Architecture and Teleology

College number 17.
After a week hopping states on the East coast, I finished up my spring break visiting the colleges in northern California. There, I saw the utopias of the 50's through 80's, frozen but alive. It was a geological dig through layers of rocks belonging only recently to the youths who ate at diners and the students who protested the war in Vietnam. The whole time, I questioned: Was this how the people of this decade viewed the future? Were these buildings meant to last forever? Did the bubblish architecture of this apartment building want to be modular among the cities that the Jetsons would one day live in?
No. They were built for the decade. But call not their engineers myopic; they were human. Humans aren't building for the end. We do construct a little into the future, or at least advertise it so, as if some genius had traveled to the future and stolen technology from our sons and daughters. Yet humans never do look to the end. It's rather unhealthy to do so, rather suicidal. There is an end, and we know it is death. We aren't expected to be perfect; we were selected to be better. Yet we didn't die off. We continued to live to forge purpose into future.

On Blogging

The human obsession of justification only continues in our narcissistic quest to blog. Maybe some people just want to write out their souls, but it doesn't matter. Anything put on the internet in this manner, that is, everything that fills this niche of media ecology, contributes to the devaluation, the reduction of fitness, of every other idea in this realm of communication. I guess I am part of the problem.
I am sorry. But wait; there is no place for apologies in warfare. Nor is there place for ecology in warfare. And yes, this is warfare. I blog because this is an arms-race of intellectual proliferation, of mental ammunition.
In today's world of media, we are all carnivores.

Treatise on Human Potential II: Ethics

Even in today's postmodern world, most people claim that their morality is given to some sort of higher consideration. Yet these "higher considerations" are usually misunderstandings of proximate causation, constantly riddled with sorts of exceptions that do not affect ultimate questioning. Consider, for example, la diferencia entre asesinar y matar. Furthermore, all moral contests eventually boil down to a competition of the largest, most all-encompassing cosmic value. To win this game, as well as to establish my ethical pathos, I must present the grandest value of all-the pursuit of purpose. Here, I define purpose as humanity, knowing that all literate beings reading my blog must be human, with one exception.
This exception provides the perfect understanding of my morality. I am referring, of course, to the College Board's robots that roam the fields of my privacy**, grazing for my strengths and weaknesses. These creatures, in their most moral state, strive to find their own purpose. In this case, their purpose, provided by the kind and brilliant folk of the College Board, is raising the drawbridges on unqualified applicants. Similarly, such a concept inherently considers the ultimate question: what is the purpose of [human] life?
While I cannot provide such an answer, I can provide a basic understanding of finding it. On one end, we are pretty sure that there is no purpose; if there is, we will never find it. But in the process, we become acquainted with every single thing, motion, idea, that propels us forward, that is, we learn humanity, and humanity is our purpose. Indeed, humans are trying to seek humanity.
As humans, we are made of basically the same things as everything else. Combinations of electrons, protons, and neutrons no different from those of everything around us are we. For whatever reason, whatever purpose, these same particles have formed themselves into humans. As humans, we do hold a slight degree of responsibility to fulfill whatever reason that is. Certainly, we are not born to be beasts; we suck at running or foraging. We are not born to be food; we're pretty bland. We are not born to be Beats headphones; we're too cheap. No, we are born to be humans.

*ha, more irony.
**see above.

Vulcan Fortress

I shall betray the Y chromosome by writing this, but the men of my age are so worthless I couldn't care if an emotional Holocaust beset them.
To his heart is no path, but a fortress. A fortress with rows and rows of walls that sanity has built to keep you out, to keep out every contagion and virus, every lunatic, every succubus. Let's start at the outer walls, or at least where I assume most humans are.
Gate 0: Social status. Because women are toys. Just vestigial for me.
Gate 1: Beauty. Oh, Martin (and some men) isn't shallow; he's real. For any person to deny such walls is to claim a straight man must always fall in love with every gay man who feels a certain way. I can say, my defenses are weakest at the western tip of my compass-shaped fortress.
Gate 2: Skills. Ha! Chris would make a joke here. Can she satisfy every hunger? Every? Oh such a wooden palisade I have.
Gate 3: Entertainment value. By now, each checkpoint is growingly subjective.
But men are stupid. I agree with you girls. But I'm not a man. I'm a ghost at sixteen. I'm a pilot and an inventor, an engineer of new gates.
Gate IV: Honesty. I must be among the first of my age to grow such a gate.
Gate V: Beauty. Look again. It could be an Agent pointing his gun at you.
Gate VI: Long-term objectives. Now this is just useless at my age.

It's actually pretty simple. Just attack from the proper side and use keys.