pick up which was to be done by the night owl “magma”, I positioned myself on a large curb next to my backpack. A man started loading me up about the train system and asked why we had to take a bus rather than continuing on the train. We blabbered on for a bit and I ate some of his old trail mix that he offered. He seemed like a nice guy, new to San Diego and training to be a fireman. After a few minutes “my ride” pulled up, rims shining, windows tinted and cracked to the perfect height, music bumpn, the journey was over. I was home. My mind was still buzzing with all the new experiences I had over the course of this 9-hour adventure, but I was able to melt away into sleep knowing that I had it all written down on napkins.

A rough draft novel prologue and opening chapter

Let me tell you about a time when absurdity reigned supreme. I was a young man then, not yet 22 laps around the sun. A native of a big sprawling coastal city with a temperate climate and beautiful fake women, that had recently moved to a small university town with piss poor weather.

As a whole though my laddish self was content with the situation and station which I inhabited. The university was, at the least, pleasant with engaging professors and beautiful brick buildings that cast scholarly light upon any of those that happened to be on its campus. The surrounding neighborhoods were quaint with a local flare which only lended to the academic odor. People and lunatics fancied the university a market place for the exchange of ideas to the point where supply so far exceeded demand that sellers took tyrannical measures to promote their products. The university however was only a microcosm of the inanery that existed at the punctuation.

My-young-self inhabited a small but pleasant, and wholly livable 3-bedroom house. The place had a stagnant substantive nothingness that made it a loafers’ Eden with progress as poison fruit. There was a dog. He mirrored the house’s energy level. There were 2 roommates with like polarities that continuously butted their electro-magnetic heads. My-innocent-self was the buffer in the interpersonal lightning storm. During the calmer patterns, however, each heart beating in the house was easily and independently affable. This also, is only a grain in the proverbial imbecility bucket.

It wasn’t the social structure, the people or atmosphere of the town as a whole that fostered the absurdity: although it wasn’t completely free of fault. Those facets of being were relatively satisfactory in comparison to the shenanigans and worldwide gallivanting that were constantly taking place. Humanity had lost the characteristic previously unique to the species; that wonderful thing called cogitation. Maybe the pinions and differentials had worn, but in effect minds were rendered useless.
At that time it was hard to tell if my mind was fugitive. If I was different from everybody else. None of those who retained their faculties could but question who were the absurd ones. Did the absurd even think? To this day the answer remains unclear, but it comforted me (and the eventual others I was to find) knowing I gave comprehension a shot.

CHAPTER 1

I don’t recall how I came to realize the deplorable state of our gaseous blue ball. (It couldn’t have been an epiphany, but it sure felt like how I thought an epiphany should feel. When I had eventually come to this conclusion, it was astonishing that I hadn’t reached it earlier; that makes me think it was an epiphany. So tantalizingly clear, was the realization that I was unable to think of anything else for such an extended period of time, that eventually when I was able to subdue my astonishment I had another epiphany regarding my near return to that absurd asinine mindless zombieism.

The year was 2008 A.D., two millennia after the famed Jewish rabbi was fixed brutally to the intersecting two by fours with an assortment of nuts and bolts. I’m not sure whether A.D. actually corresponded to his death but it was a popular attribute to the year counting protocol. The realization was seemingly abrupt, although likely an amalgamation of smaller less profound ones, it came to me around the third or fourth cup of atomically excited coffee while watching what could have been one of those arbitrary television shows that parody the other television shows that the producers think are full of imbeciles, not knowing that they too are cretinous dullards. It had to have been the caffeine which jumpstarted a malnourished brain cell which prompted the aggregation of the smaller epiphanies into an interlocking train of though, gaining momentum from immense gravity and smashing the rust from my ceased cogs. It turned out I wasn’t viewing a pseudo-witty parody on an entertainment news channel but a broadcast from an oligarchical and allegedly legitimate corporate news agency. In the enormous flood of consequential consciousness my eyes and ears were bombarded with the sights and sounds of the notable earthly affairs.

The astonishment was brutalizing. The world was parodying itself. For how long had the once noble pursuits of men been mutated into a picayune knee-slapping jape? Immediately I began audible ferocious blinking, attempting earnestly to rearrange the television transmission’s trade-symbol into that of the ludicrous entertainment channel. Was this bawdy jest the works of a cruelly minded syndicate or a failed comedic exploit of an alien race of Vonnegutian values? It seemed the entirety of humanity was in on the hoax without actually laughing at their time-consuming laborious inside joke. But they were inside! My mind fantasized about the possibility of an international comedy conspiracy with me as the giant catalytic butt of the thing. The pie in the sky vanished and I was tossed languidly back into reality with the weight of an ontological crisis bearing down upon my puny mind. What sort of sanity prompted people to protest supposed human rights violations by climbing huge red bridges with crudely draw posters? They realized the fallacy… In the waning moments of my skeptical awareness, I observed a gaunt dark skinned man exchanging political vulgarities with a wild-eyed middle-aged woman. The ontological assault was overwhelming, I lost consciousness.

Avett

Nearly a week and a half ago, my friends and I bought tickets to see The Avett Brothers band in Portland. They were playing at the renowned Crystal Ballroom, a place continually described to me as a one of the greatest venues in the Northwest. As a social skeptic and recently re-invigorated scholar; I doubted the wisdom of attending a late Thursday night show over a hundred miles north of my house. Before I could let my conscious convince me otherwise though, my friends shanghaied me to the small university ticket office. I had told them previously in my characteristic non-committal style that I, “was down to go.” Being put on the spot as it were, I acquiesced and purchased a ticket to the show. The best decisions are made on the margin according to economics.

The following day we readied ourselves for a prompt 4ish departure allowing time to eat and drink a bit before the concert. Wallets, IDs, IPods and the other necessities for a pleasant ride were compiled. The ride was indeed pleasant, time flew by as we listened to nearly all of Avett’s recorded works and engaged in customary bullshitting between friends. Traffic was non-existent and our arrival came much quicker than expected. We drove around downtown Portland for about 20 minutes until my directionally challenged buddy finally found a metered parking spot about 5 blocks from the venue. Stepping out of the red Subaru wagon, I stretched and gazed upward at the stylishly hip condos that bordered the crisp cool night sky.

As a Southern California native and resident of Eugene nearly 2 hours to the south, I hadn’t had the privilege of spending more than a handful of days in Portland. In many ways the area around the Crystal Ballroom is similar to the ritzy districts of downtown San Diego. Grand 10 story-plus modern condos stretch for whole blocks framing the streets. However the city retained its Bohemian feeling that is more prevalent in other neighborhoods. As a whole Portland seems to have a scenester atmosphere and I fancy it European in many senses. We walked down the block towards a statue that looked like a giant inverted metal sperm with tentacles, similar to one of those weird things in the move The Matrix. Adjacent to the odd structure was a Pizza establishment that exuded localness. We each had a monstrous slice and shared a watery, but nonetheless, cold pitcher of Pabst. After finishing the carb loading, we once again set off down the street to a bar closer to the Ballroom. The next hour or so was spent ingesting inexpensive well drinks and playing pool in the dim green light of that bar lamps.

Finally the time came and we presented our tickets to the guy scanning them at the entrance to the venue. We followed a group of people from the ground floor landing and climbed the narrow 2 or 3 flights of steps into the upper landing. Nothing too extraordinary about the place had yet caught my eye, except it seemed old. We journeyed past the couches and bathrooms on the landing, made a right hand turn through a double door funnel and looked out at a vast expanse of a room with a good number of people already inhabiting the vicinity directly in front of the stage that sat neatly in the far left corner. As we continued toward the open center of the room I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was tighter than I should have been. I gazed at my moving feet for verification only to find the floor bending and wobbling beneath me and the other patrons. When we reached the center of the ballroom I was transported into another era. The walls were ornately carved and painted to resemble archways on the far wall that sat opposite huge tiled windows running the length of the entire room. The marvelously high ceilings made the altitudinous twinkling chandeliers even more remarkable. The whole vast room echoed with essence of rumrunners and flappers long gone. Anybody new to the place could tell the atmosphere was nostalgic and conducive to collective energy. Hell, the floor with its undulations even physically transmitted energy.

The house lights dimmed and the crowd pressed as close to the stage as possible. The man on the PA said something about Mayfield band, it was hard to understand. Throughout the opener the audience grew closer and closer to capacity, filling the place with a tentative humid excitement. When the opening act exited the stage they were showed warm appreciation for their folky-rock mix that was sure to resonate well with the evening.

After further sound checks and tunings the roadies were off the stage, and the brothers bounded onto the platform energetically. The exact set-list and order escapes me but it took awhile for the crowd to get really stoked. A good portion of their performance was dedicated to their most recent full-length album “Emotionalism.” The 4 performers crowded the front of the stage with their assortment of instruments. The sound had a really raw quality to it that their recorded tracks lacked or were unable to convey. A sound culmination barely conceivable for a: cellist, string bassist, banjo and guitar player. The group made their instruments their own. The cellist ripped dramatic riffs as the bassist plucked homey bass lines. The actual brothers Avett laid down the outlying rhythms using their respective banjo and guitar, all the while adding emotive power to the whole performance with a wonderful mix of tender and screaming vocals in juxtaposition.

Large portions of the middle part of the show are sadly lost in my clouded memory. I know I enjoyed that part of the music, but what proved more memorable were the sweaty swing dancing couple that continually, inadvertently, and probably drunkenly shindigged into me. There was also the tall lanky hick who carried on an inebriated dance of hilarious fluidity wherever he pleased, nearly resulting in fights throughout various songs. As much as these characters diverted my attention from the show, it was to be proven moot. They all made timely exits near the climactic ending to carry on their shenanigans elsewhere.

The end proved truly epic, with the crowd fired up bouncing eclectically to the vibrations. The fans sensed the first of many endings when Avett broke into a heart-felt rendition of “Go to Sleep,” one of their more moving tunes from “Emotionalism.” The vocals were pure and it was if the lyrics were especially for those at the ballroom that night. The cellist (Kwan I believe his name is) haunted the crowd with a driving riff that frenzied the audience like a bartender expertly shaking a stiff one. When Scott Avett cried “sing it to me,” the passionate ballroom erupted in to a refrain of “la la la la la la,” that mimicked the songs’ main riff. The band put down their instruments and gratefully disappeared from the stage. The crowd however continued the joyful refrain with unwavering volume and fervor. The collective consciousness said Avett was coming back onstage. The electricity was tangible and the chant seemed to last a lifetime, but we continued with undaunted enthusiasm. The band rematerialized from the darkness of the staircase and resumed the chorus to the crowd’s audible delight. Avett finished the song as if nothing had happened with even greater energy than before.

One of the members cried out words of gratitude into the microphone and announced a garbled message about the show ending. The crowd however only responded to the words “Will you Return.” The throng may as well have been the universe exploding into existence with unfathomable energy. Nobody could help but bounce on the quivering floor. Everyone sang and bounced, bounced and sang. The whole thing was almost patriotic.

The band looking ragged and spent departed into the abyss of the stairs again. The ballroom made it wishes known. People clapped, stomped, cacophonized in all manners. The place was deafening, if anybody had strength enough to shed tears of joy they would have. For one last time the band was drawn from the depths. However they were not alone, with them was the opening band with whom they toured. Everyone in attendance knew that it was coming to a close as the combined members began “Talk of Indolence.” The capacity Crystal joined in, and reveled in the last moments of what was surely a sonic friendship.

Consider This - Indefinite Undertaking

Preface of Something:


I am a nut. Hopefully a Macadamia, they seem flavorful, slightly egocentric perhaps as well. I consider myself well read, but would flounder in contest. Articulate but absurd, a victim of Vonnegut. Not a sociopath but oppressingly impulsive and shy. Not a schedule-1 drug addict, but regularly caffeinated. These are some ever-changing intricacies of my existence.
Experience has been kind to me but opportunity was squandered again and again. My life has been a series of events, some fortunate; others were misadventures escaping my descriptive capability. Eccentric by speech alone not by action.
In high school, others viewed me as the prototypical longhaired stoner. No outward values or ethical structure guided me; pursuit of pleasure was the superstructure of my action. I rarely thought, and nearly always acted on impulse. While others could get high and maintain dignity, I was reduced to a bio-chemical zombie. To say the least, I’m ashamed of what and who I was. Luckily my parents enforced their values upon me when I was down and out. I defaulted into college on a bogus body of work and was presented with new opportunity by the powers that be.
I’m motivated by a combination of self-interest and an insatiable need to be admired. I’ve come to recognize this in myself and have attempted to impose logical confines unto it. These odd motivations made me, at worst, a pathological liar. Undoubtedly my frontal lobe is underdeveloped. This moral deviance is damn frustrating. People are hurt by dishonesty, and when exposed I am ashamed of my inability to be forthright. To this end and to minimize the interpersonal damage, I remain steadfastly non-committal and withdrawn. These actions are not to be confused with some social malice or desire to be hurtful, but rather my own social ineptitude.
I believe I can see through false pretenses in others, as well as maintaining the ability to be rationally decisive with external developments. However I feel that I’m incredibly disingenuous with myself, and consequently confounded with decisions affecting myself, and innocent third parties. Pundits say the first step to recovery is recognition. These issues, dilemmas and quandaries I have long recognized in myself. People often offer advice, but it is always ineffective. Never before has a second step been offered. The moral, ethical and value based bio-chemical war continues to rage within; perseverance as the only counter-measure.
Perseverance is will and follow-through. Ambition is nothing without the capability to set in motion events culminating in a tangible end. I am prone to onslaughts of ambition and easily swayed by grand schemes of my own design. In short I am a dreamer but lack the special sort of dedication reserved to “doers.” I have failed many times, and continue to do so, at much cost to my self-esteem. Even so, I can’t bury the notion that I am capable of accomplishing feats most could not.
The parchment manifestation of these acknowledgements is appeasing in it self. Memoirs of a person not yet 22 times around the sun. Those that stumble upon this may ask themselves, in similar words:
“What the hell does he know?”
To them I say,
“There is no definitive answer, I’m probably more curious than you are.”
Or in fewer words:
“We’ll see.”
I am a chronically unsure person, and it is with this ambiguous notion at the outset that I undertake this indefinite project. Further, to focus this naturally skeptical project I will edit and censor as little of my writing as possible.

Shine A Light

Yo. So i just scoped the movie Shine A Light with my Dad and Bro, its epic. This film is about the Rolling Stones, with a primary focus on a recent Epic show that is beautifully captured by Martin Scorsese and his team. In addition to this there is also a wide variety of old school interviews of different members of the band from way back in the day that are quite comical. Overall I thought the movie was great because Scorsese does such a great job of incorporating a large portion of this epic show at the Beacon in New York. His sick style of directing as well as a great soundtrack and little bits of non-performing footage create a "Must see" movie, especially if youre into music; if youre a Stones fan then its a no brainer. Go gander for yourself. It may be somewhat difficult to find a theater that is playing it near you. Just search it in your usual movie search engine and you should be good to go.

bore

i'm going to write a novel. starting now.

Good load = Jag

Jag=a period of unrestrained indulgence in an activity; Synonymous with top loading. Although I fear what this may lead to, I must say:

On this glorious day I propose you accost yourself to exploit the use of your abutting thesaurus that unequivocally does not exist. Because I all to often find myself wondering the precise meaning of a word I feel may have been misused I often reference dictionary.com. While searching through the thesaurus earlier today in search of finding a unique word for my business name I stumbled upon the most ridiculous synonym i have ever layed eyes on. I will grace you with a sentence using its undeniable uniqueness. - Throughout highschool it seems that it is the duty of all young men to sow one's wild oats before they retire their highschool career.- Sow ones wild oats...wow, thats great. I cant believe that it is legitimate enough to be on dictionary.com .

Let me know if you find a sweet short word for a potential company name.

Welcome the Wacom

Hey boys...its been awhile. So. I just got a Wacom tablet....ha ha i am amped. Although its most definetly going to take some time to get good at using this thing i thought i would grace you with the initial testing :-) haha. Too bad i am not good at drawing to begin with. It should prove to be very helpful in my Flash endeavors and photoshop tasks as well.

Some Required Readings for loaders

Alright as I have established, Vonnegut is required reading for loading. But if you want HCore top loading, pick up "A Confederacy of Dunces." I just started it after finishing "God Bless you Mister Rosewater." Imagine a fat American Don Quixote living in New Orleans constantly involving himself in ridiculous adventures and tirades. so chill.

Meandering Thoughts

I can't help but feel ambitious. Not so much from egocentrism or vanity, I think, but from the empowering sense derived from studying law. This sounds like a crock, but I can't get escape the notion that the law is the tool of the ambitious and inherently empowers those who study it. The more I read and learn about the law, the more it seems that it's existence is a testament to the insatiable appetite for power of men. There seems to be no consistent manifestation for the want of power in scholars of law. It seems natural however that it is the most direct avenue to exercise dominance over another. Obviously legislation is at the core of government, but even those working for noble causes wield the magnificent tool to benefit others and promote one cause over another. It might be an ethical issue, but no matter what, an action has consequences affecting something. The creation of the consequence, is the power. It's almost a physical semblance. Energy is the ability to do work. Expending energy in the form of work has a conesquential result. What is more affecting than a legal result in any form? Aside from military conquest and wealth, there is nothing I can think of that is more tangible. This realization naturally causes one to imagine the immense possibilities. I have no idea to what end this will bring me, but it contextualizes almost all law related events. Politics, court decisions... Almost the utilitarian ideas articulated by JS Mill. Who benefits and to what degree? That's where the posterity clause of the constitution comes into play... To create a more perfect union blah blah blah for our posterity. To what degree can we bind them? The world, in theory, belongs in usufruct to the living. Justinian institutes etc etc Leviticus... Jefferson suggested all contracts and debts expire after 19 years. So why then is there concept of common law and binding precedent? Obviously certain issues don't become moot... It seems the power to bind posterity is the ultimate exposition of power and vanity. The want to bind posterity is the ultimate depiction of ambition and vanity?


Sorry for loading so hard, but all this shit constantly swirls around in my brain.

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