Rfesh Iar

I’ve had enough fresh air for one day. It has done its job.

Changed me. Marked me. Pushed me.

A vagrant. With a computer. Sitting on a sidewalk.

Who creates staircases out of paragraphs and stops short of carpeting his sentences with subjects.

Do you think the sun has warmed me thus?

Not like.

I’m made of tomato skins. At least that is what my grandmother said. Before she died.

Tomato skins.

I’ve got enough fresh air for one day. I think it’s time to go inside.


Justin Fieldbaker, LCSW

The Licorice Clinical Sugar Worker or LCSW, is a sub-sector within the field of Sugar Work. LCSW’s work with sugar in order to help deal with issues involving candification and tempaturital health. There are a wide variety of specializations the Licorice Clinical Sugar Worker can focus on. These include specialties such as: working with licorice chewing issues, licorice abuse, public licorice, school licorice work, medical licorice work, marriage licorice counseling or children and family licorice therapy. Some may choose to work purely in a research, licorice making or licorice consuming capacity. The possible career paths as a Licorice Clinical Sugar Worker are many and varied.

Justin Fieldbaker, LCSW, was in charge of the Sugar Acquisition Division of Baker and Sons Licorice Unlimited Inc. Specifically, he was tasked with overseeing the efficient operation of twelve employees, who in turn were tasked with acquiring sugar for the production of Baker and Sons Licorice. By 2016, Baker and Sons Licorice Unlimited Inc. made 25 tons of licorice a year, requiring at least 10 tons of sugar to produce. Thus, acquiring sugar for Baker and Sons Licorice Unlimited Inc. was not easy, and required the diligent efforts of twelve plus one people to succeed.

On May 12th, 2016, Justin Fieldbaker noticed on the report summarizing the activity from May 11th, 2016, that his department was, for the third day in a row, only meeting fifty percent of their quota. This worried Justin, who put the report down in disbelief. He placed his head into both his open waiting palms. He took two deep breaths, and then sighed on a third. He looked out the glass walls of his office, and observed the staff members he could see working diligently and briskly. What more could he ask of his team? They were the best sugar acquisitionists money could buy.

Justin began to do an exercise he had learned from a field hand in a sugar plantation in Brazil during his formative graduate school years. The dark, rough-skinned old man told Justin as he was showing Justin the geometry of an effective sugar crop that if he ever needed to find sugar, he could inhale and exhale as rapidly as possible while imagining sugar cane marching to the sound of his favorite childhood lullaby. For Justin, that song was “You Are My Sunshine.” Generally, he imagined the sugar cane dancing in tune with the song, each enjoying the sunshine that poured down upon them like so much shower spray. As his breath became more rapid, he imagined the sugar cane marching ecstatically to the place he was to find more sugar.

This time the sugar cane were dancing lazily–almost as if they didn’t even want to be dancing. He found that “You Are My Sunshine” was playing in a minor key, and that the sky was grey and wasn’t pouring sunshine as much as it was lashing it. By the time the sugar cane arrived at their final location, they were lying scattered on the dusty ground wiping their imagined brows and panting. A few of the stalks were gasping out the word “water.”

Was the sugar cane in a desert?

Justin leapt up out of his chair and ran into the larger room where his twelve employees were working. He went from workstation to workstation, looking at the locations that his employees were searching. One after another, each of his employees was searching for sugar cane in tropical and sub-tropical areas. Of course they were, he thought. Why would they search for sugar in the desert? Sugar doesn’t grow in the desert!

“Stop everything!” Justin yelled. His employees stopped what they were doing and looked at him, each one stunned. “We have to search for sugar in the desert!”

The employees stopped breathing as one. They looked to each other to see if each was the only one who was confused and unbreathing.

“I can explain everything!” Justin said. “But first, search for sugar in the desert!”

His employees released their breath, and launched horizontally into their work, for Justin had always guided them to the metaphorical sugar port on other cold, dark metaphorical nights they had faced together and each felt that this night was no different than those other nights. The room was filled with the sound of keys being pressed and mouses clicking like a thousand large tap-shoe footed cats skittering across a marble floor. Each employee was bent forward, noses almost touching monitors, as if the proximity of their eyes was proportional to the speed of their search. Justin paced back and forth, his right arm bent at the elbow, his right hand cradling his chin, and his left arm wrapped around his waist holding the entire framework up. He was visibly worried. The sugar must be found!

They worked this way for hours. Despite the near heroic diligence with which the twelve employees searched, no sugar was found. At 5pm, the entire office packed up and left. No one made eye contact with Justin: they were each too disappointed in themselves. (They could never get disappointed in Justin; if they didn’t find sugar in the desert, it was their fault, not their manager’s.) Justin watched as the last of his employees left for the day. The door, supported by the air brake mechanism that prevented it from closing too rapidly, slid closed with a gentle brisk swish.

What had he done wrong? He followed the images just as the old man had said he should. It had worked every other time. Perhaps he should do it again?

Justin walked into his office and sat down in his chair. He closed his eyes, and began to breathe rapidly. He started singing “You Are My Sunshine” and immediately saw the sugar cane dead on the grey dust he imagined earlier in the day. They were burned to a crisp by the sun. What other place on the planet had such an environment? Justin knew of no other place on Earth but the desert.


Justin dashed to his computer and pressed the keyboard. Drat! The computer was asleep. He clicked the keyboard a few more times, and heard the fans in the desktop tower turn on slowly. Come on! he thought. Hurry up! The screen turned on, and he watched the “please wait” logo that appeared change colors so slowly that he wanted to take his computer monitor and smash it through the window/walls that separated him from his employees. Finally, his desktop appeared. Justin opened the proprietary search tool program that the company used to find sugar with their sugar searching satellites. Once the program opened, he logged in, and the main screen of the program appeared. He placed the cursor in the search box, and typed, “The Moon.”

A message told him to wait. The satellites were adjusting their sensors. 25%….50%….75%….100%….now searching. Justin was jumping up and down in his seat. Searching… Justin could hardly keep himself from clicking the enter key. Searching… He stood up and paced around the room. Searching… Could the program be broken? Searching… Maybe the satellite crashed into a rock or something! Searching… What if he never found sugar again?!

Search complete! Click ok to see results!

Justin dashed into his seat. He was so excited by the situation that he clicked the area around the ok button three times before he clicked the ok button itself.

Sugar found! Eureka!

Sugar! Sugar on the moon!

Baker and Sons Licorice Unlimited Inc. was saved!

moon sugar

Dear Barber

“Try,” commanded the ancient fluffy-headed barber, “keep your hair short this time.”

What am I supposed to say to that? the boy thought. The boy looked to his mother. His mother was sitting on a plastic chair near the windows looking at her cell phone. She didn’t notice his gaze or thought. The boy knew from experience that she would not look at him unless he started screaming, and he didn’t feel like screaming right now. The barber’s question wasn’t threatening, it was just puzzling.

“You can do that for me, can’t you? Next time you sit in this chair, you keep it no longer than you have it right now.” The barber crossed his arms, and looked at the boy in the mirror. Was he serious? the boy wondered. How am I supposed to keep my hair short? Go to another barber before this one?

“I’ll try,” the boy mumbled. Was there any other way to keep his hair from growing?

“What’s that?” the barber said, putting his right hand to his ear. “I can’t hear so well these days.”

The boy looked at his mother again. His mother stood up, turned, and bent over her purse. She wasn’t going to be any help.

“I said I’ll try,” the boy said loudly. He looked at his hair in the mirror. He thought towards the hair don’t grow. Maybe that was all he needed to do.

“You are a good boy. I can tell. Your mom, though? Not so much. She isn’t good, I can see, because she doesn’t pay attention to you. Am I right?”

The boy looked at his mother as the barber took the barber’s cape from around his shoulders. His mother was sitting down again, looking at her phone. Her wallet was on her lap.

“She pay for you, alright, she feed you, ok, but she no pay attention to you. I tell you this because she no hear me now.”

The barber was smiling at him. The boy didn’t like anyone bad mouthing his mother, but he was a little mad that his mother wasn’t there to help him defend her. The boy stepped down off the chair silently. He sat down next to his mother without saying anything to the barber or his mother. It was the best compromise he could think of.

The barber swept the floor around the chair and put his barber tools away. He walked over to the cash register. He punched some keys on the register.

“Fifteen dollars miss,” he said looking at the boy’s mother.

“One second,” his mother said without looking up from her phone. The barber looked at the boy and raised his eyebrows. You see? he seemed to say. The boy looked at his mother. The barber was right. His mother didn’t pay attention to anything but her phone.

A customer walked into the barbershop. The barber ushered him into the chair. The boy watched the barber put the cape on the man, and ask the man what kind of haircut he wanted. The boy felt his newly cut hair with his left hand. He looked over at his mother’s phone. She was texting. Boring. He stood up. Went outside. Walked back and forth on the other side of the windows watching the barber cut the man’s hair, and his mother use her cell phone. The boy felt bored. He wanted to go home. Why didn’t is mother pay for his haircut already?

The barber finished the man’s haircut. The man paid for the haircut, and left. The boy made eye contact with the barber again. The boy raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. The barber laughed. The boy laughed. The barber raised his left hand and his pointer finger. He walked over to this tools. He picked up some scissors. He smiled. He raised the scissors above his head. He tiptoed toward the boy’s mother as if he was going to murder her. The boy smiled. His mother didn’t notice the barber coming toward her. The barber was within stabbing distance now. The boy put his hand over his mouth so that he wouldn’t laugh out loud. The barber took some of his mother’s hair in his right hand. He lifted it up. He opened the scissors and slid the open scissors around her hair. His mother didn’t look up. Suddenly it didn’t seem like a game anymore to the boy. The boy screamed, “No!” and reached his hands out to touch the window. The noise of his hands touching the window caused his mother to flip around. The barber backed up, and the boy met his mother’s eyes.

“What are you doing out there?” she yelled. “I thought I told you to stay inside!”

The boy was surprised. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The barber was looking at him with wild eyes and seemed to be laughing in slow motion silently.

“You get back in here right this instant,” his mother said while waving her arms around. “It’s your turn for a haircut.”

The barber winked at him. His mother turned around and went back to her cell phone. The boy came into the barbershop. He walked to the chair. The barber put the cape on him. The boy frowned to himself.

“Try,” commanded the ancient fluffy-headed barber, “keep your hair short this time.”


Establish Oneself

There is a toaster. It is an important toaster. It makes its own bread and puts on that bread its own butter.

What a toaster.

There is a counter. It is an important counter. It holds the aforementioned toaster. It has two legs and keeps the toaster level and 1.8 meters from the floor independent of the screws that hold it to the wall.

What a counter.

There is a wall. It is an important wall. It contains all that is within it. It spans its own complete distance. It sports beautiful paintings that it painted itself.

What a wall.

There is a doorway. It is an important doorway. It is framed by lines that mark its form perfectly. It is very often the sole object of attention. It lets everything pass through it.

What a doorway.

There I am. It is an important I. Completely exotic. Incredibly well dressed, wearing clothes I’ve chosen, living in the body that I’ve crafted, speaking with a voice that I produce, and thinking thoughts that I’ve created myself.

This is my house. I chose that toaster. I use that counter. I decorated that wall. That doorway is mine. I am wonderful person.

What an I.


A Short Argument

You want to know something? I’m an argument. A personified argument. Justified by premises. Originated by mind.

I’m an argument. A rarefied statement. Collapsible and timely. Agreeable in spine.

I’m an argument. Nothing if not shareable. An argument for the old staged.

Begotten by the wind.


The Lunatic

A new class of politics opened up on Sunday to a raving lunatic during his morning push-ups. Captured on wet cam, the aged lunatic could feel his arthritis pumping, and wandered out into the morning air to share some of the fluid.

“What ho, sweet Air,” said fresh-faced lunatic who with sway held the ocean to the tune of buckwheat eyes.

“What ho, Sweet air!” he shouted. When translated into the language he spoke, and back out of it, it belched.

No one was able to vote for him.


Bob’s Emotions

Bob awoke to find that he was filled with emotions. He found this so shocking that he opened his eyes earlier than he normally would.

The emotions he felt were unusually wild. In some ways, these emotions felt exotic. In other ways, they felt wrong. Overall, Bob didn’t like them. He wanted these emotions to go away.

Bob rolled over to his back in order to free his right hand enough to reach for the phone sitting on the small black lopsided night table next to his bed.

Bob called Issac.

Issac was one of Bob’s friends.

Bob heard three rings before he heard Issac pick up. Bob heard Issac say, “Hello.” Bob thought Issac sounded a little sleepy and told him so. Issac told Bob that the reason he might sound tired was because he was sleeping.

Bob told Issac: “Dude, I woke up this morning, and I totally like had all of these emotions going through me. It was like totally crazy.”

Issac did not reply.

“I don’t know what the deal is,” Bob continued. “It’s like I’m all over the place with myself this morning.” He paused for a moment to see if he was still all over the place because he didn’t want to say he was all over the place if he wasn’t.

Yes. It still seemed like he was all over the place.

“It’s like I’m being tossed and turned about by all these feelings.”

Issac cleared his throat. Bob thought that this meant that Issac was going to speak. Bob was wrong.

“You know what I mean?” Bob asked. Issac did not reply. Bob took his phone away from his ear. He visually confirmed that the call was still connected. He brought the phone back to his ear.

“You there?” Bob inquired.

“Yes,” Issac drawled. “It’s early dude,” he added.

Bob sat up and looked at the clock on the wall behind him. It was 6:32am. It was early.

“Sorry dude. I am just like feeling so crazy right now. Like I’m happy and sad all at once. Like I can’t even see which is the emotional way up or down, you know?”

Issac cleared his throat again. He followed that with a series of coughs. Was Issac trying to send him signals?

“I just wonder if it has something to do with all these other emotions that I’ve been feeling recently.”

Issac sniffed. “Is that all man?” he asked.

Bob sighed. “Yeah. Yeah man. Sorry. Just I feel so…just, sorry man.”

“Talk to you later then,” Issac said. Issac hung up.

Bob felt a surge of emotion rise within him. These emotions felt different than the emotions he was feeling when he woke up. What did Issac do to him? It felt like Issac made his emotions worse.

Bob called Barbara.

Barbara picked up.

“Hello Bob,” Barbara said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s Issac, Barbara,” Bob said, solemnly.

“What happened?” Barbara offered in a clipped manner. Bob did not notice her manner, as he was speaking before he finished listening to her.

“I just feel awful right now, and he wasn’t helping, and then he practically hung up on me, and I’m just going up and down here and all over the place, and I don’t feel like anyone cares.”

“I care Bob,” Barbara said.

“It’s just–” Bob stepped out of bed here “–that Issac is so rude, and it really hurt my feelings that he didn’t even acknowledge what I was feeling for even a second. It was like he was totally blocked off from me. And here I am waking up feeling like all of these emotions going up and down and thinking no one cares about me, and when I talk to Issac it’s like he totally doesn’t care about me.”

Barbara nodded on the other end of the line, though Bob could not tell. “I feel you Bob,” she offered sympathetically.

Bob sniffed. By this time he had put on a pair of jeans and two tube socks.

“It’s just like all these things are happening to me, you know, like my job, and like my sister, and my apartment, I wonder if all that is just making me feel so all over the place, have so many more emotions than I used to, and Issac didn’t help me–”

Barbara had been looking at her watch and tapping her foot. Bob did not know that. If he had known that, he wouldn’t have run at the mouth.

“Bob. Got to go. I hope you feel better. Bye.”

Barbara hung up.

A different emotion surged through Bob. This emotion was agonizing. What did Barbara do to him? She had definitely made him feel worse. First Issac, then Barbara: it was like everyone was out to hurt him!

Bob decided to make himself some coffee. If he called someone else, he would get more of the same. Why should he subject himself to such abuse? Everyone else was just making him feel worse. He was determined to calm himself down. He wasn’t going to call anyone else any more. People weren’t reliable.

But suddenly he thought of someone who would never hurt him. He decided to call his mother.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket like a man reinvigorated. He selected his mother from the list of quick contacts, and pressed the send call button.

Mom picked up.

“Good morning Bob.”

“Mom. Hello. Can I talk to you?”

Mom could hear Bob’s distress. “Of course sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“Well, I woke up this morning, and I felt all these emotions. Like really emotional. Like emotions strangling me. I woke up and they just held me under water. And I felt a million of them. Literally.”

Bob paused to make sure his mother wasn’t doing something else. He heard silence. She was listening.

“And then I didn’t know what to do, so I called Issac, and he was totally rude to me, like didn’t even care at all what I was saying, and then he said all these mean things to me–” Bob took a sip of coffee “–and then he hung up on me and I couldn’t believe it, I can’t believe how rude these people are sometimes to me, like, everyone, and there I am having all these emotions and now I have another one so I call Barbara, and for a minute I think she is listening to me, and then in another minute she hangs up, and I literally break down, like feel a total break inside of me, because there I am practically divulging myself at the world, and everyone I talk to doesn’t care about me at all!”

Bob drank another gulp of coffee.

“And I know that this must be coming from some place, but I just can’t figure it out. It’s like the whole world is like this giant mess, and everyone in it is a band of something or other, like playing their instruments, but too loud, you know?”

Bob started pacing around his house.

“I just feel like all these emotions, right like, I totally want everyone to leave me alone, and at the same time, I want everyone near me. Why is everyone always doing this to me?”

Bob did not know that his mother was not on the phone any longer.

“Mom, do you love me?”

He heard nothing.


Mom’s voice was not forthcoming.


Mom was not on the phone.

“Hellllooooooo!” Bob sang.

Singing did not bring his mother back.

Nothing would bring his mother back.

Bob’s mother had had a heart attack while on the phone with Bob, and had inadvertently pressed the end call button on her way to the ground.

Bob did not know this at the time. He looked at his phone. It was not connected.

Did his mother hang up on him?

He called her back. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

“I can’t believe she would do this to me!” Bob yelled. “Everyone is always doing this to me!” Bob slammed his phone on the table near him.

The voice mail message picked up. He heard his mother’s prerecorded voice. He hated waiting for her message.

Bob looked up at the ceiling. A ceiling fan spun above him. Another emotion sped through Bob. It landed behind his eyes. The corner’s of Bob’s mouth fell down. Creases appeared on his face. Bob’s breathing became short and hesitant. Tears appeared to fall from his eyes. Bob was crying.

He heard a beep.

“Mom? Are you there? You know the kind of morning I’m having, and now you go and do this to me? I’m crying now. Crying–” He was, quite vociferously “–and I don’t know why you would do this to me. Call me back. Love you.”

Bob hung up. He sat in a chair at the table. As he felt himself weeping, he felt himself weeping more. It felt to Bob that something had killed part of him. Issac, Barbara, his mother: each of them had put a searing knife into the center of his chest and turned that knife until his heart couldn’t be found.

Bob punched himself in his leg.

“Stop crying you pussy!” he yelled. He was angry at this mother for causing him to cry. He told himself he would never forgive her for making him feel this way.

“Everything is all wrong,” Bob said to himself, as he folded his torso over between his legs. He wrapped his hands around his feet. The stretch felt good.

Bob’s mother was dead on her kitchen floor.


A Rotini

The woman walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a box of rotini. She opens the box, and pulls out a single rotini spiral. She asks herself if this rotini spiral is similar to the boy that called her novel “a confusing mixture of multiplicitious departures” yesterday. She determines that it is similar to that boy. She tosses the rotini spiral onto the ground next to the garbage can. She does not think that the pasta should have gone in the garbage can. She thinks that boy doesn’t even deserve to be placed in the proper receptacle. Let him rot there beside the trash, like so much discarded discarded waste.

The racist motherfucker.


B. Toonberry’s Brilliance

B. Toonberry wondered something for the first time, and it shocked him awake the same way that a loud crash (which turned out to be two identical soft drink trucks colliding outside of his home due to an unresolved dispute between the two drivers over who was going to be the first to lose their job in the round of layoffs that was scheduled to take place on Wednesday of that week) shocked him awake two Tuesdays ago. This sequence of thoughts that made up his wonder could be summarized as such: if he gave a woman an orgasm every night he could secure his place in that woman’s life for the rest of his life. This idea led him to believe, as suddenly as a spark erupts between one’s hand and a metal doorknob on dry, winter days, that he had found the solution to all of his relationship issues.

B. Toonberry was so moved by power of this line of thinking that he suddenly found himself nearsighted. Naturally troubled by this sudden loss of visual clarity, he squinted his eyes to and fro as best he knew how. When this did not correct his vision, he splashed some water in his eyes. This did not help him.

B. Toonberry became worried, for two reasons: he was the world’s foremost binoculist (user of binoculars), his vision giving him that extra boost he needed to see into the lens a little farther than other binoculists; and he knew he could no more give a woman an orgasm while nearsighted than he could do five pull-ups without using a stool.

Should we judge such a man?


cats sleep near me

If I sit in my room
The cats sleep there

If I sit in the living room
The cats sleep there

If I sit in the bathroom
The cats want to sleep there

But can’t

For I have shut the door

For I must poop alone


precious peace

The most precious thing
I have ever experienced
Is a mind seemingly free
From suffering

At ease
Free of turmoil
Thoughts like the gentle lapping of waves against the edge of a lake
Body like warm sand

To the degree
That I feel this now

I see (true) freedom from suffering
An admirable and wise pursuit



take a poop
go back to bed

take a pee
go back to bed

take a picture
go back to bed

take a walk
go back to bed

take a turn
go back to bed

go meet the drug dealer
go back to bed

water the lawn
go back to bed

eat some steak
go back to bed

hit your kids
go back to bed

take a spin
go back to bed

take a hike
go back to bed

take a chill pill
go back to bed

let the kid figure it out
go back to bed

smoke myself into forgetfulness
go back to bed

drink myself into forgetfulness
go back to bed

take an aspirin
go back to bed

take a lickin’
go back to bed

take a picture
go back to bed

take a bow
go back to bed

try to get money
go back to bed

he forgot twenty years of his life
go back to bed

forget me not
go back to bed

take a stance
go back to bed

take a break
go back to bed

take a good amount of time
go back to bed

take a beating
go back to bed

lie about how much you smoke
go back to bed

lie about how much you drink
go back to bed

forget to eat good food
go back to bed

pretend you are cool because you are unhealthy
go back to bed

because being unhealthy feels like shit
go back to bed

and if you admitted that you would have nothing
go back to bed

nothing at all
go back to bed

take your time
go back to bed

take a load off
go back to bed

take a turn
go back to bed

take a double take
go back to bed

take a nap
go back to bed

throttle a joint thing
go back to bed

arm the timer
go back to bed

smell the saints armpits
go back to bed

take a run
go back to bed

take too long
go back to bed

take a nap
go back to bed

take a long walk
go back to bed

take a breath
go back to bed

take a stick
go back to bed

take a piece of pie
go back to bed

be yourself
go back to bed

try to answer the question
go back to bed

try to be a little wiser
go back to bed

had too much caffeine
go back to bed

said something weird
go back to bed

left something out
go back to bed

tried to win
go back to bed

win the lottery
go back to bed

get up and smile
go back to bed

take a smith
go back to bed

yes it is
go back to bed

not it isn’t
go back to bed

yes it is
go back to bed

lick the spoon
go back to bed

never want straws
go back to bed

ate a donut
go back to bed

take her hand
go back to bed

take a swim
go back to bed

take a another walk
go back to bed

go back to bed
go back to bed



people change
cats change
hearts change
homes change

what is love?


Spiritual Considerations

Consider: spiritual teachers of many varieties will ask you not to believe them, but to test out what they are saying for yourself. In doing that, they are asking you to be a logical positivist–someone who considers an argument worth considering only if it is verifiable by some kind of experimental proof. For example, a teacher tells you that meditation will help you calm down, and they tell you that you shouldn’t believe them, you should test it out to see if what they are saying is true.

Consider: spiritual teachers of many varieties will ask you to believe them, pointing out that there are consequences to their logic if you believe their arguments one way or another. In doing that, they are asking you to be a pragmatist–someone who considers an argument worth considering only if that argument would have an impact on the beliefs that affect the choices of the person considering the argument. For example, a Christian preacher tells you that if you believe in God, you will go to Heaven, but if you don’t believe in God, you will go to Hell.

In a way, spiritual teachers are asking us to do something more than consider their arguments. They are asking us to take on a manner of processing philosophy that benefits their arguments. Would it be more practical for a Christian leader to encourage his followers to be logical positivists than for him to encourage his followers to be pragmatists? The argument could easily be made (and observed) that Christianity benefits from having a loyal following of parishioners who process Christian ideology pragmatically. Buddhist philosophers benefit from having a base of followers who are logical positivists because meditation is a tool of subjective empiricism.

I think it is worth considering that approaching spirituality using only the philosophical approach recommended by the spiritual leaders teaching that philosophy is to put oneself in a possible bad position. One who considers only the Buddhist philosophical points one feels one can currently test in meditation is ignorant to the fact that large chunks of Buddhist philosophy might not seem verifiable because of habits of mind that blind one to those parts of the philosophy one feels one cannot test. One who considers Christian philosophy only through pragmatic terms may never consider that their life experience is deeply impacted by not considering whether or not the existence of God can be verified empirically or logically, and what that means for their beliefs.


4.5 minus pi

4.5 minus pi

irrational ol’ difference


but important



your finger