Daily writing has become an unreasonable idea. Today was my second day at a new job, an exciting job, which is good, but for that it drains my energy completely. Till Sunday I was largely relaxing with my friends, exercising, and cooking. None of these things are bad, but it has been a full week since my last entry.
Like I say, though, everything in life is a choice. It's never the case that people "don't have time." However, it's always the case that they chose to use their time for something else. Despite whatever virtue one attaches to that "else," things are still a choice.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Imperialism in the World of Ideas
In argument, people are very childish. Unable to accept the consequences of admitting fallibility they will argue on behalf of falsehood rather than confront the truth. If certain truths are an obstacle to their victory, they are mostly left unmentioned. This is a mistake. It is not most important to be right individually, what's important is arriving at the truth of the situation. By ignoring information to preserve intellectual "victory," the virtue of communication, and even thought, is destroyed. It is cheating. If one cheats on a test, receiving a high mark instead of a low one, it does not mean that one is intelligent. It's like renting a house, inviting your relatives over, and pretending that you own it. Winning an argument by deceit it is no victory at all: If anything, it is a betrayal of oneself.
Having established that thought, I'll move a little closer to my main topic: ownership. Ownership of what? Ownership of things.
How is ownership established? Who forges the little chain between someone and something, and says "there, that's yours"? It's a mystery, isn't it? All things that are owned by somebody were, at one point or in some form, things that belonged to nobody. What changed? If I pocket a beach pebble, what makes it mine? I say, nothing. The only thing connecting possessions and the people who "possess" them, is that the possessors want to possess the possessions. But wanting something to be true does not make it so. Just as it's detrimental to believe oneself proficient at roulette (when that is clearly impossible), it is also harmful to deceive oneself in other ways. You will, so to speak, lose your fortune. If you disagree, ask yourself: have I any proof to the contrary? Or is the idea too threatening to my lifestyle, to my concept of the world, for me to seriously consider?
It may be easier to think on this issue of "ownership" by narrowing the scope to simply "land ownership". Because all physical possessions are derived from the land, if we can resolve the issue of ownership with respect to the Earth itself the entire issue will be solved. Before we decide if Bill stole Bob's gold, we must establish that Bob owned the gold to begin with. And where did he get it? He took it from the Earth.
Who owns the Earth? Certainly there are many nations, and they seem to own the Earth. But, do they? No. They want to. They have the globe all parcelled up. Strong countries are even capable of things like borders, states, and fighting off those who would encroach on their "territory." But does that make the land theirs? No. If I steal a cupcake from a toddler, is that mine? Well, in a sense it is, I can do whatever I want with it. But that is only because of my brute strength, that is not because I own it.
The explorers of history were megalomaniacs. Who looks out on a new land and thinks, "well, I guess this is mine now, I saw it first. I want it."? How absurd. Every new place we go, every old place for that matter, has existed for an age, and will remain for ages to come. What flimsy logic can make the land ours? Why doesn't it belong to the dandelions or the toads? Were I to stumble on the proverbial pie on the windowsill, I wouldn't think it was mine. What else is the globe besides such a pie?
As usual I have become very sidetracked. Fear not though, this last paragraph contains the original motive behind all this exposition. What I started out to say, is that ideas are no different than places. Coming up with an idea and claiming it for one's own is just as silly as discovering a wonderful new continent and, deciding that because it's new to you it must be new to everybody, claiming it for yourself. In reality, the world exists together with mankind, but there is no reason to think it belongs to us. When we think up a new idea, we are not creating that idea, we are simply seeing it for the first time. Just because it is out of sight does not mean that something does not exist. All places in the universe exist. If one had the time and means, they could all be visited. It is the same for the world of ideas. They all exist, but many have not been visited.
Having established that thought, I'll move a little closer to my main topic: ownership. Ownership of what? Ownership of things.
How is ownership established? Who forges the little chain between someone and something, and says "there, that's yours"? It's a mystery, isn't it? All things that are owned by somebody were, at one point or in some form, things that belonged to nobody. What changed? If I pocket a beach pebble, what makes it mine? I say, nothing. The only thing connecting possessions and the people who "possess" them, is that the possessors want to possess the possessions. But wanting something to be true does not make it so. Just as it's detrimental to believe oneself proficient at roulette (when that is clearly impossible), it is also harmful to deceive oneself in other ways. You will, so to speak, lose your fortune. If you disagree, ask yourself: have I any proof to the contrary? Or is the idea too threatening to my lifestyle, to my concept of the world, for me to seriously consider?
It may be easier to think on this issue of "ownership" by narrowing the scope to simply "land ownership". Because all physical possessions are derived from the land, if we can resolve the issue of ownership with respect to the Earth itself the entire issue will be solved. Before we decide if Bill stole Bob's gold, we must establish that Bob owned the gold to begin with. And where did he get it? He took it from the Earth.
Who owns the Earth? Certainly there are many nations, and they seem to own the Earth. But, do they? No. They want to. They have the globe all parcelled up. Strong countries are even capable of things like borders, states, and fighting off those who would encroach on their "territory." But does that make the land theirs? No. If I steal a cupcake from a toddler, is that mine? Well, in a sense it is, I can do whatever I want with it. But that is only because of my brute strength, that is not because I own it.
The explorers of history were megalomaniacs. Who looks out on a new land and thinks, "well, I guess this is mine now, I saw it first. I want it."? How absurd. Every new place we go, every old place for that matter, has existed for an age, and will remain for ages to come. What flimsy logic can make the land ours? Why doesn't it belong to the dandelions or the toads? Were I to stumble on the proverbial pie on the windowsill, I wouldn't think it was mine. What else is the globe besides such a pie?
As usual I have become very sidetracked. Fear not though, this last paragraph contains the original motive behind all this exposition. What I started out to say, is that ideas are no different than places. Coming up with an idea and claiming it for one's own is just as silly as discovering a wonderful new continent and, deciding that because it's new to you it must be new to everybody, claiming it for yourself. In reality, the world exists together with mankind, but there is no reason to think it belongs to us. When we think up a new idea, we are not creating that idea, we are simply seeing it for the first time. Just because it is out of sight does not mean that something does not exist. All places in the universe exist. If one had the time and means, they could all be visited. It is the same for the world of ideas. They all exist, but many have not been visited.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Cloud-capp'd Tow'rs
What follows is only a skeleton for my eventual composition.
The old are dull, and grey and, routine. The falsely accused inmate, Imagination, languishes in the adult mind. She was a twinkle-eyed young thing. Now she slouches, despondent, in that cold cell. On the stone walls houses with dandelions out front and flying snakes and caped magicians are overwritten in tallies. Not your standard affair these figures grow in rows of six, with a vicious line down the middle. Day by day the towers rise like a terrible pyramid. You can read them in her eyes: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," they seem to say, "Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time."
It happened again, as I was laying out my ideas I got sucked into a small piece of my own metaphor, and lost the way back out. I had meant to write a short piece about the impermanence, not to mention insignificance, of what our age deems "truths of reality." I meant to draw a likeness between the illusions cloud watching children enjoy and the realities of the world. You see, the process is the same. "The way things are," in the warped perception of most people, is based on a foundation just as illusory as any cloud vision. Existence is our cloud, we make of it what we may, but it is not a monkey, a rabbit, good, or evil.
Adults are not actually weak in imagination. If anything it is too powerful in them. The manage to imagine that they understand. Very few, in our age, or any other, have been able to differentiate their own fanciful interpretations from true reality. Why? That is something for another day. The thoughts that run so clear in my head scatter when the net approaches.
My topic for tomorrow: travel in the world of ideas, a new perspective on ownership.
And for a later day: ants in the thorns.
And for a later day: language, a demon in the diagram.
The old are dull, and grey and, routine. The falsely accused inmate, Imagination, languishes in the adult mind. She was a twinkle-eyed young thing. Now she slouches, despondent, in that cold cell. On the stone walls houses with dandelions out front and flying snakes and caped magicians are overwritten in tallies. Not your standard affair these figures grow in rows of six, with a vicious line down the middle. Day by day the towers rise like a terrible pyramid. You can read them in her eyes: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," they seem to say, "Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time."
It happened again, as I was laying out my ideas I got sucked into a small piece of my own metaphor, and lost the way back out. I had meant to write a short piece about the impermanence, not to mention insignificance, of what our age deems "truths of reality." I meant to draw a likeness between the illusions cloud watching children enjoy and the realities of the world. You see, the process is the same. "The way things are," in the warped perception of most people, is based on a foundation just as illusory as any cloud vision. Existence is our cloud, we make of it what we may, but it is not a monkey, a rabbit, good, or evil.
Adults are not actually weak in imagination. If anything it is too powerful in them. The manage to imagine that they understand. Very few, in our age, or any other, have been able to differentiate their own fanciful interpretations from true reality. Why? That is something for another day. The thoughts that run so clear in my head scatter when the net approaches.
My topic for tomorrow: travel in the world of ideas, a new perspective on ownership.
And for a later day: ants in the thorns.
And for a later day: language, a demon in the diagram.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
I've done it again
It's the end of the day, again, and I've neglected my daily writing. I won't last long at this rate.
Friday, June 4, 2010
It's late and I'm very tired. But, I will make an effort to write something-- never mind the quality. I think of this exercise as an earring. After you get your ears pierced you have to keep something in the hole for a couple days to keep it from closing up. That's what this is, just a smattering of words to entrench the new habit.
I had some very good ideas today, but hours (perhaps days) are in order to do them justice. I can't even think about beginning that task now. I will say that, today, I finally discovered the words to describe the mental process I've been exploring for the past two years now. This is terribly exciting news, if you're me.
Riding back in the skiff with Mom, Dad, and Emily I admired my good fortune. Sometimes, for a few moments, existence can be a beautiful thing.
I had some very good ideas today, but hours (perhaps days) are in order to do them justice. I can't even think about beginning that task now. I will say that, today, I finally discovered the words to describe the mental process I've been exploring for the past two years now. This is terribly exciting news, if you're me.
Riding back in the skiff with Mom, Dad, and Emily I admired my good fortune. Sometimes, for a few moments, existence can be a beautiful thing.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Stream of Conciousness
My mind is a place both shallow and deep. Ideas, shoals of flashing thought, dart about devouring one another. There are all different kinds. Monstrous squid wander the depths and, here and there, sleek Mako cruise the expanse. I have my tropics too, blooming with color, and a few clown-fish to brighten the scene. Like all wild things, they are shy.
These thoughts belong in the wild, they fare poorly in captivity. Most times, no sooner have I set down the pen than I glance back at the poor creatures and feel a little sick. There they are, futilely bumping away against the glass. My present catch thrashes apprehensively in the tank: still brimming with vitality. That will soon change.
Where was I going with this? It started off as a short post about my difficulty with committing my ideas to paper. I have no trouble thinking them up, but I know I can't transcribe them faithfully from brain to paper without somehow losing the important bits. As I was about to type that I struck, somehow, upon the idea of ideas as living things, and from there I jumped easily to the ocean metaphor.
It is difficulty to describe the difference between life and death. What makes a person live. What spark of animation fades upon death? Although we do not know, the discrepancy is glaring to our human eyes. In my metaphor, which I abandoned out of impatience, a similar difference exists between ideas in my head and ideas on the page.
These thoughts belong in the wild, they fare poorly in captivity. Most times, no sooner have I set down the pen than I glance back at the poor creatures and feel a little sick. There they are, futilely bumping away against the glass. My present catch thrashes apprehensively in the tank: still brimming with vitality. That will soon change.
Where was I going with this? It started off as a short post about my difficulty with committing my ideas to paper. I have no trouble thinking them up, but I know I can't transcribe them faithfully from brain to paper without somehow losing the important bits. As I was about to type that I struck, somehow, upon the idea of ideas as living things, and from there I jumped easily to the ocean metaphor.
It is difficulty to describe the difference between life and death. What makes a person live. What spark of animation fades upon death? Although we do not know, the discrepancy is glaring to our human eyes. In my metaphor, which I abandoned out of impatience, a similar difference exists between ideas in my head and ideas on the page.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
A Questionable Venture
Now that the time comes for my first entry, I find myself befuddled. What am I supposed to write? My dreams of a well-wrought body of writing, worthy of existence and sharing with others, seem unfounded. But lets have less thinking and more doing. I'll begin at the beginning: an explanation for my presence in our modern sphere of sound and fury.
There was a time when I fancied myself a potential writer. I was, from a young age, a fantasy bibliophile, confident in my ability to dream a story with the best. I imagined, with happiness, creating new literature for the world-- writing destined to supersede the shallow fantasy I saw around me. That was a different time.
I will not detail the changing of my mind. I barely understand the change myself. But heroic deeds and magic for magic's sake no longer interest me as they once did. Some of that interest remains, but now I recognize fantasy for its true purpose, a purpose my younger self was not aware of. He was a clever person, but could not see the forest for the trees.
So, now, although I have lost my once clear goal (I'm no longer sure if I even want to write fantasy), I will write: nothing too ambitious, just a bit day by day to sharpen my prose, punctuation, and style. I doubt many visitors will chance on this internet backwater, but, should they do so, I hope the read will be of some value.
There was a time when I fancied myself a potential writer. I was, from a young age, a fantasy bibliophile, confident in my ability to dream a story with the best. I imagined, with happiness, creating new literature for the world-- writing destined to supersede the shallow fantasy I saw around me. That was a different time.
I will not detail the changing of my mind. I barely understand the change myself. But heroic deeds and magic for magic's sake no longer interest me as they once did. Some of that interest remains, but now I recognize fantasy for its true purpose, a purpose my younger self was not aware of. He was a clever person, but could not see the forest for the trees.
So, now, although I have lost my once clear goal (I'm no longer sure if I even want to write fantasy), I will write: nothing too ambitious, just a bit day by day to sharpen my prose, punctuation, and style. I doubt many visitors will chance on this internet backwater, but, should they do so, I hope the read will be of some value.
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