(no subject)
In Babylonian art, the mosaics of people are two dimensional and unlifelike,
As if art cannot be life.
There is a culture, I don’t know which one, where their tapestries and paintings
Are purposely made with flaws;
Only God and heaven are meant to be perfect.
In baseball a good batting average is .350 and a great one .400.
You know that means the bat makes contact with the ball thirty-five to forty percent of the time.
That speaks nothing of whether the player reaches a base.
In some universities teachers (the ones students dread getting) say that they do not give A’s
Or 100’s; no one will perform without mistakes in the class, and therefore the expectation
Of a faultless grade should not be expected.
Poets sometimes force rhyme where it does not belong;
Sometimes the lack of a proper fitting rhyme makes a point better than a word that fits.
Slant rhymes exist because it is impossible to make the correct word choices every time.
Nobody has two mirror image halves. One leg is longer, breasts are not symmetrical, freckles do not copy exactly from one arm to the other, and certainly no one has two ears that look identical.
There are some questions that have no answers, no promises of explanations some time in the future. “Why does Johnny hit Suzie?” or “What is love?” These are both small sentences that do not provide for a dismissive small response.
No weatherman can predict perfectly the forecast for the next day.
He merely speaks in percentages and probabilities.
When I watch the white and the red and the green move across the map of the US, I don’t understand it.
There are entire genres of math devoted to guessing and probability. Permutations, combinations, and all those mathematical terms I never quite grasped, are all there to show there really is not always one correct number at the end of the equation.
We accept, day after day, all of these things which are not perfect, not whole, not complete, not all bubbled in and ready to be slid through the Scantron machine.
So why is it, then, if I can believe in all of this without question or comment, without a doubt that all of the above holds true, that I still am looking for flawlessness in a human being as flawed and complicated and as sure of the truth of imperfection as I?
Thoughts, comments, questions, concerns?
All is appreciated.
Even your obversations Michael.
As if art cannot be life.
There is a culture, I don’t know which one, where their tapestries and paintings
Are purposely made with flaws;
Only God and heaven are meant to be perfect.
In baseball a good batting average is .350 and a great one .400.
You know that means the bat makes contact with the ball thirty-five to forty percent of the time.
That speaks nothing of whether the player reaches a base.
In some universities teachers (the ones students dread getting) say that they do not give A’s
Or 100’s; no one will perform without mistakes in the class, and therefore the expectation
Of a faultless grade should not be expected.
Poets sometimes force rhyme where it does not belong;
Sometimes the lack of a proper fitting rhyme makes a point better than a word that fits.
Slant rhymes exist because it is impossible to make the correct word choices every time.
Nobody has two mirror image halves. One leg is longer, breasts are not symmetrical, freckles do not copy exactly from one arm to the other, and certainly no one has two ears that look identical.
There are some questions that have no answers, no promises of explanations some time in the future. “Why does Johnny hit Suzie?” or “What is love?” These are both small sentences that do not provide for a dismissive small response.
No weatherman can predict perfectly the forecast for the next day.
He merely speaks in percentages and probabilities.
When I watch the white and the red and the green move across the map of the US, I don’t understand it.
There are entire genres of math devoted to guessing and probability. Permutations, combinations, and all those mathematical terms I never quite grasped, are all there to show there really is not always one correct number at the end of the equation.
We accept, day after day, all of these things which are not perfect, not whole, not complete, not all bubbled in and ready to be slid through the Scantron machine.
So why is it, then, if I can believe in all of this without question or comment, without a doubt that all of the above holds true, that I still am looking for flawlessness in a human being as flawed and complicated and as sure of the truth of imperfection as I?
Thoughts, comments, questions, concerns?
All is appreciated.
Even your obversations Michael.