My dear, perceptive reader, please find it in your heart to forgive my long, unannounced absence from the blogosphere. I have no excuses to offer you, for any that may spring from the touch of my fingers against this keyboard will, at best, be half baked, and quite frankly, an insult to your intelligence. All I have to say is, I hope to pick up where I left off, and yet, start afresh, a paradox the likes of which I have grown all too fond of perpetrating.
For this particular, heralding as it does my revival, I'll leave you with what I consider a little gem. I came up with this a week or so ago, and the extenuating circumstance which I shall use in my plea for mercy for inflicting it upon you, I shall expound in some detail a little later.
For now: "Life is about searching for, finding and picking out diamonds from a heap, not of coal, but of glass oh-so-glittering".
I'll leave you to ponder this over. Please form your own interpretations and send them back to me as your comments to this post. I'll explain what I originally intended this to mean, again, as is my nature, with no heed to brevity, in my next post.
For now, my dear reader, fare thee well!!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
THE ROAR OF THE CROWD
It departs your hand, the ball, beginning its magnificent parabola. Your hands are high over your head, indeed, high over your opponents hand, which claws desperately at yours, striving, in futility, to stop the ball ere it commences its graceful arc. You see it soar, with just the right amount of hold and counterclockwise spin. As it rotates, eerily reminiscent of our dear planet as it plows onwards with its eternal journey, a smile creeps onto your face. Not a smile of victory, not just yet. You have learnt your lesson about counting chickens well. A smile of admiration, it seems, no more. It seems so stately, so elegant, and so regal. Almost as if it senses the stares of every person in the arena, and is determinedly holding its chin high.
Nonsense, you say to yourself, it is naught but a ball. Don’t personify it, you admonish yourself. And yet… it is now more than just a ball, more than a spherical construct of hide and cloth. It is, and has been ever since it left your hand, the world, the whole world. It is the center of the veritable microcosm that is the arena.
You shake your head inwardly, now descending from the heights of your leap, left leg cocked, ready for a soft landing. The ball still soars, now beyond all human control. Strange, you think, that it should end like this. Ironic, it is. A season of grueling games, almost an entire year of preparation and training, and in the fag end, all is decided by this one shot, this one flight of the ball. C’est la vie, you say to yourself and turn to something stranger. Acutely aware of your body, you start to feel the throbbing in your limbs that you have blocked out for so long. As your hands fall to your sides and the ball of your right foot touches the varnished wood of the floor, you begin to notice every bead of perspiration, every lub-dub of your heart, every burst of adrenaline, every place where your wet jersey adheres to your skin, every shallow breath which does nothing to alleviate that stabbing pain just beneath your breastbone.
As your knee buckles ever so slightly, the product of years of training, calculated just so to mitigate the impact, you look at your teammates. The look on their faces shocks you. You look towards your opponents. They bear identical expressions. Never before have you seen so much raw, unbridled hope on a face. Of course, you realize, they are probably hoping and praying for exactly opposing things, with perhaps equal fervor, and yet, perhaps to the same god. Boy, is he gonna have a tough time!! A humorless smile crosses your face momentarily. C’est la vie, you say to yourself again.
You are now back on terra firma, and your attention returns to the magnificent orb, now seemingly hovering, motionless at the apex of its path. Slowly, even as you look on, it commences the second half of its fateful journey. Strange, you think, how time seems to decelerate as that thing moves inexorably along its path.
Turning to the crowd now, you see every pair of eyes riveted on the ball. You seek out your coach. There he is, half standing, poised to charge onto the court. It’s comical, you observe with almost a detached amusement, how his jaw hangs open. Ah, the grand old man, you think with a mixture of affection and admiration. Your eyes move, into the bleachers, seeking somebody. You find her face, and are stunned. She is watching the ball, but surely…surely, she is praying?? Her hands are clasped, wrung around each other, nails bitten to bloody stumps. Almost as if she senses your eyes on her, she turns, and your eyes lock. And you know, you understand, in that instant, why she is that special someone.
Your eyes turn back to the ball, though not before you notice the great standard, that majestic flag under which you have toiled countless days, rigid, almost as if it too is holding its breath. The orb is now in the final moments of its fateful journey, one way or another. You, a lifelong atheist, begin to bargain. If there is indeed a god in heaven…
The spin of the ball is mesmerizing, hypnotic. You can see every contour, even read the small green lettering. Your eyes are watering; you have forgotten the last time you blinked. This is it, one last breath…
SWISH!!!!
All net!! A perfect shot!!
The explosion is instantaneous, thunderous. You fear that the roof might actually cave in this time. Pandemonium reigns. You sink to your knees, the championship yours to hold high. Strange, you think, why am I not happier? You can see your teammates charging towards you, your silver standard flies high and happy. Thumps on your back, your hand being pumped. It hasn’t sunk in yet. Why, you ask. Why all this? As the adrenaline drains, a strange overwhelming numbness fills you, removing all but the question. Why? You look at the beaming, ecstatic faces of your teammates. They’ve given it their all, each and every one of them. But that’s not it. Neither is it the gloomy, crestfallen looks on your opponent’s faces. You turn to the crowd, every last one of them blessing you with their eyes. You look at your coach… Aww.. the strong, silent man is in tears. This is his victory. He has seen you through so much. But that’s still not it. Where is it? Where is the answer? You turn to her, her face like a beacon for you. The joy in her face, her glistening eyes are there for all to behold. She blows you a kiss. You smile back at her, but it is a hollow smile. This isn’t it either. Why does it elude me so?
You close your eyes, your muscles relaxing. A long sigh escapes your lips. You hear nothing specific, you see nothing in particular. Her face melts back into the crowd, as does everyone else’s. A dull throb fills your ears. A throb, you sense, of immense power. It rises and falls, at some points reaching a soaring crescendo. Your eyes snap open. THIS is it!!! You turn around; take in the crowd, not as many individuals, but as one single entity, an entity with power immeasurable. This is the answer. This is why you pushed your mind, body and soul. This is why you spent, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears. Something which lifts you, sustains you, fills you with a warm glow in your belly. This is why you did everything you did. This is why you will do it again. You close your eyes, a blissful smile on your face, and let it sink in…
The roar of the crowd……
Disclaimer: The preceding text is intended purely as a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or event, past or present, is entirely coincidental.
Nonsense, you say to yourself, it is naught but a ball. Don’t personify it, you admonish yourself. And yet… it is now more than just a ball, more than a spherical construct of hide and cloth. It is, and has been ever since it left your hand, the world, the whole world. It is the center of the veritable microcosm that is the arena.
You shake your head inwardly, now descending from the heights of your leap, left leg cocked, ready for a soft landing. The ball still soars, now beyond all human control. Strange, you think, that it should end like this. Ironic, it is. A season of grueling games, almost an entire year of preparation and training, and in the fag end, all is decided by this one shot, this one flight of the ball. C’est la vie, you say to yourself and turn to something stranger. Acutely aware of your body, you start to feel the throbbing in your limbs that you have blocked out for so long. As your hands fall to your sides and the ball of your right foot touches the varnished wood of the floor, you begin to notice every bead of perspiration, every lub-dub of your heart, every burst of adrenaline, every place where your wet jersey adheres to your skin, every shallow breath which does nothing to alleviate that stabbing pain just beneath your breastbone.
As your knee buckles ever so slightly, the product of years of training, calculated just so to mitigate the impact, you look at your teammates. The look on their faces shocks you. You look towards your opponents. They bear identical expressions. Never before have you seen so much raw, unbridled hope on a face. Of course, you realize, they are probably hoping and praying for exactly opposing things, with perhaps equal fervor, and yet, perhaps to the same god. Boy, is he gonna have a tough time!! A humorless smile crosses your face momentarily. C’est la vie, you say to yourself again.
You are now back on terra firma, and your attention returns to the magnificent orb, now seemingly hovering, motionless at the apex of its path. Slowly, even as you look on, it commences the second half of its fateful journey. Strange, you think, how time seems to decelerate as that thing moves inexorably along its path.
Turning to the crowd now, you see every pair of eyes riveted on the ball. You seek out your coach. There he is, half standing, poised to charge onto the court. It’s comical, you observe with almost a detached amusement, how his jaw hangs open. Ah, the grand old man, you think with a mixture of affection and admiration. Your eyes move, into the bleachers, seeking somebody. You find her face, and are stunned. She is watching the ball, but surely…surely, she is praying?? Her hands are clasped, wrung around each other, nails bitten to bloody stumps. Almost as if she senses your eyes on her, she turns, and your eyes lock. And you know, you understand, in that instant, why she is that special someone.
Your eyes turn back to the ball, though not before you notice the great standard, that majestic flag under which you have toiled countless days, rigid, almost as if it too is holding its breath. The orb is now in the final moments of its fateful journey, one way or another. You, a lifelong atheist, begin to bargain. If there is indeed a god in heaven…
The spin of the ball is mesmerizing, hypnotic. You can see every contour, even read the small green lettering. Your eyes are watering; you have forgotten the last time you blinked. This is it, one last breath…
SWISH!!!!
All net!! A perfect shot!!
The explosion is instantaneous, thunderous. You fear that the roof might actually cave in this time. Pandemonium reigns. You sink to your knees, the championship yours to hold high. Strange, you think, why am I not happier? You can see your teammates charging towards you, your silver standard flies high and happy. Thumps on your back, your hand being pumped. It hasn’t sunk in yet. Why, you ask. Why all this? As the adrenaline drains, a strange overwhelming numbness fills you, removing all but the question. Why? You look at the beaming, ecstatic faces of your teammates. They’ve given it their all, each and every one of them. But that’s not it. Neither is it the gloomy, crestfallen looks on your opponent’s faces. You turn to the crowd, every last one of them blessing you with their eyes. You look at your coach… Aww.. the strong, silent man is in tears. This is his victory. He has seen you through so much. But that’s still not it. Where is it? Where is the answer? You turn to her, her face like a beacon for you. The joy in her face, her glistening eyes are there for all to behold. She blows you a kiss. You smile back at her, but it is a hollow smile. This isn’t it either. Why does it elude me so?
You close your eyes, your muscles relaxing. A long sigh escapes your lips. You hear nothing specific, you see nothing in particular. Her face melts back into the crowd, as does everyone else’s. A dull throb fills your ears. A throb, you sense, of immense power. It rises and falls, at some points reaching a soaring crescendo. Your eyes snap open. THIS is it!!! You turn around; take in the crowd, not as many individuals, but as one single entity, an entity with power immeasurable. This is the answer. This is why you pushed your mind, body and soul. This is why you spent, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears. Something which lifts you, sustains you, fills you with a warm glow in your belly. This is why you did everything you did. This is why you will do it again. You close your eyes, a blissful smile on your face, and let it sink in…
The roar of the crowd……
Disclaimer: The preceding text is intended purely as a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or event, past or present, is entirely coincidental.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The Porch Light at # 42
My dear perceptive reader, to use a marvelously pithy phrase originating in popular culture, I’m back!! My literary dry spell, which I sincerely hope is in the past, was, I believe a product of the mundane banality of everyday life, a life with no immediate purpose, a life which goes from day to day to day, and not a bit further. Purpose seems to be so important, does it not? It saves us from the ordinary, the boring. Most importantly, it saves us from ourselves. As Agent Smith says to Neo;
There is no escaping reason; no denying purpose. Because as we both know, without purpose, we would not exist.
It is purpose that created us,
Purpose that connects us,
Purpose that pulls us,
That guides us,
That drives us,
It is purpose that defines us,
Purpose that binds us.
Albert Camus, an existentialist writer, believed that boredom or waiting, which is essentially the breakdown of routine or habit, caused people to think seriously about their identity, much as Estragon and Vladimir do in Samuel Beckett’s classic ‘Waiting for Godot’. In The Plague, Camus suggests that boredom or inactivity causes the individual to think. Camus, and other existential writers, suggested that attempting to answer the rhetorical questions of life could drive someone to the point of insanity.
So, what do we do? We, using the escapism that our species is so famed for, try oh-so-hard to remain oblivious of our condition. We remain cheerful, perhaps stupidly so, to a neutral observer, and seek distraction in actions which are essentially pointless. We are pathetically desperate, to put it quite plainly. To impose pattern and meaning on the world, humans will rely on nebulous outside forces for relief and distraction from their…. er…. predicament. This is the only thing that seems to keep a lot of them going. Ergo, God! In my belief, the concept of a god is the result of a truncated search. One has no energy left to pursue the quest, and one settles, one compromises. But perhaps the search for meaning is pointless, perhaps there is none. Perhaps life just IS. No strings attached. But this outlook can be bleak, and is not for everyone. Humans, with all their inherent flaws and insecurities, don’t seem to be able to handle the gargantuan reality that is the ephemeral, transient nature of our lives. Existentialism can be taken just a bit too far, as is amply demonstrated by this 1972 Woody Allen movie called “Play it again, Sam”.
Woody Allen: That's quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn't it?
Girl In Museum: Yes it is.
WA: What does it say to you?
GIM: It restates the negativeness of the universe, the hideous lonely emptiness of existence, nothingness, the predicament of man forced to live in a barren, godless eternity, like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void, with nothing but waste, horror, and degradation, forming a useless bleak straightjacket in a black absurd cosmos.
WA: What are you doing Saturday night?
GIM: Committing suicide.
WA: What about Friday night?
GIM: [leaves silently]
Disturbing, isn’t it? Taking life as it comes can go only so far. Stretch it too much, and like an old rubber-band, it snaps right back at you. ‘Futile passion’ is what Sartre calls life, and it seems to me to be an appropriate description. But what this does is introduce a value conundrum. Traditional ideas about moral responsibility disappeared when there was nothing meaningful to be responsible about. Sartre consequently tried to compensate for this by introducing a new, strengthened sense of responsibility. His view was that one is "responsible" for all the consequences of one's action, whether it is possible to know about them or not. This in turn, introduces another problem. You may be "responsible" for all the consequences of your actions, but if you don't know what they all are, then it really doesn't make any difference, does it. Does ignorance pardon consequence? Again, frightening, isn’t it?
The quest for meaning is futile, that much is amply clear to me, even if it may not be so to you, my dear reader. Enter ‘Habit’ and ‘Routine’. Beckett puts it best in one of his essays,
"Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightening-conductor of his existence. Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit. Breathing is habit. Life is habit."
But what in the name of a fictional god in heaven am I doing? I’m sure that you, my dear perceptive reader, will be quite prepared to rip out my entrails. All that preceded this was not the reason for this post. It has been, to use the word again, an exercise in futility. But, since I have bored you halfway to death already, I am condemned to brevity. (Noooooo!!)
My point, my dear reader, was this. Humans go to great length in search for meaning. We search for it in wealth, we search for it in women, and we search for it in wine. Life is hard, of that there could be no denial. And yet life possesses value, simply because we give it some. Life, in one of its extremely rare benevolent moments, decided that it would give us a reprieve of sorts. If, as we wander far and wide in our quest for meaning, slaying our own personal evil dragons, rescuing our gorgeous damsels in distress, we feel overwhelmed, as is very probable, life allows us to retreat. It permits us a reprieve, into a safe circle, one which we are comfortable with, one which we are in control of. Let us not make the mistake made by Alexander. As life is inherently meaningless, the search for aforesaid meaning is ultimately doomed. And so, the quest is all there seems to be. The journey in itself serves as an end. As we reach new frontiers, unknown boundaries, uncharted lands to be conquered, let us not stretch ourselves to breaking point. Let us remember to go back every so often, to consolidate, and to recuperate. Take some time off, sit down, and take stock. My dear reader, I think you will find that life treats you like a doting father does his prodigal daughter. He will not hinder your search for the meaning, for the truth of your existence; in fact he might actually support, or even actively encourage it. But no matter how far abroad you go, he will always, always leave a porch light burning for you back home. Know that you are always welcome to stop the relentless pursuit and for once actually relax. And perhaps, someday, when you are wise enough, or perceive clearly enough, you might see that what you have been searching for all this while, expending all your energies, can never be found, because it is you yourself, no more, and most certainly no less.
There is no escaping reason; no denying purpose. Because as we both know, without purpose, we would not exist.
It is purpose that created us,
Purpose that connects us,
Purpose that pulls us,
That guides us,
That drives us,
It is purpose that defines us,
Purpose that binds us.
Albert Camus, an existentialist writer, believed that boredom or waiting, which is essentially the breakdown of routine or habit, caused people to think seriously about their identity, much as Estragon and Vladimir do in Samuel Beckett’s classic ‘Waiting for Godot’. In The Plague, Camus suggests that boredom or inactivity causes the individual to think. Camus, and other existential writers, suggested that attempting to answer the rhetorical questions of life could drive someone to the point of insanity.
So, what do we do? We, using the escapism that our species is so famed for, try oh-so-hard to remain oblivious of our condition. We remain cheerful, perhaps stupidly so, to a neutral observer, and seek distraction in actions which are essentially pointless. We are pathetically desperate, to put it quite plainly. To impose pattern and meaning on the world, humans will rely on nebulous outside forces for relief and distraction from their…. er…. predicament. This is the only thing that seems to keep a lot of them going. Ergo, God! In my belief, the concept of a god is the result of a truncated search. One has no energy left to pursue the quest, and one settles, one compromises. But perhaps the search for meaning is pointless, perhaps there is none. Perhaps life just IS. No strings attached. But this outlook can be bleak, and is not for everyone. Humans, with all their inherent flaws and insecurities, don’t seem to be able to handle the gargantuan reality that is the ephemeral, transient nature of our lives. Existentialism can be taken just a bit too far, as is amply demonstrated by this 1972 Woody Allen movie called “Play it again, Sam”.
Woody Allen: That's quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn't it?
Girl In Museum: Yes it is.
WA: What does it say to you?
GIM: It restates the negativeness of the universe, the hideous lonely emptiness of existence, nothingness, the predicament of man forced to live in a barren, godless eternity, like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void, with nothing but waste, horror, and degradation, forming a useless bleak straightjacket in a black absurd cosmos.
WA: What are you doing Saturday night?
GIM: Committing suicide.
WA: What about Friday night?
GIM: [leaves silently]
Disturbing, isn’t it? Taking life as it comes can go only so far. Stretch it too much, and like an old rubber-band, it snaps right back at you. ‘Futile passion’ is what Sartre calls life, and it seems to me to be an appropriate description. But what this does is introduce a value conundrum. Traditional ideas about moral responsibility disappeared when there was nothing meaningful to be responsible about. Sartre consequently tried to compensate for this by introducing a new, strengthened sense of responsibility. His view was that one is "responsible" for all the consequences of one's action, whether it is possible to know about them or not. This in turn, introduces another problem. You may be "responsible" for all the consequences of your actions, but if you don't know what they all are, then it really doesn't make any difference, does it. Does ignorance pardon consequence? Again, frightening, isn’t it?
The quest for meaning is futile, that much is amply clear to me, even if it may not be so to you, my dear reader. Enter ‘Habit’ and ‘Routine’. Beckett puts it best in one of his essays,
"Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightening-conductor of his existence. Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit. Breathing is habit. Life is habit."
But what in the name of a fictional god in heaven am I doing? I’m sure that you, my dear perceptive reader, will be quite prepared to rip out my entrails. All that preceded this was not the reason for this post. It has been, to use the word again, an exercise in futility. But, since I have bored you halfway to death already, I am condemned to brevity. (Noooooo!!)
My point, my dear reader, was this. Humans go to great length in search for meaning. We search for it in wealth, we search for it in women, and we search for it in wine. Life is hard, of that there could be no denial. And yet life possesses value, simply because we give it some. Life, in one of its extremely rare benevolent moments, decided that it would give us a reprieve of sorts. If, as we wander far and wide in our quest for meaning, slaying our own personal evil dragons, rescuing our gorgeous damsels in distress, we feel overwhelmed, as is very probable, life allows us to retreat. It permits us a reprieve, into a safe circle, one which we are comfortable with, one which we are in control of. Let us not make the mistake made by Alexander. As life is inherently meaningless, the search for aforesaid meaning is ultimately doomed. And so, the quest is all there seems to be. The journey in itself serves as an end. As we reach new frontiers, unknown boundaries, uncharted lands to be conquered, let us not stretch ourselves to breaking point. Let us remember to go back every so often, to consolidate, and to recuperate. Take some time off, sit down, and take stock. My dear reader, I think you will find that life treats you like a doting father does his prodigal daughter. He will not hinder your search for the meaning, for the truth of your existence; in fact he might actually support, or even actively encourage it. But no matter how far abroad you go, he will always, always leave a porch light burning for you back home. Know that you are always welcome to stop the relentless pursuit and for once actually relax. And perhaps, someday, when you are wise enough, or perceive clearly enough, you might see that what you have been searching for all this while, expending all your energies, can never be found, because it is you yourself, no more, and most certainly no less.
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