The only means of knowing God is becoming God.

This elegant idea was proposed on the youtube forums under a discussion of ID vs. Evolution.

"I do not think that at anytime throughout the course of human history we will ever discovery a 100 percent accurate understanding of reality in its full scope unless by some chance we become the very definition of gods."

I found that this thought held true even after extensive scrutiny of logic. The basic learning processes we as humans’ posses don’t allow for all that much flexibility.... There are:

1. Experience.
A sure method of comprehension; to experience is to understand. In direct correlation to the above proposition: The only way to understand a person is to be that person, hence the classical notion of: to defeat a monster one must himself become a monster or in modern context as crime investigators often say to understand and eventually stop a serial killer one must get in his/her head and in a comparable sense, become the killer.

2. Teachings.
Essentially language enabled learning which includes both auditory and visual stimulus.

The latter can be eliminated since we humans aren't provided a handbook on how god works (no, the bible doesn’t count) the only methodology remaining for understanding god is experience.

To become gods; is this the ultimate purpose; the end of evolution? To transcend the very nature of our existence?

___________________________________________________________ On Intelligent Design:

It seems to me that the hypothetical creation of a digital universe (essentially a highly advanced videogame) is simply a modern translation of the classic clockmaker metaphor for god and his peculiar machinations. It is vastly more effective under the newly enabled possibilities of virtual reality and virtual intelligences; however this does not denote credibility.

In any case, if you did create a videogame with highly advanced Artificial intelligences roaming a digital universe would you give the programmed A.I. the playing manual? Or rather a guidebook concerning the process by which the very universe in which they exist was created? No of course not. What would be the point of it all then?

If this videogame designer metaphor were true then might I suppose or rather propose that God has been AFK (Away-From-Keyboard) for far, far too long…
Rather he might have stopped playing the game entirely and left it running on auto-pilot.

When will we stop playing the game? When we learn once and for all how to win?
Should we be contented with having obtained the playing manual or should we reach for the guidebook; the blue prints and schematics; the very hand of god?


I’m an atheist but I’m not close minded. I don’t believe in the classical conceptions of god(s). All of this postulation brings me to a point, that we humans are God. humans are the only beings who can appreciate beauty, without us the concept vanishes from the universe. How is it we see and feel that which cannot be seen? Without us the notion of god is gone, and in a sense this means that we are an essential factor and quite possibly the whole.


Ranting as always,
-REV


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Clubs and the sort' :


Superbly talented artists and friends. Also a rather large majority of halo junkies, like me : ) ///

"The Forge" by Seamus Heaney

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immovable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows
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This is resonating message embedded in the lines and in-betweens of “The forge”, one that will resound for all time, but at this particular juncture it serves to remind humanity of what shadows it leaves in its wake. ~

The ancient craft of metal smith, the forge itself an archaic yet integral instrument, is as of modern occurrence, understood to be obsolete. The act is often replicated yes, but not by traditional means or circumstance, not even by human hands. It’s the coming and closure of an age that has altered this once renowned and amiable practice. Hydraulics now beat the hammer, machinery now oversees the forge, and the music that once gave light and life to the darkened interior is no more. ~

These days, one may tour a local Home-depot or Wall mart in search of a ever important, mass produced doorknob or tap dancing heel. But back in the day, the metal smith was “the man”-or woman when occasion permitted-whom all turned to. He didn’t just sell bargain priced disemboweling blades and dragon slaying arrows, he was the progenitor of technological aid. Whether pitchfork or pitcher, horseshoe or shaving razor, spoon or shield he was saving lives and furthering the efforts of humanity. Now… it is just another miracle cheapened by commerce. ~

The artist’s savior is the beaten heirloom, the unicorn horned hearth of prosperity and purpose; the hand-me-down hammer. There are homes for this art that have yet to fall; the occasional inheritance of knowledge, and the ever-growing establishment and teaching of the art can be found in various institutions around the world, namely the metalwork’s programs often found in Art Schools. This, to me, is a saving grace of which I am sincerely proud and gladdened by. As I typed these thoughts down, I realized how terribly tragic the situation might have been; how this majestic and honorable art form was nearly lost to the industrial age. ~

I’ve been found to I posses a natural affinity for swords; a particularly keen and vital agent of often conflicted “negotiations” through history. This interest can be logically reasoned through the coherent platform of family lineage. Being that my last name is Rosales, my bloodlines inevitably trace back to Spain. Namely, the conquistadors that were sent to Central America, to establish “mutual relations” with the native Incan and Mayan Inhabitants. I once asked my father how the Rosales name was imbued to a Guatemalan family and he replied that with the conquistadors came his great grandfather. My father told me of his sword; a treasured heirloom that had been passed down to him. That it was rusted as an antique was of no surprise, but the quality of the sword had been unnaturally resilient and steadfast over the years. ~

I’m quite certain the sword saved it’s owner on frequent occasion, theretofore securing the preceding generation and inevitably, my own birth. I firmly believe that I owe the sword my life, and so I must also acknowledge it creator, whom I will never know and likely never know of. ~

The time has come for a prompt end to this personal projection. In my honoring of the subject and as with the aforementioned sword, I must also honor the creator the poet, Seamus Heany... Thank you for the reminder. ~

-Rev.

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Clubs and the sort' :


Superbly talented artists and friends. Also a rather large majority of halo junkies, like me : ) ///

As I slept, the light filtered through the seams in the window blinds. Through veiled eyes it signaled to my subconscious, the impending threat of day.

The sequences coinciding with my morning's REM sleep entailed a sunny afternoon at the park bench. Children sprawled in the grass, adults walking and playing with their pets, the sweet summer air distilling my nostrils, burrowing into my chest the chrysalis' housing of newly hatched butterflies and the inherent sprinkle of pollen. I pay little attention to the Frisbee that whirls past my head, mere inches from clipping my nose; It's a beautiful day.

I coaxed my eyes open, outstretched the length of my body under the cotton sheets. The abstract contours of my limbs haphazardly reshaped the existing hills and trenches. Had the surface of my burgundy bedsheets been a park that some sentient micro-organic being happened to be attending on this fortuitous hour, it's inscrutable eyes and heart would have beheld a catastrophe. Armageddon, Ragnarok, Judgment Day... the end of the world.

I willed myself out of bed and turned to look down upon it. The back of my skull was freshly imprinted on my pillows face, lit by a band of light right where my eyes had been a moment ago. Perhaps

I lifted the sheets from their resting place and commenced agitating the mutilated landscape. The dust that was released filled the immediate airspace of my room as I had anticipated and allowed me to locate the guilty stream of illumination that leaked in through the cracks.

Forty-six degrees, read the semi-translucent purple protractor as I struggled to align it to the fuzzy edge of the oddly angled column of light. It had been a lucky find amid the perpetually random contents of my night table drawer.

The sanguine lights of my alarm clock read 7:03 A.M. The sun couldn't possibly achieve such a forty-six degree pinpoint ray. Besides this, there was the odd my room was on the south side of the house and the sunrise was in the east. Even though the sunrise of the December winter solstice was significantly shifted from due east, the discrepancy alone did not account for the prerequisite vertical values necessary to produce the 46 degree self-luminous intrusion.

I considered the possibility of a black hole's light bending properties as the
culprit, having bent the axis and trajectory of a distant star 's radiation light years in advance to this fated interception. This particular ray of light may have traveled for a millennia through the vast, enveloping dark; unaware of it's predetermined destination. Ignorant of time and the impeding matter of planets, moons asteroids and finally satellites that it had missed by chance. All so that it may reach me at the apex of its billion year journey, long after the star from which it came burned out.

What had I done to deserve this cosmic wake up call? I wondered. Was there a piece of art I was to paint, that held such fervent invaluable universal significance as to bend time and space to it's conception? Was this a sign from a greater entity, or mere coincidence? Could I answer these questions? No. So, I decided it was useless to continue my philosophical barrage.

Cutting my contemplation short, I reeled apart the blinds and unlocked my bedroom window. As I slid the lower pane of glass in place above and beside the upper counterpart, the dust from my room rushed forward as an opening to the vacuum of outer space might inhale and consume the oxygen and carbon molecules of a space shuttle's artificial air; explosive decompression.

Except, there was nothing explosive about this occurrence. Not a bang, but a whisper. So serene were the particles escaping the enclosure of my brick and plaster walls that no words could justly express what I felt. If it were a silent-film, the inherent intermissions of text would have been rendered useless.

The particles danced and maneuvered gracefully amidst the morning air like a reveling colony of fireflies. Where they made contact with the particular column of light they glowed a golden hue and as they progressed outward from my room, they outlined and painted the path of light, leading directly to it's source. My yellow brick road. Not composed of bricks, though; but golden particles of dust, dead skin cells, and my all-time favorite: dust mite feces.

I've finally recovered enough from my "condition" to update. They told me it was post traumatic Halo 3 disorder... I really didn't require a doctor to know that...

As expected the finale to the most influential and inspiring videogame of my life was cataclysmic. From 8:30 to 12:10 am I stood (and sat on occasion) in line awaiting my limited edition halo 3. Four hours have never gone by so effortlessly fast. I was astounded at how much fun it all was. I chatted with fellow enthusiasts, won some Bawls in a trivia contest (fueled me through the night) and even traveled down the length of the line collecting everyone's Xbox live gamer tags. 46 in total. Yes, fresh meat. : )

The people there represented the halo community at it's finest. A grouping of all ages, I saw little kids with their parents and some guys old enough to be fathers possibly in their
30's. All of them were very enthusiastic and extremely friendly individuals. For the exception of some recluse here and there of course... but what can you expect from guys who sit at home and play games with complete strangers who’s faces they never see and present themselves to their "friends" as in-game avatars? It's a whole other life for some.

But I digress... having received my copy at 12:10 (tenth in line) I hurried home with my brother and watched him play through a portion of the first level. WE WERE FLOORED by the visuals, the game was beautiful! My brother departed shortly and I was left to exercise my title of self proclaimed halo whore. This is when the Bawls and its invaluable caffeine came into play. I considered playing by myself... but I decided against this. My cousin Wes and his 2 friends were online by this time and I thought: This is the first time I can experience the game together with my friends and family! I figured it would be considerably less boring if I went with the latter and thus I joined them in the online lobby for 4 player cooperative play, and played the ENTIRE GAME through that very night. We ended at 6:30 am having completed the campaign on Legendary. We were thoroughly satisfied. And sleepy......

The following morning I awoke at 12 am, after approximately 6 hours of sleep and regrouped with my cousin and friends to try out the multi-player. Yes it was a Wednesday morning. No I did not go to school. And YES!! Of course it was worth it!!!!

That week was the worst in terms of my addiction. I slacked considerably in my classes and played halo 3 the moment I got home. Food? Sleep? Homework? I would have none of it. Eventually my judgment won the battle. I realized I had a problem and had to ask my mother to confiscate the blasted game disc and store it away in the most secret of places she could conjure. It ended up being the top drawer of her dresser but it worked nonetheless... for a time.

It's quite true that the game is remarkably beautiful and packed with so many features that the replay value is indefinable. Only time will tell. It is also true that I have not had a chance to faithfully assess the story. I find that when people ask me "what of Halo 3" I never fail to remark how amazing a game it is. Yet my inner fan feels as though my judgment has been clouded or diluted by 1) the undeniable suckage that was halo 2 and 2) the feature driven "fun factor".

In short I'm having way too much fun to make an honest assessment.

Harry potter and the deathly hollows offered a sound and satisfying conclusion. I hoped halo3 would have such a respectable ending. However, halo 3 did not provide the full closer that I had dreamed of and expected. Instead it provided an end to this particular chapter or "ark" of the story (pun intended: P) but left room for more. In fact, it directly implies that there is more to tell. My guess is the remaining halo books yet to be written by Eric S. Nylund will truly finish the fight.

A few points:
Cortana's hinted "rampancy" was misleading and bluntly dismissed in the game. This I was rather sour about. Also the whole deal about the Diorama advertisements and "believe." commercials depicting a battle that never actually happens feels dirty and also misleading. The propaganda machine knows no virtue; holds no ground in morality.

On another note I was glad that they actually made an attempt to tie in back-story from the books into the story. However they may have tried a little too hard at that... The love story of Master Chief and Cortana... is at the cusp of romanticism. Take this scene for example: Master Chief finds Cortana after shooting his way through the flood infested covenant holy city, High Charity, or what's left of it anyway...>>

"Cort: "I didn't think you'd come back for me..."

MC:" You know me... when I make a promise..."

Cort: "...you keep it."


Master Chief doesn't make promises! He follows orders and completes his missions.
It's arguable however, that he is evolving more human emotions as oppose to that of the military machine he was intended to become. A side effect of love? Love heals all wounds? Even those which made him who and what he is? Quite possibly....

There's still plenty to consider. I have to play through the game on my own without distraction. But for now, I am enjoying the game thoroughly when I have time to spare.
I'm mostly working with the new FORGE map editing feature to create my own custom maps! It’s so much fun developing them! I pity those of my friends that are working solely to rank themselves up! How selfish and sad it is to apply so much effort and time just to have a number or military symbol beside your name. I find it much more fulfilling to create quality maps which can be infinitely enjoyed by friends and family and the halo community in general.

The first map I made in collaboration with SGTPepper23 or “Michael” has 155 downloads on the bungie.net forums! This is by no means a large number when you have a community of thousands to consider, but it's a start. : )

I thought I'd be able to die happy after completing Halo 3 but now.... now I have to wait for the books as well!!! X P


-Rev.

__________________
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Clubs and the sort' :


Superbly talented artists and friends. Also a rather large majority of halo junkies, like me : ) ///