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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
THE LONG DARK TEATIME OF THE SOUL
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.
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.
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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