Pearls of Wisdom

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

THE AISLES OF PARADISE

It is indeed my great pleasure to see you once again, my dear, perceptive reader. In the three weeks or so that I have been away from you, trust me when I say that I have thought a lot about you. Funny thing, memory, isn’t it? Perhaps I delude myself in believing that you are still out there, that you are still listening to what I have to say; whereas in reality, you could be a million miles away, on an endless beach of white sand somewhere in the tropics. Wait…. Did I say ‘reality’?? Scratch that. What indeed is reality? I say you are out there, eagerly hanging on to my every word, and so, you are.

This little flight of fancy I indulge in is all very well and fine, for it doesn’t have any ramifications. And yet, in some kind of cosmic tragedy, we, the only mammals to have the ability to imagine in a sentient manner, are the only ones so fettered by our trappings that we dare not. Our lives are filled with the harsh realities of the ‘real’ world, and we are left disillusioned, indeed if not disgusted. But then where can this little bird in our head, so eagerly beating its wings against its cage, take flight. Why, inside our head, of course. We have a whole little world in there, don’t we? The world of our pasts, the world that lead up to the now, that will lead on to the morrow? Isn’t it just lying there, our experiences, just waiting for us to unleash our complete repertoire of fancy on it?

Your memories are yours and yours alone. They aren’t controlled by the vagaries of what we, in our naïveté, call civilization. They are yours to do as you please. My dear reader, perceptive as you are, you may realize that I am partly rehashing over an earlier piece of mine, but bear with me nonetheless. For memory is indeed a strange thing. You realize that there is no such thing as an ‘accurate’ memory? There is only a platform, a viewing station, so to speak, from which only the keenest of observers can see, floating in the mists, other platforms, other viewing stations. But the coup de grace is yet to come. One must realize that there is no need for an accurate memory. Our perceptions of right and wrong, our judgment of true and false will suffice to show us the path.

But memory can indeed deceive, as many through the ages have pointed out. But it is indeed a sweet deception, one I welcome, not shun. Life is in trauma, not specifically, but very generally. Look around. It is akin to the seething froth of water on rock so feared by mariners. And yet, we must, as must they, endure it. And the lifeline we cling to, the sight of land, to stretch the metaphor a little further, is memory, and the dream of things to be. For the past and the future are not distinct, they are not separated by the now. On the memories of your yesterday are overlaid the dreams of your tomorrow, and the paths that you walk as you stroll through this wonderland are akin to the paths of Eden indeed.

Condemn one not for clinging to ones illusions, for it is a lifejacket to a drowning man, water to a parched throat, a lone sunbeam through the clouds of a thunderstorm. Instead, look to join him on the paths he wanders, and then make your own way. Look around, and try not to separate the ‘have beens’ from the ‘should have beens’ and the ‘should bes’. Instead, marvel at the kaleidoscope that arises at the fusion of the three, and enjoy. Make peace with the past, and look forward with hope to the future. Life is hard, and such stolen moments, trysts with ones self, are what make it worth the while.

With that, I shall take my leave of you for now, my dear reader, if indeed you are there at all. But I shall leave you with a very interesting thought…. Memory is a strange thing. It disappoints at first, but it is a way of holding on to the things you are, the things you love, the things you wish to never lose, and the things you wish time ignored. In a world that changes too fast, sometimes all one can do is hold on to memory, and wish one another a happy life…… and good luck.

THE BLIND SPOT

My dear, perceptive reader, take a look around you. Not just your usual dismissive glance, but a real long look, beyond the obvious facades and into the souls of people. And while you are at it, do me a favor. Pick one person out of the crowd, preferably someone you know moderately well, and write down his/her flaws. Not just one of those politically correct endeavors you see at 8th grade ‘Truth or Dare’ games, but a comprehensive list, ranging from anything you don’t really like about that unfortunate individuals looks to any major character flaws (maybe, as a means of whiling away the time, he rips the head of Barbies, you never know). And when you are done with his character analysis, turn your perceptive gaze indeed upon yourself and repeat the same exercise.

Perhaps I flatter myself in assuming that you, my dear reader, actually spared the time to humor me, and perform my little exercise. Nevertheless, it is an assumption I shall take the liberty of making, and hope to predict the results of the experiment. If you have indeed done as I asked, and taken it seriously, I’m willing to wager that the list of faults for the unwittingly compromised soul you chose reads far more than your own. And here at last, long-winded as the journey may have been, we at last come to my point. Why cant people recognize and accept their flaws, their shortcomings, and take corrective measures? Why do we live forever in denial? Why does the blade of your critique, so glinting in the morning sun when it is poised to come down on your hapless companion, suddenly get so dull and blunt when poised over your own head?

Naïve question, say you? Perchance you be right. We humans always have a tendency to neglect our own faults and shortcomings. And while this blind spot seems to be inevitable, perhaps it is best that we get rid of it. All it achieves is to stop us from recognizing where we are inadequate. And when we don’t even admit to ourselves the obvious, that we simply aren’t good enough in certain aspects of life, how ever are we going to take measures to correct it? Wherever I go, I see people waxing eloquent on how the judging criteria were prejudiced, how the judges were incompetent, how they just had an off day, how their inadequacies could perhaps be overlooked as they were depressed because of the weather, how they hit their head on the bedpost in the morning, and that snowballed into a miserable day!! The same hold true not only for organized contests, but for life in general. You make your own luck. On a popular musical talent hunt on television, contestants galore implore for a second chance because of a sore throat. They say it really isn’t their fault. Assuming indeed for a moment that you do have a sore throat, it still remains your fault. You should have taken care of your health better. I hope you perceive my point, dear reader.

Instead, admit to yourself that you really weren’t good enough to win on that particular day. You were beaten by somebody who was better than you. Fair enough. So you need to get better. Do it!! Do not hide yourself behind the cheap and transparent facades you erect. Conversely, knowing how bad you are implies also knowing how good you are. Be not ashamed of either fact. Know exactly who you are better than, and also exactly who are worse than, and in what aspect. Perhaps I am not the best person to give you advice, my dear reader, but I implore you, suffer it but this once. I await your replies, and until the next time we meet, my dear reader, fare thee well!!

A LETTER OF MANY TRUTHS

My dear, perceptive reader, perhaps I have been too liberal with the words musings or thoughts. Perhaps what goes through my head are not thoughts after all, perhaps they are merely thoughtlets, stray clouds that pass across the blue sky of consciousness. Perhaps you think me pretentious and stuck up. On the other hand, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you even like me a little. Perhaps by virtue of my letters to you, for that is what this address holds, my letters to you, you have formed a picture of me. Perhaps the picture you formed is accurate, perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I must thank you, my dear reader; for you have read the outpourings of my soul, and stuck by me no matter what kind of drivel I subject you too.

You see, that is the beauty of the letter, that sheet of paper on which there is a real script, a real hand, in real ink. It leaves a lot to the imagination of the reader, to construct the writer out of naught but that sheet of paper. While dealing with a letter, you must treat all on that sheet as fiction, and all in your head as reality. What was the writer thinking when he wrote that letter? Was he thinking about you, its grateful recipient? Was his mind wandering across plains uncharted? Look at the strong hand, the words fluid. Surely the writer was in good health. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t want his reader to worry about him.

A letter is that medium which allows dreams to come closer to reality, for what is reality? It certainly isn’t one fixed, immovable, stolid object. Indeed, it is fluid, like the clay of a kindergartener, molded to suit ones tastes. Your reality is shaped by the tint of your eyes, by your hopes, your dreams, and your memories. And if a letter causes your memories to change, to come closer to your dreams, then that is the way life should be. What happens when you are confronted by the fact that your dreams are…just that..dreams?? We live after all in a sea of perennial hope, and life is richer for a shattered dream than no dream at all.

One may say that in today’s digital world, with instant messaging at ones fingertips, we have no need for the institution of the letter. We may know all about the one with whom we converse in a matter of minutes. To such, I say, perhaps you miss the point. This is not about knowledge, but about that which sustains us all, our imagination. IM is too clean, too sterile; it doesn’t inspire one’s imagination the way a letter does. Have you never dreamt when you were a little kid?? Never dreamt of your life that shall be, of the people you shall meet?? Well, here is your chance to merge that dream with the people you did meet. A little indulgence in fantasy never hurt anyone.

But this is not an exhortation to dream big. It is one to dream small. Dream about what should have been, not what is. Dream about the next person you want to meet. Dream about how an old friend you haven’t seen in ages would be like now. Dream about what you would say when you found the person you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. Dream about that person from your past, whom you wish you hadn’t hurt, or about that girl to whom you wish you’d said more. Dream about your fiftieth birthday, and who you want to spend it with. Dream about that day when you are eighty, when a chess game is all you crave for, a chess game with a friend, a friend who once, wrote you a letter.

Dream about me. My letters to you contain a wealth of information about me. My dear reader, you and me, we have a past. Do not forget it. If I ever hurt you, my dear reader, forgive, but do not forget, and be assured I won’t either. If I ever delighted you, treasure that memory for ever. Let your memories of me get mixed up with the way you wanted me to be. Bring this image of me into your present. Take it with you into your future. This is my legacy to you.

So, my dear reader, this, and all that came before, and all that shall come are my letters to you. It is a letter of truth, certainly. But that truth is for you to see as you wish. Read them, and form your construct of me. Make me a prince, or make me a pauper. Make me a poet, or an ignoramus. Mold your memory of me to any form you wish, for that part of me which I’m surrendering to you by means of this letter, that part of me in your head, is for you to do as you please. And send me your letters, so that I may do the same. Rejoice in the fantasies of the mind. But tarry awhile, and ponder this, dream free, for your dream is your own, and none else can shape it. It is yours and yours alone. Until next time, my dear reader, fare thee well!!!

THE WORD UNSPOKEN

My dear, perceptive reader; I was watching 'The Wonder Years' last evening and one episode in particular inspired me to pen down my first piece of verse in a long, long time. Now, i realize it isn't anything great, no rhyme, no meter, just vers libre, but i believe it says something.

Poets write, bards sing
Men from world over come… come to hearken
For that is the power of the word written
It can and does make gloomy rooms undarken
And you, my lad, strapping and young
Where goes you now? Partake you not
of words that drip like honey from their tongue?
Nay, say you? the sun is for souls unfrittered?
Words are fair, indeed…
Of rainbows and clouds they sing
But what knoweth they of the heart
That like a chime bell rings
Words brighten a room, say you?
Perhaps you speak the truth
But what, ask I can the word do
That a soft hand on the back cannot?
Leave I my heart in the frigid air of winter
Warm it certainly your words do not
Life is but a tapestry, words the dye
But look, look at the patterns beneath
And for my part say I,
Blow out the candles, let the room darken
And let me hear in the night the word unspoken.

Until next time then, goodbye, my dear reader.

SELENE’S BOW

My dear, perceptive reader, I come back to you today with an incident, an anecdote, if you will, which set off a rather…….shall we say, unusual chain of thought within me.

About half a week ago, I saw one of the most beautiful sights of my life, a lunar rainbow!! The light of the moon differentially refracted by the mass of the clouds framing her face, creating a ring of colours, like a halo around a saint, only this was no ordinary saint I saw that day, assuredly, it was a bearer of the passion.

But, unfortunately, I had on me at that time, no way to capture the moment. So, trudging back to my room, I put out my feelers by means of that most loyal of friends, Google!! On a whim, I searched for rainbow paintings, and found not a few, but absolutely NO paintings with a lunar rainbow as the artists muse. So I asked myself, as I ask you now, my dear reader, why the lopsidedness? Why are the bursts of vibrant colour considered the sole prerogative of Helios, who cries rivers of gold? Why is Selene (Luna of the Romans) relegated to a backseat, her display of colour considered merely an aberration, something adorable, no doubt, but yet not grand or worthy of immortalization through the hands of an artist? Why must this fairest of the gods; pale maiden with the very stars as her freckles on her fair visage, sister of the Sun, mistress of the silver chariot, dispeller of the dark, temperamental as a teenager and yet mature and consistent as a matriarch, why must she be marginalized thus? This favorite of many poets, especially love poets bathes the world with her silvery light, especially beautiful when it caresses the water of a brook, bringing the feeling of romance. It is said that Selene's moon rays fall upon sleeping mortals, as her kisses fell upon her love, Endymion.

Why do we express awe at the sun and its majesty and yet treat the moon as naught but a toddler, to be coddled but yet not taken seriously? All this does is expose a larger malaise in society, our inability to break free of the bias of the collective consciousness. We form our opinions based on the opinions of our fathers and are very reluctant to discard and/or change them.

To be very honest, I am afraid of the sun. The idea of so much power in the hands of something so temperamental, so unstable terrifies me. And yet, on the other hand, Selene like a mother comes out and coddles me each night. Even on the nights she is absent, I still feel her presence, and know she is watching over me and smiling. Her power is subtle, a far cry from the blazing infernos of her brother Helios, and yet it is no less strong. She is, after all, the mistress of the waters. From her immortal head a radiance is shown from heaven and embraces earth; and great is the beauty that arises from her shining light. But then one wonders, why is she not accorded the same status in the Pantheon as is her brother? Is it just a lack of fear, a narrowness of perspective? Why, my dear reader, does one not realize that the light of the moon, while just as useful as that of the sun, poses no threat at all to us. It is a benign light, a light born of the smile of a lovely lady, a fair goddess. And yet, she looks down upon us and weeps, but even in her weeping she gives to you, my dear perceptive reader, her “Rivers of Silver”.

BELLUM OMNIUM CONTRA OMNES

My dear, perceptive reader, one of the immortal classics of socio-political literature is Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, written in 1651. The purpose of this post is solely to discuss the aforementioned phrase, famous today perhaps in a context different from that which Hobbes originally intended. Literally translated, it means ‘The war of every man against every other’. Hobbes intended it to refer to the concept of civil war, and how a strong governmental figure was required to counter these particular urges of man. I shall add a twist to the interpretation, and use it to discuss the concepts of Darwinian evolution and the eternal battle of idealism vs. realism.

Most believe the concepts of Darwinian evolution to be the ultimate expression of anthropocentrism, and thus it is consciously rejected by many ecologists, deep or otherwise. On the other hand, phrases such as ‘for the greater good of the species’ give middle aged couch potatoes and emotionally repressed housewives a warm glow in the belly. It is a comfortable thought, is it not? Unfortunately, the reality is as far removed from this as the earth from the sun. To quote again from Hobbes, ‘The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’. A human thinks first ONLY of himself, for himself. Here, we see a shift from anthropocentrism to egocentrism, in a manner of speaking (I know the parallel is not exact, but it is the best I could come up with). Even those few ‘enlightened’ souls (note the inverted commas) who claim to put society over their selves are only deluding themselves. No one, and I mean no one, is going to act for the greater good if it harms them. It’s just not done. Not only is it impossible, but quite frankly, it is inconceivable. This is the proverbial ‘Tragedy of the Commons’. Once more, I am certain I am in for a load full of protests from all quarters, but I believe I owe it to myself.

My dear reader, I’m fairly certain that by now, you have figured out how I plan to extrapolate the argument to the idealism vs. realism debate. Nevertheless, I shall take the liberty of boring you a little further, more for my own benefit than yours. Idealists seem to believe that life is a bed of roses, devoid of thorns, of course. They actually believe that faith can move mountains. However, using a truncated form of Hobbes again, ‘The life of man is solitary’. Each man follows his individual path in life, independent of any and all others. And, considering for instance, India herself, that’s more than a billion paths. Now, as any statistics student would easily tell you, the larger the cardinality of any sample space, the more consistent the statistical mean will be, more immune to the minor deviations introduced by the vagaries of individuals. My point is this; the mean path which, in turn, is the path of the entire country, is invariant, regardless of the actions of any person. This is what sociologists call ‘Social Inertia’, and in a society the size of our country, that inertia is immense!! While we have all the power to choose our own actions and influence our own fates, the same is not true for the whole. More on this, you my dear reader must have already seen here.

With this, my dear reader, I shall take your leave for now. I hope I have impressed upon you the wisdom of Thomas Hobbes and the seeming futility of idealism (note that I mentioned ‘seeming’, more on that later). As always, I look forward to your views on the matter. Farewell… until the next time we meet!!

A BREACH OF COURTESY? A PARADIGM SHIFT?

My dear, perceptive reader; I come back to you today with a short post about a little anecdote. Earlier today, as I was walking out of the classroom, I failed to notice a lady acquaintance of mine. Well, to cut a long story shot, she hailed me back and after a few polite exchanges, we said our goodbyes. No big deal, say you? Perhaps. But one point struck me. A few decades ago, in the Victorian Era, it would have been considered a heinous breach of courtesy to ignore a lady, no matter how concerned you may be with other, pressing matters. And yet, here, it was brushed aside as though it was nothing.

Perhaps my judgment is warped by the fact that I read too many novels by Victorian authors when I was younger, but those little niceties, quaint and outdated as they may be, have always appealed to me. As I cycled away from the aforesaid encounter, the delayed realization struck me!! Something had definitely changed. But what was it? Was it me? Or is it society has ‘evolved’ sufficiently to ignore such common courtesies? Is this the outcome of the ‘Neo-Hellenistic’ revolution?? Am I alone in having a problem with the turn of events?

With that thought, I leave you, my dear, perceptive reader. As always, I invite you to form your own opinions, and request you to share them with me.

THE GOLDEN FLEECE

My dear, perceptive reader, I come back to you today with more of my inchoate musings about the mundane. Perhaps in no other thing is displayed as clearly incontrovertible proof of the takeover of the technological age and its associated social implications as in the morning routine of a typical IITian. Consider, for instance, yours truly, I wake up in the morning, thanks largely to a voice alarm which, trust me, is as irritating as it is effective. My first action in the morn is to yawn and sleepily toggle the switch on my desk onto the ‘ON’ position, do the same to my UPS device and switch on my computer. (Note that I make no mention of performing my morning ablutions prior to this)

Thankfully, I have a fast, reliable for the most part, internet connection available in my room at all not-so-unearthly hours. I shudder to think of how my life would be without the internet. For those as intensely private as yours truly, it is a godsend, no less!! It allows me to maintain the essential interaction with other members of the human race, but yet it allows me to have it on my own terms.

Consider, for a moment, my dear reader, the vast myriad of social networking websites and instant messaging (IM) services. I myself use way too many of the afore-mentioned for my own good. Anyway, I am reasonably certain that the creators of this concept had in mind not its use by people like me, but rather by those extroverts who like nothing better in life than to make new friends. But, foreseen or otherwise, my kind owes an eternal debt to the creation and its creators.

But I digress. The reason for this post was another. I wished to highlight the point that say, GTalk, provides an interface for interaction which is intensely comfortable. I do not have to subject myself to the actual presence of the person with whom I wish to converse or vice versa. (No offense intended, of course) There is an indescribable romance, a mystery to IMing which for some reason, chooses not to reveal itself to me. Yet, I sense that it is there, teasingly, tantalizingly just outside my reach. Don’t you feel it too, my dear reader? Don’t you feel the charm of the chat window, the mystique of multiple interpretations to every line typed, the incredible convenience (to those insecure few) of being able to consider what you say before you actually say it!! Aren’t you, with such a interface, much less likely to put your overly large foot in your mouth??

A case in point for this argument is the use of the call function of GTalk. How many of us actually use it? And when we do use it, it is rare to do so for a full blown conversation rather than a few terse statements, very breve and business-like.

And yet, it is not without its drawbacks. Over such an interface, you see but a façade, only that part of the other the other wants you to see in the first place. You have to inkling of the true nature of the man behind the words. (Or woman, I shall not be accused of sexism) IM is, borrowing from an old fable, the golden fleece which can make the wolf seem a lamb.

One wonders about the cause of this unprecedented comfort level experienced over this interface. As always, I have my own opinions. (Yeah right, big surprise!!) I believe that no one ever truly opens up in a conversation, be t face to face or otherwise. A shield is always raised, invariably. It is just that in a face to face conversation, your counterpart has many more opportunities to sneak peeks of the real you. On the other hand, in an internet conversation, the benefits are dual; the shield can be raised with less effort and also the other cannot penetrate it without substantial effort.

Well, I’m afraid I shall have to truncate this discussion abruptly. I leave it to you, my dear perceptive reader, to form your own opinions and, as always, live on the hope that you shall share them with me.

WHO SPEAKS FOR EARTH?

We look back through countless millions of years and see the great will to live struggling out of the intertidal slime, struggling from shape to shape and from power to power, crawling and then walking confidently upon the land, struggling generation after generation to master the air, creeping down into the darkness of the deep; we see it turn upon itself in rage and hunger and reshape itself anew, we watch it draw nearer and more akin to us, expanding, elaborating itself, pursuing its relentless inconceivable purpose, until at last it reaches us and its being beats through our brains and arteries … It is possible to believe that all that the human mind has ever accomplished is but the dream before the awakening … Out of our … lineage, minds will spring, that will reach back to us in our littleness to know us better than we know ourselves. A day will come, one day in the unending succession of days, when beings, beings who are now latent in our thoughts and hidden in our loins, shall stand upon this earth as one stands upon a footstool, and shall laugh and reach out their hands amidst the stars.
-H.G.Wells, “The Discovery of the Future,”


It’s good to see you again, my dear perceptive reader. I hope you’ve been well, as have been I. For my humanities elective, I chose a course called ‘Literature and the Environment’. Great course, excellent teacher. But even though I really enjoy the classes, somehow I feel uncomfortable with the philosophy of the course.

Say, for instance, an extraterrestrial intelligence comes to earth and asks for one sentient life being to represent the planet. Surely you can imagine the strife among the factions of our society as to who represents us. But ponder this; do we ever consider that the planets representative be any other life form other than humans? What leads to this specio-centrism? Are we the dominant life-form on this planet? Surely not. We are nowhere close to, say, bacteria. It has always been the Age of Bacteria. There has never been a time in life’s history when they have not been the most abundant life form. What is it then? Yes, it is the fact that we are the most intelligent species on the planet.

Well then, who does the planet belong to? Most would give me one of two answers: either no one at all or all the beings that inhabit the planet. I, on the other hand, beg to differ. I believe the planet belongs to us, humans. By what virtue, by what right, ask you? Do we have a ‘divine’ birthright which gives us control? Certainly not. We have the right because we TAKE the right. I ask people, what is the reason people pursue environment conservation and all that? Again, two answers. One, because plants and animals, (I use the phrase generically, science students please don’t contradict me about the bacteria and the like.) are useful to us. I have no problems thus far. I more than agree, in fact. Later, people tend to get into the divine right of all life to live. This is where I must jump in. We are the most intelligent species on the planet. We are the ones who will eventually colonize the galaxy. I do not believe in the sacrament of life, but in that of intelligence.

We are the local embodiment of a cosmos grown to self-awareness. We have begun to contemplate our origins: starstuff pondering the stars; organized assemblages of molecules raised to consciousness. Our loyalties lie towards our species, towards intelligence itself. We have an obligation to survive. WE speak for earth.

THE CRADLE OF COMFORT

My dear, perceptive reader; almost exactly a week ago today, I returned to the sprawling, scenic IIT-M campus to embark on the 3rd installment of my journey towards an engineering degree. Of course, before that, I spent 3 months at home, being pampered like the little prince I was 10 years ago(annoyed frown). Its not that I’m not grateful, because trust me, I am. It’s just that Mom has got to realize that I neither need nor want someone at my beck and call 24*7. Anyway, I digress. Point is, one would think that after home, I would find it hard to adjust to insti life, wouldn’t one? Surprisingly, reality had quite the contrary in store for me.

I found that I adjusted faster to insti life when I got back from home rather than vice-versa. This, my friends, is where I belong. Of course, life here is very humdrum, hectic and sorts. Quite the contrast to the laid-back I have no worries; I have no goals life I led for the three months I spent at home. But, you know what, I like it this way. I like having things to do. I like not wallowing in my boredom. I like getting up in the morning and knowing that I have goals to achieve before the day is done and gone. You know, the clichéd “Miles to go before I sleep” situation.

Again, you would think that the pace of life here, if maintained over long periods of time, would drive one crazy. And, you would be right!! Well then, what keeps me sane? (Of course, there will be some among you who might argue that sane isn’t exactly an appropriate word to describe me, but lets just say, for the sake of argument, that I am sane, shall we?) Anyway, coming back to the matter at hand, what keeps me sane is, in fact, my room!! Of course, most among you would consider the preceding statement to be incontrovertible proof that I am deranged, but I implore you, hear me out.

My room is a unit, which runs best in symbiosis with me. I do not know how to explain this to another, but I shall do my very best. You know how when you are concentrating, when you are doing something important, the muscles and tendons on your neck and shoulders somehow are perennially tense and taut. But when I get to my room, everything suddenly goes so slack and I actually let out a sigh!! It is like a cradle or a womb, a comforter, so to speak. It is where I feel immune to the world around me. It is my own space, my own Agam, so to speak, for those familiar with the concepts of Sangam literature. It is a base camp, a command center, from where I regulate my links to the outer world. I let in only those I choose, I go out only when I choose. I am the master, and yet I am at the mercy of my room! When I came back, I had to reorganise my room from scratch. I realised, of course, that there were a million better ways to do it, but I had to chose the exact same arrangement I had during the second semester. It was a compulsion, know what I mean?

Well, I guess I’ll bring an end to my awkward chain of thought here, and also to your misery, my dear reader. After all, I wouldn’t want to scare you away from this blog. But, I would appreciate your comments and thoughts, as always. Bye for now, see you in a bit!!

FULL STOP????

Humans- Homo Sapiens- by far the most intelligent species on the planet. True so far. The pinnacle of evolution, the most important species on the planet. Absolutely not!!!! That is just our anthrocentric arrogance speaking. Blasphemy, say you? Surely human beings are unique, you ask? Of course we are. After all, we have, perched between our ears, the most complicated machine on the planet. But, complexity is not the goal of evolution. Every species on the planet is unique in its own way. Uniqueness is, if anything, a commodity in oversupply. The story of a briefly abundant hairless primate originating in Africa is but a footnote in the history of life, but in the history of the hairless primate, it is central.

Human beings are an ecological success, no doubt about that. They are probably the most abundant large animal on the planet. Moreover, human beings has shown a remarkable ability to adapt to various habitats, cold or hot, dry or wet, marine or desert. No doubt, this ecological success of ours comes at a high price and we are doomed to catastrophe soon enough; for a successful species, we are remarkably pessimistic about the future. For now, we are a success.

Yet, the truth is that we come from a long line of failures. We are apes, a group that almost went extinct 15 million years ago in competition with the better designed monkeys. We are primates, a group of mammals that almost went extinct 45 million years ago in competition with the better designed rodents. We are synapsid tetrapods, a group of reptiles that almost went extinct 200 million years ago in competition with the dinosaurs. We are descended from limbed fishes, which almost went extinct 360 million years ago in competition with the better designed ray finned fishes. We are chordates, a phylum that survived the Cambrian era 500 million years ago by the skin of its teeth in competition with the brilliantly successful arthropods. Our success has come against humbling odds.

How did we survive? At all times, the specter of natural selection was waiting to claim us, and yet it was him who gave us the proverbial boost up the ladder, the ability to evolve, to compete, to carve out our own little niche. And yet, today, the same forces are kept at bay by us, consciously. The sheer arrogance of it all is overwhelming. Our superior medical technology implies that almost no-one dies before they reach reproductive age. This causes ‘bad genes’, which otherwise would have been weeded out to return to the pool. Obviously, the alternative to this is not acceptable in our society any longer. Merely considering it would make us as bad as the Francis Galton with his eugenic principles or perhaps the Nazis. Ethically, we have an obligation to save those who we can. Agreed. This now leaves mutation as the only source for variation in the pool. And yet, in out society, mutants of any kind, physical, physiological or psychological are just not given equal standing. They are shunned, perhaps not consciously, but shunned nevertheless.

Meanwhile, on the other hand, our parasites are becoming more and more streamlined. With an absurdly low generation time, they can evolve around and over anything we throw at them in absolutely no time at all. In the war between us and the parasites, right now, we are losing!!

Some say, human evolution is not at a standstill, it is merely very slow. They tell us not to worry, that as and when the attack becomes more serious, natural selection will swing back into action. Is that really what it will take?? A pandemic?? Isn’t that too much of a risk? Will any of us survive?

The average lifetime for a species is about 10 million years. We have been around perhaps half that time, and have yet not spawned a daughter species. Perhaps I am being overly pessimistic, but the more I think about it, the more I am certain that unless we change soon, the doom of our species awaits. And I weep, not for our species, for we always knew we were but ephemeral, not for life, for it will go on, with or without us, but for intelligence and perception. And, in this, I have no comforting shoulder to weep upon!!!

*(This post borrows heavily from Matt Ridley’s “Genome”, a must read for any student of life-sciences)

THE DISEASE OF DOUBT

Basic human needs: food, clothing, shelter……… praise and reassurance??? My dear perceptive reader, I have wondered more than once what it is about the human psyche that makes most of us inherently insecure; so much so that we need the approval of others??

I understand the Darwinian concepts of ‘acceptance of the herd’ and all those other old, dried out clichés about man being a social animal that people seem so fond of perpetrating, but some part of me has always viewed this almost puppy-like seeking of society’s approval as, frankly, childish. All it accomplishes, I fear, is to expose ones inherent insecurity, fear, self-doubt and vulnerability. And, surely, it can’t be a good idea to display your weaknesses for all to see, can it?

As far as I can see, this trait of our species takes on two forms. Firstly, there is the need for emotional reassurance. I have lost count of the number of articles I have read in various newspapers or Readers Digest and similar magazines which essentially say, open up to your loved ones; tell them how much you care. While a certain part of me can see the logic the author(s) of these articles are trying to put forth, another, much more dominant part of me, dismisses it outright. I am, by nature, an intensely private person, so much so, it is actually an colossal effort for me to truly open up, as you, my perceptive reader, have no doubt already figured out from the fumbling nature of this post. All that said and done, I find that I am at total peace with myself. I know my exact position in the lives of those around myself, and am content. I suffer no illusions about my importance in the life of others, nor do I, on the other hand, consider myself to be unimportant. (And no, no matter what you think, this is not a form of narcissism)

Surprisingly for me, a vast majority of the human race has still to come to terms with themselves in this respect as I have myself done. Trouble is, I expect others around me to have the same degree of self-possession I do, and therefore run into conflict many times with friends and family, who keep trying to get me to ‘open up’, as they put it, to let them know what they mean to me. For all their efforts, they might as well try to coax a Harley into climbing a tree by it own. My opinion is, if you do not already know, or if you still have doubts, nothing I can ever say will erase them, will it? (Of course, this opinion of mine might well be influenced by my own private nature, of which I have already made mention) Not needing any praise or reassurances myself, I am, I believe, understandably reluctant to dole them out either.

The second, and to me, even more surprising form this insecurity takes, is professional. Emotional insecurity, if not justifiable, is at the least understandable. Emotions are not exactly the most scrutable of things, I grant you that much. But your work?? Clearly, there are objective standards to which what you do, whatever you do, must live up to! Do other’s personal opinions really matter?? Do you not just KNOW, for yourselves, how good or bad your work is? Surely, surely, you are the best of yourself!! Again, I find a vast majority of the human population look to others for approval. (Also again, thus far, I, thankfully, seem immune to this malaise)

Frankly, this worries me! Somehow I have this gut feeling that this constant human vulnerability compromises the productivity of our lives. Of course, I may be wrong. It may well be, that what I portray as a malaise may indeed be the norm, and it is I who am the diseased one, the odd one out! Yet, somehow, I do not think so. But I am, I believe, wise enough to realize that my intuition might be a consequence of the very nature I describe above. Am I deluding myself? My dear, perceptive reader, I would appreciate your views on the matter.

*(Before you should comment on the matter, as I have no doubt you will, I acknowledge that my last paragraph seems a lot like the very problem of insecurity I consider myself immune to. The thing is, the mind is indeed a complex object, very often inscrutable. The borders between intellectual curiosity and insecurity are too fuzzy to be put down into words. I believe myself to be on the right side of that border. You, my perceptive reader, are, of course, very welcome to your own opinion)

A TAPESTRY IN GREYSCALE

ETHICS OF AN ATHEIST

My dear, perceptive reader; I have oft wondered at the power of atheism to unite theists across multitude of religions. Whatever their other differences, they invariably set these aside and join forces in the condemnation of the atheist. Invariably, when I inform someone that I am an atheist, their immediate reaction is to form that silent ‘Oh’!! I can almost hear their thoughts….. “If you don’t believe in God, there’s nothing to prevent you from committing crimes, is there? Without the fear of hell-fire and eternal damnation, you can do anything you like, can’t you?”

At times, such queries seem almost laughable, a portrayal of naïveté, so to speak; but at still others, they are frankly disturbing, as the message they convey is that a vast majority of theists still consider us atheists as the lowest scum of society!! Many people consider the phrase ‘an ethical atheist’ to be an oxymoron. Assuredly, ‘tis not so. Quite the contrary, in fact. The behavior of atheists is subject to the same rules of sociology, psychology and neurophysiology as the rest of the general population. Granted, we, as a group, do not fear retribution in an afterlife, but that hardly serves to infer that we are any less ethical than theists.

Ethics as a group, arise not out of fear, but are a natural consequence of the evolution if society. Atheists are capable of governing their own moral behavior and getting along in society the same way as anyone else. At the risk of labeling the atheist as self-centered, it does not serve the best interests of an atheist to have a radically different set of ethics from the rest of society. Basically, society will only put up with so much if it is to function smoothly. So, if an atheist wants to get along and have a decent life, it makes sense for him to be honest, work hard, pay his bills, and get along with others. Basically, he has to adopt a set of ethics common to society in order to do that. Belief in God is not a requirement for ethical behavior or an enjoyable life.

On the other hand, I must concede that the ethical system we follow is by no means rigid. It is an evolving, changing entity. The closest thing we have to an ethical absolute is the legal system of our respective countries. The principle we follow is essentially this ‘Whatever works out best for all involved, must be right’. I must admit, I can see where theists might have a problem with this. It looks suspiciously like hypocrisy, doesn’t it? Again, a common misconception. It would amount to hypocrisy if one looks purely at the situation at hand, rather than the background and events leading up to it. In my opinion, in today’s day and age, it is hardly feasible to have a blanket set of ethics, covering all possible situations under one code.

Consider, merely as an example, the practice of abortion. Unlike the Catholic Church, I do not condemn the practice outright. Nor am I an outspoken proponent of it. I believe we must consider each case by its individual merits and demerits. For instance, I might oppose abortion in the case of an affluent woman in her early 30’s with no health problems who wants to delay motherhood in order to focus on her career. On the other hand, I would support it in the case of a young teenage girl in a third world country, who just made a mistake.

I must reiterate here that an atheist’s ethics are based on the same principles of love, patience, understanding and general welfare as those of any religion. It’s just that, I believe, we have a tendency to look beyond the obvious to what lurks hidden in the shadows. Our ethical system is by no means clearly delineated into regions of wrong and right, black and white, but rather, as the title suggests, is an intricate tapestry of different shades of grey!!

*(Here, I must implore the reader to forgive my occasional and seemingly random from second person to the first and vice versa at many places in the above article. It is difficult to maintain a generic view on a topic so close to one’s heart)

**(Also, I would very much appreciate the readers thoughts on the matter. A different viewpoint often helps one to see the truth clearer J)

THE ILLUSION OF ‘I’

My dear perceptive readers, before I begin, I must implore you to forgive these few awkward lines. What I mean to write of today is no more than a transcript of certain nebulous thoughts floating in my head. I perceive the most fragile of connections, the merest beginnings of sense, no more.

Oft have I wondered, what is the concept of the ‘I’?? Indeed, it is one of the mysteries of life. The closest anybody has ever come to describing it is, I think, the vague, ephemerous term of ‘Anthrocentrism’. Self-delusion is something all of us have, at some point in our lives or other, almost certainly indulged in. Each and every man (and woman, to my many vices shall not be added sexism) believes that he or she is the most important person in the world. Oh, do not get me wrong, I do not say that we voice these beliefs openly, or that we are monsters of our pride. Not at all. In fact, we are perfectly aware that it is neither admirable nor useful to be driven by pride, so we try to subdue that drive, but we might as well disapprove of having oneself powered by one’s heartbeat. Intellectually, we recognize ourselves as merely a part of a greater whole, but not really; not in our guts, which, incidentally, is where an average persons thinking mechanism is located.

But, I wonder, is this delusion really as bad as it is made up to be? Isn’t it this very indulgence that drives a man towards success? And I answer myself, indeed, it is so. But, there is always a ‘but’, isn’t there? In this case, there is no doubt that each and every one of us is a big fish, the ‘but’ simply arises in our ability to identify the appropriate pond. We are indeed the centers of our respective worlds, only the world has become a lot smaller. In the large scale, one is no more than a component, and, this is the cinematic moment of revelation with big bass beats, by no means an irreplaceable one. Here, I must add that this is a revelation which, as far as my perception goes, cannot seep into ones consciousness steadily. It has to hit one with the full force of a speeding automobile suddenly encountering a brick wall.

One must realize that in the grand scheme of human civilization, there is no single person who is truly important. I have no doubt that, by making this assertion, I have condemned myself to heated arguments from many quarters, most of them armed with examples. I’ll quote a few myself. Newton and Einstein are the cornerstones of science today. Great men, no doubt. But do you truly believe that without them, science would not have progressed? Would no one have invented the technique of calculus or discovered gravity? Would no one have introduced the concept of relativity? Of course someone would have done it!! Perhaps the achievement would have come a little later, but it would have come nonetheless. The single greatest engineering feat of the last 150 years is the IC engine. But, in the long run, does it really matter who invented it or if its invention was delayed by a decade or two? Would the Second World War have taken place if Hitler had never been born? Of course it would have!! The sweep of history is inexorable, inescapable. The socio-economic pressures which led to the War had nothing to do with Hitler. He was merely the catalyst. Same goes for Gandhi, or any major historical figure. Even if none of them had ever existed, I believe that the world today would not have been quite different, in essentials, from what it is today.

Isaac Asimov, in his groundbreaking Foundation series, introduced a concept called ‘Psychohistory’. It is, in essentials, a mathematical technique to predict the broad sweeps of civilization. Asimov himself was conveniently vague about the precise details of psychohistory, but stressed many times over, and in no uncertain terms, that the governing equations would break down when applied to an individual. His official argument was of course that an individual’s reaction to any stimulus could not be accurately predicted, but those of a mob could be. I wonder, though, if he had the thoughts expressed above in the back of his head when he created psychohistory. Interesting speculation, is it not?

My dear reader, as I promised at the very outset, the post seems to have no easily apparent order or chronology. I humbly beg you to pardon these inchoate musings, and I hope you will share your thoughts with me, in the process perhaps enlightening my lost, troubled soul.

A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE

My dear, perceptive reader, I come back to you with what I hope will affect you as profoundly as it has me. This stunning picture is of Messier 81(M81) or Bode’s Galaxy taken from the Hubble Space Telescope. It is a spiral galaxy, similar in many, many respects to our very own Milky Way.

My train of thought runs thus….. There are about one hundred billion galaxies in the observable universe. The space between each of them is more tenuous than any laboratory vacuum, and stretches for many times the size of the galaxies themselves. An average galaxy has about 200 billion stars. Now, consider our Milky Way galaxy. It is, as I have said, merely one out of 10^11 galaxies. Our sun, on the edge of one of the spiral arms of the galaxy, is merely one of 200 billion. Our sun would be less than at a pixel in a similar image of our galaxy. Our earth would be just about a pixel in a similar size image of the solar system. I know this may seem like mathematical masochism, but a long human life is barely 7.3*10^-11 of the present age of the universe.

The scale of this immense vastness is so gargantuan that I can barely conceive of it without a shudder. The cosmic forces which are responsible for the creation of all this magnificence is what most call God. I myself beg to differ, but this article isn’t about that at all. It is about how infinitely insignificant any and all of us are. Our lives are in the inexorable grip of these vast forces, forces which are beyond resistance, and yet, do we really matter?? Are these forces even cognizant about our existence?? There is a theory that the current vacuum prevalent in our universe is a high-energy one, an excited quantum state, so to speak. It could collapse at any instant, anywhere in the universe. A bubble of the real vacuum could be hurtling outward towards us at this very instant. We wouldn’t even realize it. We would be here one instant, gone the next. The true spine chiller comes next. We could be brushed out of existence the next instant, and the universe, in the grand scheme of things, wouldn’t even notice our absence. This is awe, in the truest sense of the world, to confront something so much greater than ourselves, and to be humbled in comparison.

My dear, perceptive reader; with this I take your leave for now. I would, however, appreciate your thoughts on the matter.