I suppose that from a technical standpoint, the question of art falls under the category of aesthetics and axiology, which is a starting point if nothing else. So, it is up to us to investigate sensori-emotional values and the larger categories of value and quality in a general way. So what is quality? What is value? What is sensori-emotional value?
In what may be called my semi-ignorance of the topic, let us first say that I believe value to be a learned attribute. One of the most notable examples I can think of is Ulysses. The book was banned as obscene for twelve years in the United States of America, and in 1999 The Modern Library ranked it Number One on its list of English language books of the 20th Century. The clearest understanding that can be gleaned from this is that there is a world between fear of the seemingly unintelligible and quality. What I see going on here is precisely that people are afraid of what they don’t understand. It would be argued most clearly in the case of the so-called modern art with a conversation between myself and my father—or at least how I would imagine it would go.
(Standing in front of Rene Magritte’s This is not a pipe.)
Me: Kind of incredible isn’t it?
Pop: What?
Me: It’s kind of incredible.
Pop: It’s kind of stupid if that’s what you mean.
Me: What? What do you mean?
Pop: It doesn’t make sense.
Me: Why not?
Pop: Well, that is clearly a pipe.
Me: No it’s not pop.
Pop: How so?
Me: It’s a painting.
Pop: But it’s a painting of a pipe.
Me: Precisely, which makes it not a pipe.
Pop: Why would you waste your time making a painting about something to say that the painting isn’t that something?
Me: To remind your audience what art is.
Pop: And what is that?
Me: The space between reality and impression.
Pop: It’s still kind of silly.
But therein lies the nut I suppose. Art invades this space that is generally uninhabited by anything. It bridges the gap, somehow, or exists inside the space between what is actually there and impression that is made on the audience. Art is an invasion of the consciousness by an object, by an in-itself, that causes one to feel. In a way it is the water at the end of the desert for the weary traveler, because upon seeing it they feel towards that object, that thing, that unconscious piece of something-or-other in the same way that they feel about consciousness. As a matter of fact, it could be said that art has the same structure as the consciousness: it is a nothingness that nihilates itself and thereby creates freedom.
A painting is just a painting. Get over it, would you? From an absolutely technically standpoint, there is nothing special about a picture drawn on a piece of paper or a piece of canvas or on a computer screen or piece of clay that happens to look like something or a piece of metal that has been molded into some kind of shape. It is a thing in the world, the same as a hammer or a coffee cup or a bed or a key or any other kind of object that exists in the world. What happens when it is art, however, is that it nihilates that essential existence as a piece of something-or-other and creates for itself freedom (of) interpretation. A hammer can be nothing but a hammer. A picture of a hammer is free to be interpreted as anything. By creating the visual image, and nihilating the reality of itself as a picture, the viewer is placed in a situation where suddenly they are being stared at by the piece of art. The art has created a for-itself. Art is the for-itself. It stares at us. It makes us uncomfortable. It says, “Here I am. Make sense of me.” In this sense, it could be said that art is a dare, a challenge. This object-in-the-world, this in-itself-for-itself stares at you, daring you to understand it. In a way, and sometimes I simply hope this for some of my own personal project, art is that which is incomprehensible to most people. That which is understood by everybody is not art. (Holding a hammer): “This is a hammer.” There is no work there. (A painting in hypercolor tie-dye of a hammer sitting in a gallery): “This is a hammer.” There is work here, because it isn’t a hammer. It is unintelligible technically. It could be a hammer for your senses. It could be a hammer that could be. What is it? How did they conceive of it? Why did they conceive of it? There are actual questions to be asked here.
But there is an essential problem for artists: their art must be challenging. It must be difficult. And yet the only way to distribute art is make it marketable in the first place. This is probably why most artists aren’t fully appreciated until they’re old or dead. I would imagine the process probably goes something along the lines of a person realizing that this artist devoted their life to this concept, to this idea, to these words, to this form, and starts to investigate. Over the course of the investigation, what is revealed is intentionality. The artist was well aware of all the conventional forms and could probably imitate them pretty well, but consciously chose to do something different, and in the gap between the style/form they chose to make happen and their understanding of historically accepted forms and style is the artists mind.
What does the artist risk by first developing a “fan base” and compromising their vision?
What do they gain?
Is more rapid dissemination detrimental to the artist process?
Do you lose credibility?
My first-ever setlist for a show I played in Busan this weekend was full of obscure tunes that are what I consider to be real art. They are what I have learned to be quality music. Do I start playing popular catchy pop tunes to develop a fan base? Do I maintain my line? Is that plain stubbornness to maintain? Anybody with any suggestions for things to read, things to try… by all means, let me know.
I am at a loss.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Inescapable Language
“Language is not an instinct of the constituted human creature, nor is it an invention of our subjectivity…It forms part of the human condition.”
--Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness
The depths to which we can begin to understand the power of language is best categorized with things of the nature of: “Why are we here?” or “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” or “What will happen?” or anything whose variables are so many and various that it is almost in fatuity that we approach them.
And yet it is what we are. Without language, there is arguably no humanity. There is something to the fact that in language we have found the best possible vehicle for attempting to convey meaning, and yet, at the same time, language is the most inappropriate vehicle for conveying meaning, because meaning always slips from its grasp. This can be attributed, largely, to subjectivity, and the fact that as soon as the object of language is used, it becomes precisely that: an object-to-be-used by me. I derived my own meaning from it, and this is both its blessing and its curse. It shares the same structure as consciousness, where it is constantly in the mode of being what it isn’t (where meaning is fluid), and not being what it is (a solid structure on which meaning is built).
Underneath the necessity of language is the structure of the language itself. Grammar is important, if not in practice then in theory, because it helps us understand the subject—in all senses of the word. Who is the subject of this sentence? What is the subject of this sentence? It immediately re-orients to a world outside of ourselves, and perhaps this is why reading is such a crucial element to transcendence. It forces us to realize ourselves as being in the midst of a world when we see that he or she or it is the subject of this sentence. It jars us back into a world wherein in we are being a being-in-the-midst-of-the-world, and because of this we actually re-apprehend our own subjectivity: we make of ourselves an object in the world. Through language, we see ourselves. Full stop. Whether it is something I have written or something I have read, there is point where consciousness steps outside of itself and realizes that it is a person sitting on that chair in the middle of the room, holding a book, learning about various things, and then it is our own consciousness that is fully subject—even while we’re being objectified.
“Thus the word is sacred when I employ it and magic when the other hears it.” –Sartre
Difficulty doesn’t even begin to describe the nature of our relationship with language because it is impossible to conceive of a human world without language, and yet there is sometimes disrespect for the language that we actively employ because we are scared. We ARE language, and when we use it for things like lying or misdirection or unethical behavior, we become the lie, the misdirection, and the unethical behavior. We are the language. Obviously, the question will forever remain, “What is unethical behavior? Aren’t you seeming a little bit too dogmatic here?” And if that is the case, then know that it is not intentional, it is simply meant to illustrate that language should be used, if not cautiously, then with the conscious understanding that we are what we use the language for, and this is actually transported almost immediately back to the “actions reveal desires” mantra that has so far revealed itself to me to be truth. We act for what we want, and one of the best illustrations of this is the language that we use as an action because language is a human action.
My co-worker said the other day, “The director has made a good liar out of me.” And I couldn’t help but think that the Director of our school didn’t make a good liar out of you, this was a conscious decision that you made because you want to be cloaked in a layer of concealment. That’s why those little white lies are so important. It has nothing to do with religion or god or anything like that. It is precisely because we are the little white lies we tell.
Here we are left with a slight conundrum, because the world is populated by other people and presupposes the need for a language to connect them, language is always for other people as much as it is for me. Language is how I see myself in the world and how I am seen in the world. The people I talk to daily, the letters I write, the emails written, the words I use daily reveal me to myself, and yet they are always for other people. Even if we were to say, “I’m writing this just for me and nobody else. I don’t care what other people think about it.” The reality here is that you are still writing it for the other, even if it’s to realize their dislike of it. Or, better yet, even when we are keeping a diary or a journal that is not meant to be read by anybody but me, as soon I start writing, I understand that at some point the reason I wrote all this down will come full circle and I will re-visit it later on, when I am other than I am now. It will be to see how far I have become by making of myself the other. In this case you are writing for the you will be other to the you in the present. There is no language without the other. It is always for “them” as much as it is for “me.”
So language performs the dual task of connecting us with other human subjects while alienating us and objectifying us to ourselves. This seemingly paradoxical relationship is beginning to seem pervasive in the human character: we always seem to be performing diametrically opposed actions consistently. I have consciousness, and yet consciousness is not. It has no form. I use language, and yet language is not for me. It is for others. What is this is existence that we are? What is this thing I am? What does it mean that this (existence) is the best possible vehicle for conveying and understanding meaning? Is it the best possible vehicle? If it is it must be maintained. Language requires work, much like our lives. Should the maintenance of language ever falter, our lives stagnate, and then, on a cold day in the middle of January, precisely when we need the thing to start, it fails. What becomes of us when we are no longer studying language? What becomes of us when we are no longer studying what we are?
--Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness
The depths to which we can begin to understand the power of language is best categorized with things of the nature of: “Why are we here?” or “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” or “What will happen?” or anything whose variables are so many and various that it is almost in fatuity that we approach them.
And yet it is what we are. Without language, there is arguably no humanity. There is something to the fact that in language we have found the best possible vehicle for attempting to convey meaning, and yet, at the same time, language is the most inappropriate vehicle for conveying meaning, because meaning always slips from its grasp. This can be attributed, largely, to subjectivity, and the fact that as soon as the object of language is used, it becomes precisely that: an object-to-be-used by me. I derived my own meaning from it, and this is both its blessing and its curse. It shares the same structure as consciousness, where it is constantly in the mode of being what it isn’t (where meaning is fluid), and not being what it is (a solid structure on which meaning is built).
Underneath the necessity of language is the structure of the language itself. Grammar is important, if not in practice then in theory, because it helps us understand the subject—in all senses of the word. Who is the subject of this sentence? What is the subject of this sentence? It immediately re-orients to a world outside of ourselves, and perhaps this is why reading is such a crucial element to transcendence. It forces us to realize ourselves as being in the midst of a world when we see that he or she or it is the subject of this sentence. It jars us back into a world wherein in we are being a being-in-the-midst-of-the-world, and because of this we actually re-apprehend our own subjectivity: we make of ourselves an object in the world. Through language, we see ourselves. Full stop. Whether it is something I have written or something I have read, there is point where consciousness steps outside of itself and realizes that it is a person sitting on that chair in the middle of the room, holding a book, learning about various things, and then it is our own consciousness that is fully subject—even while we’re being objectified.
“Thus the word is sacred when I employ it and magic when the other hears it.” –Sartre
Difficulty doesn’t even begin to describe the nature of our relationship with language because it is impossible to conceive of a human world without language, and yet there is sometimes disrespect for the language that we actively employ because we are scared. We ARE language, and when we use it for things like lying or misdirection or unethical behavior, we become the lie, the misdirection, and the unethical behavior. We are the language. Obviously, the question will forever remain, “What is unethical behavior? Aren’t you seeming a little bit too dogmatic here?” And if that is the case, then know that it is not intentional, it is simply meant to illustrate that language should be used, if not cautiously, then with the conscious understanding that we are what we use the language for, and this is actually transported almost immediately back to the “actions reveal desires” mantra that has so far revealed itself to me to be truth. We act for what we want, and one of the best illustrations of this is the language that we use as an action because language is a human action.
My co-worker said the other day, “The director has made a good liar out of me.” And I couldn’t help but think that the Director of our school didn’t make a good liar out of you, this was a conscious decision that you made because you want to be cloaked in a layer of concealment. That’s why those little white lies are so important. It has nothing to do with religion or god or anything like that. It is precisely because we are the little white lies we tell.
Here we are left with a slight conundrum, because the world is populated by other people and presupposes the need for a language to connect them, language is always for other people as much as it is for me. Language is how I see myself in the world and how I am seen in the world. The people I talk to daily, the letters I write, the emails written, the words I use daily reveal me to myself, and yet they are always for other people. Even if we were to say, “I’m writing this just for me and nobody else. I don’t care what other people think about it.” The reality here is that you are still writing it for the other, even if it’s to realize their dislike of it. Or, better yet, even when we are keeping a diary or a journal that is not meant to be read by anybody but me, as soon I start writing, I understand that at some point the reason I wrote all this down will come full circle and I will re-visit it later on, when I am other than I am now. It will be to see how far I have become by making of myself the other. In this case you are writing for the you will be other to the you in the present. There is no language without the other. It is always for “them” as much as it is for “me.”
So language performs the dual task of connecting us with other human subjects while alienating us and objectifying us to ourselves. This seemingly paradoxical relationship is beginning to seem pervasive in the human character: we always seem to be performing diametrically opposed actions consistently. I have consciousness, and yet consciousness is not. It has no form. I use language, and yet language is not for me. It is for others. What is this is existence that we are? What is this thing I am? What does it mean that this (existence) is the best possible vehicle for conveying and understanding meaning? Is it the best possible vehicle? If it is it must be maintained. Language requires work, much like our lives. Should the maintenance of language ever falter, our lives stagnate, and then, on a cold day in the middle of January, precisely when we need the thing to start, it fails. What becomes of us when we are no longer studying language? What becomes of us when we are no longer studying what we are?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Subject-
ification. It was drilled into my head as I was going through all of my classes demarcated with the prefix EDU that “When you actually get to be a teacher, you will learn more from your students than they will learn from you.” That little statement was never part of the curriculum, obviously, and yet, at the same time, it was the underlying message: simply being around education will educate you—I could associate this with the television post just previous to this one, but that particular note is not for elucidation here. In total, I teach forty-one classes every week, and of these forty-one classes, I teach one class, two times a week, to one student. He is a middle-aged Korean Business man who has studied in Wales and is looking to improve his English to the point where he could pass the Toefl examination—not a simple task if you have ever been associated with it. We are currently going through a series of books called Mastering Skills for the Toefl – Advanced, but, just about every class, he brings in his own little English questions from his business documents—he sends emails and business letters to America. The other day, during one of our breaks (five minutes is just enough time to get coffee), I came back and he had written on the board:
I have attached the corrected documents for you.
I am attaching the corrected documents for you.
I will be attaching the corrected documents.
And he asked me: Which one is correct? Now, the problem, as anybody who speaks the English language will tell you, is that there is nothing incorrect about any of them. They are all technically sound English sentences: one in the past tense, one in the present progressive, and one in the future progressive. He told me that it was outside the body of the email. It was more like a tag line. What is correct here? Why did it ring just slightly sharp in my English ear? My first reaction was to tell him that they were all grammatically correct sentences, but then to respond that when I used to send business emails, the most concise way to let somebody know that there is an attachment at the end of the document is to let them know about it in certain terms: Corrected Documents Attached. What happened? It’s the subject, you see. There is a lot of implication, I have discovered, in the English language. (There are also metaphysical implications here in the vein of "Why am I writing this?" but we'll leave those until another time.) There are things you don’t think about, and one of those things is the subject. Now, obviously, “the subject” is well-traveled territory in the world of philosophy—Kant: “A person is a subject whose actions can be imputed to him. ... subject to no other laws than those he gives to himself, either alone or at least along with others,” Heidegger: “As the ego cogito, subjectivity is the consciousness that represents something, relates this representation back to itself, and so gathers with itself,” Hegel: “Person’ is essentially different from ‘subject’, since ‘subject’ is only the possibility of personality; every living thing of any sort is a subject. A person, then, is a subject aware of this subjectivity, since in personality it is of myself alone that I am aware” (crazy Germans)—and it can be expressed as simply as the incredible shift in meaning when you write: I sent the documents. v. Documents attached. When “I” am the subject, the reader is forced to consider who the “I” is for a second: forced. There is no getting around it, because “I” am the subject of that sentence. On the other hand, when the documents are the subject of the sentence, it is more comfortable, because I don’t have to think about who’s sending it, all I have to think about is the documents—which “you” have presumably already told me about in the text of the email. Like so many things, it’s so important that we don’t think about it because it is a part of us. I was absolutely shocked at the implication of what it means to change the subject.
I have attached the corrected documents for you.
I am attaching the corrected documents for you.
I will be attaching the corrected documents.
And he asked me: Which one is correct? Now, the problem, as anybody who speaks the English language will tell you, is that there is nothing incorrect about any of them. They are all technically sound English sentences: one in the past tense, one in the present progressive, and one in the future progressive. He told me that it was outside the body of the email. It was more like a tag line. What is correct here? Why did it ring just slightly sharp in my English ear? My first reaction was to tell him that they were all grammatically correct sentences, but then to respond that when I used to send business emails, the most concise way to let somebody know that there is an attachment at the end of the document is to let them know about it in certain terms: Corrected Documents Attached. What happened? It’s the subject, you see. There is a lot of implication, I have discovered, in the English language. (There are also metaphysical implications here in the vein of "Why am I writing this?" but we'll leave those until another time.) There are things you don’t think about, and one of those things is the subject. Now, obviously, “the subject” is well-traveled territory in the world of philosophy—Kant: “A person is a subject whose actions can be imputed to him. ... subject to no other laws than those he gives to himself, either alone or at least along with others,” Heidegger: “As the ego cogito, subjectivity is the consciousness that represents something, relates this representation back to itself, and so gathers with itself,” Hegel: “Person’ is essentially different from ‘subject’, since ‘subject’ is only the possibility of personality; every living thing of any sort is a subject. A person, then, is a subject aware of this subjectivity, since in personality it is of myself alone that I am aware” (crazy Germans)—and it can be expressed as simply as the incredible shift in meaning when you write: I sent the documents. v. Documents attached. When “I” am the subject, the reader is forced to consider who the “I” is for a second: forced. There is no getting around it, because “I” am the subject of that sentence. On the other hand, when the documents are the subject of the sentence, it is more comfortable, because I don’t have to think about who’s sending it, all I have to think about is the documents—which “you” have presumably already told me about in the text of the email. Like so many things, it’s so important that we don’t think about it because it is a part of us. I was absolutely shocked at the implication of what it means to change the subject.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Things Difficult to Comprehend
are usually the things most worthy of the effort—or this has been my experience at least. Right now I am struggling with a combination of Sartre, Debord and Burroughs all attempting to convince me that I am being objectified unwittingly by the world outside of me, and they are all, in their ways, at least a little bit right. They’re all coming at it from different perspectives (the objectifying characteristic of “the gaze,” the objectifying reality of commoditization, and the viral aspect of a pre-recorded reality being imposed on me as simply the object of a fantastic audience respectively), and I’m having a bit of trouble sorting it all out, but this is precisely where I feel like I am accomplishing the most important work of my life.
I am beginning to see that things are worth as much time as you put in to understanding them. If it takes five minutes, it’s probably only worth about five minutes of your time, and if it takes a lifetime, well, maybe it was worth it, or, if you’d prefer: obviously it was worth it to you. Now, there is a bit of a trouble encountered any time one goes around ascribing worth to anything, because of the nature of objective realities and the different values of worth placed on different things by different peoples at different times in different areas of the world, and it’s just all so different; however, what we’re dealing with here is precisely the objective reality of our time. It is impossible to escape time because we are the ones who bring it into the world. Without me, I have no time and it wouldn’t matter, but as I am here, time exists, and I am therefore placed in a position where I can use it as I will. This is where things get hairy.
People use their time for all manner of things. Obviously, one of the most prevalent uses of time is the television, and this particular manner of using ones time has officially gained my unceasing and unerring antipathy. It is the world of pure entertainment shining its light into your living room: a distraction from your possibility. Perhaps this will be taking it too far for some people, but the fact of the matter is, in my reality, television is a huge waste of time. I started noticing that the only programs I really enjoyed watching were edifying: nature programs, PBS, and anything that stimulated my mind to further investigation. This, though, could be accomplished without the aid of television by virtue of books and reading—which has come to illustrate itself to me as the path to all knowledge (well, that and experience, but once again, how can you experience something if you’re watching CSI?) once I realized that ninety-nine point nine percent of all classes in the world are based on a book. Reading and learning is the theory that allows one to go out and experience the world fully.
Yes, there are two corollary realities here that must be illustrated in order to be thorough: it is possible to learn things from television, and it is possible to read something for mere entertainment. What I would say in response to both of them is that while it is possible, the fact is that the balance is usually very heavily on the television as entertainment and reading as learning. Ninety percent of all television channels will be showing some kind of sitcom or drama or something else equally mind-numbing, and it could easily be shown that there are more books being used in more classrooms across the world than could possibly be contained in any structure. Think of the elementary school textbooks, the middle school textbooks, the high school textbooks, and the college books all over the world, and the scale is suddenly and unalterably shifted in the direction of reading for learning and edification.
(It could even be argued to some extent that reading for pleasure can be an edifying purpose because the brain is still being forced to connect everything. This is actually one of the big pushes in literary circles right now: bringing back the idea of reading because you enjoy something. Something happens in the brain when we read because we are not programmed with the ability to do it—while we are pre-programmed with the ability to comprehend sounds and mimic them—and we must learn a system of symbols and how to decipher them. It’s fascinating stuff, really, the things that happen has a result of the simple act of reading.)
The other major way we learn is through experience. Now, there is a little bit of a turnaround here in that the more theory we have behind us (i.e. the more reading and learning and edification we have behind us propping us up), the better we are at experiencing and understanding our world. I have been having a personal struggle lately with a breed of people that I have come to term as moral-less storytellers. First, this is not in the sense of “morality,” and I want to get that out of the way right up front. What I mean is that there seem to be a lot of people out there who experience a number of things. As a matter of fact, there is an incredible amount of people out there with vastly more experience than I (in my meager twenty-five-odd years of existence) could probably accumulate; however, when they recount their adventures, they have learned nothing. I did this. I did this. I did this. Then, I did this. Action is one thing, but if I know anything about action, it’s that when you’re doing something, you’re bound to be learning from it, and if you’re not, then you are simply going through the motions. As one develops a better sense of the ways in which the world works, through a wide variety of theory, one can better develop a sense of the possibility of existence, because the fact of the matter is that anything is actually possible. Train the mind to train the body to train the mind: practice making connections, practice sitting and reading instead of watching television, and practice running instead of watching a movie, because we become what we practice every day. If you practice watching TV, you will become very good at it. If you practice watching mindless movies, you will become very good at it. If you practice the guitar every day, you will become good at it. If you practice reading every day, you will become very good at it. If you practice fully existing every day, you will become very good at it.
I practice learning. I learn when I read. I learn when I write. I learn when I play guitar. I learn whenever I can. I’m getting better at it as a result of my practice. One of these days, I hope to be an expert learner. I don’t know why it is, yet, that practice does what it does, except I know that it is training the body and the mind to work together, and that is always preferable to them not having to do work, because that only leads to atrophy. If you take as the object of your time reading, experience, learning, developing, and growth, the outcome will continually be a transcendence of the self. You are a universe of possibility.
I am beginning to see that things are worth as much time as you put in to understanding them. If it takes five minutes, it’s probably only worth about five minutes of your time, and if it takes a lifetime, well, maybe it was worth it, or, if you’d prefer: obviously it was worth it to you. Now, there is a bit of a trouble encountered any time one goes around ascribing worth to anything, because of the nature of objective realities and the different values of worth placed on different things by different peoples at different times in different areas of the world, and it’s just all so different; however, what we’re dealing with here is precisely the objective reality of our time. It is impossible to escape time because we are the ones who bring it into the world. Without me, I have no time and it wouldn’t matter, but as I am here, time exists, and I am therefore placed in a position where I can use it as I will. This is where things get hairy.
People use their time for all manner of things. Obviously, one of the most prevalent uses of time is the television, and this particular manner of using ones time has officially gained my unceasing and unerring antipathy. It is the world of pure entertainment shining its light into your living room: a distraction from your possibility. Perhaps this will be taking it too far for some people, but the fact of the matter is, in my reality, television is a huge waste of time. I started noticing that the only programs I really enjoyed watching were edifying: nature programs, PBS, and anything that stimulated my mind to further investigation. This, though, could be accomplished without the aid of television by virtue of books and reading—which has come to illustrate itself to me as the path to all knowledge (well, that and experience, but once again, how can you experience something if you’re watching CSI?) once I realized that ninety-nine point nine percent of all classes in the world are based on a book. Reading and learning is the theory that allows one to go out and experience the world fully.
Yes, there are two corollary realities here that must be illustrated in order to be thorough: it is possible to learn things from television, and it is possible to read something for mere entertainment. What I would say in response to both of them is that while it is possible, the fact is that the balance is usually very heavily on the television as entertainment and reading as learning. Ninety percent of all television channels will be showing some kind of sitcom or drama or something else equally mind-numbing, and it could easily be shown that there are more books being used in more classrooms across the world than could possibly be contained in any structure. Think of the elementary school textbooks, the middle school textbooks, the high school textbooks, and the college books all over the world, and the scale is suddenly and unalterably shifted in the direction of reading for learning and edification.
(It could even be argued to some extent that reading for pleasure can be an edifying purpose because the brain is still being forced to connect everything. This is actually one of the big pushes in literary circles right now: bringing back the idea of reading because you enjoy something. Something happens in the brain when we read because we are not programmed with the ability to do it—while we are pre-programmed with the ability to comprehend sounds and mimic them—and we must learn a system of symbols and how to decipher them. It’s fascinating stuff, really, the things that happen has a result of the simple act of reading.)
The other major way we learn is through experience. Now, there is a little bit of a turnaround here in that the more theory we have behind us (i.e. the more reading and learning and edification we have behind us propping us up), the better we are at experiencing and understanding our world. I have been having a personal struggle lately with a breed of people that I have come to term as moral-less storytellers. First, this is not in the sense of “morality,” and I want to get that out of the way right up front. What I mean is that there seem to be a lot of people out there who experience a number of things. As a matter of fact, there is an incredible amount of people out there with vastly more experience than I (in my meager twenty-five-odd years of existence) could probably accumulate; however, when they recount their adventures, they have learned nothing. I did this. I did this. I did this. Then, I did this. Action is one thing, but if I know anything about action, it’s that when you’re doing something, you’re bound to be learning from it, and if you’re not, then you are simply going through the motions. As one develops a better sense of the ways in which the world works, through a wide variety of theory, one can better develop a sense of the possibility of existence, because the fact of the matter is that anything is actually possible. Train the mind to train the body to train the mind: practice making connections, practice sitting and reading instead of watching television, and practice running instead of watching a movie, because we become what we practice every day. If you practice watching TV, you will become very good at it. If you practice watching mindless movies, you will become very good at it. If you practice the guitar every day, you will become good at it. If you practice reading every day, you will become very good at it. If you practice fully existing every day, you will become very good at it.
I practice learning. I learn when I read. I learn when I write. I learn when I play guitar. I learn whenever I can. I’m getting better at it as a result of my practice. One of these days, I hope to be an expert learner. I don’t know why it is, yet, that practice does what it does, except I know that it is training the body and the mind to work together, and that is always preferable to them not having to do work, because that only leads to atrophy. If you take as the object of your time reading, experience, learning, developing, and growth, the outcome will continually be a transcendence of the self. You are a universe of possibility.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Music
There is something to creating music that means something. To anybody that knows me, there is a very deep-seated antipathy for what has come to be “Pop music.” Maybe it’s because what has become pop music is precisely the opposite of what pop music was when it was first invented in the 1960s—or maybe not. The Beatles were incredibly popular. Cream became incredibly popular—although it could be argued that they quitted their careers right at the point where they were verging on superstardom. CCR, Van Morrison, and even Bob Dylan all ran in the Something-or-other-Pop category: rock-pop, jazz/rock-pop, folk-pop, etc. That is a little difficult for this humble music listener to understand. A quick juxtaposition of top tens might prove something. The number one song from 1969 and 2007. According to one website (http://digitaldreamdoor.nutsie.com/pages/best_songs50-69.html), the top songs of 1969 were:
1. Whole Lotta Love - Led Zeppelin
2. Proud Mary - Creedence Clearwater Revival
3. I Want You Back - Jackson 5
4. Honky Tonk Women - Rolling Stones
5. Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival
6. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes - Crosby, Stills & Nash
7. Dazed And Confused - Led Zeppelin
8. Gimme Shelter - Rolling Stones
9. Come Together - Beatles
10. I Can't Get Next To You – Temptations
(Which is, I might add, a pretty imposing list.) According to Rolling Stone, the top songs of 2007 are as follows:
1 "Roc Boys" - Jay-Z
2 "A Few Words in Defense of Our Country" Randy Newman
3 "Umbrella" Rihanna
4 "D.A.N.C.E." Justice
5 "Four Winds" - Bright Eyes
6 "Dough Is What I Got" Lil Wayne
7 "Rehab" Amy Winehouse
8 "Long Walk Home" Bruce Springsteen
9 "Boyz" M.I.A.
10 "Int'l Player's Anthem" UGK
I guess the big question that I have, is whether or not anybody could see forty years into the future and see the artists of that day and age listening to MIA and UGK and wanting to make music like that? I guess the big difference, for me, is a matter of longevity.
Lately, I have been studying temporality. When I first questioned time, it took the rudimentary form of asking “Who invented time? And why should I abide by it?” Well, it turns out that I invented time at (or around) the same time that I made the split from myself in the upsurge of the consciousness. Time, if looked at from a technical viewpoint, is a personal fiction. Yes, the days move and the world turns, and we can measure it, but from a more individualized standpoint: the past does not exist because we can’t go back in time, every time we try to catch hold of the present we are presented with the problem that it is constantly being driven into the realm of an infinitesimal instant and the best we can do is get pretty close, and as to the future, I have a maxim: “Only act, the future is unknowable.” But given the fact that it is a kind of personal fiction, it is still a supportive kind of fiction. We rely on our past to make decisions in the present that will hopefully make our future what we want it to be. The past is like a crutch supporting us in the present: our experiences, our knowledge, and our wisdom from all of these things is what makes us the person we are—as a matter of fact, existentialist theory would say that we are what we were and Post-Marxist theory would say that the decision in the present illustrate what we want (which is always about the future). Given all of this. What kind of structure is “Roc Boys” building for the future of music?
There is no real music for this particular piece of music. It is pure lyrics and mix mastering. Your average Joe Schmoe, sure, couldn’t put together a piece of music like this, but give just about anybody a mix board and you’ll come up with something. Meanwhile, some of your most accomplished guitarists couldn’t manage to play Whole Lotta Love. They might not’ve known music theory, but they could play the instrument. It was part of them. Maybe I’m way off base. Maybe the mixboard is the most complicated instrument in the world, and I’m sure it takes time to master, but can you imagine carrying it to Central Park and busking? It is the manifestation of the capitalistic machine grabbing hold of the music industry. You can’t take it outside these boundaries. If the machine can’t control your money, then what’s the point?
1. Whole Lotta Love - Led Zeppelin
2. Proud Mary - Creedence Clearwater Revival
3. I Want You Back - Jackson 5
4. Honky Tonk Women - Rolling Stones
5. Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival
6. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes - Crosby, Stills & Nash
7. Dazed And Confused - Led Zeppelin
8. Gimme Shelter - Rolling Stones
9. Come Together - Beatles
10. I Can't Get Next To You – Temptations
(Which is, I might add, a pretty imposing list.) According to Rolling Stone, the top songs of 2007 are as follows:
1 "Roc Boys" - Jay-Z
2 "A Few Words in Defense of Our Country" Randy Newman
3 "Umbrella" Rihanna
4 "D.A.N.C.E." Justice
5 "Four Winds" - Bright Eyes
6 "Dough Is What I Got" Lil Wayne
7 "Rehab" Amy Winehouse
8 "Long Walk Home" Bruce Springsteen
9 "Boyz" M.I.A.
10 "Int'l Player's Anthem" UGK
I guess the big question that I have, is whether or not anybody could see forty years into the future and see the artists of that day and age listening to MIA and UGK and wanting to make music like that? I guess the big difference, for me, is a matter of longevity.
Lately, I have been studying temporality. When I first questioned time, it took the rudimentary form of asking “Who invented time? And why should I abide by it?” Well, it turns out that I invented time at (or around) the same time that I made the split from myself in the upsurge of the consciousness. Time, if looked at from a technical viewpoint, is a personal fiction. Yes, the days move and the world turns, and we can measure it, but from a more individualized standpoint: the past does not exist because we can’t go back in time, every time we try to catch hold of the present we are presented with the problem that it is constantly being driven into the realm of an infinitesimal instant and the best we can do is get pretty close, and as to the future, I have a maxim: “Only act, the future is unknowable.” But given the fact that it is a kind of personal fiction, it is still a supportive kind of fiction. We rely on our past to make decisions in the present that will hopefully make our future what we want it to be. The past is like a crutch supporting us in the present: our experiences, our knowledge, and our wisdom from all of these things is what makes us the person we are—as a matter of fact, existentialist theory would say that we are what we were and Post-Marxist theory would say that the decision in the present illustrate what we want (which is always about the future). Given all of this. What kind of structure is “Roc Boys” building for the future of music?
There is no real music for this particular piece of music. It is pure lyrics and mix mastering. Your average Joe Schmoe, sure, couldn’t put together a piece of music like this, but give just about anybody a mix board and you’ll come up with something. Meanwhile, some of your most accomplished guitarists couldn’t manage to play Whole Lotta Love. They might not’ve known music theory, but they could play the instrument. It was part of them. Maybe I’m way off base. Maybe the mixboard is the most complicated instrument in the world, and I’m sure it takes time to master, but can you imagine carrying it to Central Park and busking? It is the manifestation of the capitalistic machine grabbing hold of the music industry. You can’t take it outside these boundaries. If the machine can’t control your money, then what’s the point?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Wandering Mindspace
(Written a couple of weeks ago, but the sister city to another piece at poeticmindofeli.blogspot.com)
Sometimes, all I want to do is drop my thoughts from an ocean-crossing jumbo jet and watch them plummet for a second, before opening up a parachute and gliding through the rest of their journey and landing safely—perhaps a couple of broken bones, but safely nonetheless. I thought this as I awakened from what one could ostensibly call sleeping, but really more like an alternate state of consciousness.
More and more and more there seems to be the sense that I’m wandering in awe through my days, as if there is nowhere and nothing more important that the steam streaming out of the little heating unit on the side of that building, nothing more important than continually putting one foot in front of the other, nothing more than the realization that with that as the focus, one is bound to get somewhere, anywhere, and certainly not nowhere. Am I a being that is present to itself in reflection only in terms of my situation and it’s ontological reality? Does a question like that make sense? Can it be applied to literature? What of Paul Morel? He is certainly most present to himself in reflection in terms of his situation (which could also kind of be called materialist) and it’s whats and hows. Thanks Lawrence for making it seems as though an Existential Post-Marxism might be possible from a phenomenological standpoint. If its reality is dependent on my looking at it, then look at it I shall, and we shall see. It’s one of those floating thought moments I think: perhaps something, perhaps nothing, and perhaps a hallucinated reality that is nonetheless reality.
My nose has been doing a great deal of leaking lately, and it looks as if I shall never be able to patch it up—there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but I don’t feel like elucidating it because it seems self-apparent to me (and that’s something like a pun?).
The language has come back to me as a thing of fluidity. Precisely as I had hoped, although perhaps not as clearly as I had hoped, the study of language as it pertains to the learning of it as a second is reminding me of the fickle nature of the word. When the word is fickle, what of the paragraph? We are the meaning makers, and the best any text can do is try to illustrate things as clearly as possible—which is always a mind-numbing failure.
What, then, of meaning? Even the one book that is supposed to shed light a singular meaning (that of existence) is read and even translated in so many different ways that the meaning which it gives is always personal.
Sometimes we need help. Sometimes the words on the page don’t mean anything until somebody else helps us understand them. Rather, it would be more appropriate to say (in the spirit of attempting to get things just right) that somebody else helps us come to our own understanding of them. We are the unifiers. It comes together in the subject. Is this my song of myself? Do I celebrate myself and loathe myself in the same breath? Am I in anguish of my freedom? Of my power? Of my weakness? Of my inability to comprehend the comprehensible? Of my ability to comprehend the incomprehensible? How does one go about attempting to understand?
There once was a fellow who followed a road. He wandered as it wandered and only looked at intersections to see that the road he followed had the same name, but he wondered if there was not a road construction crew that he had at some point ordered to be just up ahead of him continually laying the path that he would wander. He moved through the world as if he weren’t in control, with the sense that perhaps he was in control. Controlling the next step he took seemed to control the way the road lolled and rolled among the hills. He could always retrace his steps, and sometimes he took his lunch under a tree that seemed to magically appear on the roadside, but always there was the sound of his stepping on a road that seemed to come from nowhere. He often met fellow travelers, and sometimes there roads ran parallel, enough that they could call to each other and interact, and sometimes their roads ran together for a while, but they were always building their own roads as well. The world was absolutely cluttered with roads. But his roads seemed to have a tendency for where there were no other roads: through the mountains, through long stretches of desert, through dense forests, through untamed countryside. He longed for his road to pass through places where no road had gone before, and as he longed for it, he realized that it was quite near a reality.
“By god,” he muttered to himself, “All I have to do is direct this next step, and it is as the butterflies wing, causing a tsunami of reality that I cannot know until in my present, this is the past and I can reflect on it.”
But he often wondered at the validity of his own claims. He often wondered if there was a culture of the self, if not in the sense of a governmental system, a history, an arts scene, a night life, an understanding about the things are done, then at least in the sense of a Petri dish culture—like the nascent stages of a possible life.
Possibility… anything is. I am. Therefore I think. I think about Wagner’s Ring Cycle and wonder how it is that there are moments when I have absolutely no idea what is going on or what is being said or what is inside it, and I find myself welling up as if this is the most important point in the work and I start madly conducting the aria in a fit of seeming importance: the language of music, dropping out of the sky and floating down the ground, gliding through the air, and landing with AK-47 cocked and at the ready to blow away any misunderstanding through its unmistakable sense of something or other. The unreal is leaking into the real.
Musical existence – something that is pervasively giving off that sense of something or other, that transcends language, that reaches high points anybody can understand bodily, without the slightest notion of transcendent meaning.
To build a road of musical existence, perhaps that is my goal where the unreal leaks into reality and gliding seems to emanate from its presence, when really what it’s doing is falling.
Perhaps cohesion is best left to those who desire cohesiveness. Even as a sentence is made up of parts—a noun, a verb, the etcetera—metaphorized existence could take the form a sentence, a statement: a thing, what the thing is doing, and everything to describe that thing and what it is doing. Adjectives and adverbs and prepositional phrases make up the bulk of the sentence, while the thing-in-itself and the existing for-itself are still the most important parts of the sentence because without them there is only the etcetera. There is no statement. No phrase. No longing to be made meaning of. Warmly.
The flowers on my apparently ugly wallpaper move sometimes, as if they were actually growing. I never think about how ugly the wallpaper is though, it is simply a “fact” that has been illuminated for me by just about everybody that comes into my humble little room. I believe the appropriate colors are: khaki background with light green vines and lavender and peach flowers. Apparently it jars on people’s delicate sense of aesthetics. But what is beauty? Cohesion? Building? Stepping? Flowers? Wandering? Music? Leaking? Gliding? Falling? Language? Words? How is one to know?
Sometimes, all I want to do is drop my thoughts from an ocean-crossing jumbo jet and watch them plummet for a second, before opening up a parachute and gliding through the rest of their journey and landing safely—perhaps a couple of broken bones, but safely nonetheless. I thought this as I awakened from what one could ostensibly call sleeping, but really more like an alternate state of consciousness.
More and more and more there seems to be the sense that I’m wandering in awe through my days, as if there is nowhere and nothing more important that the steam streaming out of the little heating unit on the side of that building, nothing more important than continually putting one foot in front of the other, nothing more than the realization that with that as the focus, one is bound to get somewhere, anywhere, and certainly not nowhere. Am I a being that is present to itself in reflection only in terms of my situation and it’s ontological reality? Does a question like that make sense? Can it be applied to literature? What of Paul Morel? He is certainly most present to himself in reflection in terms of his situation (which could also kind of be called materialist) and it’s whats and hows. Thanks Lawrence for making it seems as though an Existential Post-Marxism might be possible from a phenomenological standpoint. If its reality is dependent on my looking at it, then look at it I shall, and we shall see. It’s one of those floating thought moments I think: perhaps something, perhaps nothing, and perhaps a hallucinated reality that is nonetheless reality.
My nose has been doing a great deal of leaking lately, and it looks as if I shall never be able to patch it up—there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but I don’t feel like elucidating it because it seems self-apparent to me (and that’s something like a pun?).
The language has come back to me as a thing of fluidity. Precisely as I had hoped, although perhaps not as clearly as I had hoped, the study of language as it pertains to the learning of it as a second is reminding me of the fickle nature of the word. When the word is fickle, what of the paragraph? We are the meaning makers, and the best any text can do is try to illustrate things as clearly as possible—which is always a mind-numbing failure.
What, then, of meaning? Even the one book that is supposed to shed light a singular meaning (that of existence) is read and even translated in so many different ways that the meaning which it gives is always personal.
Sometimes we need help. Sometimes the words on the page don’t mean anything until somebody else helps us understand them. Rather, it would be more appropriate to say (in the spirit of attempting to get things just right) that somebody else helps us come to our own understanding of them. We are the unifiers. It comes together in the subject. Is this my song of myself? Do I celebrate myself and loathe myself in the same breath? Am I in anguish of my freedom? Of my power? Of my weakness? Of my inability to comprehend the comprehensible? Of my ability to comprehend the incomprehensible? How does one go about attempting to understand?
There once was a fellow who followed a road. He wandered as it wandered and only looked at intersections to see that the road he followed had the same name, but he wondered if there was not a road construction crew that he had at some point ordered to be just up ahead of him continually laying the path that he would wander. He moved through the world as if he weren’t in control, with the sense that perhaps he was in control. Controlling the next step he took seemed to control the way the road lolled and rolled among the hills. He could always retrace his steps, and sometimes he took his lunch under a tree that seemed to magically appear on the roadside, but always there was the sound of his stepping on a road that seemed to come from nowhere. He often met fellow travelers, and sometimes there roads ran parallel, enough that they could call to each other and interact, and sometimes their roads ran together for a while, but they were always building their own roads as well. The world was absolutely cluttered with roads. But his roads seemed to have a tendency for where there were no other roads: through the mountains, through long stretches of desert, through dense forests, through untamed countryside. He longed for his road to pass through places where no road had gone before, and as he longed for it, he realized that it was quite near a reality.
“By god,” he muttered to himself, “All I have to do is direct this next step, and it is as the butterflies wing, causing a tsunami of reality that I cannot know until in my present, this is the past and I can reflect on it.”
But he often wondered at the validity of his own claims. He often wondered if there was a culture of the self, if not in the sense of a governmental system, a history, an arts scene, a night life, an understanding about the things are done, then at least in the sense of a Petri dish culture—like the nascent stages of a possible life.
Possibility… anything is. I am. Therefore I think. I think about Wagner’s Ring Cycle and wonder how it is that there are moments when I have absolutely no idea what is going on or what is being said or what is inside it, and I find myself welling up as if this is the most important point in the work and I start madly conducting the aria in a fit of seeming importance: the language of music, dropping out of the sky and floating down the ground, gliding through the air, and landing with AK-47 cocked and at the ready to blow away any misunderstanding through its unmistakable sense of something or other. The unreal is leaking into the real.
Musical existence – something that is pervasively giving off that sense of something or other, that transcends language, that reaches high points anybody can understand bodily, without the slightest notion of transcendent meaning.
To build a road of musical existence, perhaps that is my goal where the unreal leaks into reality and gliding seems to emanate from its presence, when really what it’s doing is falling.
Perhaps cohesion is best left to those who desire cohesiveness. Even as a sentence is made up of parts—a noun, a verb, the etcetera—metaphorized existence could take the form a sentence, a statement: a thing, what the thing is doing, and everything to describe that thing and what it is doing. Adjectives and adverbs and prepositional phrases make up the bulk of the sentence, while the thing-in-itself and the existing for-itself are still the most important parts of the sentence because without them there is only the etcetera. There is no statement. No phrase. No longing to be made meaning of. Warmly.
The flowers on my apparently ugly wallpaper move sometimes, as if they were actually growing. I never think about how ugly the wallpaper is though, it is simply a “fact” that has been illuminated for me by just about everybody that comes into my humble little room. I believe the appropriate colors are: khaki background with light green vines and lavender and peach flowers. Apparently it jars on people’s delicate sense of aesthetics. But what is beauty? Cohesion? Building? Stepping? Flowers? Wandering? Music? Leaking? Gliding? Falling? Language? Words? How is one to know?
Monday, December 1, 2008
You Can't Be Too Good
because the world just simply won’t allow it. You can be as awesome as you like—even if it is in your own mind. It is even possible to have everyone around you telling you how incredible you are (and I guess I’m thinking specifically about the celebrity circle there), but still manage to wind up feeling the next day as if God had unceremoniously scraped you off his hiking boot after looking down and saying, “Ewww….”
I’m not sure about karma. There seems to be something to it, and I suppose that’s where we can leave it off. What I am almost absolutely certain about is balance and the power of the human will to exert some kind of control over their universe—and I want to emphasize that THEIR. How does one go about explaining a bodily understanding like that? Everything moves in circles? Karmic principles dictate? The Middle Way? Almost every culture in almost every part of the world has some sense of the harmony that can be achieved by human beings simply being aware of the power they have over their own reality. Based on the information I have researched, the amount of water saved by one human being doing their best to conserve water in every way is in no way going to help out with our current international water crisis because the amount of water saved is too insignificant; however, it can have an effect on the local environment, and with enough individual efforts pooled together, enough environments could be salvaged, and suddenly the impossible is merely the improbable.
A lot of life is about imagination. Human beings are the only creatures on the planet that can understand something like possibility. My old professor used to hate this word, but they have somehow managed to be imbued with possibility. As a matter of fact, this is generally the problem that most human beings run into: they understand possibility, so they spend most of their lives being something they aren’t and not being what they are because they are so little focused on reality. It’s not a problem in the technical sense of, “You’ve got problems buddy, no doubt at all about that,” but more like a problem in that it creates conflict in the essential nature of the human character. Sartre likes to use the example of a waiter in a café. The man is very busy being a waiter (which is something he’s not) and very busy not being himself (a struggling artist or some such), so that at the end of the day, we spend most of our lives involved in an act that we are fully conscious of, but about which we can really do nothing about, and don’t really want to do anything about because it is through this fissure that we accomplish things, where the possible becomes reality, and a new possibility opens up.
It’s a matter of reality, see?
We cannot know what’s real because it is impossible.
Like always doing anything.
It’s not because we don’t want to, but because we can’t.
The past is subjective at best,
And can only be referred to as my past or his past or
Something along those lines,
But by days end we see how impossible the past is.
The present does not exist as
We think it does. Focusing on the moments you can
Control is probably one of the
Best ways to go about existing, but there is no way to
Grasp the moment in your hand
Because by the time you think you got it, it’s vanished.
The future is unknowable—
An old personal adage with the simple qualifier at
The beginning of “only act”—
And can only be slowly worked and moved toward.
So with an un-objective past
An elusive, at best, present,
And an unknown future, how
Are we supposed to know
What’s real?
The problem is the same all over the place. Consciousness is always consciousness of something, and we are fully conscious that we have no idea what is going on inside us, while at the same time being fully conscious that we know what’s going on inside us is probably most closely related to turmoil of one kind or another. So, we sometimes set ourselves up for the self-flagellation that sometimes happens. We do things (perhaps subconsciously, but still in the consciousness) that we know, at some point down the road, we’re going to have to pay for, and we accept them wholeheartedly because we know there is a balance. It works the other way, too. Sometimes you work really, really hard. Sometimes you work to the point of pain. Sports might be a good metaphor here, in that you will work until your body is yelling at you, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Why are you doing this to us!” but you just keep right on going, and it learns to take the pain, because the glory you will receive through the competition is worth it. Pain now for pleasure later or pleasure now for pain later—it’s like the quintessential text of anything. Only a fool would make the claim that you can enjoy a life of pleasure forever.
What’s important is to remember that no matter how many father-figures you lose or many hours overtime you’re working that you’re not getting paid for or how many times your schedule changes or how many times you spill Jameson on your computer or how many times the world plays magician and has you looking at its left hand while taking a huge swing at you with its right or how many times your internet unexpectedly goes out or how many times you are so confused with the nature of your own existence that you cry and cry and cry and cry, you’ll hit a balance. You might only hit it like a miler hits the line after the first lap, but you’ll hit it, and “that’s life. That’s what all the people say. Ridin’ high in April, shot down in May. But I ain’t gonna let it change my tune. When I’m back on top in June.” I just hope it doesn’t take that long to get back on top.
I’m not sure about karma. There seems to be something to it, and I suppose that’s where we can leave it off. What I am almost absolutely certain about is balance and the power of the human will to exert some kind of control over their universe—and I want to emphasize that THEIR. How does one go about explaining a bodily understanding like that? Everything moves in circles? Karmic principles dictate? The Middle Way? Almost every culture in almost every part of the world has some sense of the harmony that can be achieved by human beings simply being aware of the power they have over their own reality. Based on the information I have researched, the amount of water saved by one human being doing their best to conserve water in every way is in no way going to help out with our current international water crisis because the amount of water saved is too insignificant; however, it can have an effect on the local environment, and with enough individual efforts pooled together, enough environments could be salvaged, and suddenly the impossible is merely the improbable.
A lot of life is about imagination. Human beings are the only creatures on the planet that can understand something like possibility. My old professor used to hate this word, but they have somehow managed to be imbued with possibility. As a matter of fact, this is generally the problem that most human beings run into: they understand possibility, so they spend most of their lives being something they aren’t and not being what they are because they are so little focused on reality. It’s not a problem in the technical sense of, “You’ve got problems buddy, no doubt at all about that,” but more like a problem in that it creates conflict in the essential nature of the human character. Sartre likes to use the example of a waiter in a café. The man is very busy being a waiter (which is something he’s not) and very busy not being himself (a struggling artist or some such), so that at the end of the day, we spend most of our lives involved in an act that we are fully conscious of, but about which we can really do nothing about, and don’t really want to do anything about because it is through this fissure that we accomplish things, where the possible becomes reality, and a new possibility opens up.
It’s a matter of reality, see?
We cannot know what’s real because it is impossible.
Like always doing anything.
It’s not because we don’t want to, but because we can’t.
The past is subjective at best,
And can only be referred to as my past or his past or
Something along those lines,
But by days end we see how impossible the past is.
The present does not exist as
We think it does. Focusing on the moments you can
Control is probably one of the
Best ways to go about existing, but there is no way to
Grasp the moment in your hand
Because by the time you think you got it, it’s vanished.
The future is unknowable—
An old personal adage with the simple qualifier at
The beginning of “only act”—
And can only be slowly worked and moved toward.
So with an un-objective past
An elusive, at best, present,
And an unknown future, how
Are we supposed to know
What’s real?
The problem is the same all over the place. Consciousness is always consciousness of something, and we are fully conscious that we have no idea what is going on inside us, while at the same time being fully conscious that we know what’s going on inside us is probably most closely related to turmoil of one kind or another. So, we sometimes set ourselves up for the self-flagellation that sometimes happens. We do things (perhaps subconsciously, but still in the consciousness) that we know, at some point down the road, we’re going to have to pay for, and we accept them wholeheartedly because we know there is a balance. It works the other way, too. Sometimes you work really, really hard. Sometimes you work to the point of pain. Sports might be a good metaphor here, in that you will work until your body is yelling at you, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Why are you doing this to us!” but you just keep right on going, and it learns to take the pain, because the glory you will receive through the competition is worth it. Pain now for pleasure later or pleasure now for pain later—it’s like the quintessential text of anything. Only a fool would make the claim that you can enjoy a life of pleasure forever.
What’s important is to remember that no matter how many father-figures you lose or many hours overtime you’re working that you’re not getting paid for or how many times your schedule changes or how many times you spill Jameson on your computer or how many times the world plays magician and has you looking at its left hand while taking a huge swing at you with its right or how many times your internet unexpectedly goes out or how many times you are so confused with the nature of your own existence that you cry and cry and cry and cry, you’ll hit a balance. You might only hit it like a miler hits the line after the first lap, but you’ll hit it, and “that’s life. That’s what all the people say. Ridin’ high in April, shot down in May. But I ain’t gonna let it change my tune. When I’m back on top in June.” I just hope it doesn’t take that long to get back on top.
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