My dear perceptive reader, I have a confession to make. I can only hope that you, in you infinite wisdom and grace, are not too hasty to judge me. It has so chanced that yours truly has hit something of a writers block. That part of my brain, if indeed such a distinction holds any meaning, which contributes to my artistic side, my creative touch, that part which manipulates thoughts with a nonchalant wrist-flip akin to that an engineer would demonstrate on a slide rule has, it seems, gone into an indefinite lockdown. So, my dear reader, I implore you to forgive me if, by virtue of the perception I seem to oh-so-freely assume you are in possession of, you find this post lacking literary éclat in any form, let alone a consistent cadence. I am in no doubt that this, like many others of its kind, perhaps more so, will pass into that hell of mediocrity we strive so hard to transcend. Forgive me if this lacks the ardor and soaring wings of a precise Flaubert or a magnificent Tolstoy or Fitzgerald. Those are the ideals we aspire to, self-deluded as it may seem, those are the greats that summon us into their incomparable circles, and we, in our utter arrogance, seek to respond. I have no excuse except a cliché so ancient, that merely to demonstrate it as one has slipped into a state of being a cliché in its own right, and that is merely this, I am lacking in inspiration. ( I know, I know…….hereby I leave my self bared to scorn and ridicule, if not outright condemnation, but flimsy as it may be, it holds within itself a truth incontrovertible)
It is an irony bordering on downright amusing. In my utter and complete confidence in myself, an illusion, I must add, I had believed myself immune to this favorite excuse of the artist, and yet it comes up to claim me with an inevitability that seems to laugh in my face. Here, I must tender another apology to Douglas Adams aficionados, who, like myself, have seen the title phrase used to the death, but it describes the stupor which currently envelopes me so accurately and precisely, it seemed to me to border on criminal to neglect it. To those among you who aren’t familiar with the phrase, this is how Douglas Adams uses it:
“Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged was- indeed, is-one of the Universe’s very small number of immortal beings.
Those who are born immortal instinctively know how to cope with it, Wowbagger was not one of them. Indeed he had come to hate them, the load of serene bastards. He had had his immortality inadvertently thrust upon him by an unfortunate accident with an irrational particle accelerator, a liquid lunch and a pair of rubber bands. The precise details of the accident are not important because no one has ever managed to duplicate the exact circumstances under which it happened, and many people have ended up looking very silly, or dead, or both, trying.
Wowbagger closed his eyes in a grim and weary expression, put some light jazz on the ship’s stereo, and reflected that he could have made it if it hadn’t been Sunday afternoons, he really could have done.
To begin with it was fun, he had a ball, living dangerously, taking risks, cleaning up on high-yield long term investments, and just generally outliving the hell out of everybody.
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn’t cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the baths that you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.”
,
Forgive the length of the quote; but I felt it was both justified and required, to illustrate the point without compromising on the genius of Douglas Adams. But now, my dear reader, I’m certain (or at any rate, hopeful) that you both understand and sympathize. What stimulus does an artist have, pray, as I mentioned not too long ago to a pleasantly weird friend of mine, whilst sitting in a temperature controlled room, conversing to aforementioned weird friend, all the time gorging on vanilla ice cream with rich chocolate syrup, and slipping into the soft embrace of the magical voice of Frank Sinatra? None at all.(The circumstances leading up to this, and more or less causing, this sorry state do not warrant inspection here and now, I believe) Inspiration needn’t take the form of a scantily clad beautiful maiden arising from a loch tucked away somewhere amongst the soaring majesty of the Alps (though I daresay it would suffice), rather a flux, a driving force, so to speak. Pressure, as aforementioned friend aptly put it, is a prerequisite for art in any form, and indeed it has proven so in the case of yours truly.
With that, I shall bid you farewell, my dear reader. I thank you for bearing with me, and would gladly welcome any suggestions to overcome this listlessness and stupor that seems to engulf my brain.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
THE COSMIC MIRROR
THE 'TRUE' STORY OF THE SPOON
My dear perceptive readers, (I presume, of course, that there are more than one of you) it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. Ere we commence our session for the day, I wish to tender a anticipatory apology for those among you acquainted with the Wachowski Brothers, for some of what I wish to say would perhaps seem to you to be repetitive and familiar, perhaps painfully so. I can only humbly implore you to bear with me, I’ve done my best so as to not sound like a defective parrot, and put my own twist on things. Also, if indeed the Wachowski Brothers are not unfamiliar to you, you perchance would be able to guess the identity of the ‘Spoon’ mentioned in the subtitle.
On more than one prior occasion, I have touched upon the blurred boundary between perception and reality. Today, I have attempted to clear all remaining doubt on my view of the matter, if indeed the preceding statement makes any sense at all. (All in due time, my dear (reader), all in due time.) This goes beyond merely the subtle yet profound difference between a half-full and half-empty glass. That a mans life is by and large shaped by his perception of it, I doubt any amongst you would disagree. After all, millions of Reader’s Digest articles on the benefits of a positive, optimistic approach have got to, by sheer power of overwhelming statistics, make some sense.
But what if I go a step further? What if I say all life is perception? What if I go as far as to claim that your life is what you perceive? I can already dimly hear the outraged shrieks of the humanists and the sanctimonious chants of the cyberpunks. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I ask once again of you a question I have asked you numerous times… What indeed is reality? It is but your perception of it. What influences your perception, I shall not get into here and now, for that would, in my current mood, possess numerous Jungian elements. Do you, my dear reader, perceptive as you are, see what this implies? Six billion people, six billion realities, six billion worlds. Which among these is the world? Why, all and none, of course. (Disclaimer: I’m only fond of paradoxes as long as I am the one to perpetrate them) And each of these worlds is flexible, supple, yielding to the will of its creator.
Where then, is the absolute? Do I mean to imply that like the One, we can possess the ability to fly, if only we believe? Of course not!! Then, are the laws of physics absolute? Yes, indeed they are. I can no more fly by merely wishing it than survive in a supernova. Then, are people absolute? Or, in accordance with a disturbingly convincing argument presented by Douglas Adams, are living beings merely a figment of the collective deranged imagination? (Don’t even get me started on where ‘imagination’ came into being, let alone ‘collective’) Again, it is a ludicrous proposition. Of course people exist. If you aren’t convinced, punch the next ‘figment of a deranged imagination’ you run across, his/her/its reaction should convince you that he/she/it very much exists.
Well, now that we’ve established, on an empirical basis at least, my existence and yours, and the fact that you are reading this tripe courtesy a very strange alignment of electric and magnetic fields (which, incidentally, I haven’t completely grasped. Help, anybody?), where does the perception part of it enter what we shall for sake of argument, albeit a very flimsy one, I grant you, call the picture? Everything hereon with is merely a construct, and ‘tis within this construct that perception enters what we have (hopefully) agreed to call the picture. It is here that the definite article (note that I use it to define itself, a paradox of another sort, one for linguists to sort out, no doubt) loses much of its meaning (though not all). It is here that objectivity takes a hike and gets lost in the woods (it may also have gotten sucked into a quicksand bog, its fate is yet to be reliably ascertained. In any case, we can be sure it isn’t going to be returning anytime soon.).
Within this construct we all seem to be inordinately proud of, society, everything is perception. Again, I must iterate, this is not merely a half-empty, half-full debate. This is so much more than that. This is the uncomfortable and very, almost frighteningly so, poorly fitting overlay of six billion worlds, of six billion truths. Nothing just is, everything exists in a massive relational field, at places thin, at places thicker than the tension filled air at a eighth grade make-out party.. (Hmm… interesting simile, courtesy Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years, I guess.) The ramifications, if one chooses to consider them, are truly frightening. I so choose, but find that one cannot, and here I’m guilty of a horrible generalization, move for too long a period of time outside ones construct, ones ‘reality’, and escape sinking into an intellectual mire of nihilistic pessimism. (More on this later).
Do you realize, my dear reader, by virtue of the perception which I take the liberty of assuming you posses, that this removes the concept of an absolute right and wrong? What may be right in one of the six billion constructs may be abhorrent in another. You see the havoc this principle would wreck upon what semblance remains of a judicial system? A construct perhaps, but a useful one nonetheless, is society, and it must be protected. Of this there can be no debate. What then, was the point of this inordinately long piece of text, with its many tangents? Perhaps Isaac Asimov sums up the problem best in his discussions of the Zeroth Law of Robotics, “It is easy to point to, to define a human, to see what will or will not harm him. But what is humanity? It is an abstract concept, at best? How can we know what will harm or benefit humanity?” On a different note, is it sufficient, if indeed possible, to merely define a blanket right and a wrong? I think it’s absurd. You, of course, may differ.
Do not try and bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth.
What truth?
There is no spoon... Then you'll see that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.
The purpose is not to exhort you to bend the spoon, only to recognize that the spoon has no existence independent of you. (And by this, I don’t mean the metal spoon, just to clear up any possible misunderstanding) It is but a reflection of your self in the cosmic mirror, and thus it can change, as you change. You can, if you so wish bend the spoon. Do not do so recklessly, but also do not insist on its maintaining a rigid shape. With that, my dear, perceptive reader, I shall descend down into my reality, my world, and leave you with your thoughts, and of course, the spoon.
My dear perceptive readers, (I presume, of course, that there are more than one of you) it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. Ere we commence our session for the day, I wish to tender a anticipatory apology for those among you acquainted with the Wachowski Brothers, for some of what I wish to say would perhaps seem to you to be repetitive and familiar, perhaps painfully so. I can only humbly implore you to bear with me, I’ve done my best so as to not sound like a defective parrot, and put my own twist on things. Also, if indeed the Wachowski Brothers are not unfamiliar to you, you perchance would be able to guess the identity of the ‘Spoon’ mentioned in the subtitle.
On more than one prior occasion, I have touched upon the blurred boundary between perception and reality. Today, I have attempted to clear all remaining doubt on my view of the matter, if indeed the preceding statement makes any sense at all. (All in due time, my dear (reader), all in due time.) This goes beyond merely the subtle yet profound difference between a half-full and half-empty glass. That a mans life is by and large shaped by his perception of it, I doubt any amongst you would disagree. After all, millions of Reader’s Digest articles on the benefits of a positive, optimistic approach have got to, by sheer power of overwhelming statistics, make some sense.
But what if I go a step further? What if I say all life is perception? What if I go as far as to claim that your life is what you perceive? I can already dimly hear the outraged shrieks of the humanists and the sanctimonious chants of the cyberpunks. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I ask once again of you a question I have asked you numerous times… What indeed is reality? It is but your perception of it. What influences your perception, I shall not get into here and now, for that would, in my current mood, possess numerous Jungian elements. Do you, my dear reader, perceptive as you are, see what this implies? Six billion people, six billion realities, six billion worlds. Which among these is the world? Why, all and none, of course. (Disclaimer: I’m only fond of paradoxes as long as I am the one to perpetrate them) And each of these worlds is flexible, supple, yielding to the will of its creator.
Where then, is the absolute? Do I mean to imply that like the One, we can possess the ability to fly, if only we believe? Of course not!! Then, are the laws of physics absolute? Yes, indeed they are. I can no more fly by merely wishing it than survive in a supernova. Then, are people absolute? Or, in accordance with a disturbingly convincing argument presented by Douglas Adams, are living beings merely a figment of the collective deranged imagination? (Don’t even get me started on where ‘imagination’ came into being, let alone ‘collective’) Again, it is a ludicrous proposition. Of course people exist. If you aren’t convinced, punch the next ‘figment of a deranged imagination’ you run across, his/her/its reaction should convince you that he/she/it very much exists.
Well, now that we’ve established, on an empirical basis at least, my existence and yours, and the fact that you are reading this tripe courtesy a very strange alignment of electric and magnetic fields (which, incidentally, I haven’t completely grasped. Help, anybody?), where does the perception part of it enter what we shall for sake of argument, albeit a very flimsy one, I grant you, call the picture? Everything hereon with is merely a construct, and ‘tis within this construct that perception enters what we have (hopefully) agreed to call the picture. It is here that the definite article (note that I use it to define itself, a paradox of another sort, one for linguists to sort out, no doubt) loses much of its meaning (though not all). It is here that objectivity takes a hike and gets lost in the woods (it may also have gotten sucked into a quicksand bog, its fate is yet to be reliably ascertained. In any case, we can be sure it isn’t going to be returning anytime soon.).
Within this construct we all seem to be inordinately proud of, society, everything is perception. Again, I must iterate, this is not merely a half-empty, half-full debate. This is so much more than that. This is the uncomfortable and very, almost frighteningly so, poorly fitting overlay of six billion worlds, of six billion truths. Nothing just is, everything exists in a massive relational field, at places thin, at places thicker than the tension filled air at a eighth grade make-out party.. (Hmm… interesting simile, courtesy Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years, I guess.) The ramifications, if one chooses to consider them, are truly frightening. I so choose, but find that one cannot, and here I’m guilty of a horrible generalization, move for too long a period of time outside ones construct, ones ‘reality’, and escape sinking into an intellectual mire of nihilistic pessimism. (More on this later).
Do you realize, my dear reader, by virtue of the perception which I take the liberty of assuming you posses, that this removes the concept of an absolute right and wrong? What may be right in one of the six billion constructs may be abhorrent in another. You see the havoc this principle would wreck upon what semblance remains of a judicial system? A construct perhaps, but a useful one nonetheless, is society, and it must be protected. Of this there can be no debate. What then, was the point of this inordinately long piece of text, with its many tangents? Perhaps Isaac Asimov sums up the problem best in his discussions of the Zeroth Law of Robotics, “It is easy to point to, to define a human, to see what will or will not harm him. But what is humanity? It is an abstract concept, at best? How can we know what will harm or benefit humanity?” On a different note, is it sufficient, if indeed possible, to merely define a blanket right and a wrong? I think it’s absurd. You, of course, may differ.
Do not try and bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth.
What truth?
There is no spoon... Then you'll see that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.
The purpose is not to exhort you to bend the spoon, only to recognize that the spoon has no existence independent of you. (And by this, I don’t mean the metal spoon, just to clear up any possible misunderstanding) It is but a reflection of your self in the cosmic mirror, and thus it can change, as you change. You can, if you so wish bend the spoon. Do not do so recklessly, but also do not insist on its maintaining a rigid shape. With that, my dear, perceptive reader, I shall descend down into my reality, my world, and leave you with your thoughts, and of course, the spoon.
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