One should not increase, beyond what is necessary, the number of entities required to explain anything - Occam’s Razor*

The problem is he’s never had any insight. Perhaps being a microbiologist is overcompensating somewhat. Looking at traces of things as opposed to the things themselves is far too easy to be consumed in. All those billions of atoms comprising millions of molecules that constitute just one strand of any helix. And that helix could be anything from the minutest strand of hair or what helps make dust.

Occam’s Razor never cut as sharp as it does here, he thought, to dissuade a remark about his lack of insight, turning away from the microscope, which isn’t all that small, and yawned.

Pieces of him in the air now. From the sound he made, the long heavy breath he exuded, the energy that took, which he was responsible for, to the thought he had; all now in and a part of the air of the laboratory around him. Interconnected. One. And individual. Separate. All so easily forgotten. Or not thought of at all. (more…)

Vancouver is my home and it’s not my home; it could be anywhere. I could be anywhere. You are left alone; I am left alone — most of the time, whether I want to be left alone or not. This is not purely a matter of disinterest, no. People sniff around for a year or more, (You need that much time to invent elaborate rejection scenarios); donít scoff, no one ever died of being too timid.

We tried to have discussion groups at my college; it didnít work, people kept agreeing with each other too quickly. All this agreement, however, should not be confused with actual agreement. You can’t even take for granted that anyone is awake.

Still, I live here. I’m alone most of the time. It rains. Rain, however, is too simple a word to convey the full variety of wetness. There is, first, the darkness. Sometime in October the sun retreats. Light becomes depressed, muted, not its usual self. She gets lazy, heart broken. She’s unable to rouse herself until later, later in the day. Mornings start at eight, then at nine and then even later. What follows is a hung over version of brightness; muted, fuzzy-tongued grayness. You remember all your most embarrassing moments, in slow motion. It looks like used cotton balls, it hums with the soft whine could have been. It smells of regret. Rain. (more…)