Staring out the window on a sunny day, turning real life into a one-channel television without a volume. Every item on the floor takes on a personality of its own, a micro chasm and reflection of my mind. Clutter, surrounded by order. Invitations to action and monuments to stupor. Ideas half finished lay as charred ash in the trey and slanted words in beaten Moleskins. Artifacts of the past and the future hide as crumpled socks and a unplugged mouse. Every item lying as if in an airport terminal, patiently waiting to be picked up and whisked away to the next chapter, the next brush with activity and the future.
The lamp, blown over by the wind, invites the eye like a single chick in a carton of eggs. The pink of its shade is eclipsed only by the tuft of its texture, it’s support four treble clefts twisting lazily around the staff created by the panels of the hardwood floor. How can it be anything other than an obvious metaphor for all the music that’s been made, and has yet to exist? Perhaps it’s just the creation of a passion wanting desperately to return to the surface, to enliven the agent to action and creation?
Something has to give. This hibernation has been too long, too stagnant, too rife with inertia. It’s the dark side of homeostasis and physics; a body at rest will remain at rest until acted upon by an outside force. But where are the outside forces, where is the catalyst to increase the frequency of the reaction of action? Perhaps there is no equation, perhaps it more of a process. Our internal fusion, how to flip the switch?
I wonder though, why isn’t the process self-sustaining? Why does the will take leave in the midst of motivated plans, why is halfway complete an acceptable time to call in finished? Some might say distraction, or perhaps urgency more specifically, but is that an existential component of human nature or a trick of the socially cultivated mind? Why is it some hard to find half of a nest, or a quarter of a burrow yet so difficult not to avoid the half finished plans and dreams deferred?
Priorities in action. Are we as people given so many priorities that we become numb? Like telemarketing and email, have we been so inundated that we’ve forgotten how to separate the wheat from the chaff, to see clearly those actions and activities that will be provide their own energy for completion? Are we so inundated by irrelevant information we’re in a constant yet unconscious state of bewilderment?
Perhaps complex solutions come with simple answers. Don’t think, just do. Now the call seems to imply a return to “thoughtless action”. Not the thoughtless action that led to the Megan Meier tragedy, nor the thoughtless action that led to the George Tiller madness, but the thoughtless action that led to the works of da Vinci and Shakespeare. It’s easy to wonder how such unquestioned genius could be described as thoughtless; truly their chefs-d’oeuvre required some intellectual heavy lifting, but I can’t help but think that the remarkable feature is the absence of thought in the way that we’re accustomed. Missing is the self-doubt and distraction, gone are the questions of capacity, yet even the most untrained eye cannot miss the fingerprints of urgency. Works of any great magnitude, whether in our lives or the lives of acknowledged Masters, are created because they simply have to be. They’re ideas which, once created, are complete with their own imperative.
How then, can everything be work of such magnitude? How can we assure that the activities we undertake are of highest caliber and are completed with their own energy, as opposed to requiring our finite stores? The new pressing question, and one which will receive thorough treatment in musings to come. For the time being, let us say that the quality of our creations and our lives will rise in direct connection with the urgency which our creations have for us. It requires living the life we have to lead, rather than the one we think we do or the one we think we should.
So try being the person you have to be, be the change you wish to see in the world, act as though you were already the person you are in your purest, wildest, fiercest dreams. Consider, what do you simply HAVE to do?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Inspiration Comes Standard
As my last full day of y old life draws to a close, it’s just so easy to reflect upon all that has happened which has managed to get me right here from where I began. I won’t say from where I began, for it’s an arbitrary line, but for those who just can’t let it go why don’t we say the period beginning on June 11th, 2007 and running until right now. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the fallacy that is both beginnings and ends; thanks to the continuity of our experience I can no more say I’m done with the past or have divided the now from the future than I can say that my wallet has been married for the last 10 years to its life mate Lee, Massachusetts.
That’s not to say that today has been in way humdrum. Today was a day of firsts – the first last full day at a job I was quitting, the first work lunch in my honor, the first company gathering to wish me well. It was my first farewell speech, excluding the end of High School or National Young Leaders Conferences, and more importantly the first lucid moment since I can remember where I understood so greatly and so clearly the effect that a little bundle of atoms like myself can have on the world. I’ll toot my own horn (or “Punch the Clown” as I heard on TV recently) some other time because the whole situation and the prime understanding have little to do with me other than my outstanding ability to do be myself and be willing to suffer both the glory and consequence for it. The important idea is just how much we shape the world and the people in it when we aren’t paying attention.
All of the trials and tribulations, all the days spent metaphorically banging my head against all the walls of my cube and all the windows I couldn’t see. All the terse and blandly vitriolic interactions with a detractor whose motives I could never understand. The eyestrain, the tired nights on the couch, the frustrated rumblings of ideals in a cage, the dead ends and dead-bolted doors of opportunity, they were all worth it. Why? Little had I realized that to a far greater crowd than I had infuriated, I had inspired.
Like infinity and overcoats, inspiration comes in different sizes, and every reply slowly blew all of the fuses in my mind. From “I’m so happy for you, words cannot describe,” “I’ll miss you” to “Why are you leaving me, you were the only one I could...with, asshole” to “I feel like I’m losing my best friend,” and “I simply don’t feel like I’m understood here, but you did.” There were other comments sure, some delivered with all sincerity yet limited by their perfunctory banality, and I’m sure that some would rather thank me for my time by bludgeoning me with the heaviest thickest product we sell, but this was me. For better (mostly) or for worse it was my life, the one in which I take all my faults out on myself tenfold, the existence that recently has been preoccupied with the wake of destruction it has at times caused, the being whose ego, when it flares, worries that it’s not good enough to live up to the expectations that have been set.
Beware of veiled images and half the story, to be sure. Mostly unbeknownst to me, I had also been up to some good. I had been mostly kind, and it turns out that stubborn refusal to accept anything less than the world as I see it was a reminder that there was some still some faculty, function and efficacy to those who took the less common route in reply to a wise quote by a wise man (a painter, Doug. Talk to the painters if you get a chance, they’ve had a long time to get some thinking done), “When faced with that which we don’t like we have two options, to change reality or change ourselves.” There is intense wisdom in being able to roll with the punches in the same way that the lake rolls with its waves, and further profundity locked in the notion that we can change reality.
We can change reality, and if fact we do so with every waking moment, every decision. It was in the moments that I hadn’t earmarked as weighty, a smile here, a conversation there, a joke when it’s needed or a bit of unintentional sympathy. It has to be, because as I initially added up the sum of my moments, I couldn’t come to any whole greater than the sum of its parts. Perhaps that’s the idea: those thoughtless minutes, the ones which act as filler for the punctuated peaks, are truly as important as the ones destined for the memory books, what we do when we put ourselves on autopilot and live according the script that we have written to carry ourselves from day to new day. We aren’t fully aware, yet we get no breather from perception and change, we live on the whole unconsciously yet this spottily conscious life leaves a permanent imprint on both the awareness and ignorance of everyone we come into contact with.
It seems like a grave responsibility, and it is, but it’s underpinnings of our ability to be the change we wish to see in the world make for such hope for both ourselves and others, our present and future that we must pay mind. If we can shape someone’s world so, then we are never powerless – we are changing matter everyday, matter which contains more energy in each atom’s nucleus alone then the stars in the sky. We are constantly shaping and being shaped and reshaping in turn, and it is from this that we can hopefully understand that since every moment has equal potential, that this moment could be the one that alters someone else forever, isn’t this a perfect e moment to start over? While each person consciously grabs the reins of their lives at different times, reforming their perceptions dreams and actions, remembering that like it or not we are already and always at work shaping the future with every thought. I can only hope that this will encourage right now as the moment to live as though we are already the person that we wish to be; you never know who may be picking up your signals.
That’s not to say that today has been in way humdrum. Today was a day of firsts – the first last full day at a job I was quitting, the first work lunch in my honor, the first company gathering to wish me well. It was my first farewell speech, excluding the end of High School or National Young Leaders Conferences, and more importantly the first lucid moment since I can remember where I understood so greatly and so clearly the effect that a little bundle of atoms like myself can have on the world. I’ll toot my own horn (or “Punch the Clown” as I heard on TV recently) some other time because the whole situation and the prime understanding have little to do with me other than my outstanding ability to do be myself and be willing to suffer both the glory and consequence for it. The important idea is just how much we shape the world and the people in it when we aren’t paying attention.
All of the trials and tribulations, all the days spent metaphorically banging my head against all the walls of my cube and all the windows I couldn’t see. All the terse and blandly vitriolic interactions with a detractor whose motives I could never understand. The eyestrain, the tired nights on the couch, the frustrated rumblings of ideals in a cage, the dead ends and dead-bolted doors of opportunity, they were all worth it. Why? Little had I realized that to a far greater crowd than I had infuriated, I had inspired.
Like infinity and overcoats, inspiration comes in different sizes, and every reply slowly blew all of the fuses in my mind. From “I’m so happy for you, words cannot describe,” “I’ll miss you” to “Why are you leaving me, you were the only one I could...with, asshole” to “I feel like I’m losing my best friend,” and “I simply don’t feel like I’m understood here, but you did.” There were other comments sure, some delivered with all sincerity yet limited by their perfunctory banality, and I’m sure that some would rather thank me for my time by bludgeoning me with the heaviest thickest product we sell, but this was me. For better (mostly) or for worse it was my life, the one in which I take all my faults out on myself tenfold, the existence that recently has been preoccupied with the wake of destruction it has at times caused, the being whose ego, when it flares, worries that it’s not good enough to live up to the expectations that have been set.
Beware of veiled images and half the story, to be sure. Mostly unbeknownst to me, I had also been up to some good. I had been mostly kind, and it turns out that stubborn refusal to accept anything less than the world as I see it was a reminder that there was some still some faculty, function and efficacy to those who took the less common route in reply to a wise quote by a wise man (a painter, Doug. Talk to the painters if you get a chance, they’ve had a long time to get some thinking done), “When faced with that which we don’t like we have two options, to change reality or change ourselves.” There is intense wisdom in being able to roll with the punches in the same way that the lake rolls with its waves, and further profundity locked in the notion that we can change reality.
We can change reality, and if fact we do so with every waking moment, every decision. It was in the moments that I hadn’t earmarked as weighty, a smile here, a conversation there, a joke when it’s needed or a bit of unintentional sympathy. It has to be, because as I initially added up the sum of my moments, I couldn’t come to any whole greater than the sum of its parts. Perhaps that’s the idea: those thoughtless minutes, the ones which act as filler for the punctuated peaks, are truly as important as the ones destined for the memory books, what we do when we put ourselves on autopilot and live according the script that we have written to carry ourselves from day to new day. We aren’t fully aware, yet we get no breather from perception and change, we live on the whole unconsciously yet this spottily conscious life leaves a permanent imprint on both the awareness and ignorance of everyone we come into contact with.
It seems like a grave responsibility, and it is, but it’s underpinnings of our ability to be the change we wish to see in the world make for such hope for both ourselves and others, our present and future that we must pay mind. If we can shape someone’s world so, then we are never powerless – we are changing matter everyday, matter which contains more energy in each atom’s nucleus alone then the stars in the sky. We are constantly shaping and being shaped and reshaping in turn, and it is from this that we can hopefully understand that since every moment has equal potential, that this moment could be the one that alters someone else forever, isn’t this a perfect e moment to start over? While each person consciously grabs the reins of their lives at different times, reforming their perceptions dreams and actions, remembering that like it or not we are already and always at work shaping the future with every thought. I can only hope that this will encourage right now as the moment to live as though we are already the person that we wish to be; you never know who may be picking up your signals.
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Preamble to Life Cocktails
What makes a good day? What makes a good week? What about a good life? Vogue questions, but what about it’s contrast? What makes for a good moment to moment? It seems that in the same vein as General Relativity and Quantum Mechanics, we will end up needing separate theories for each system. Before we can however, we should really frame the problem as it stands today.
Since ancient times, the question of a good life has pervaded society. Eudaemonia, a popular study of Plato’s , concerns itself with the study of “human flourishing.” I’m generally loath to equate concepts (there are no synonyms damn it!), for my purposes we’ll assume that the good life is a “flourishing life”. What then is this eudaimonic existence? On the grand scale, what form can we put to this concept? Some would argue that it is living the golden rule, others would contend the answers lies in the service done to others. If you’re a capitalist it’s most likely who dies with the most toys and if you’re a Buddhist most likely you think that there is no question to be asked: the overwhelming joy of existence and thrill of opportunity to push aside the atmosphere we walk though for a few more minutes is plenty, even when expanded to the timeline of all existence.
I’ve pondered this question more than once in the travels of mind to the fuzzy area between philosophy and spirituality, and I’ve come to a few scenic conclusions, but unfortunately I don’t find them relevant. Not today, not here. It’s not because these aren’t important or urgent queries – otherwise there would not be a multibillion dollar self help industry. It’s not that these aren’t interesting questions, or else the philosophers and the clerics would not have concerned themselves with them. It’s not that they aren’t deeply personal – for the definition of a flourishing life touches not only an individual’s perception of the world, but also her or his actions in it, the dreams that arise from it and the goals that create those ephemeral yet addicting feelings of success and failure as we move about within it. No, the only reason to say “to hell with it” is that when we take a look at a compressed timeline, a moment or two, we realize that the questions to be answered in the minutiae are of a completely different kind.
How so? What could possibly be the difference between the two? The disparity lies in the experience of the moment, how we perceive our needs. The eudaemonic ideal changes here: it becomes not about what the soul needs but what the body needs, not what the mind needs but this body must have. I need to treat everyone with the same respect because it is what I believe – it is not only what I believe is right, but it is the world that I would like to live in (I would argue that a flourishing life is nothing more than creating the world that you would like everyone else to live in; an “if everyone behaved this way all life would be ideal” kind of thing). I’m drinking another glass of wine now because I like feeling the wrinkles of my mind relax, hopefully coaxing some inspiration from the electricity of my brain to the electricity running through the mac to the electrons holding together the server at blogspot to the photons encouraging your eyes to stimulate the thought and word identification centers of your mind causing your own circuitry to fire (just imagine how much is lost in translation!).
We simply want different things from both levels of analysis. I won’t worry about feeding the science club after school if I’m more concerned with my desire to be entertained now. When I’m trying to live a flouring existence, I know that the 4th glass of wine is not contributing to that end; it’s not conducive to my success. To attempt to compare the two is to deny their fundamental incompatibility – the stimuli that help us achieve the best “now” are entirely different than those that help us achieve the best “ever”.
Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps there are those who truly align both their moment-to-moment ideals with their concepts of the overarching élan, and to you I say “phooey”. Think of all the urges that the body has throughout the day. Not in the gross sense of the word, but consider the flash of longing as the attractive coworker glides by, the itch to run outside as we see the rays of the setting sun glint off of any surface that will reflect, the itch of intrigue and titillation at being left speechless, (by 8:45 am, it was a good day today). The body and its immediate experience seeks the most vivid flash of stimuli, while the life lived seeks the highest ideal (whatever that ideal is changes by participant, I do not judge). I admit that this requires accepting the idea that our immediate experience is run by the body. It requires admitting that our immediate needs and wants must be treated separately from what we need and want from life. We all feel it, yet modern ideas of how to live marginalize, even demonize these impulses, the very things which make us feel most alive, right now (which I would say is the flourishing, good life in the purest sense of the notion). It’s a bit of a mind stretch to see that we have two different systems at work in the holism of our animation and beyond, but once we abstract our concepts from our reactions, I think the view becomes clearer. I realize now that this can of worms is too stuffed with annelids for one nights exposition: as always I hope to spark some debate, let me know what you think. In any case, the next time you get the itch in the moment, try scratching it and see if you aren’t better for just saying yes.
Since ancient times, the question of a good life has pervaded society. Eudaemonia, a popular study of Plato’s , concerns itself with the study of “human flourishing.” I’m generally loath to equate concepts (there are no synonyms damn it!), for my purposes we’ll assume that the good life is a “flourishing life”. What then is this eudaimonic existence? On the grand scale, what form can we put to this concept? Some would argue that it is living the golden rule, others would contend the answers lies in the service done to others. If you’re a capitalist it’s most likely who dies with the most toys and if you’re a Buddhist most likely you think that there is no question to be asked: the overwhelming joy of existence and thrill of opportunity to push aside the atmosphere we walk though for a few more minutes is plenty, even when expanded to the timeline of all existence.
I’ve pondered this question more than once in the travels of mind to the fuzzy area between philosophy and spirituality, and I’ve come to a few scenic conclusions, but unfortunately I don’t find them relevant. Not today, not here. It’s not because these aren’t important or urgent queries – otherwise there would not be a multibillion dollar self help industry. It’s not that these aren’t interesting questions, or else the philosophers and the clerics would not have concerned themselves with them. It’s not that they aren’t deeply personal – for the definition of a flourishing life touches not only an individual’s perception of the world, but also her or his actions in it, the dreams that arise from it and the goals that create those ephemeral yet addicting feelings of success and failure as we move about within it. No, the only reason to say “to hell with it” is that when we take a look at a compressed timeline, a moment or two, we realize that the questions to be answered in the minutiae are of a completely different kind.
How so? What could possibly be the difference between the two? The disparity lies in the experience of the moment, how we perceive our needs. The eudaemonic ideal changes here: it becomes not about what the soul needs but what the body needs, not what the mind needs but this body must have. I need to treat everyone with the same respect because it is what I believe – it is not only what I believe is right, but it is the world that I would like to live in (I would argue that a flourishing life is nothing more than creating the world that you would like everyone else to live in; an “if everyone behaved this way all life would be ideal” kind of thing). I’m drinking another glass of wine now because I like feeling the wrinkles of my mind relax, hopefully coaxing some inspiration from the electricity of my brain to the electricity running through the mac to the electrons holding together the server at blogspot to the photons encouraging your eyes to stimulate the thought and word identification centers of your mind causing your own circuitry to fire (just imagine how much is lost in translation!).
We simply want different things from both levels of analysis. I won’t worry about feeding the science club after school if I’m more concerned with my desire to be entertained now. When I’m trying to live a flouring existence, I know that the 4th glass of wine is not contributing to that end; it’s not conducive to my success. To attempt to compare the two is to deny their fundamental incompatibility – the stimuli that help us achieve the best “now” are entirely different than those that help us achieve the best “ever”.
Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps there are those who truly align both their moment-to-moment ideals with their concepts of the overarching élan, and to you I say “phooey”. Think of all the urges that the body has throughout the day. Not in the gross sense of the word, but consider the flash of longing as the attractive coworker glides by, the itch to run outside as we see the rays of the setting sun glint off of any surface that will reflect, the itch of intrigue and titillation at being left speechless, (by 8:45 am, it was a good day today). The body and its immediate experience seeks the most vivid flash of stimuli, while the life lived seeks the highest ideal (whatever that ideal is changes by participant, I do not judge). I admit that this requires accepting the idea that our immediate experience is run by the body. It requires admitting that our immediate needs and wants must be treated separately from what we need and want from life. We all feel it, yet modern ideas of how to live marginalize, even demonize these impulses, the very things which make us feel most alive, right now (which I would say is the flourishing, good life in the purest sense of the notion). It’s a bit of a mind stretch to see that we have two different systems at work in the holism of our animation and beyond, but once we abstract our concepts from our reactions, I think the view becomes clearer. I realize now that this can of worms is too stuffed with annelids for one nights exposition: as always I hope to spark some debate, let me know what you think. In any case, the next time you get the itch in the moment, try scratching it and see if you aren’t better for just saying yes.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The premier brumal broadcast
The coming of the cold. The first hint of nip, the first thought of dusting off the drunk coat and determine which style will be the fashion of the season. Will it be Bourbon? Or whisky? Some enjoy the Porter or the Stouts, while the brave few use regular old wool without the rosy sheen of potent potables. It’s the season where decreased daylight is the least pernicious of the reductions to our lifestyle. It’s a little known fact that holiday cheer was created by early Minnesotans (especially those from International Falls) as a means to distract settlers from the fact that they were in what is what is obviously the true depiction of hell.
Now before I take a rogue hotdish® upside my increasingly cold dome, I need to clear up some misconceptions of hell. The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology (1995) is kind enough to theorize that the etymology of hell seem to spring from the old Norse word Hel, which itself derives from Proto-Germanic *halija, which means "one who covers up or hides something", which itself evolved from Proto-Indo-European *kel-, meaning "conceal". And what about winter in the North Star state isn’t concealed? Conceal seems to be the Minnesota model, from all the living things that must so tightly conceal themselves from the harsh seasons to the stereotypical passion-aggression to our beloved Conceal and Carry laws.
I might not be doing myself too many favors with the Midwest crowd here, except for the Packers fans, but I promise there’s a veiled complement in there somewhere. It’s the same reason that I migrated here a starry eyed eighteen and have remained, approaching a decade from arrival and about 5 years over schedule for departure – I am always surprised. This state, for all it conceals, is really just playing hard to get. I know few on the coasts who know just how fantastic uptown actually is in the summer. Who can forget the first time we laid on our backs in the middle of a newly seeded field, watching the meteor shower overhead in a 360° panorama, or read the stars by the 7th Street Entry, waiting to spend an evening in the house the Prince built, or drinking the blackout Becks at the Cabooze? How about being able to use the weather as a platform for more than just small talk? Or sitting by the lakes with downtown sending their protracted reflections to me I a form half way between fireworks and the northern lights? Touché MN.
As much as I’m down with geography, I’m not normally one to talk about my current state (not my state, but my state, you know what I mean) but as I begin preparations for the next phase in my life, I realize that I haven’t always taken the time to appreciate all that I have here in hell? Is that what I’ve learned? Is that really the wit and wisdom? Absolutely: Minnesota is hell, and I enjoyed my time in hell. All it takes is the time to get to know it. Know the mythological Sirens? Think of the opposite. You’ve got to look past the cacophony, ride the psychotic horse toward the burning barn and brave the -40° and the 100°+, the liberal city and blisteringly conservative fringes. “Go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company” Mark Twain once informed us, and I cannot agree more, but don’t spread the word too much, it’s getting crowded in the Lake of Fire as it is.
Now before I take a rogue hotdish® upside my increasingly cold dome, I need to clear up some misconceptions of hell. The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology (1995) is kind enough to theorize that the etymology of hell seem to spring from the old Norse word Hel, which itself derives from Proto-Germanic *halija, which means "one who covers up or hides something", which itself evolved from Proto-Indo-European *kel-, meaning "conceal". And what about winter in the North Star state isn’t concealed? Conceal seems to be the Minnesota model, from all the living things that must so tightly conceal themselves from the harsh seasons to the stereotypical passion-aggression to our beloved Conceal and Carry laws.
I might not be doing myself too many favors with the Midwest crowd here, except for the Packers fans, but I promise there’s a veiled complement in there somewhere. It’s the same reason that I migrated here a starry eyed eighteen and have remained, approaching a decade from arrival and about 5 years over schedule for departure – I am always surprised. This state, for all it conceals, is really just playing hard to get. I know few on the coasts who know just how fantastic uptown actually is in the summer. Who can forget the first time we laid on our backs in the middle of a newly seeded field, watching the meteor shower overhead in a 360° panorama, or read the stars by the 7th Street Entry, waiting to spend an evening in the house the Prince built, or drinking the blackout Becks at the Cabooze? How about being able to use the weather as a platform for more than just small talk? Or sitting by the lakes with downtown sending their protracted reflections to me I a form half way between fireworks and the northern lights? Touché MN.
As much as I’m down with geography, I’m not normally one to talk about my current state (not my state, but my state, you know what I mean) but as I begin preparations for the next phase in my life, I realize that I haven’t always taken the time to appreciate all that I have here in hell? Is that what I’ve learned? Is that really the wit and wisdom? Absolutely: Minnesota is hell, and I enjoyed my time in hell. All it takes is the time to get to know it. Know the mythological Sirens? Think of the opposite. You’ve got to look past the cacophony, ride the psychotic horse toward the burning barn and brave the -40° and the 100°+, the liberal city and blisteringly conservative fringes. “Go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company” Mark Twain once informed us, and I cannot agree more, but don’t spread the word too much, it’s getting crowded in the Lake of Fire as it is.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Version 2.0
Getting the gears oiled again, returning to the fray, throwing the cap back into the ring, flipping the bird to indecision and malaise; call it what you will – I prefer to think of it as a rebirth, and boy is it nice to revisit what I have previously called my “hopefully fertile little web plot of ideas.” As I sift through my postings, a glance here and a glance there, I am reminded of two things: (1) with the passage of time my work almost doesn’t seem like my own and (2) a couple years of cube life and television is the swiftest way to drive all creativity deep into the recesses of the mind (I think it’s currently hiding next to my raison d’etre, but most likely it’s having tea with my insecurity talking about my days when tubby and awkward were charitable phrases). As with any balanced perspective, my wonder comes from the realization of both how far I have come and the places of myself I simply refuse to leave. I have no doubt dear reader that both arenas will be thoroughly touched upon, but will mostly have to wait until another day
When I first started sending thoughts to the e-page, I was terrified of what people might think. Not that much has changed, although I realize now that the opinions of others is less important then the catharsis and imperative of being true to and doing what we love. It is these drives and loves that must be treated as though they are the only real things in this world, for they are the component pieces of our dreams, and it is these dreams that allow us to remember that the world is so much more than the sum of its physical parts.
But what is my overarching dream? To be simple (stay tuned, its expansion will hopefully show in every word over the coming ever) my dream is release. With each passing moment I accumulate new experiences, think new thoughts, feel new feelings, all of which constantly meld, separate and recombine to form an irrepressible urge for outburst. Not tantrum, but outburst – half joyous yelp and half earnest plea to anyone that might be near enough to pay attention – adding my own swath of color to our paint by number reality. But from where does this come? I have never felt compelled to draw or sculpt, although they are both wonderful distractions. While I enjoy helping others, volunteering never brought me true joy. Neither has cleaning, woodworking, gossiping or Sudoku. So what does? What brings that release, what is it that helps the bottled up facets of the soul spill out, what provides that channel for all the anxieties and worries that society tells me I should have? How might I flip the switch, to become a conduit for the transmission of the beautiful yet complex world that I see rather than a receiving antenna for what we are told daily from media, friends and family?
I’ll spare you the conclusion, not only because you will hopefully watch the answer unfold with each word and phrase as this little train again gathers steam but also because I believe that we need not be spoon-fed every punchline, that a little thought and imagination might be just what the doctor ordered. Well, that and hopefully it’s obvious, but I digress…
Thank you to all those who have read and appreciated this one sided conversation in the past – I hope that it lives up to the standard you were once accustomed. Thanks to those who visit for the first time – may you find it an escape from the expected and the mundane. To everyone and everything else – thank you for providing the structure and color to a world of endless possibility and interest, without you there would be no good topics to treat. I hope for and encourage feedback and discussion so that I can do my part to prove the old adage: “Simple minds talk about people, and average minds talk about events. It is the great minds that talk about ideas.” Here’s to it friends, it’s good to be back. Cheers!
When I first started sending thoughts to the e-page, I was terrified of what people might think. Not that much has changed, although I realize now that the opinions of others is less important then the catharsis and imperative of being true to and doing what we love. It is these drives and loves that must be treated as though they are the only real things in this world, for they are the component pieces of our dreams, and it is these dreams that allow us to remember that the world is so much more than the sum of its physical parts.
But what is my overarching dream? To be simple (stay tuned, its expansion will hopefully show in every word over the coming ever) my dream is release. With each passing moment I accumulate new experiences, think new thoughts, feel new feelings, all of which constantly meld, separate and recombine to form an irrepressible urge for outburst. Not tantrum, but outburst – half joyous yelp and half earnest plea to anyone that might be near enough to pay attention – adding my own swath of color to our paint by number reality. But from where does this come? I have never felt compelled to draw or sculpt, although they are both wonderful distractions. While I enjoy helping others, volunteering never brought me true joy. Neither has cleaning, woodworking, gossiping or Sudoku. So what does? What brings that release, what is it that helps the bottled up facets of the soul spill out, what provides that channel for all the anxieties and worries that society tells me I should have? How might I flip the switch, to become a conduit for the transmission of the beautiful yet complex world that I see rather than a receiving antenna for what we are told daily from media, friends and family?
I’ll spare you the conclusion, not only because you will hopefully watch the answer unfold with each word and phrase as this little train again gathers steam but also because I believe that we need not be spoon-fed every punchline, that a little thought and imagination might be just what the doctor ordered. Well, that and hopefully it’s obvious, but I digress…
Thank you to all those who have read and appreciated this one sided conversation in the past – I hope that it lives up to the standard you were once accustomed. Thanks to those who visit for the first time – may you find it an escape from the expected and the mundane. To everyone and everything else – thank you for providing the structure and color to a world of endless possibility and interest, without you there would be no good topics to treat. I hope for and encourage feedback and discussion so that I can do my part to prove the old adage: “Simple minds talk about people, and average minds talk about events. It is the great minds that talk about ideas.” Here’s to it friends, it’s good to be back. Cheers!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
After the long dark tea time of the soul...
Since the time I saw my first R-rated movie (I believe it was Attack of the Killer Clowns from Outer Space) the topic of the real has pretty much been on my mind in one way or another. The idea of alien clowns wrapping victims in cotton candy cocoons was just terrifying enough that suddenly I had to deal with alternate visions of the world. In one, I had to look under cars as I walked past, for fear of being turned into a giant carnival treat. In the other, there would be operating a new condition on life, a suspension of disbelief in which attacking clowns would perhaps arrive from Barnum & Bailey, not from a meteorite. I had to make decisions about whether the clowns I knew to be real would/could sport popcorn shooting guns and have an insatiable thirst for human blood; I had to choose what was real.
While an 8 year old having a mild existential crisis seems to be fodder for some British comedy on Public Broadcasting, still important decisions had to be made, revelations to be had. If we cannot trust all that we see, how do we determine what we do hold as real? What is the difference between a low budget horror spoof and the things that I see whenever I open my eyes?
I saw it on TV. Yes, I’ve seen a lot on TV that is real. I’ve seen the news, I watched sports and news before, if I can’t believe them, then why shouldn’t I wanna go bust some big red nose in the name of justice*?
But those clowns look awfully fake. True, but when have clowns ever looked real? And seriously, anyone who has come upon a 45 year old clown knows that once that garb is donned, I would be reticent to say that they look any sort of real. Seriously, I’ve seen more realistic cartoons than some people. And has anyone actually watched one of the kingdom’s slower animals (I’m thinking especially obese turtles, but other creatures work)? All I know is, I’ve seen smoother motion from those little heathens populating the It’s a Small World ride at Disney World. Well then, what the f*%k?
Luckily for my young self, it’s safe to say that I quickly forgot any notions of the goofy becoming the murderous in the name of a Brian Jaques book (incidentally, he had just released Mossflower, the second in a killer Redwall series). As time passes however, the question once again arises, now clothed in so many different guises and appearing so often that not even my dreams are immune. On the up-side it has made lucid dreaming possible (the recognition and denial of a particular reality), yet the Neo-esque abilities are little return on such a time consuming investment.
Making the question seem even more suspiciously like a bowl of molasses (that’s right, dense, sticky and brown) are all of the implications of the real that the years between then and now have been kind enough to add. Real doesn’t just mean “do I have to look out for every guy with big shoes and a red nose” anymore, instead I find it lurking in interactions every minute of every day. I’m pretty well equipped to deal with the question as I had asked it in my youth by not bothering to ask it at all: if killer clowns do come for me, I’ll deal with it then. Besides, of all the blood thirsty savages out there, there are many worse ways to go out, if the reality that is 24 has taught us anything. No, the problem now is a little harder to swallow, for now the question involves the reality of the intangibles of reality.
Outside of the ivory tower, the issue has become a question of fact sorting. In all of the things that I see, which should I hold as true? How good is my system of seeing what is actually going on? What ever shall I do with two competing theories that describe the same situation in such radically different ways? They say that intelligence the is ability to hold two competing ideas simultaneously, but that still doesn’t answer what is real. A real mess, still.
Before the intervention comes to get me off the pipe, bear with me. The best way to characterize my quarter century on this earth (as of midnight, that is) has been colorful, to say the least. I regret nothing, yet I wonder at the wildly fluctuating reality it is that I perceive. It’s been everything from shame to Shangri-la, from God herself taking away and returning my psychedelics to losing my tongue only in presence of women who inspire me, with stops along the way for all that sits in between, running under paradigms of the real that would fight to the death if allowed in the same general vicinity. Now I sit, in the current inculcation of things, with a quarter century of history playing on a loop in the style of This is Your Life, except I don’t get Ralph Edwards and his soothing tones, just snippets of moments, so close yet completely out of reach, like half a chorus stuck in your head of a song you barely know.
So what spews forth from the stew that is 25 years on the simmer? A few things, the most infuriating and liberating of which is understanding that the impossibility of such a reduction is itself the answer to the question. By being unable to play Where’s the Real? I cannot help but see that there is no real with which to play the game. But this just raises further questions: I perceive reality, but if I cannot point to it, where is it? And what of my inner perceptions, the ones that ask me to make value judgments, to discern from an uninterrupted consciousness smoke and mirror and understanding?
Since there is no guide to such questions, the only thing really left to do is impose my will as an answer, for if I don’t someone else is going to do it for me, which is even more unpalatable that the unanswered question. I say that there is no real reality; all that we perceive as such is a world which neatly reflects our own inner demons and demonstrations. The choice is ours. The information we take in is processed by what is going on in our heads at that time and nothing further. Why else is everyone so kind when we are happy, yet so mean when our head pounds? Because we make them so.
So after apologies for the rusty and hackneyed words and ideas (the fingers and mind are awakening from months of disuse) I climb upon the soap box one last time before I can rent fast cars in preparation for the mid-life crisis, a call to all those who hope to fill their minds with more than the ways in which the world mistreats them: In the absence of a reality that we can point to, a reality that includes morals and values, success and failure, a reality more full than objects pointed to without concept of judgment, we must fill in the lines of this paint-by-number reality with our own passions, dreams, desires and judgments. Thus reality is a purely, purely subjective matter. As such the choice is ours and ours alone as to what reality we wish to live in. All of the hurt, all of the pain, all of the negativity, the truisms and pedantry, the emotion, the power, the passion, all of these facets of reality are defined only by the mind which operates within the world. Greatest good and greatest evil are demarcated by the same baseless rationalizations, and often applicable to diametrically apposed arguments. Although I do not believe in solipsism, I believe we should behave solipsistically, as though our mind was the only one on which the rules of the world are based. As we are ultimately able to choose what world we live in, I say we fight for the Beautiful above all else, for as creatures of such fragile composition and infinite ability we are at the will of only ourselves and physical forces, either one having the power to end our time in this collective dream we call the real world. To know that each of us is a steward of an entire (personal) universe, let us not think descriptively, as we think it is, but prescriptively, how we think in ought to be. To wit, “The man who is right is a majority. He who has God and conscience on his side has a majority against the universe. If he does not represent the present state, he represents the future state. If he does not represent what we are, he represents what we ought to be.” – Frederick Douglas
Cheers.
*For those who are interested yet uninformed, the only way to actually dead a killer clown from outer space is to pop it nose. Keep in mind that killer clowns come in many more sizes than regular clowns, and the main characters go through some pretty heavy stuff to pop the especially large ones.
While an 8 year old having a mild existential crisis seems to be fodder for some British comedy on Public Broadcasting, still important decisions had to be made, revelations to be had. If we cannot trust all that we see, how do we determine what we do hold as real? What is the difference between a low budget horror spoof and the things that I see whenever I open my eyes?
I saw it on TV. Yes, I’ve seen a lot on TV that is real. I’ve seen the news, I watched sports and news before, if I can’t believe them, then why shouldn’t I wanna go bust some big red nose in the name of justice*?
But those clowns look awfully fake. True, but when have clowns ever looked real? And seriously, anyone who has come upon a 45 year old clown knows that once that garb is donned, I would be reticent to say that they look any sort of real. Seriously, I’ve seen more realistic cartoons than some people. And has anyone actually watched one of the kingdom’s slower animals (I’m thinking especially obese turtles, but other creatures work)? All I know is, I’ve seen smoother motion from those little heathens populating the It’s a Small World ride at Disney World. Well then, what the f*%k?
Luckily for my young self, it’s safe to say that I quickly forgot any notions of the goofy becoming the murderous in the name of a Brian Jaques book (incidentally, he had just released Mossflower, the second in a killer Redwall series). As time passes however, the question once again arises, now clothed in so many different guises and appearing so often that not even my dreams are immune. On the up-side it has made lucid dreaming possible (the recognition and denial of a particular reality), yet the Neo-esque abilities are little return on such a time consuming investment.
Making the question seem even more suspiciously like a bowl of molasses (that’s right, dense, sticky and brown) are all of the implications of the real that the years between then and now have been kind enough to add. Real doesn’t just mean “do I have to look out for every guy with big shoes and a red nose” anymore, instead I find it lurking in interactions every minute of every day. I’m pretty well equipped to deal with the question as I had asked it in my youth by not bothering to ask it at all: if killer clowns do come for me, I’ll deal with it then. Besides, of all the blood thirsty savages out there, there are many worse ways to go out, if the reality that is 24 has taught us anything. No, the problem now is a little harder to swallow, for now the question involves the reality of the intangibles of reality.
Outside of the ivory tower, the issue has become a question of fact sorting. In all of the things that I see, which should I hold as true? How good is my system of seeing what is actually going on? What ever shall I do with two competing theories that describe the same situation in such radically different ways? They say that intelligence the is ability to hold two competing ideas simultaneously, but that still doesn’t answer what is real. A real mess, still.
Before the intervention comes to get me off the pipe, bear with me. The best way to characterize my quarter century on this earth (as of midnight, that is) has been colorful, to say the least. I regret nothing, yet I wonder at the wildly fluctuating reality it is that I perceive. It’s been everything from shame to Shangri-la, from God herself taking away and returning my psychedelics to losing my tongue only in presence of women who inspire me, with stops along the way for all that sits in between, running under paradigms of the real that would fight to the death if allowed in the same general vicinity. Now I sit, in the current inculcation of things, with a quarter century of history playing on a loop in the style of This is Your Life, except I don’t get Ralph Edwards and his soothing tones, just snippets of moments, so close yet completely out of reach, like half a chorus stuck in your head of a song you barely know.
So what spews forth from the stew that is 25 years on the simmer? A few things, the most infuriating and liberating of which is understanding that the impossibility of such a reduction is itself the answer to the question. By being unable to play Where’s the Real? I cannot help but see that there is no real with which to play the game. But this just raises further questions: I perceive reality, but if I cannot point to it, where is it? And what of my inner perceptions, the ones that ask me to make value judgments, to discern from an uninterrupted consciousness smoke and mirror and understanding?
Since there is no guide to such questions, the only thing really left to do is impose my will as an answer, for if I don’t someone else is going to do it for me, which is even more unpalatable that the unanswered question. I say that there is no real reality; all that we perceive as such is a world which neatly reflects our own inner demons and demonstrations. The choice is ours. The information we take in is processed by what is going on in our heads at that time and nothing further. Why else is everyone so kind when we are happy, yet so mean when our head pounds? Because we make them so.
So after apologies for the rusty and hackneyed words and ideas (the fingers and mind are awakening from months of disuse) I climb upon the soap box one last time before I can rent fast cars in preparation for the mid-life crisis, a call to all those who hope to fill their minds with more than the ways in which the world mistreats them: In the absence of a reality that we can point to, a reality that includes morals and values, success and failure, a reality more full than objects pointed to without concept of judgment, we must fill in the lines of this paint-by-number reality with our own passions, dreams, desires and judgments. Thus reality is a purely, purely subjective matter. As such the choice is ours and ours alone as to what reality we wish to live in. All of the hurt, all of the pain, all of the negativity, the truisms and pedantry, the emotion, the power, the passion, all of these facets of reality are defined only by the mind which operates within the world. Greatest good and greatest evil are demarcated by the same baseless rationalizations, and often applicable to diametrically apposed arguments. Although I do not believe in solipsism, I believe we should behave solipsistically, as though our mind was the only one on which the rules of the world are based. As we are ultimately able to choose what world we live in, I say we fight for the Beautiful above all else, for as creatures of such fragile composition and infinite ability we are at the will of only ourselves and physical forces, either one having the power to end our time in this collective dream we call the real world. To know that each of us is a steward of an entire (personal) universe, let us not think descriptively, as we think it is, but prescriptively, how we think in ought to be. To wit, “The man who is right is a majority. He who has God and conscience on his side has a majority against the universe. If he does not represent the present state, he represents the future state. If he does not represent what we are, he represents what we ought to be.” – Frederick Douglas
Cheers.
*For those who are interested yet uninformed, the only way to actually dead a killer clown from outer space is to pop it nose. Keep in mind that killer clowns come in many more sizes than regular clowns, and the main characters go through some pretty heavy stuff to pop the especially large ones.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Nature the Interrruption
As the sun begins to set in the west, again revealing its dominance over any passing storm no matter how lengthy or obnoxious, I cannot help but pay tribute to the way the sun manages to light up the cotton swab clouds with such unceasing ability and color beyond any palette. It’s in these moments where it’s no wonder that our ancestors used to pray to the elements, for where else than fire, wind and water can we procure a sunset with little fluffy clouds. I suppose one could look towards the properties of water and the action of photons, but that would be like asking Manet to do a paint by number, but even getting what we seek in those instances somehow really takes the joy out of “Ooohh, look at that!”
So we’ll leave the topic of nature and begin to think of human, the most unnatural animal to ever crawl from the sea. I’ve learned as of late that many people are failing to be unnatural however. There is a small but dedicated group that seems hell bent on maintaining that we still have impulses that cannot and should not be repressed by drugs or therapy, a rouge faction that threatens to spend time naturally producing vitamin D instead of getting it from their daily multivitamin. While the rest of society becomes, as we can only hope, more dependant on things they do not understand, there are some who just will not conform. You would think that eradicating this group would be a matter on par with small pox: difficult, but very possible. I mean think about it: this loose affiliation of members, I don’t even believe that they communicate except by chance (although I will say that when the do meet, they have a lot of trouble separating), yet they manage to remain functional on their own. Society dangles money, all the best material possessions (think about how much sun you could get in your $2.5 million sun room), arm candy, celebrities, Reality TV, Crime Dramas, a cartoon for a president, and the overwhelming ability to allow technology to perform all of the functions of daily life for you, thinking included. Just think, with enough devotion and gumption we could eventually become brains in a vat: hooked up machines to satisfy every whim.
Just think of the ramifications. Without your body, you could theoretically live forever. We would hook you up, make sure that all the right centers of the mind are functioning optimally. Imagine a life where you are psychologically driven to succeed, where the chemicals in you r brain have been designed by our specialists to force the right decisions? What are the right decisions? Well, that’s up to you, we have options available. Even you, silly defectors: we can put you in your grassy field without all of the troubles that you currently see. Don’t like skyscrapers? Gone. Spraw? We’ll control the population of your mind so that it never gets too crowded. It’s the best lucid dream ever.
Some however will just cannot take the hint. You getting your information from the printed page. You who can still make food that isn’t frozen or canned. You who dares to think for yourself, you who lives with the primal drive to carve your own niche. All of you who remember that there are global climate zones. All of you who know how a light bulb works. To all of you who have decided that self-regard and freedom of choice are the only options in living I have just one thing to say: congratulations. You embody the parts of life are actually worth making a habit of, and it is folks like you and sunsets like this evening’s who combined reveal the need to hold sacred to all the idea that the meaning of life may be found in the unique and beautiful way we interact with nature, and not in the way that we dominate it.
So we’ll leave the topic of nature and begin to think of human, the most unnatural animal to ever crawl from the sea. I’ve learned as of late that many people are failing to be unnatural however. There is a small but dedicated group that seems hell bent on maintaining that we still have impulses that cannot and should not be repressed by drugs or therapy, a rouge faction that threatens to spend time naturally producing vitamin D instead of getting it from their daily multivitamin. While the rest of society becomes, as we can only hope, more dependant on things they do not understand, there are some who just will not conform. You would think that eradicating this group would be a matter on par with small pox: difficult, but very possible. I mean think about it: this loose affiliation of members, I don’t even believe that they communicate except by chance (although I will say that when the do meet, they have a lot of trouble separating), yet they manage to remain functional on their own. Society dangles money, all the best material possessions (think about how much sun you could get in your $2.5 million sun room), arm candy, celebrities, Reality TV, Crime Dramas, a cartoon for a president, and the overwhelming ability to allow technology to perform all of the functions of daily life for you, thinking included. Just think, with enough devotion and gumption we could eventually become brains in a vat: hooked up machines to satisfy every whim.
Just think of the ramifications. Without your body, you could theoretically live forever. We would hook you up, make sure that all the right centers of the mind are functioning optimally. Imagine a life where you are psychologically driven to succeed, where the chemicals in you r brain have been designed by our specialists to force the right decisions? What are the right decisions? Well, that’s up to you, we have options available. Even you, silly defectors: we can put you in your grassy field without all of the troubles that you currently see. Don’t like skyscrapers? Gone. Spraw? We’ll control the population of your mind so that it never gets too crowded. It’s the best lucid dream ever.
Some however will just cannot take the hint. You getting your information from the printed page. You who can still make food that isn’t frozen or canned. You who dares to think for yourself, you who lives with the primal drive to carve your own niche. All of you who remember that there are global climate zones. All of you who know how a light bulb works. To all of you who have decided that self-regard and freedom of choice are the only options in living I have just one thing to say: congratulations. You embody the parts of life are actually worth making a habit of, and it is folks like you and sunsets like this evening’s who combined reveal the need to hold sacred to all the idea that the meaning of life may be found in the unique and beautiful way we interact with nature, and not in the way that we dominate it.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Blackberry Winter
At times absence is the best way to move forward; it is only when we are left to ourselves where we may even begin to see where we might be going. Over the last week or so, coincidently with the rise and return and sweet delicious spring, comes the recognition that there are other people out there, people to meet, people to get to know, people to have a sleepover with, people to do all (or none) of the above with. With the rise of life comes the recognition of life, old, returning, and sui generis. So much life in one place forces a pause in the minutes of a given day (in all days if one is so lucky to be afflicted with a bout of the heady simplicity that comes with warm air, barbeque on the back porch, and the general disdain for clothing that only the rise of the vernal stretch of our year can inspire).
Springtime, the season that both defies and defines description. The season where the groggy inhabitants of our globe begin to emerge back out in the world. The season where suddenly members of preferred attraction once again stand in bold and fascinating relief to the whirl and whoosh of the green swaths ubiquitously and flawlessly painted by the hand of Mother Nature herself. Springtime is the season where life has a smell, when the rain provides the medium to coax all that is renewal out of a barren, scarred rock. Spring is our reward for the battery of winter; it is the time when we again heed the call of the sunshine; it is the time when we attempt to photosynthesize, failing yet turning a healthier shade of ourselves in the process. It is the time of both young loves and old flames, the season of poets and adventure, of remembering that the meaning of life has a much to do with money and stability as oxygen does with the vacuum of space.
All bombastic expositions aside, with the arrival of spring comes also the memory of all that would like renewal yet does not have the privilege of being tied intimately and necessarily to life in theory. Especially, I’ve been struck lately by just how many old friends there are out there that we slowly lose sight of: so many truly exceptional individuals who are silently (at least to us) carving their own swaths of existence through the world. These may not even be friends that we held particularly close, yet all the people we went to school, played a sport of just generally wasted some time with, for whatever reason, had a small yet essential role in shaping who we are today.
So how is getting in touch with our past like the glorious spring? Well, as far as I can tell, both set us up to figure out just how we have and have not changed. My time runs short now, for my eyelids are slowly yet steadily dimming the boundaries of my vision, yet still the comparison needs to drawn. Our memories and our past are the seeds of our future. It sounds cheesy, but even the smallest encounters shape who I am now. from the first girl I French kissed, at a LaSalle dance in 8th grade to Comedown by Bush to the girl who took my virginity (I will not say who, yet for those who might care she had an affinity for butterflies and getting high. No more hints) to the first person I threw a chair off a balcony with: every person, in each moment that I have been kicking about this sphere has shaped who I was, who I am, and who I shall be, and as such they deserve to be remembered, and in the best cases, we might just get the chance to restore/create anew a relationship with those we once thought far gone.
So if there is one thing that has really stood out for me as of late is the need to get in touch with those who changed us, and see where they are. I’m pretty sure the point of all this technology is to allow to do that sort of thing (or perhaps our technology is best suited to the perfect beer friendly lazy-boy), and when we get surprised, we get really surprised. For example, I learned today that a girl that I had just a wicked crush on in high school listens to a lot of the same music that I do and now has an advanced degree. Considering I want to be a professional geek for a living (a college professor, for those who don’t know the dirty secret of academics) is I really should’ve been more forward in high school. Another friend of mine recently reemerged after a long absence on the opposite side of the country I ever thought I would find her in; she is still the same girl who got me into Buddhism and my equal through and through when it comes to the “madness to live” ideal. My past reminds me how I got to where I am today, reminds me of what has and hasn’t changed over the years and always, with the rosy glow of memory, reminds me that I have been really lucky to be surrounded with such amazing people for so long. See what we can learn by turning back the clock in the springtime?
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Help!
To anyone who might be sympathetic, or just bored, my soul is owned until Tues at 1 pm when I finally get done with my comps (senior thesis, in other words). It's a lonely process being academic, especially when the sun calls to me in a way in hasn't since August. Flagrant as it is, I'll take any well wishes, and espcially distraction, so feel free to give me a call, anything to help me remember that the world is composed of more than the subtleties of the non-conceptual content of experience. Thanks in advance.
P.S. Apologies for the long, long lapse in post: life is just wild, in the most boring way.
P.S. Apologies for the long, long lapse in post: life is just wild, in the most boring way.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
An Amigo, Ami, Vriend, Freund by any other name...
Today is a day for friends. I can’t really say what sparked it, but I cannot deny a tribute to all of the friends that we manage to pick up over this journey from here to, um, uh, wherever it is we actually go to depending on your beliefs. All the types of friends: from the drunken buddy to the profound too-bad-I-don’t-swing-that-way-or-I would-take-you-as-my-bride friend. So a toast to you dear friends in all of the incarnations in which you appear: you are the only way in which I can and have become better than myself.
I say better than myself because I’m a big fan of the idea that it is through our friends that we improve and grow. In the ideal case. Our friends are reflections of our opinions, decisions and habits, so a good friend, whatever the depth of length of the relationship, manages to help you work through those existential crises that we all go through: whether through a kind word, getting trounced because it’s the only thing to do or just saying nothing, softly letting us know that whatever dis-ease our mind may be suffering will soon pass.
That isn’t to say that all friends are “friends” in the sense I speak of before. There are friends of situation: the drinking buddy, the friend you got high with everyday, the f*ck buddy (is pretty popular); the list goes on and on. They are the people that you go to simply to let off some steam about the world. Whether you get along as people isn’t as important as the fact that you engage in the same potentially addictive behavior together; while I can’t say that this type of buddy is healthy, they serve and essential role in our growth. Thanks destructive friends.
Of course this isn’t to say that all friends fall into these categories exclusively. As it is with most theories in action, the types mentioned are simply a broad classification of the roles that the significant others we have play in our existence. For example I have a couple of close compadres who happen to be self-destructive and wonderfully insightful (at different times, but eh). I also have acquaintances that I only see perhaps 3 times a year: we have a great time together, and then poof, out of sight out of mind. You might know who you are, and if not, well whatever. The point is that as people we can only do so much by ourselves, and the roles our friends ideally fill are those which complete the gaps in our joy of living, whatever that means to us.
One thing involved in friendship that I’ve always found crucial is the idea of trust. A friend without trust is a mere acquaintance, for how can we share ourselves with someone who we don’t believe to be honest (I mean, it entails that they obviously need a little more work before they can even have friends as such: I suggest perhaps for a bit they need a case worker).
A friend must also fundamentally have our best interests in mind. “Our” is vague, and intentionally so: at worst, our friends need to have our mutual interests at heart. A selfish friend after all doesn’t see us as friends: more as a wall to talk at and use for personal purpose. I would call those types contacts more than friends, and thankfully so: what would friends be if we had to worry about being used. It’s hard to have a good time, that’s for sure.
There are many other types of friends as well: those who are profound even when it’s unnecessary, those who are truly kind without a thought in their heads, our perfect matches, sports friends, topical friends: the list goes on forever. As long as there are things to do that require (or suggest) more than 1, our friends are crucial to us. As long as desire a companion, it is our friends who are there. When we feel like feeding the science club, our friends are there.
And we are there for them. There is something so nice about knowing that you’ve got someone’s back (It’s pretty great knowing they’ve got yours too, but that’s implied, I think): that whatever dumb, average or brilliant thing that they do, you will be there. A friend in trouble is an opportunity to do real good in the world. It’s hard to say that your constant street canvassing on mercury pollution and toxic fish is doing good, yet lightening a dark mood of someone you care about: priceless.
So to all the friends I have had, do have and will have I say: congrats. Friendship at times can be a thankless unpaid position, but it is always rewarding. Even friendships that have worn out their relevance, for what it’s worth, I had a lot of fun when we did, and I now wish you nothing but the best. So call up someone you haven’t kept in the best touch with (I sure they’ll be happy to hear from you) and take another out for a drink: either way your friends deserve unmitigated acts of kindness, so let ‘em know – we would all like a reminder that we’re a positive influence somewhere after all, and for everyone that has seen the ups and downs in, don’t they deserve at least a specially directed how do you do?
I say better than myself because I’m a big fan of the idea that it is through our friends that we improve and grow. In the ideal case. Our friends are reflections of our opinions, decisions and habits, so a good friend, whatever the depth of length of the relationship, manages to help you work through those existential crises that we all go through: whether through a kind word, getting trounced because it’s the only thing to do or just saying nothing, softly letting us know that whatever dis-ease our mind may be suffering will soon pass.
That isn’t to say that all friends are “friends” in the sense I speak of before. There are friends of situation: the drinking buddy, the friend you got high with everyday, the f*ck buddy (is pretty popular); the list goes on and on. They are the people that you go to simply to let off some steam about the world. Whether you get along as people isn’t as important as the fact that you engage in the same potentially addictive behavior together; while I can’t say that this type of buddy is healthy, they serve and essential role in our growth. Thanks destructive friends.
Of course this isn’t to say that all friends fall into these categories exclusively. As it is with most theories in action, the types mentioned are simply a broad classification of the roles that the significant others we have play in our existence. For example I have a couple of close compadres who happen to be self-destructive and wonderfully insightful (at different times, but eh). I also have acquaintances that I only see perhaps 3 times a year: we have a great time together, and then poof, out of sight out of mind. You might know who you are, and if not, well whatever. The point is that as people we can only do so much by ourselves, and the roles our friends ideally fill are those which complete the gaps in our joy of living, whatever that means to us.
One thing involved in friendship that I’ve always found crucial is the idea of trust. A friend without trust is a mere acquaintance, for how can we share ourselves with someone who we don’t believe to be honest (I mean, it entails that they obviously need a little more work before they can even have friends as such: I suggest perhaps for a bit they need a case worker).
A friend must also fundamentally have our best interests in mind. “Our” is vague, and intentionally so: at worst, our friends need to have our mutual interests at heart. A selfish friend after all doesn’t see us as friends: more as a wall to talk at and use for personal purpose. I would call those types contacts more than friends, and thankfully so: what would friends be if we had to worry about being used. It’s hard to have a good time, that’s for sure.
There are many other types of friends as well: those who are profound even when it’s unnecessary, those who are truly kind without a thought in their heads, our perfect matches, sports friends, topical friends: the list goes on forever. As long as there are things to do that require (or suggest) more than 1, our friends are crucial to us. As long as desire a companion, it is our friends who are there. When we feel like feeding the science club, our friends are there.
And we are there for them. There is something so nice about knowing that you’ve got someone’s back (It’s pretty great knowing they’ve got yours too, but that’s implied, I think): that whatever dumb, average or brilliant thing that they do, you will be there. A friend in trouble is an opportunity to do real good in the world. It’s hard to say that your constant street canvassing on mercury pollution and toxic fish is doing good, yet lightening a dark mood of someone you care about: priceless.
So to all the friends I have had, do have and will have I say: congrats. Friendship at times can be a thankless unpaid position, but it is always rewarding. Even friendships that have worn out their relevance, for what it’s worth, I had a lot of fun when we did, and I now wish you nothing but the best. So call up someone you haven’t kept in the best touch with (I sure they’ll be happy to hear from you) and take another out for a drink: either way your friends deserve unmitigated acts of kindness, so let ‘em know – we would all like a reminder that we’re a positive influence somewhere after all, and for everyone that has seen the ups and downs in, don’t they deserve at least a specially directed how do you do?
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Hi
You know, there are times when all the words in the world refuse to amount to anything more than exercise for the lungs. It is then (currently, then is now), when I just want to go out and run rickshaw through the teeny tiny city that I call home. Between the approaching warm weather (all doubters, you’re on notice) and the vast amounts of people watching that has been afforded to me, I want to get out and meet some new folks ASAP.
What spawns this acute span of gregariocity (word?) one might ask? Simply stated, I’m finally starting to hammer down what I miss most about college, and I cannot wait to go back. It isn’t the party scene: you all know I’ve worked that down to somewhat of a science in my time there. It isn’t the lack of sleep, although at various times I have and do think that it’s for the weak. No, I’ve figured out what it is, and….arrggh!
What I miss is being crammed in close quarters with 1900 other people of similar age and ability. I miss there always being someone new to meet, and somewhere new to meet them. With each passing day, I rested content in the knowledge that I could very easily meet someone who I had not really talked to before. Let the days work out as they did and…damn, it’s no wonder I hate sleep, there’s was a lot to do.
To those who don’t go to Carleton, a brief refresher. The common Carl is the end of an odd devil’s bargain: trading social skills for those big sexy brains we all hear so much about. Carls are really socially inept on the whole, lost in their thoughts most of the time, and are more prone to glaze over when asked simple questions about sports or recreation. Except if it’s esoteric: Alaskan skydiving or ultramarathon unicycling, you could probably get quite a bit out of them then. But before I’m lynched by current and former students alike, let me say that that is exactly what I miss.
With each new situation, the learned people watcher notices that rules and standards start to come forth which are unique to their little slice of geography and culture. For example, I had not gotten drunk and into an argument about quantum physics at the same party before: and while that may not seem like a great time to many let me just say that, well, you had to be there, and yes, dimensionless particles are the fundamental units of our physics damn it! Anyway, some of us come equipped with a natural craving to play amidst many different types of social situations, with the realization that pushing our boundaries should be the norm, not the exception. I also believe that meeting someone new is like opening a new chapter of your life, and while it can be tough to write multiple chapters at once, I believe we all agree that the hassle is well worth the reward.
So it is from between bouts of nostalgia and an incessant desire to plant both feet firmly in the city and shake it a little that I heed a call to action. While I hear those who say that meeting new people is hard to do, I cannot agree especially when the payoff can be so high. We meet literally hundreds of thousands of people in our lifetimes, whether the interaction is for but an instant or far longer, and of them any one could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Think of the close friends that we all share. I can say with pride that of my best friends walking the earth now, I can attribute one to reefer and Aerosmith, another to a Guy Ritchie movie and pouring rain, and I could go on, but you get the idea. Other friends I have met over: underage drinking (I don’t think I’m alone here), the Boston Red Sox, and my favorite, sunrise; the list goes on and on.
I guess the point is that I really relish and miss the absurdity of getting to know someone I didn’t just 30 minutes before. We really cannot see when we get started who the next important person to us might be, and in the meanwhile we can accumulate some fabulous stories (did I tell you that one about splitting that handle and waking up in field? Or the one about…nah, you don’t want to know). I’ve learned pretty much as much as I would like to know about myself, so if we end up in the same place at the same time, I look forward to some hijinks and shenanigans: we could be best friends, we may never meet again, but the stories…something for the kids (one day, much later on) when they ask “Dad what did you do for fun in your day?” To which I must reply “Well son, funny you should ask…”
What spawns this acute span of gregariocity (word?) one might ask? Simply stated, I’m finally starting to hammer down what I miss most about college, and I cannot wait to go back. It isn’t the party scene: you all know I’ve worked that down to somewhat of a science in my time there. It isn’t the lack of sleep, although at various times I have and do think that it’s for the weak. No, I’ve figured out what it is, and….arrggh!
What I miss is being crammed in close quarters with 1900 other people of similar age and ability. I miss there always being someone new to meet, and somewhere new to meet them. With each passing day, I rested content in the knowledge that I could very easily meet someone who I had not really talked to before. Let the days work out as they did and…damn, it’s no wonder I hate sleep, there’s was a lot to do.
To those who don’t go to Carleton, a brief refresher. The common Carl is the end of an odd devil’s bargain: trading social skills for those big sexy brains we all hear so much about. Carls are really socially inept on the whole, lost in their thoughts most of the time, and are more prone to glaze over when asked simple questions about sports or recreation. Except if it’s esoteric: Alaskan skydiving or ultramarathon unicycling, you could probably get quite a bit out of them then. But before I’m lynched by current and former students alike, let me say that that is exactly what I miss.
With each new situation, the learned people watcher notices that rules and standards start to come forth which are unique to their little slice of geography and culture. For example, I had not gotten drunk and into an argument about quantum physics at the same party before: and while that may not seem like a great time to many let me just say that, well, you had to be there, and yes, dimensionless particles are the fundamental units of our physics damn it! Anyway, some of us come equipped with a natural craving to play amidst many different types of social situations, with the realization that pushing our boundaries should be the norm, not the exception. I also believe that meeting someone new is like opening a new chapter of your life, and while it can be tough to write multiple chapters at once, I believe we all agree that the hassle is well worth the reward.
So it is from between bouts of nostalgia and an incessant desire to plant both feet firmly in the city and shake it a little that I heed a call to action. While I hear those who say that meeting new people is hard to do, I cannot agree especially when the payoff can be so high. We meet literally hundreds of thousands of people in our lifetimes, whether the interaction is for but an instant or far longer, and of them any one could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Think of the close friends that we all share. I can say with pride that of my best friends walking the earth now, I can attribute one to reefer and Aerosmith, another to a Guy Ritchie movie and pouring rain, and I could go on, but you get the idea. Other friends I have met over: underage drinking (I don’t think I’m alone here), the Boston Red Sox, and my favorite, sunrise; the list goes on and on.
I guess the point is that I really relish and miss the absurdity of getting to know someone I didn’t just 30 minutes before. We really cannot see when we get started who the next important person to us might be, and in the meanwhile we can accumulate some fabulous stories (did I tell you that one about splitting that handle and waking up in field? Or the one about…nah, you don’t want to know). I’ve learned pretty much as much as I would like to know about myself, so if we end up in the same place at the same time, I look forward to some hijinks and shenanigans: we could be best friends, we may never meet again, but the stories…something for the kids (one day, much later on) when they ask “Dad what did you do for fun in your day?” To which I must reply “Well son, funny you should ask…”
Friday, March 10, 2006
A helping hand
With the coming of spring, it also seems that the mind renews as well. Ideas left nebulous by the freezing cold, seeded deep in a mind more bent to carry on then to prosper, now take root. Although no one knows when those notions may blossom, with the coming of spring the question is moot: for all the answers we need become baldly apparent somewhere in between our nearest star, improbably giving us life, and the ground beneath us, impossibly giving rise to us and all we can perceive. At this moment, words this world fails, so I must turn to another for help:
UNDER ONE SMALL STAR
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May the dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minutes to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
Your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
Forgive me even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to the great questions for small answers
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
Since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
Then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
----- Wistawa Symborska
Enough said.
UNDER ONE SMALL STAR
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May the dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minutes to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
Your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
Forgive me even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to the great questions for small answers
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
Since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
Then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
----- Wistawa Symborska
Enough said.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
There's a gordian knot in my throat
The hardest thing that I have done so far is to begin to learn to let go. Let go of the notion that time can stop for more than a moment, ease away the idea that perhaps the relationships that we have will stay in the form we desire forever. It’s a funny feeling, knowing when some of our friendships are slipping, beginning to lay fallow from neglect or distraction, from pain and argument, or even worse, simply from the withering facet of the unceasing march of time; unable to stop the awful snowball of dissolution as it gains speed and size down the slope of our personal lives.
At times like this it seems that life can be boiled down to little more than various roads diverging in the wood. With each new decision we have to face, we are confronted also with which path to begin walking down. The misfortune is that all those we hold as dear friends also have to make those same decisions as we do (at least they come to the same crossroads). The sadness in all of this is that being their own people, those who we care about, as they make their decisions, very easily become obscured by the forest which hides us from one another.
I wish I could stop this process. I wish I could call out (without metaphor, but I’ll take what I can get) a halt to my dear friend; a call that rings out in the forest of our lives for pause, perhaps even for return. I want to somehow convey to this obscure figure through the trees my appreciation of all that they are, of all that we could be. I want to shout to all those who can hear the adoration with which I hold the times we have spent; to frighten the birds from their boughs with the boom of my exclamation of just how dear they are to both myself and the world. I want to raise the heads of other travelers with the sound of this person, to let them know as I do that he/she is capable of anything in this world, given the opportunity. But most of all, I want them to know that this is coming from me, and I mean what I say.
I’ve never been a believer in impossibility. Anything that has seemed unattainable to others to me has seemed only a more worthy goal requiring more effort. What I never stopped to consider was the idea that perhaps other minds were more dearly attached to the notion of impossibility that I was in infinite possibility, and now that I look back, there has been a long line of people who have told me that I couldn’t succeed. All of them I proved wrong, all but a couple select individuals in my life. And what do I remember? Of course I can bring to mind all of the success that I have had which flew in the face of disbelievers, but what readily comes to mind are the times when I have been run again the spectacularly painful wall of failure.
And the trouble is, it is in perception alone where failure arises. I firmly believe that we can only fail when we come away from a situation knowing that there was something else to be done; that we gave up before we truly exhausted all of our options. At times though, we are not the only ones who make the decisions: especially in relationships, be they platonic or romantic, we also have to consider the notion of another mind at work in decision making. No matter how well we think out our actions, thoughts and decisions, we are still subject to the agreement of another to make our thoughts reality.
And it is in these moments that I have learned so painfully to let go. Regardless of my calls out, irrespective of my cries of understanding, sometimes our friends and loved ones simply don’t/cannot/refuse to hear what we are trying to say, and it is too easy to blame ourselves. What could I have done differently? If only I had said instead…
I could have said anything, that wouldn’t have changed a thing. The ways to disparage ourselves is endless, but we can only do so much. In fact, we can only do what we know and are capable of. That is the essence, I believe, of letting go. The knowledge that we have done all we can, and must now leave it up to fate and the perceptual abilities of our long lost (and possibly soon found) relationships. Yes, it will be horribly painful to watch what was once intimate and pure devolve in acquaintance or worse. Of course it is agonizing to know that we might be blamed for things we haven’t done, or even worse, for the things that we have. Although we can always carry the good times we have had with another with us, yet there is and may always be a nagging voice in the background wondering what went wrong. That voice has a point, yet if we are the ones wondering I now believe that answer cannot be found by us at all: if we are to know we will find out when the our lost friend is good and ready.
I have a particular person in mind here; through I refuse to name names (I think the party involved knows however). Suffice to say that we can only feel real loss when we lose something that we value more than ourselves, and this person was the one of the greatest occasions to ever happen to me, person, place or thing and I appreciate that with every fiber of my being. Words cannot describe how dear you will always be to me. I have to let you go now, for I don’t think you can see me for what I am, only for what you think me to be. Good luck though, and I’ll always be here if you ever need, but for both your good and mine, it might be time to fly solo. Fare thee well.
At times like this it seems that life can be boiled down to little more than various roads diverging in the wood. With each new decision we have to face, we are confronted also with which path to begin walking down. The misfortune is that all those we hold as dear friends also have to make those same decisions as we do (at least they come to the same crossroads). The sadness in all of this is that being their own people, those who we care about, as they make their decisions, very easily become obscured by the forest which hides us from one another.
I wish I could stop this process. I wish I could call out (without metaphor, but I’ll take what I can get) a halt to my dear friend; a call that rings out in the forest of our lives for pause, perhaps even for return. I want to somehow convey to this obscure figure through the trees my appreciation of all that they are, of all that we could be. I want to shout to all those who can hear the adoration with which I hold the times we have spent; to frighten the birds from their boughs with the boom of my exclamation of just how dear they are to both myself and the world. I want to raise the heads of other travelers with the sound of this person, to let them know as I do that he/she is capable of anything in this world, given the opportunity. But most of all, I want them to know that this is coming from me, and I mean what I say.
I’ve never been a believer in impossibility. Anything that has seemed unattainable to others to me has seemed only a more worthy goal requiring more effort. What I never stopped to consider was the idea that perhaps other minds were more dearly attached to the notion of impossibility that I was in infinite possibility, and now that I look back, there has been a long line of people who have told me that I couldn’t succeed. All of them I proved wrong, all but a couple select individuals in my life. And what do I remember? Of course I can bring to mind all of the success that I have had which flew in the face of disbelievers, but what readily comes to mind are the times when I have been run again the spectacularly painful wall of failure.
And the trouble is, it is in perception alone where failure arises. I firmly believe that we can only fail when we come away from a situation knowing that there was something else to be done; that we gave up before we truly exhausted all of our options. At times though, we are not the only ones who make the decisions: especially in relationships, be they platonic or romantic, we also have to consider the notion of another mind at work in decision making. No matter how well we think out our actions, thoughts and decisions, we are still subject to the agreement of another to make our thoughts reality.
And it is in these moments that I have learned so painfully to let go. Regardless of my calls out, irrespective of my cries of understanding, sometimes our friends and loved ones simply don’t/cannot/refuse to hear what we are trying to say, and it is too easy to blame ourselves. What could I have done differently? If only I had said instead…
I could have said anything, that wouldn’t have changed a thing. The ways to disparage ourselves is endless, but we can only do so much. In fact, we can only do what we know and are capable of. That is the essence, I believe, of letting go. The knowledge that we have done all we can, and must now leave it up to fate and the perceptual abilities of our long lost (and possibly soon found) relationships. Yes, it will be horribly painful to watch what was once intimate and pure devolve in acquaintance or worse. Of course it is agonizing to know that we might be blamed for things we haven’t done, or even worse, for the things that we have. Although we can always carry the good times we have had with another with us, yet there is and may always be a nagging voice in the background wondering what went wrong. That voice has a point, yet if we are the ones wondering I now believe that answer cannot be found by us at all: if we are to know we will find out when the our lost friend is good and ready.
I have a particular person in mind here; through I refuse to name names (I think the party involved knows however). Suffice to say that we can only feel real loss when we lose something that we value more than ourselves, and this person was the one of the greatest occasions to ever happen to me, person, place or thing and I appreciate that with every fiber of my being. Words cannot describe how dear you will always be to me. I have to let you go now, for I don’t think you can see me for what I am, only for what you think me to be. Good luck though, and I’ll always be here if you ever need, but for both your good and mine, it might be time to fly solo. Fare thee well.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Living in a real world
The idea of artificial life has always intrigued me. From the early cognitive discussions of Turing and his test for an acceptable artificial mind through the seminal work of Dennet (read Brainchildren, crazy stuff) to Searle’s Chinese Room Problem – I’ve been there, all because of a fascination with the power of human mind, and our attempts to essentially “create” a working mind from circuits and electricity which comes from the wall, and not the workings of our neurons and cells.
However, I’ve as of late become aware of a more insidious form of artificial life, which after further review I will call the ‘ersatz existence’. This is not, as the name might imply, a new type of synthetic and potentially inferior intelligence. Well perhaps in a way, but that hopefully will become clear later on, and I’ll leave you, dear reader, to draw your own conclusions. Instead, I use it to refer to a life that is lived one or more degrees away from our senses: removed from the constant, unstoppable flow of experience and all that it holds
How might one get away from his/her own senses? There are myriad ways to it: all essentially based in the idea of living in fantasy. There are different degrees of participation in this: from someone who holds dear an axiom which represents the world as it should be rather than how it is (of the type “if I just behave this way he/she will see all that I am” or “as soon as [thing x] happens I’ll be complete/feel better, whatever) to the more obvious version of those who spend a disproportional amount of time playing the Sims, fixing their Facebook profile or making sure their Myspace is ‘just right’: both of these individuals believe in a fantasy that does not represent and in a very real way escapes the reality in which they live, breathe, love (hopefully), and grow. That’s not to say that thinking in how the world should be (in fact, that is the only way in which progress is made), or by spending time in the cyber space working on your little segment of the web: hell, I am as guilty as most on both of those -- the more important thing is the escapist mentality that drives the choice of activities.
The escapist mentality can itself take many forms: from the druggies who get high to forget their troubles to the pill poppers who just need to smooth themselves out, to the Myspace junkies who have decided that a cyber reality is an alternative as good or better to the world outside, to all the various subtle variations in between. The common thread is the idea of diversion until things improve (After this bender I’ll get my life together; I can make him/her love me if I try a little harder; etc.), that there is some thing (activity, person, job, timeframe) that will fill the gaps in the ersatz existence, something external that will fill the holes inside.
Apologies for the furious dead horse beatings, but as of late I have found myself in need of a decision. I have quite a few friends (some quite close, some recent acquaintances) who suffer from some pretty serious ersatz behaviors: one friend spends more time on Myspace than in real conversation, a few others have some serious drug problems, two Facebook junkies who operate all communiqué through the website at the expense of a phone call, still others fill my head at every conversation with their latest quick fix for the holes they have dug and continue to dig for themselves every day, and a couple others seem to have just given up (and by the day grow more pessimistic), who let me know that the world is an empty place devoid of care and hope and joy.
So my conundrum is as follows. I’ve been there: the idea that there is someone or something other than myself who is responsible for my happiness/despair; be it money, sex, drugs, rock and roll, a fresh start elsewhere, whatever. I’ve learned that it is only ourselves who are responsible for our feelings and perceptions, and yet to learn that fact I had to make mistakes, fail, myself. I could listen to no one until I personally understood through experience. The trouble is, I know what agony self-doubt can be, and the ersatz option is one of the three worst routes to choose. And having been there, I want to be available as a good influence and bearer of good times and affirmation to the interests, desires and needs of others: it’s just so difficult to stand by while watching those I care about drag themselves through the mud.
I guess the only thing left is to just let it go and hope for the best. The teachings of people far wiser than I could ever be often speak of the idea that leading by virtue and example are the only real ways to affect positive change in others, especially those who deeply suffer. They also say many other interesting things, but I’ll leave those for another day. Suffice to say, the most important thing I have learned in the journey so far has been the notion that all we have is this moment, so be truly happy in it, for all that it is and is not; keep that up for long enough and eventually real life will become far more appealing than any ersatz activity. That said, I’m always here to help in any way that I can; be that a conversation, a walk, a night out, or even just the knowledge that I am available. Now however, I’ve got some fresh air to breathe, so stay well, we’ll be in touch soon.
However, I’ve as of late become aware of a more insidious form of artificial life, which after further review I will call the ‘ersatz existence’. This is not, as the name might imply, a new type of synthetic and potentially inferior intelligence. Well perhaps in a way, but that hopefully will become clear later on, and I’ll leave you, dear reader, to draw your own conclusions. Instead, I use it to refer to a life that is lived one or more degrees away from our senses: removed from the constant, unstoppable flow of experience and all that it holds
How might one get away from his/her own senses? There are myriad ways to it: all essentially based in the idea of living in fantasy. There are different degrees of participation in this: from someone who holds dear an axiom which represents the world as it should be rather than how it is (of the type “if I just behave this way he/she will see all that I am” or “as soon as [thing x] happens I’ll be complete/feel better, whatever) to the more obvious version of those who spend a disproportional amount of time playing the Sims, fixing their Facebook profile or making sure their Myspace is ‘just right’: both of these individuals believe in a fantasy that does not represent and in a very real way escapes the reality in which they live, breathe, love (hopefully), and grow. That’s not to say that thinking in how the world should be (in fact, that is the only way in which progress is made), or by spending time in the cyber space working on your little segment of the web: hell, I am as guilty as most on both of those -- the more important thing is the escapist mentality that drives the choice of activities.
The escapist mentality can itself take many forms: from the druggies who get high to forget their troubles to the pill poppers who just need to smooth themselves out, to the Myspace junkies who have decided that a cyber reality is an alternative as good or better to the world outside, to all the various subtle variations in between. The common thread is the idea of diversion until things improve (After this bender I’ll get my life together; I can make him/her love me if I try a little harder; etc.), that there is some thing (activity, person, job, timeframe) that will fill the gaps in the ersatz existence, something external that will fill the holes inside.
Apologies for the furious dead horse beatings, but as of late I have found myself in need of a decision. I have quite a few friends (some quite close, some recent acquaintances) who suffer from some pretty serious ersatz behaviors: one friend spends more time on Myspace than in real conversation, a few others have some serious drug problems, two Facebook junkies who operate all communiqué through the website at the expense of a phone call, still others fill my head at every conversation with their latest quick fix for the holes they have dug and continue to dig for themselves every day, and a couple others seem to have just given up (and by the day grow more pessimistic), who let me know that the world is an empty place devoid of care and hope and joy.
So my conundrum is as follows. I’ve been there: the idea that there is someone or something other than myself who is responsible for my happiness/despair; be it money, sex, drugs, rock and roll, a fresh start elsewhere, whatever. I’ve learned that it is only ourselves who are responsible for our feelings and perceptions, and yet to learn that fact I had to make mistakes, fail, myself. I could listen to no one until I personally understood through experience. The trouble is, I know what agony self-doubt can be, and the ersatz option is one of the three worst routes to choose. And having been there, I want to be available as a good influence and bearer of good times and affirmation to the interests, desires and needs of others: it’s just so difficult to stand by while watching those I care about drag themselves through the mud.
I guess the only thing left is to just let it go and hope for the best. The teachings of people far wiser than I could ever be often speak of the idea that leading by virtue and example are the only real ways to affect positive change in others, especially those who deeply suffer. They also say many other interesting things, but I’ll leave those for another day. Suffice to say, the most important thing I have learned in the journey so far has been the notion that all we have is this moment, so be truly happy in it, for all that it is and is not; keep that up for long enough and eventually real life will become far more appealing than any ersatz activity. That said, I’m always here to help in any way that I can; be that a conversation, a walk, a night out, or even just the knowledge that I am available. Now however, I’ve got some fresh air to breathe, so stay well, we’ll be in touch soon.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
I quit my job today
I quit my job today. As the days passed, I could not help but realize my growing dependence on external objects in order to rationalize the position that I had recently accepted. As it turns out, the only salve for working one of the few positions truly repugnant to my character is to enjoy to the fullest all of the things that selling out will entail. As it turns out though, there is just no substitute for being happy with the contribution that I (he/she/it/they/Fido) am making in the world.
It’s funny, because there is just an enormous amount to unpack in the acquisition and eventual termination of my brief stint working for the man. We could start by wondering on the allure of capitalism, the passive operants which made the idea of selling things for a faceless finance corporation palatable, yet alone acceptable. We could talk about recoil, about a life that returns to from substantial self-destruction (all those memories I don’t have, and so on) all the way to the other extreme in the name of running from our true nature. We could expound on more benign qualities of my time there: meeting new people, exploring a subculture that only the United States could create, perhaps even the racial implications of work by shift date (I worked second shift, and suffice to say I was the Cracker minority). We could talk about all of those things, and perhaps in time I will, but I cannot help but notice the reason which finally snapped me out of my cube monkey insanity: the hidden assumption.
The hidden assumption comes to light at a crucial period not only personally but in a societal way as well. Basically, I am talking about all of the implications of holding a given belief, especially the ones that we are not aware of on the face of things. Take my job for example: by working for Wells Fargo (I won’t even get into the actual job description), I was forced to hold some beliefs which twist my stomach into a knot even in retrospect.
Like the notion that Wells Fargo is Ok. Now I know that some of you might do your banking there, some might be just overjoyed at the idea of banking with a company with wagons, but at the end of the day, in my world, the corporation is nothing more than one which took a grievous and naive error by yours truly and mercilessly pounded him for every dollar that they possibly could (I’ll spare the details, but it was gruesome). So to work for that corporation is to betray what I believe, for how can one truly accept working for a company which can ask to overlook obvious and insidious conflict of interest.
So aside from asking me to forgive the evil empire, we’ll talk about my reasons for sticking with it as long as I did. The money was fantastic, I had a window cubicle, and I got to read in between calls. Now pause. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for what? Exactly, those are terrible reasons to hold any sort of employ, one which forced me to hold some things as dear which just could not be thus and so.
We’ll start with money. All those who know me well, and many who are passingly acquainted will quickly tell you that “Doing it for the $$” just isn’t in the vernacular. As a function of being crucially poor though, I tried it. That belief that there was a price on what I hold dear, coupled with the necessity of proving that my job “wasn’t all bad” leads to the new belief that there are things which are ok assuming that the right price is involved. Of course my only answer is that there is never a reason to do something which is good enough to overcome what you know to be wrong. I could reiterate it throughout the remainder, in every paragraph to come (it’s implicit) but better to italicize and assume it to be true from here on out. So to right the idea of working for the weekend, I also had to believe that things (esp. greenbacks and the things to be purchased with them) could be even nearly as rewarding as values. So also says the junkie as he/she trades the spirit for a fix.
A window cubicle then? No, no, no. Remember, watching nature a poor facsimile for being in it. I watched the day slip away, every day from 11:30-Sundown, reasoning that “At least I’ll get to watch the day go by, it could be worse.” I won’t even honor that idea with a treatment.
Reading on the job. The best reason of them all, yet still insufficient in terms of the trade (you know, my soul for creature comforts). Suffice to say I was quickly reduced to reading only WF acceptable material, and if you can imagine what that might be, suffice to say if it wasn’t financial, I couldn’t read it. Ugh. Even better, the reason that I couldn’t read what I would like was under the idea that if a superior walked by, we would seem unprofessional. Right, like staring vacantly out the window could ever compare. Also, look at the further assumption here. Now, I have to believe that because my job allows my to slack a little, that is, get paid to do something in addition to my primary responsibilities, that it is ok. Forget that you are learning what you have only a passing interest in. Don’t dare remember that your output to the world rewards no one but a potentially monopolizing company. And so forth.
So I cannot claim that I necessarily got too much of a point across, but when we move on, we need to vent, hopefully in an interesting way at least. That aside, we need to stop thinking that the idea of a trade-off is acceptable; for every rationalization we make, we are affecting the deeper value system that lay beneath it. Just in saying we’re doing something for, say x, y & z, we are also inevitably relegating other, probably more important ideas to a less prominent place in order to sleep better at night. I cannot escape the notion however, that the world has evolved to a place where we might just be able to tailor the world to our needs. So never sell yourself short, and if you must make concessions (we all need to learn to play well with each other, after all), really be aware that the ripples of consequence will travel into areas that only become clear upon deeper examination. That said, I’ll be outside, call me if you need anything.
It’s funny, because there is just an enormous amount to unpack in the acquisition and eventual termination of my brief stint working for the man. We could start by wondering on the allure of capitalism, the passive operants which made the idea of selling things for a faceless finance corporation palatable, yet alone acceptable. We could talk about recoil, about a life that returns to from substantial self-destruction (all those memories I don’t have, and so on) all the way to the other extreme in the name of running from our true nature. We could expound on more benign qualities of my time there: meeting new people, exploring a subculture that only the United States could create, perhaps even the racial implications of work by shift date (I worked second shift, and suffice to say I was the Cracker minority). We could talk about all of those things, and perhaps in time I will, but I cannot help but notice the reason which finally snapped me out of my cube monkey insanity: the hidden assumption.
The hidden assumption comes to light at a crucial period not only personally but in a societal way as well. Basically, I am talking about all of the implications of holding a given belief, especially the ones that we are not aware of on the face of things. Take my job for example: by working for Wells Fargo (I won’t even get into the actual job description), I was forced to hold some beliefs which twist my stomach into a knot even in retrospect.
Like the notion that Wells Fargo is Ok. Now I know that some of you might do your banking there, some might be just overjoyed at the idea of banking with a company with wagons, but at the end of the day, in my world, the corporation is nothing more than one which took a grievous and naive error by yours truly and mercilessly pounded him for every dollar that they possibly could (I’ll spare the details, but it was gruesome). So to work for that corporation is to betray what I believe, for how can one truly accept working for a company which can ask to overlook obvious and insidious conflict of interest.
So aside from asking me to forgive the evil empire, we’ll talk about my reasons for sticking with it as long as I did. The money was fantastic, I had a window cubicle, and I got to read in between calls. Now pause. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for what? Exactly, those are terrible reasons to hold any sort of employ, one which forced me to hold some things as dear which just could not be thus and so.
We’ll start with money. All those who know me well, and many who are passingly acquainted will quickly tell you that “Doing it for the $$” just isn’t in the vernacular. As a function of being crucially poor though, I tried it. That belief that there was a price on what I hold dear, coupled with the necessity of proving that my job “wasn’t all bad” leads to the new belief that there are things which are ok assuming that the right price is involved. Of course my only answer is that there is never a reason to do something which is good enough to overcome what you know to be wrong. I could reiterate it throughout the remainder, in every paragraph to come (it’s implicit) but better to italicize and assume it to be true from here on out. So to right the idea of working for the weekend, I also had to believe that things (esp. greenbacks and the things to be purchased with them) could be even nearly as rewarding as values. So also says the junkie as he/she trades the spirit for a fix.
A window cubicle then? No, no, no. Remember, watching nature a poor facsimile for being in it. I watched the day slip away, every day from 11:30-Sundown, reasoning that “At least I’ll get to watch the day go by, it could be worse.” I won’t even honor that idea with a treatment.
Reading on the job. The best reason of them all, yet still insufficient in terms of the trade (you know, my soul for creature comforts). Suffice to say I was quickly reduced to reading only WF acceptable material, and if you can imagine what that might be, suffice to say if it wasn’t financial, I couldn’t read it. Ugh. Even better, the reason that I couldn’t read what I would like was under the idea that if a superior walked by, we would seem unprofessional. Right, like staring vacantly out the window could ever compare. Also, look at the further assumption here. Now, I have to believe that because my job allows my to slack a little, that is, get paid to do something in addition to my primary responsibilities, that it is ok. Forget that you are learning what you have only a passing interest in. Don’t dare remember that your output to the world rewards no one but a potentially monopolizing company. And so forth.
So I cannot claim that I necessarily got too much of a point across, but when we move on, we need to vent, hopefully in an interesting way at least. That aside, we need to stop thinking that the idea of a trade-off is acceptable; for every rationalization we make, we are affecting the deeper value system that lay beneath it. Just in saying we’re doing something for, say x, y & z, we are also inevitably relegating other, probably more important ideas to a less prominent place in order to sleep better at night. I cannot escape the notion however, that the world has evolved to a place where we might just be able to tailor the world to our needs. So never sell yourself short, and if you must make concessions (we all need to learn to play well with each other, after all), really be aware that the ripples of consequence will travel into areas that only become clear upon deeper examination. That said, I’ll be outside, call me if you need anything.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Staring down the night
At times, the best way to explain is to be simple. To all those whom I have ever handled carelessly, my deepest apologies. To those who have been unkind to me, you are forgiven. There are few moments which can capture the understanding of all that there is in the world, a true realization that perhaps there is more beauty and reward in each moment and in each person than we can ever hope to take in, let alone understand. To all the moments spent wasted in worry, trapped in what might have been/could become, to all those past freedoms I give nod.
So to each moment to come, I deeply bow. You are the opportunity to reveal all the brilliance that lay just beneath the surface of the goings on. Each instant to come provides for the generation/continuation of a picture of a world colored with a palate of my own design and choice.
And for the only moment I can truly have, this instant here and now, I applaud. Perhaps you will be the beginning of an idea which will change the world. Perhaps you will be forgotten from my conscious; either way you mark an instant which can never be again: a sui generis point which can be only the way it is and no other way. There are no alternate realities, right and wrong, good and bad, merely differing perceptions of the same ever unfolding timeline, made propositional by the schemes we create.
Behind the words, behind the explanation, lies the ineffable. It has no definition, and it cannot be pinned down. It can be sensed, and occasionally communicated, but any attempts at quantification are rejected as trite, undeserving. I see you as you truly are, at the same time everything and once and nothing at all.
And so to you, oh world I breathe you in. I hear your silence, I feel your presence. From the gentle envelope of gravity to the circulation of the blood throughout me I acknowledge your existence. And by taking you in and affirming you I affirm every moment past and future. So a toast, to all that is and what will be, and to all that was, and shall never be again.
To all who have shared in the journey, a round of applause. To all who will be joining me, I look forward to your acquaintance. To those with whom I have parted, for whatever reason, I carry you with me, and you will not be forgotten. Goodnight, and sleep well
So to each moment to come, I deeply bow. You are the opportunity to reveal all the brilliance that lay just beneath the surface of the goings on. Each instant to come provides for the generation/continuation of a picture of a world colored with a palate of my own design and choice.
And for the only moment I can truly have, this instant here and now, I applaud. Perhaps you will be the beginning of an idea which will change the world. Perhaps you will be forgotten from my conscious; either way you mark an instant which can never be again: a sui generis point which can be only the way it is and no other way. There are no alternate realities, right and wrong, good and bad, merely differing perceptions of the same ever unfolding timeline, made propositional by the schemes we create.
Behind the words, behind the explanation, lies the ineffable. It has no definition, and it cannot be pinned down. It can be sensed, and occasionally communicated, but any attempts at quantification are rejected as trite, undeserving. I see you as you truly are, at the same time everything and once and nothing at all.
And so to you, oh world I breathe you in. I hear your silence, I feel your presence. From the gentle envelope of gravity to the circulation of the blood throughout me I acknowledge your existence. And by taking you in and affirming you I affirm every moment past and future. So a toast, to all that is and what will be, and to all that was, and shall never be again.
To all who have shared in the journey, a round of applause. To all who will be joining me, I look forward to your acquaintance. To those with whom I have parted, for whatever reason, I carry you with me, and you will not be forgotten. Goodnight, and sleep well
Friday, February 17, 2006
Diacriticism
Always something new to learn, always some new lead to follow up on, inevitably something else going on behind the scenes. It had occurred to me that perhaps there has to be a reason why we all aren’t running around living our lives as we saw fit, and the expense of all the hassle and noise that inevitably seems to accompany our lives. Perhaps there are a few reasons, but most important now is the notion that perhaps we all still live in one way or another on paradigms and ideas that are over 100 years old.
Now I know, I know, nothing Victorian about you: you the enlightened youth and elders of the mid Otts. You’re savvy, prejudice free. Well, probably not (check back when you’ve clean out your closets), but the point remains that you’ve carved out your own little niche in the world: you know your passions and pleasures, pains and problems, and they make up the unique individual called you. But how does one manage to express these desires, to carve freely our own path, with a damn-you-if-I-must attitude to self actualization?
I’m still dealing with that little quirk of life, but it hit me recently that perhaps we shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. In fact, the idea of psychological individuation (being and behaving as we are) is one that has only seated itself very recently, in terms of history. Think for a moment about the Industrial Revolution. Before this great leap of technology, the only one’s who actually had the leisure time to figure out who they were and what they wanted to be were the wealthy: everyone else was toiling in the fields, breaking their respective backs merely to eek out a living for themselves and their families (not much time for yourself, eh?).
But with the Industrial Revolution things changed some. In fact, they changed a lot, and for the more leisurely. Good thing right? Not necessarily. The industries that flourished were those which allowed the lower-middle classes to behave like the social classes above them. Thus the beginnings of being unique came in the form of buttons and hats, teapots and lace. They had nothing to do with ideal; rather they were a salve, differentiation on a mass scale.
Now we may turn our eyes to the United States, where this production changed slightly, with it the opportunities to individuate. Henry Ford furthered the ability of the common folks to further behave like the rich with this assembly line idea in the early 20th century.
This is about when the idea of the unique self really began to blossom. Now the leisure items of the rich were available to the masses. What to choose? Which style do I want? In fact, what do I want? The questions seem trivial now, yet think for second the immense freedom our ancestors must have felt having the brainpower to spend on what particular luxury item they would like to complete themselves. Thus we were handed the ability to be ourselves, as defined by the things that we want.
But we are still removed from the idea of supreme individuality of self. The assembly line, the advances in technology, they were all focused on the notion of copying what the more affluent had/were up to There were more choices now, and more leisure, now more celebrities to copy style from, more affluence to aspire to, more people to be like. We were still on the cookie-cutter mentality, even though there swiftly because many, many cookie cutters to choose from.
But I digress. One of the hardest things in my adolescence was having the ability to differentiate between the things I own and the thoughts that I think. It’s easy to think that the items we have define who we are. I smoke copious amounts of ganja, I must be a hippie. I’m in khakis, must be a yuppie. I am then out of step is I don’t behave like the stereotypes associated with the things that I own, got to align the ideals (I never consciously thought that, but it’s at play). And so on. In the end, coming to grips with the jock/stoner/intellectual/artist/insert-your-preferred-description-here meant understanding that none of those labels fit: none of the cookie cutters could even touch what I had discovered to be my preferences and desires.
So if you’re having a day where you might not feel like you are being all that you can be, take heart: it is the generation of my contemporaries and I (and the era for everyone else) in which we are permitted and able to decide our lot in the world. The saturation of personal services, from yogalates to scientology now allows our interaction with the world to be almost exactly and only what we make of it. So just think that perhaps, the circumstances haven’t been right, but they certainly have become so. Throw open the windows of how you actually think, rather than how you were told to. People are ultimately defined by what they create, and there are no rules on creation except for the limits of your own imagination. I cannot help but think that society is in a great position to redefine itself for the better: and it is only through our free expression that this is possible. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Now I know, I know, nothing Victorian about you: you the enlightened youth and elders of the mid Otts. You’re savvy, prejudice free. Well, probably not (check back when you’ve clean out your closets), but the point remains that you’ve carved out your own little niche in the world: you know your passions and pleasures, pains and problems, and they make up the unique individual called you. But how does one manage to express these desires, to carve freely our own path, with a damn-you-if-I-must attitude to self actualization?
I’m still dealing with that little quirk of life, but it hit me recently that perhaps we shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. In fact, the idea of psychological individuation (being and behaving as we are) is one that has only seated itself very recently, in terms of history. Think for a moment about the Industrial Revolution. Before this great leap of technology, the only one’s who actually had the leisure time to figure out who they were and what they wanted to be were the wealthy: everyone else was toiling in the fields, breaking their respective backs merely to eek out a living for themselves and their families (not much time for yourself, eh?).
But with the Industrial Revolution things changed some. In fact, they changed a lot, and for the more leisurely. Good thing right? Not necessarily. The industries that flourished were those which allowed the lower-middle classes to behave like the social classes above them. Thus the beginnings of being unique came in the form of buttons and hats, teapots and lace. They had nothing to do with ideal; rather they were a salve, differentiation on a mass scale.
Now we may turn our eyes to the United States, where this production changed slightly, with it the opportunities to individuate. Henry Ford furthered the ability of the common folks to further behave like the rich with this assembly line idea in the early 20th century.
This is about when the idea of the unique self really began to blossom. Now the leisure items of the rich were available to the masses. What to choose? Which style do I want? In fact, what do I want? The questions seem trivial now, yet think for second the immense freedom our ancestors must have felt having the brainpower to spend on what particular luxury item they would like to complete themselves. Thus we were handed the ability to be ourselves, as defined by the things that we want.
But we are still removed from the idea of supreme individuality of self. The assembly line, the advances in technology, they were all focused on the notion of copying what the more affluent had/were up to There were more choices now, and more leisure, now more celebrities to copy style from, more affluence to aspire to, more people to be like. We were still on the cookie-cutter mentality, even though there swiftly because many, many cookie cutters to choose from.
But I digress. One of the hardest things in my adolescence was having the ability to differentiate between the things I own and the thoughts that I think. It’s easy to think that the items we have define who we are. I smoke copious amounts of ganja, I must be a hippie. I’m in khakis, must be a yuppie. I am then out of step is I don’t behave like the stereotypes associated with the things that I own, got to align the ideals (I never consciously thought that, but it’s at play). And so on. In the end, coming to grips with the jock/stoner/intellectual/artist/insert-your-preferred-description-here meant understanding that none of those labels fit: none of the cookie cutters could even touch what I had discovered to be my preferences and desires.
So if you’re having a day where you might not feel like you are being all that you can be, take heart: it is the generation of my contemporaries and I (and the era for everyone else) in which we are permitted and able to decide our lot in the world. The saturation of personal services, from yogalates to scientology now allows our interaction with the world to be almost exactly and only what we make of it. So just think that perhaps, the circumstances haven’t been right, but they certainly have become so. Throw open the windows of how you actually think, rather than how you were told to. People are ultimately defined by what they create, and there are no rules on creation except for the limits of your own imagination. I cannot help but think that society is in a great position to redefine itself for the better: and it is only through our free expression that this is possible. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Witting unwit
Even in the realm of people watching, I have found that there are as many ways to analyze the extent and content of human interaction as there are to read the Cantos of Ezra Pound (if you haven’t read this, give it a shot, though I warn you, it’s quite the trip). The other day I decided to change the way I look at third party interaction and, just like realizing what the Wall actually meant or figuring out why crack dealers still live with their mothers (it stands to reason that they might be able to better, but no, no, no).
Anyway, the new lens through which I focused discourse was in terms of power. Mind you, when I started I used a very broad form of power, that being the control that one person or idea exerts over another. To clarify: most of us can look at a couple, or conversation, or even our own thoughts, and see who (or which, qua our minds) carries the most force (power, hand, clout, say it as you will). Some would call this the interplay of dominion and submission, extravert and introvert, but whatever we use; the overwhelming idea is one of precedence.
Now with precedence I have to admit subjugation (natural antonyms), and to watch these concepts in action I couldn’t help but notice an interesting phenomenon. In all of the interactions that involved these polar ideas, I couldn’t shake the underlying notion of choice that wove its ubiquitous hands throughout the very fabric of the interaction. All narration aside, even the most one sided interactions had an unforeseen element of intentionality.
By that I mean that the people involved in my armchair psychology were always (if unconsciously) trying to cement the place that each actor thought he/she should have. Said another way, whether we mean to or not, in all of our interactions we attempt to prove who we think we are, rather than what we could be.
Now I know, enough on the personal responsibility thing. But the more I see the more I believe that our lot is life is one that we choose. Perhaps we were not held as children, perhaps we were. Perhaps being held meant grappling with drunken family, perhaps it meant a loving embrace. There’s a chance we were told that we would amount to nothing. There’s an even greater chance we were told we could be anything. But did we believe it? Did we see our childhood affection (or lack thereof) as a sign that we were worthy (or worthless, as the case may be.
At basic, I have to say that we are in charge of not only how we perceive ourselves, and nothing more. We have no control how others perceive us, at least not insofar as objectively changing the perceptions of others: the only change in how we are seen is through the manifestation of how we see ourselves. Thus if we decide to know for ourselves that others are better than ourselves, they will be; if we believe ourselves we deserve a kind, smart, attractive unique mate with an esoteric yet undeniably appealing character we will find one.
I mean, try this one on…can something other than what we believe actually be the case? Don’t take this one lightly; really think about what holds real weight in your ontology (things that we propose exist). Think of the major successes our lives (we all have at least a couple, no crap from the dramatic folks): it was from an unwavering belief in the veracity of our actions which kept us from succumbing (sadly, it only takes a little faith in failure to make that the case, but that’s a whole other can of worms). But in the end, we did it yea? And we wanted to take a megaphone to the nearest rooftop and let all those who thought we couldn’t do it know that their lack of faith where they could shove those ideas.
But I believe I digress. The pith of all this is the idea that we are and only can be what we believe we are and what we will be. Thus our lot in life is no one’s fault but our own. Just look very carefully at the thoughts you think and how those thoughts which you believe so easily and constantly reinforce themselves though conversation and general interaction. And for those who are confused as to why they aren’t where they though they would be I would say only that it isn’t because you are failure, but because you fail to realize that there are a million different ways to achieve the same goal: perhaps it isn’t you, just the paradigm you are currently running on. I would argue that so long as you live as you would like to live (you, just you, be selfish for a minute) you will succeed in the way that you want to. If you could lead a proactive life, how would you run things? Would you like to render the latent disparity of power and its resulting influence all together? It isn’t a pipe dream, it’s just been forgotten amidst the sound bites and self help seminars. Stay well, and good night.
Anyway, the new lens through which I focused discourse was in terms of power. Mind you, when I started I used a very broad form of power, that being the control that one person or idea exerts over another. To clarify: most of us can look at a couple, or conversation, or even our own thoughts, and see who (or which, qua our minds) carries the most force (power, hand, clout, say it as you will). Some would call this the interplay of dominion and submission, extravert and introvert, but whatever we use; the overwhelming idea is one of precedence.
Now with precedence I have to admit subjugation (natural antonyms), and to watch these concepts in action I couldn’t help but notice an interesting phenomenon. In all of the interactions that involved these polar ideas, I couldn’t shake the underlying notion of choice that wove its ubiquitous hands throughout the very fabric of the interaction. All narration aside, even the most one sided interactions had an unforeseen element of intentionality.
By that I mean that the people involved in my armchair psychology were always (if unconsciously) trying to cement the place that each actor thought he/she should have. Said another way, whether we mean to or not, in all of our interactions we attempt to prove who we think we are, rather than what we could be.
Now I know, enough on the personal responsibility thing. But the more I see the more I believe that our lot is life is one that we choose. Perhaps we were not held as children, perhaps we were. Perhaps being held meant grappling with drunken family, perhaps it meant a loving embrace. There’s a chance we were told that we would amount to nothing. There’s an even greater chance we were told we could be anything. But did we believe it? Did we see our childhood affection (or lack thereof) as a sign that we were worthy (or worthless, as the case may be.
At basic, I have to say that we are in charge of not only how we perceive ourselves, and nothing more. We have no control how others perceive us, at least not insofar as objectively changing the perceptions of others: the only change in how we are seen is through the manifestation of how we see ourselves. Thus if we decide to know for ourselves that others are better than ourselves, they will be; if we believe ourselves we deserve a kind, smart, attractive unique mate with an esoteric yet undeniably appealing character we will find one.
I mean, try this one on…can something other than what we believe actually be the case? Don’t take this one lightly; really think about what holds real weight in your ontology (things that we propose exist). Think of the major successes our lives (we all have at least a couple, no crap from the dramatic folks): it was from an unwavering belief in the veracity of our actions which kept us from succumbing (sadly, it only takes a little faith in failure to make that the case, but that’s a whole other can of worms). But in the end, we did it yea? And we wanted to take a megaphone to the nearest rooftop and let all those who thought we couldn’t do it know that their lack of faith where they could shove those ideas.
But I believe I digress. The pith of all this is the idea that we are and only can be what we believe we are and what we will be. Thus our lot in life is no one’s fault but our own. Just look very carefully at the thoughts you think and how those thoughts which you believe so easily and constantly reinforce themselves though conversation and general interaction. And for those who are confused as to why they aren’t where they though they would be I would say only that it isn’t because you are failure, but because you fail to realize that there are a million different ways to achieve the same goal: perhaps it isn’t you, just the paradigm you are currently running on. I would argue that so long as you live as you would like to live (you, just you, be selfish for a minute) you will succeed in the way that you want to. If you could lead a proactive life, how would you run things? Would you like to render the latent disparity of power and its resulting influence all together? It isn’t a pipe dream, it’s just been forgotten amidst the sound bites and self help seminars. Stay well, and good night.
Friday, February 03, 2006
specious communication
Sound bites and talking heads, quips and quotations, synopses and summaries, small talk and casual exchanges: as of late I’ve been noticed the superb lack of real, full communication that our society seems to tell us is ok. Sitting at work yesterday, I began wondering about the ways we converse, be it via email, snail mail, over the phone, face to face, and the ways that most of those aren’t conducive to getting to know someone, let alone talk about something that actually captures reality.
Said another way, I’ve noticed how little people actually listen to each other, in the sense that the listener actually tries to take in the point of what the speaker is trying to convey. And to all those out there who like to think they are fantastic listeners, I invite you to remember the last time you empathized with someone. Not in Hollywood sense, or the “I’ve been there” scenario; what I mean is talking with someone while assuming that my conversant is an intelligent, right individual.
By intelligent, right individual, I mean a person whom we seek to understand. Unless my approximation is off, in most conversation we still cling to the notion that our opinions are the ones that are actually backed in reason, while the opinions of others are in some way flawed, or misguided, or some other expression of poor design. To get an idea of what I mean, take the first person you know that comes to mind when you think of “weird.” Chances are this person just makes no sense, the type where you wonder if they aren’t perhaps dropped from the latest passing alien orbiter. If the imagination doesn’t quite work, then take a good friend, or better yet, check yourself out. That done, really try to think about what you know of them, really: not the snap decisions or rumor or hearsay, or what you think you think: what do you really know of this person? Try to understand them on their terms.
I only bring this up because I celebrated the Chinese New Year yesterday. See in the real word, the Chinese New Year started in January, but in the corporate universe, we celebrate on a lazy Thursday to coincide with a birthday and training class “graduation” (seriously, Office Space has leaped from top 10 to top 3 as of late). Point is, I had to mingle with my co-workers.
Normally, I spend my days buried in a book, with breaks to talk to people on the phone. I don’t get to chat much with my co-workers, except talk about that local sports team and other smallish chatter (although the weather remains untouched, probably because most of us stare out at the same windows with the same view; “heard its going to snow” doesn’t really matter when you can look out 8 ft windows to see for yourself). Thursday though, we had to find someone we didn’t know, and learn about them. So I learned that one co-worker never stops thinking about $$, ever. She never talks to anyone, and what she told me is that when she gets home from work she goes to her computer to figure out how to make more. I did not know this. But what I also didn’t know, and started to become aware of, was that this was a woman who has made money her one true friend, and the thing was, she didn’t seem at all unhappy about that. And while I would never really befriend this woman, it really has shed a whole new light on the reason why she never speaks to anyone except the customers who she beligerizes all day long. She isn’t strange: based upon the priorities she has her behavior is perfectly natural.
Or another example. I have a co-worker who is typically very quiet. In fact, the longest conversation we have had consisted of “I heard there’s an enzyme in cheese which relaxes the mind” (I haven’t found if that is true, but in related news, milk has Vitamin D, which is also found with exposure to sunlight – go dairy). What I found out when I finally got a real paragraph in was that she is a world traveler who actually mentors Romanian orphans. Romanian orphans?! No one expects Romanian orphans!
What I mean in all of this is the idea that perhaps we don’t know as much about what is going on as we would like to think. This applies as much to misunderstandings and disagreements with our closest loved ones as it does with the examples above. More than the words that come out of our mouths, it is the priorities behind them that carry the real meaning. Next time ask yourself the why, as opposed to getting caught up in the what. Because the minute you think you know what is going on, it will be proven abundantly clear to you that you don’t.
Note: I’ve found that writing is in no way like riding a bike. It only takes a week to really take the edge off the mind. Now I sit, staring at the words that I have just written, and wonder if what I write will have any real relation to what I was trying to convey. Regardless, I intend to better use language in the next couple posts, because we all have better things to do than wade our way through poorly expressed ideas. And to everyone born in the Year of the Dog look out: this year’s going to be wild!
Said another way, I’ve noticed how little people actually listen to each other, in the sense that the listener actually tries to take in the point of what the speaker is trying to convey. And to all those out there who like to think they are fantastic listeners, I invite you to remember the last time you empathized with someone. Not in Hollywood sense, or the “I’ve been there” scenario; what I mean is talking with someone while assuming that my conversant is an intelligent, right individual.
By intelligent, right individual, I mean a person whom we seek to understand. Unless my approximation is off, in most conversation we still cling to the notion that our opinions are the ones that are actually backed in reason, while the opinions of others are in some way flawed, or misguided, or some other expression of poor design. To get an idea of what I mean, take the first person you know that comes to mind when you think of “weird.” Chances are this person just makes no sense, the type where you wonder if they aren’t perhaps dropped from the latest passing alien orbiter. If the imagination doesn’t quite work, then take a good friend, or better yet, check yourself out. That done, really try to think about what you know of them, really: not the snap decisions or rumor or hearsay, or what you think you think: what do you really know of this person? Try to understand them on their terms.
I only bring this up because I celebrated the Chinese New Year yesterday. See in the real word, the Chinese New Year started in January, but in the corporate universe, we celebrate on a lazy Thursday to coincide with a birthday and training class “graduation” (seriously, Office Space has leaped from top 10 to top 3 as of late). Point is, I had to mingle with my co-workers.
Normally, I spend my days buried in a book, with breaks to talk to people on the phone. I don’t get to chat much with my co-workers, except talk about that local sports team and other smallish chatter (although the weather remains untouched, probably because most of us stare out at the same windows with the same view; “heard its going to snow” doesn’t really matter when you can look out 8 ft windows to see for yourself). Thursday though, we had to find someone we didn’t know, and learn about them. So I learned that one co-worker never stops thinking about $$, ever. She never talks to anyone, and what she told me is that when she gets home from work she goes to her computer to figure out how to make more. I did not know this. But what I also didn’t know, and started to become aware of, was that this was a woman who has made money her one true friend, and the thing was, she didn’t seem at all unhappy about that. And while I would never really befriend this woman, it really has shed a whole new light on the reason why she never speaks to anyone except the customers who she beligerizes all day long. She isn’t strange: based upon the priorities she has her behavior is perfectly natural.
Or another example. I have a co-worker who is typically very quiet. In fact, the longest conversation we have had consisted of “I heard there’s an enzyme in cheese which relaxes the mind” (I haven’t found if that is true, but in related news, milk has Vitamin D, which is also found with exposure to sunlight – go dairy). What I found out when I finally got a real paragraph in was that she is a world traveler who actually mentors Romanian orphans. Romanian orphans?! No one expects Romanian orphans!
What I mean in all of this is the idea that perhaps we don’t know as much about what is going on as we would like to think. This applies as much to misunderstandings and disagreements with our closest loved ones as it does with the examples above. More than the words that come out of our mouths, it is the priorities behind them that carry the real meaning. Next time ask yourself the why, as opposed to getting caught up in the what. Because the minute you think you know what is going on, it will be proven abundantly clear to you that you don’t.
Note: I’ve found that writing is in no way like riding a bike. It only takes a week to really take the edge off the mind. Now I sit, staring at the words that I have just written, and wonder if what I write will have any real relation to what I was trying to convey. Regardless, I intend to better use language in the next couple posts, because we all have better things to do than wade our way through poorly expressed ideas. And to everyone born in the Year of the Dog look out: this year’s going to be wild!
Monday, January 23, 2006
The kairotic moment
As the last of my tethers to the earth fall away, I cannot help but feel almost heavily as I lift off the ground. The unbearable light of flight, I guess some tortured poet somewhere might say, but words, descriptions, they all sit heavily upon the ground. As a youth I used to look skyward, but now, gently drifting farther away, I see all those below me as a fog. A gentle, benign, yet all encompassing fog, it isn’t long before I can no longer see the people, the words, the experiences, all that I could see as the human condition; none of these have any defined boundaries any longer. They all run together, as undulations in the effluvium: here is a man taking advice too literally and seeing just how much better it is to “go fly a kite”, there sits two former soul mates, eating dinner in silence, with all that they have left to say effectively stopping any real connection that they still of course share…and me.
Amidst the wonder of this new, seamless humanity that I see below, I see myself, though, that can’t be right, right? There I am however, playing by the lake, or is that me flying the kite? I almost want to stop my ascent, for a 12 story existential crisis is simply not what the doctor ordered, yet as my elevation grows in scope, so do does the disconnect from all that lay below. I look around, to my trusted companion, yet I find no one. I panic for a moment, only to remember that it is she who let loose the last of the fastenings, to unknowingly allow for the withdrawl from all that I though I knew. Gosh is it pretty up here, who would have thought?
I cannot relish the moment for too long though, for what washes over me is an intense sadness, one not befitting of the beautiful scene that lays spread so far below. As I look around, expecting for the answer to leap out from behind, what exactly I don’t know, when it hits me square between the ears: nothing. That’s what sets my head passionately a-spin, there is no one around, no one to share this beautiful moment, this moment of supreme detachment, this instant of unparalleled peace. Stories always fall short: “you had to have been there” I heard one too often. A line I have told once too often, as I think now, clinging madly to what I see, the rushes of sound, the cold snap of the wind, the pleasant numb and rosy glow that I must be exuding: even one ounce this twinkling slice of the time I call my life, I just want to take a snapshot and send it out as a Christmas card, a Hanukah card; damn, I want to send it for no reason. And as I tilt suddenly askew, my question becomes not what might happen to me, but where I might be going.
“The kairos is out there somewhere, and I can only hope I don’t lose everything that I know and love to find it. In fact, what would I do with it when it finally comes across my path?” Though for now I must push through these questions, there will be plenty of time to ask them when I become further removed from all that is common and safe. And in the meanwhile, I could just swear that was a…
Amidst the wonder of this new, seamless humanity that I see below, I see myself, though, that can’t be right, right? There I am however, playing by the lake, or is that me flying the kite? I almost want to stop my ascent, for a 12 story existential crisis is simply not what the doctor ordered, yet as my elevation grows in scope, so do does the disconnect from all that lay below. I look around, to my trusted companion, yet I find no one. I panic for a moment, only to remember that it is she who let loose the last of the fastenings, to unknowingly allow for the withdrawl from all that I though I knew. Gosh is it pretty up here, who would have thought?
I cannot relish the moment for too long though, for what washes over me is an intense sadness, one not befitting of the beautiful scene that lays spread so far below. As I look around, expecting for the answer to leap out from behind, what exactly I don’t know, when it hits me square between the ears: nothing. That’s what sets my head passionately a-spin, there is no one around, no one to share this beautiful moment, this moment of supreme detachment, this instant of unparalleled peace. Stories always fall short: “you had to have been there” I heard one too often. A line I have told once too often, as I think now, clinging madly to what I see, the rushes of sound, the cold snap of the wind, the pleasant numb and rosy glow that I must be exuding: even one ounce this twinkling slice of the time I call my life, I just want to take a snapshot and send it out as a Christmas card, a Hanukah card; damn, I want to send it for no reason. And as I tilt suddenly askew, my question becomes not what might happen to me, but where I might be going.
“The kairos is out there somewhere, and I can only hope I don’t lose everything that I know and love to find it. In fact, what would I do with it when it finally comes across my path?” Though for now I must push through these questions, there will be plenty of time to ask them when I become further removed from all that is common and safe. And in the meanwhile, I could just swear that was a…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)