Beauty and truth

To see something beautiful go to bloke's blog www.rossfowler.blogspot.com
That's it - it's beautiful and truthful.

Meanwhile I'm angry - in a kind of useful solid way. Why is hatred creative? Perhaps it's not perhaps I'm experiencing the relief of creativity - it's cathartic. Anyway - that's me. I was making a list of why I'm hateful earlier - always a good thing to do to lighten your mood. I'm not sure it's very helpful or truthful. Given my continual drive to judge all I do and all I am as crap it's not likely to have much truth in it.

The matter of behaviour raises is my topic of choice at the minute. I attempted to argue that behviour is not self - in hat you might behave in ways that are not aligned with your self. Self being somesort of thing I haven't worked out yet that is always constant, always loving (oh bollocks the anger cracked and revealed some pain) and always valueful. For example when pissed you might behave very hatefully, like not bothering to talk to someone at all even thought it's their party (one o my latest). Now can we surmise that I am in fact a hateful person because I behave hatefully? If I had alzheimers and started hitting Ross violently would I be a hateful person. Would my behaviour be my some and total parts?

I don't know, from someone's point of view I might be, cause lets face it that's all they've got to go on - my behaviour. But unless that person sees all my behviour how can they make a judgment about my worth? That's bollocks too - worth isn't dependent it's absolute. I can't be worthy of being.

I'm half convinced that there's nothing to work out but still my brain chunters along. Here's some more beauty. If a tale is told with words like this it can't be an idiot telling.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.