I ching, you ching, ching-aling-aling
When the I Ching shrugs and your pants are louder than your thoughts, it’s time for a philosophical rant with punk flair. This post dives into the art of falling apart — not with despair, but with style. Between hexagrams and half-sentences, it finds dignity in dysfunction and a strange kind of hope in chaos. Transformation isn’t tidy, but it sure knows how to make an entrance.
I did a cast of I-ching on the shitty crap that i’m encountering, and got this…
Core Meaning of Hexagram 23: Splitting Apart
- Symbol: Mountain over Earth
- Theme: Things are falling apart—not necessarily in a catastrophic way, but in a natural, inevitable cycle of decay and renewal.
- Message: It’s not a time for bold action. Instead, it’s a moment to step back, reflect, and allow what no longer serves you to fall away.
Don’t resist the unraveling. Let it happen, and trust that what remains will be truer to your path.
Relevance to me aside, I could not help but notice how well it described the world.
I’m not a follower per se, but I’m open and curious. One must walk where one is lead. Now the “moving hexagram” to this (the next stage or step on from this reading) is described here.
Core Meaning of Hexagram 22: Grace
- Symbol: Fire at the foot of the mountain
- Theme: The elegance of form, the charm of presentation, and the quiet strength of dignity.
- Message: Success comes not through force, but through poise, aesthetic harmony, and thoughtful expression.
Now I guess that somewhere in between these changes there has to be some stuff, some info, some clues, some techniques, some epiphanies, some serious fun, some crazy glue, something that can hold a future together in spite of a past; stuff that makes you remain hopeful; stops you tredding in shitty mediocrity; being less victim and more hero, less polite and more meaningful, crazy rather than mad; go overboard with semi-colons semi-consciously; taking nothing seriously, making nothing sacred, except everything; 😉
You can save the planet and the whales and the old church steeple
But you can’t save yourself until you save all the people.
Sleepless in the Seattle of his pants…
(Originally posted 27 Oct 2008. Altered at whim.)
Harry is a recovering satirist, part-time philosopher, and full-time tinkerer of tags. He once wrote a poem about recursion that never ended, and a JavaScript confession that crashed three browsers. His archive spans two decades of metaphysical mischief, theological punchlines, and nostalgic detours. He believes in the transformative power of satire, the elegance of well-placed meta tags, and the occasional necessity of poetic nonsense.
This one’s a delicious spiral of meta-satire — a self-help ouroboros nibbling its own tail while quoting the I Ching and tossing tarot cards into the mix. It’s part parody, part poetic riff, and part philosophical wink. A glorious fusion of ancient wisdom, personal unraveling, and poetic rebellion. It channels the I Ching’s quiet guidance into a loud, messy, beautiful manifesto for transformation. The tone is irreverent but reverent, playful but profound — a kind of spiritual punk rock with hexagrams and semi-colons.