The Multi-Universe of the Written Word

The Multi-Universe of the Written Word

The ability to read is among the most beautiful and abundant gifts of human life. Each book can be seen as a miniature universe unto itself, and the library as a collective multi-universe. Authors are mini-gods, popping in and out of existence all the time, gifting us with their creations. Our minds and imaginations are versatile spaceships, intricately connected with two seeing eyes which serve as the perfect coordinate communicators.

Each letter is an atom, each word a molecule, each sentence a planet, each paragraph a star. From page to page, from cover to cover, the open mind and hungry heart yearn for those miniature Gods to deliver us some beauty, some insight, some fantasy, or even just some plain amusement.

Whenever I see a child nestled in a cozy corner, oblivious to his external environment, lost in the little universe of his book, smiling bemused, there is inevitably a glow stirred within my heart. It reminds me to think back to those quiet, undisturbed summer days, sitting beneath a tree in my backyard, reading a paperback, and feeling happy as the sun shone down through the leaves, scattering light between shadows upon the pages of my book. True peace, true happiness, is often just as simple, just as easy as getting lost in a well-crafted, enticing story created by the adoring mind of an author, whom was merely trying to write the truth of his mini-universe as well as he possibly could.

So remember, the next time you pay your library fines (if you have any) or donate to your local public library, you are effectively funding an expanding, undulating multi-universe of human ingenuity, legend, and happiness.


A Few Aphorisms…

A neglected soul shall fly only by tattered feathers upon shattered wings. Some will say this is not flying at all.

Interests may change, but one will always return to what one loves.

Whenever someone creates something out of the fabric and goodness of one’s soul — a book, a poem, a painting, a sculpture, etc. — I want to applause.

With the tools of the mind, plying the materials of chaos, the artists constructs therefrom a cosmos.

I must be approaching death. How does a man as inept as myself hope to survive the ravages of daily life combined with an utter lack of common sense?


My 24th Anniversary ‘Round the Sun

Good morning! Today marks the 24th anniversary date of the day in which my mother popped me out. I was a fat baby twenty four years ago. Today I am a rather slim young man. Not too much has changed between then and now. The sky is still blue and the sun still shines. The Earth is rotating on its axis, flying and dancing around our average star which is merely ninety million miles away. I’ve seen the Earth do just this twenty four times now. So no, not much as truly changed between now and then.

I tend to like existing. It continues to happen every year. My ego considers it a good thing. Me and my ego agree. We have many things in common and tend to agree often. At times I think we are inseparable — my ego and I, that is. Yet just like everything else, I know my ego is just as temporary as this body. The energy which composes the atoms which compose me will one day find a better thing to do than conglomerate into the deranged creative conspiracy that is me, that is conveniently labeled under the umbrella term, “Tylor J. Mintz”.

I have either the curse or the gift of being what one may call a poet — and we poet’s tend to romanticize such things as ‘spirit’ and ‘soul’ and exaggerate upon their relevance. I am feeling rather pragmatic on the anniversary of my 24th year upon this fine, blue little planet, and so I will instead romanticize the Ego — a psychological umbrella term ushered in by the great Sigmund Freud. May Mr. Freud’s cocaine debts forever be paid and repaid on into infinity! His genius insights have excited the minds of many, from those interested in psychoanalysis and the nature of the mind to those whom are merely creative, seemingly stimulated by such ideas as ego, super-ego and the ID. I count myself among the many stimulated.

However, this is not to say that spirit and soul are untenable objects, beyond my reach (though they probably are). Everyone seems to have slightly different definitions of these words, so I will define them for the sake of clarity: Spirit is the momentum and greatness of one’s passion. Soul is a thing for which language fails to communicate its true nature — it is the Self that you truly are beneath your surface identity. Your personality is not your Soul, but is more likely to be your ego’s fashion style. If someone compliments you on your personality, they are actually only complimenting you in regards to your ego’s fancy dress or well-ironed suit. As for the ego itself? Merely the clown nose for the Soul! The Soul is deeper, more to the roots of a human being, that ever strange conglomeration of atoms. An additional note: My clown nose is rather bulbous and red today, it seems. So it often happens upon 24th anniversaries ’round the sun.

What else, what else? I am listening to Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor. Still as great as ever. John Coltrane, still great. Bob Dylan, still great. AC/DC, not as great as when I was under going my ninth trip ’round the sun, but it’s still some pretty damn good rock ‘n’ roll, if I say so myself.

The taste of black coffee?

Still the best.

The received love of my loved ones?

Ever more, I am blessed.

It is only fitting for a poet to end a writing with a little rhythm and rhyme…

It is my 24th anniversary around the Sun,

an average sphere of gas and plasma,

which some tiny creatures upon Earth are wont to call, ‘divine’.

The Earth is blue, watery and fine,

located in a distant corner of one

of the trillions & trillions of galaxies

swirling ’round in an infinite Universe of space-time.

And the alarm bell is ringing for me to get to work,

No more fooling around, I’ve done run out of time!

It is the dawn of my 24th year ’round the sun.

Ain’t it sublime?

Ponderings of the Sophisticated Barbarian…

The Sophisticated Barbarian

In respect to our understanding of the universe and our existence of and within it, man can only aspire to be a sophisticated form of barbarian; a delicate primitive, if you will.

It seems to me that the more one penetrates into the mystery of reality, the greater and deeper the mystery becomes. Therefore, we resign ourselves to penetrating the impenetrable. Of course, this is a very good thing. These facts of human ignorance indicate that there will always be something new to learn, something greater to know, and something to be humble about.

Mystery intoxicates me, thrills me with a reverence for the imagination and order of Nature. I am perfectly happy with pondering the infinite for an infinity. I am content with being willfully consumed by the wondrous beauty and mystery of the cosmos. I am comfortable with not knowing. It is of the utmost value that I remain vulnerable enough to accept newly uncovered facts and information, even if said facts directly counter my previously held delusions of what constitutes our reality.

May we all grow younger tomorrow that we are today. After all, if one is open to the miracle of existence, then youth should be the oldest state of mind we could attain.

Surrender to the Unreasonable

It often happens that one will see or hear things not at all in line with their expectations of reason. Upon initially receiving whatever the offense may be, you just can’t quite believe it. Out of a slight exasperation, you refuse to accept the thoughts and behaviors of others around you. You shake your head. Then after a minute, your intellect softens and you maybe even laugh a little. You recognize the incredulous as not being so far removed from reality. After all, the things which constitute incredulity are abundant. We are surrounded by the unreasonable at all times, from all sides. Displays of unreason are part and parcel to being a human being, and living in the human world, we have little choice but to surrender.

Open your heart. Recognize absurdity. Stick out your tongue. Pat your ego and steady yourself. Everything will be OK.


A Cosmic Disgrace

Your Daily Dose of Cynicism: Humankind is perhaps an example of cosmic disgrace. Composed of the atoms which thereby compose the universe, we are the universe conscious of itself. Despite these wondrous things, we continue to steal, kill, and rape the world upon which we live. This sort of barbaric behavior is a rather close kin to shitting where one eats. No sensible creature of the universe would ever do such a thing. We are perhaps unworthy of the brain, lungs, eyes, heart and everything else which nature has so fruitfully provided us. Yet I may be expecting far too much sensibility on the part of my fellow species. In the Encyclopedia Galactica, just look up, “COSMIC DISGRACE” and you will see it reads as such: “See: homo sapien race, pg. 2,107.”

Bored of Boredom

Even boredom can be an amusement, albeit probably a lousy one.

Too much of anything inevitably leads to a numb ennui. Yet the thing about ennui is that it eventually transmutes into a motivating force of human will. We become determined to change the environment or situation at hand so as to alleviate our confinement and desolation from the arms of stark dullness.

Likewise, it is only we feel we have suffered enough that we may become happy. And when we feel we have become happy enough, we may then suffer for some period thereafter. We are strange beings.

Behind all of these transmuting states of mind, the lure of some amusement, some entertaining distraction or other, lurks around our subconscious corners like a quiet snake. As long as we are taken in by something, as long as we are amused, we are content for the while. Eventually we will become bored. It is inevitable. Then we will get bored of our boredom and move on to something new. It is the natural order of human activity, no?



You might say I’m non-local. As long as you’re not looking, I might as well be everywhere. But if you’re looking, I’m always right here.

The infant comes into the world screaming, crying, kicking. This is a natural instinct. There is always something to be said about natural instincts.

My love for Tessandra is like the Tao; a living reality which transcends language. “More than words” as the cliche goes.

The answer is in the shade of an oak tree, in the tall green grass where the wind breathes through and the tiny bugs crawl.

It is rather unimaginative to merely limit yourself to your imagination!