Inconceivable, adj.

1. Impossible to comprehend or grasp fully: inconceivable folly; an inconceivable disaster.
2. So unlikely or surprising as to have been thought impossible; unbelievable: an inconceivable victory against all odds.

The word is what it is, but I find it a little strange. When we say that something is inconceivable or beyond belief, what we really mean is that it's far outside our normal patterns. But what does the word mean, really? If you were to find something that was indeed completely inconceivable, then you wouldn't be able to describe it, or explain it, or rationalise it, because it wouldn't only skirt the edge of belief, it would be an infinite distance beyond. You can't use words to describe something that there are no words for. You can't tell of it. The best you could do is show it, but what happens when it's only a thought, an idea?

Perhaps we should be cautious in the bandying-about of this term. Words can be dangerous, after all.

Sleep, my love, and peace attend thee
all through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee
all through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
hill and vale in slumber steeping -
Love alone his watch is keeping,
all through the night.

Though I roam a minstrel lonely,
all through the night,
my true harp shall praise thee, only,
all through the night.
Love's young dream alas! is over,
yet my strains of love shall hover
near the presence of my lover
all through the night.

Good night.

Some people I know are butterflies. They exist as caterpillars, weaving a cocoon of impressions from parents and beliefs as a child. When the cocoon shatters, it's because of a violent struggle, and the creature that reappears to life looks little like the thing it had been. The process is harsh and hard, but when it dances above a field of wildflowers, others marvel. And there is beauty.

I feel more like a seedling. I've poked my head out above the ground, and now the sun and wind and water are encouraging me to climb further. I'm not quite sure what I will become, for the process is different. Instead of gold refined in a fire, or steel tempered, I may be an opal, gradually changing as water flows through and the structures of my thought shift into a gentle realignment.

And there will be beauty.

It's cold on campus, today, and I forgot to bring a sweater. Predictably, the chill is slipping me into silent somnolence. Sometimes I wonder if I'm part snake, or maybe lizard, quick and restless in the heat and drowsy when the clouds come.

Or it could be the week I've had. That's almost certainly part and parcel of the problem. Home-work and class-work and rushed church events compete with Teddy's death for my time, and sleep comes out the loser. Sleep-deprived, it's easier than ever for me to curl into a defensive coil and dream away the day...

...come what may...

To eat the baclava, or not to eat the baclava - that is the question.

(If I eat it, though, my throat'll be fuzzy, and I have voice in a few minutes - then again, we don't do anything but breathing exercises anyway.)

I'm tired.

The stars are hid behind a cloud

of smoky dust and noxious fumes;

disillusion weaves a shroud

of discontent and wishes’ tombs.

The unicorn stays far away,

distrusting those who tarnish dreams.

Who cares to be the Queen of May?

when none believe, or so it seems…

That wishes are for dreamers.

Horses are for beggars.

But wishes don’t come true,

and beggars never ride.

Looking up into the sky,

draped in green and gold, though night,

a child disbelieves the lie,

and wishes on a dragon’s flight.

Eggshells crack and keening song,

rising from the hatchlings’ dame,

promises to right the wrong

and see the growing menace tame.

Wishes are for dreamers.

Horses are for beggars.

A wish becomes a promise:

a beggar’s dream takes flight.

Auroras take the place of fumes.

Dragons dance in silvered rain,

and to the meadow's cobalt blooms

the unicorn is come again.

An oath came from a child's choice:

now, blazing in a human's eye.

singing with triumphant voice,

a phoenix wings across the sky.

For wishes are for dreamers,

and horses are for beggars.

An oath has changed the world,

and all the beggars ride.

We're studying Parmenides in Ancient Philosophy, going over Peter Kingsley's Reality. It's definitely interesting. But- and but. If Everyone has been misinterpreting Parmenides, from Plato to All Modern Scholars, then who's to say Kingsley has the right of it?

Either way, the book is a good read, even if it does resemble a crime novel. The language is easily understood and sometimes provocative, but it's the concepts that fascinate me more. Are we all under a spell? It would provide a few answers. Are we dead, walking about in the belief that we're really alive? If that's the case, then what does "alive" really mean? Is there then a difference between life and death? If there isn't, then how can we justify the term "death" at all? Unless, perhaps, the reference is only regarding the death of the mind - but that's not what the text seems to say.

Anyway, I'm off to get some tea and practice hesychia in the aviary.

Four cockatiels, and eight finches, and all of them beautiful, beautiful birds. I am happy.

We go to see the birds today! I'm so happy - when I think I'm not dreaming. I honestly still don't believe that we have an aviary or getting cockatiels or finches. But - we are. And last I checked, I was awake (though my philosophy professor might ask me to doublecheck that statement against Parmenides...)

I'm alive, awake, alert, and enthusiastic, and we're adopting birds. Life is good.

I'm tired. I have a headache. I've been practicing my Scottish accent with the new book of songs I just got. But I'm more or less happy. Life is still worth living.

I'm going to go get some tea.

Yesterday, I went to Yosemite for the first time in my memory. "It'll be a light hike," the professor said. "Easy."

While the "easy" was accurate, I have since discovered that "light hike" should always be taken to mean ten miles or more. The path was, for the most part, level, and there weren't any terribly steep parts. At one point, I stopped to scale a large rock - or a small cliff, take your pick. It took perhaps three minutes to get up, and then another two to run the length of the top to the steep drop-off at the highest point. I could see for several miles before the mountains cut off my line of sight - see the trees and the rivers and falls, dark against the bright sky. So far above the sheltering stone, the wind was strong, shoving at me, pushing me into memories of Utah, of the currents of air tossing a small girl wherever they pleased.

Once at the Tuolumne Falls, I was tempted - and perhaps, later, taunted - by the cliff face. It was an easy climb, for the most part. But near the top, the secure holds suddenly disappeared, and only half-holds remained. I looked down. People were watching, some from behind their hands. Mouths moved, but the sweeping wind and the laughing water stole the sounds away; I turned back to the stone before me.

I couldn't find a path up the last section, but I tried for some time before a frustrated sigh escaped and I made my way back down. While there had been a few places I might have reached the top, none were secure enough to risk without ropes. Had I fallen, the rocks would not have been kind, and I did not think to make the group carry a body out.

But the wind was wild, and the water laughed and sent a mist of water to dance with the wind, and I grinned - even if I didn't stand atop the cliff, it was beautiful.