Do you think that would make for a good blog? It could be pretty involved, or maybe just really really short.
Do you think opinions would differ on whether being dead was basically pretty good, or ultimately suckful? By persons who are deceased obviously - not by us living types.
If all life and matter is really energy vibrating at different speeds and levels, then surely blogging - or interacting with the cybersphere (or WTF we're calling this space these days) would be the first place we could make "contact with those who have crossed over" in a way that does not require any human third party. Actually, it should be "receive contact" as we'll need them to set up some kind of Ghost account. Gmail of a new kind.
Pros:
* Either no longer conscious of human depravity and suffering or all-knowing
* Can understand all languages, see through all politicians and finally be certain of something
* Re-incarnated as cool person/animal
* No need for money, haircuts or bowel bacteria
* one-way ticket
Cons:
* Sensual /worldly pleasures a thing of the past
* Can't take advantage of perspective/situation to improve plight of loved ones
* No afterlife of any kind and so souls/consciousness disappear right on the moment of death, making this blog concept N/A
* Whatever the next realm/stage is, it is too awesome to be bothered remembering to try and tell us about it - everyone just scoots on over/up and gets on with it
* one-way ticket
Probably a bit of a shit idea, but I do wonder...
Showing posts with label Philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philosophy. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Scale Free
This morning I went to an art/science workshop called "Scale Free Networks" where we used massively magnified slides to assemble and then interpret images and make collaborative artworks, and then spent about 45 minutes tooling around looking at random stuff (ribbon, stone, sponge, fungus, coin, moth wing etc) under stereo microscopes (20x and 40x magnification). The workship was led by an artist and a scientist (molecular biology) and they shared with us a very little about the history of microscopes and then some images, and we talked also about the freedom of working collaboratively across disciplines. It was all too short (2 hours) and stimulating to mix up the nuanced and emotive values of art with the tools and language of science.
I love the way so many things in nature - shapes but also really relationships scale up and down. Everyone has their own experiences of this - from the coastlines of Norway designed by Slartibartfast to the edges of grilled cheese, to the way skin peels when it is sun burnt and the spreading silt echos on a flood plain, veins in our arms and nerves in our eyes, or the gorgeous aching arch of a solar flare or a Lilly's gentle pitch to sensuous tip. Those of course are shapes, but they're relational in time and space - as we are.
The way we trust, or dance around trust, the way we share, or close down and step away, the way we cluster as individuals (and relate to ourselves) or with others - intimate groups on specific lines of interest or in masses - for the kick that comes from tens of thousands cheering together - be it at the ritual of a ball through posts or for the frisson of balls on balls. Highly codified clothing or no clothing at all. Meaning held in the action translated through the lenses of our own experiences. In art as in science so many things are taken as truth that would be so much more useful to our understanding of each other more broadly if they were understood as multiple frames of position and preference.
"Lost my muchness indeed!"
I love the way so many things in nature - shapes but also really relationships scale up and down. Everyone has their own experiences of this - from the coastlines of Norway designed by Slartibartfast to the edges of grilled cheese, to the way skin peels when it is sun burnt and the spreading silt echos on a flood plain, veins in our arms and nerves in our eyes, or the gorgeous aching arch of a solar flare or a Lilly's gentle pitch to sensuous tip. Those of course are shapes, but they're relational in time and space - as we are.
The way we trust, or dance around trust, the way we share, or close down and step away, the way we cluster as individuals (and relate to ourselves) or with others - intimate groups on specific lines of interest or in masses - for the kick that comes from tens of thousands cheering together - be it at the ritual of a ball through posts or for the frisson of balls on balls. Highly codified clothing or no clothing at all. Meaning held in the action translated through the lenses of our own experiences. In art as in science so many things are taken as truth that would be so much more useful to our understanding of each other more broadly if they were understood as multiple frames of position and preference.
"Lost my muchness indeed!"
Monday, November 02, 2009
The Satellite of Grace
Go outside tonight if you can, maybe it will be clear and you can tilt your face up to the radiance of the moon. It is a still night where I am am, and the stars have all taken a step back to clear the stage. Only the leaves of the big tree shift a little in the glintering light. Leaves are impatient like that. I love to look at her on nights like this, but I can't hold her gaze for long.
Last night, the wonderful moment before her glory, she rose for me above the big wet and the waves made a song for her that sang and sang and echoes even now. It is hard to hear the salt song when we're under roofs or hemmed by the concrete that is hard but not slowly alive like stone. Hold there in your yard or the park and squint past the annoying edges that intrude of rooftops and power lines and all the other nagardly reminders of our control over electricity, and see if you can remember what it felt like to live within her rhythm and pray for her tides and good favours.
Her strong face cannot compete with the vibrant emanations of the blue teats of our screens and our clocks and our clevernesses. But there she remains, orbiting at a little over 1klom a second now (as though forever) in synch with us and facing us. The impression thus given of our centrality to meaning yet another gift from her. Ah, as light calls forth shadow in the language of psyche, does the moon gift Gaia with more than physics suggests? The teats' glows will fade and the moon will hold us again, hold us still and without judging our notions of independence. The echoes and songs of the salt that we live from will sing in us all whether we hear it or no.
Last night, the wonderful moment before her glory, she rose for me above the big wet and the waves made a song for her that sang and sang and echoes even now. It is hard to hear the salt song when we're under roofs or hemmed by the concrete that is hard but not slowly alive like stone. Hold there in your yard or the park and squint past the annoying edges that intrude of rooftops and power lines and all the other nagardly reminders of our control over electricity, and see if you can remember what it felt like to live within her rhythm and pray for her tides and good favours.
Her strong face cannot compete with the vibrant emanations of the blue teats of our screens and our clocks and our clevernesses. But there she remains, orbiting at a little over 1klom a second now (as though forever) in synch with us and facing us. The impression thus given of our centrality to meaning yet another gift from her. Ah, as light calls forth shadow in the language of psyche, does the moon gift Gaia with more than physics suggests? The teats' glows will fade and the moon will hold us again, hold us still and without judging our notions of independence. The echoes and songs of the salt that we live from will sing in us all whether we hear it or no.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Ouroboros
Without warning, preparation or preemptive therapy there was a brown snake asleep on the footpath this morning when Riley and I went for our walk. It wasn't in the park, or on the path near the river, none of the places I would expect to stumble across one of the worlds' second most poisonous snake. It was on the footpath, outside a house, not far from a 90s model Commodore. That's really part of the special fear that snakes can produce - I don't really expect them to be right here, right now in the same time-space as me and my dog.
But there it was. Undeniable. Painful death in a long thin sock. Looking, I have to say it, basically innocent and peaceful. Snoozing or sleeping - I couldn't say. It was a coldish morning and it was across a little patch of sun in the dusty grass and it scared the crap out of me. And yes, btw, it was a brown snake - not a dark green tree snake. It's in the head. Pointy little heads bring pointy little teeths.
So what was really strange, once the ghastly ghoulish fascination of watching it just be had passed and I'd walked on, grateful Riley was oblivious on his leash and safely breathing, was that I think I brought this moment to happen. I mean, I made that snake appear in our lives.
It could be a coincidence - there seems to be lots of snakes around this spring and there's been loads of sightings already on properties, at the farm and so on, but this is the first time since I was about 6 that I have seen a live, real snake myself. That's a long time. So I don't really think it is just a coincidence, I think I called that snake into our orbit. You see, last week there was an article in the paper about a guy in the Blue Mountains who does occupational health and safety seminars on the risks of brown snakes for people who work in the outdoors. It freaked me out. I got obsessed over what a horrible job that would be (obviously he doesn't mind), I even photocopied the article and stuck it in my notebook and wrote about how scary it would be to be handling those snakes (he lives with them! There were pictures!) anyway, I haven't been able to get it out of my head all week. Big frackin oops!
What kind of massive brain-wave energy load did I accidentally dump into the universe?! Because here, out of no-where and no-how, one is in the physical plane almost right on my doorstep. I'm really wishing I'd listened more closely to the instructions for manifesting things into the world using visualisation because now I want, very desperately, to undo it. I want to un-think snake and re-think "wooden deck on my house" or "fabulous new novel idea". But I'm stuck in a looping party trick where the more I don't want to think about it, the more clearly I see it in my mind. That's something the self-help gurus tend to gloss-over a bit isn't it, the trouble shooting parts of these theories. Right now you're probably going, don't worry about it! There's nothing in this positive thinking shit.
oh. I guess so... but what about the way that quantum physics suggests* that at a sub atomic, a quantum level, our world is purely energy - energy arranged by some kind of organising structure that you could call "invisible glue" or you could call "ideas". Matter (or "the world") is constantly being effected by the act of observing it . We look at things and we thereby interact with them at one level. But more than that, studies of the brain's function show that seeing or doing something and visualising seeing or doing it are indistinguishable to the brain (There was one guy who did groundbreaking visualisation processes with the USA Olympics and NASA programs, and this guy has also done some work on this too). Indistinguishable. If you're detailed and thorough about it, it has effectively really happened as far as your brain is concerned.
So a week of thinking nothing but SNAKE produces ... guess what? A freakin SNAKE! Oh, I'm starting to feel like I'm swallowing my own tail.
Gentle reader, please think of something very pleasant, and send me a fresh, happy new thought loop to entertain. Just remember, in the words of those magnificent popular philosophers, The Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for coz you just might get it."
* Actually they're pretty sure that they know that they really don't know, but as my general reading on QP is out of date, I don't want to overstep myself on this bit.
But there it was. Undeniable. Painful death in a long thin sock. Looking, I have to say it, basically innocent and peaceful. Snoozing or sleeping - I couldn't say. It was a coldish morning and it was across a little patch of sun in the dusty grass and it scared the crap out of me. And yes, btw, it was a brown snake - not a dark green tree snake. It's in the head. Pointy little heads bring pointy little teeths.
So what was really strange, once the ghastly ghoulish fascination of watching it just be had passed and I'd walked on, grateful Riley was oblivious on his leash and safely breathing, was that I think I brought this moment to happen. I mean, I made that snake appear in our lives.
It could be a coincidence - there seems to be lots of snakes around this spring and there's been loads of sightings already on properties, at the farm and so on, but this is the first time since I was about 6 that I have seen a live, real snake myself. That's a long time. So I don't really think it is just a coincidence, I think I called that snake into our orbit. You see, last week there was an article in the paper about a guy in the Blue Mountains who does occupational health and safety seminars on the risks of brown snakes for people who work in the outdoors. It freaked me out. I got obsessed over what a horrible job that would be (obviously he doesn't mind), I even photocopied the article and stuck it in my notebook and wrote about how scary it would be to be handling those snakes (he lives with them! There were pictures!) anyway, I haven't been able to get it out of my head all week. Big frackin oops!
What kind of massive brain-wave energy load did I accidentally dump into the universe?! Because here, out of no-where and no-how, one is in the physical plane almost right on my doorstep. I'm really wishing I'd listened more closely to the instructions for manifesting things into the world using visualisation because now I want, very desperately, to undo it. I want to un-think snake and re-think "wooden deck on my house" or "fabulous new novel idea". But I'm stuck in a looping party trick where the more I don't want to think about it, the more clearly I see it in my mind. That's something the self-help gurus tend to gloss-over a bit isn't it, the trouble shooting parts of these theories. Right now you're probably going, don't worry about it! There's nothing in this positive thinking shit.
oh. I guess so... but what about the way that quantum physics suggests* that at a sub atomic, a quantum level, our world is purely energy - energy arranged by some kind of organising structure that you could call "invisible glue" or you could call "ideas". Matter (or "the world") is constantly being effected by the act of observing it . We look at things and we thereby interact with them at one level. But more than that, studies of the brain's function show that seeing or doing something and visualising seeing or doing it are indistinguishable to the brain (There was one guy who did groundbreaking visualisation processes with the USA Olympics and NASA programs, and this guy has also done some work on this too). Indistinguishable. If you're detailed and thorough about it, it has effectively really happened as far as your brain is concerned.
So a week of thinking nothing but SNAKE produces ... guess what? A freakin SNAKE! Oh, I'm starting to feel like I'm swallowing my own tail.
Gentle reader, please think of something very pleasant, and send me a fresh, happy new thought loop to entertain. Just remember, in the words of those magnificent popular philosophers, The Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for coz you just might get it."
* Actually they're pretty sure that they know that they really don't know, but as my general reading on QP is out of date, I don't want to overstep myself on this bit.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Sitzfleisch has an Agenda
There have been so many things to bluster about, to notice and to mourn in these past six or seven weeks (neighbours/heatwave/garden bounty and then death from aforementioned heatwave and Disney buying up Marvel to name but a few) but sadly none of my moments of lucidity have corresponded with any access to suitable/compatible/functioning tech and these have simply slid by, like tears in the rain (slumps: releases dove).
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Terminator: Salvation
(Spoiler Alert! Yes, again. Don't read this if you're seriously looking forward to the latest Terminator film. But really - who is?).
I swear to you, this blog is not going to devolve solely into me bagging the shit out of popular culture. I aim to bag the shit out of high-brow stuff occasionally as well.
Over the long weekend I went along to see Terminator: Salvation at my local cinema. There were many members of the public in attendance which I do not like. It is not (just) that I am anti-social, they are simply not fit to be in the public arena. Case in point: the 'gentleman' seated next to me wore thongs presumably so that when the urge came over him, he could pick his toes during the film without the irritation of having to remove any shoes. Charming.
But I digress.
Firstly, this film is badly misnamed (why do they think that dropping the numbers helps? Oh, that's right, because we're now scraping the prequel barrel and it confuses people to have non-linear sequences. An argument, perhaps, for using the Dewy system for films. But that's a subject for discussion at another time). Anyway. "Salvation" is a misnomer. This film should rightly have been subtitled "Survival" or even something like "have you ever seen a more gritty dystopian future prequel than this?! Holy Shit we're really all going to DIE!!! RUN - RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" but as a marketing person I wouldn't really recommend that - it's hard to make puns with for the actor profiles during promos.
I guess "Survival" was taken, but it is a shame, they should have saved Salvation for when they win the freakin war I would have thought. Not for a film where the resistance takes massive casualties, loses their entire command structure and basically get their arses kicked at every single point.
That leads me to my second point. I don't know a lot about war. Actually, I know very little about war on any level. I've made effort to avoid it personally. From what I have seen and heard it is a deeply unpleasant experience, and something not to be undertaken lightly. Which is why I would have suggested that someone in the Resistance who does know about war ought to read a little book by an old guy call Sun. In this book, which is kind of like a "War for Dummies1" he suggests that you should know everything you can about your enemy. In this film, that could be as simple as remembering that the machines you're fighting are very very smart. Maybe not the ones directly in front of you, but the ones that built them are. I reckon that odds are good that machines that have made themselves self-aware are going to be pretty bright. Hence, one ought to think things through as if you're playing a game of Chess or Go in which your opponent has a higher rank than you. That is to say, they're likely to set traps for you. I would, if I was clever.
Not being clever brings me to my third, and final point. American action films have made a fruitful industry out of not worrying too much about clever if you can be very strong. This almost completely defines the action genre. It is about guys (usually) chasing each other, thumping each other and blowing shit up. This is where T:S comes home and delivers. It's got all the things you look for in an action flick: big guns (tick), attack helicopters (tick), funky secret commando hand signal stuff (tick), blowing shit up (tick, tick, tick), and best of all, big tough guys taking an absolute flogging (sadly I don't mean an actual flogging on a rack. I think the only SF film to deliver that particular delicacy must be Starship Troopers. If you know of any others please, please tell me). In this instance I mean fisty-cuffs to the snoz stuff.
This is what kept me going. I really liked seeing Sam Worthington2 get killed, take a nude mud bath, be beaten, shot at, beaten again, killed again, resurrected, beaten again, and then suicide. Not only is that a thrashing and a half, but it is also one heck of a character arc! And, he just eats it up. I want the next film to be about Marcus Wright stirring things up in the afterlife. OOOHHH - Marcus Wright Vs The Mummy!! I would so totally go and see that. The human equivalent of the bear vs shark question. Brilliant.
But I digress. Again.
On the way home I thought of a great drinking game for this film. It goes like this - first of all you need to get all resistance (shame they skipped the Steampunk possibilities - but one can't have everything) and build (or borrow if you're not well suited to experimental conditions) an alcohol distillation set up ("a still")and make some moonshine (Please remember to cut the juice you get!) then you and your mates all take a swig and settle down to watch this film. Once it starts, every time Marcus Wright does something brutal or has something brutal done to him you have another shot. I leave it up to you to decide if kissing Helena should count. In this way, if you are by some miracle still conscious by the end of the film, you really don't really care that most of the film made no sense and that John Connor is a total arse.
Everybody Wins!3
1. There is both a "Vietnam War for Dummies" and a "War on Terrorism for Dummies" actually published. I thought I was being funny, but it turns out satire is too easily just being inaccurate.
2. Who, BTW, was awesome as Macbeth. Man, I love that version. Even better than Polanski's. Really.
3. Except the humans. And Sam Worthington.
I swear to you, this blog is not going to devolve solely into me bagging the shit out of popular culture. I aim to bag the shit out of high-brow stuff occasionally as well.
Over the long weekend I went along to see Terminator: Salvation at my local cinema. There were many members of the public in attendance which I do not like. It is not (just) that I am anti-social, they are simply not fit to be in the public arena. Case in point: the 'gentleman' seated next to me wore thongs presumably so that when the urge came over him, he could pick his toes during the film without the irritation of having to remove any shoes. Charming.
But I digress.
Firstly, this film is badly misnamed (why do they think that dropping the numbers helps? Oh, that's right, because we're now scraping the prequel barrel and it confuses people to have non-linear sequences. An argument, perhaps, for using the Dewy system for films. But that's a subject for discussion at another time). Anyway. "Salvation" is a misnomer. This film should rightly have been subtitled "Survival" or even something like "have you ever seen a more gritty dystopian future prequel than this?! Holy Shit we're really all going to DIE!!! RUN - RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" but as a marketing person I wouldn't really recommend that - it's hard to make puns with for the actor profiles during promos.
I guess "Survival" was taken, but it is a shame, they should have saved Salvation for when they win the freakin war I would have thought. Not for a film where the resistance takes massive casualties, loses their entire command structure and basically get their arses kicked at every single point.
That leads me to my second point. I don't know a lot about war. Actually, I know very little about war on any level. I've made effort to avoid it personally. From what I have seen and heard it is a deeply unpleasant experience, and something not to be undertaken lightly. Which is why I would have suggested that someone in the Resistance who does know about war ought to read a little book by an old guy call Sun. In this book, which is kind of like a "War for Dummies1" he suggests that you should know everything you can about your enemy. In this film, that could be as simple as remembering that the machines you're fighting are very very smart. Maybe not the ones directly in front of you, but the ones that built them are. I reckon that odds are good that machines that have made themselves self-aware are going to be pretty bright. Hence, one ought to think things through as if you're playing a game of Chess or Go in which your opponent has a higher rank than you. That is to say, they're likely to set traps for you. I would, if I was clever.
Not being clever brings me to my third, and final point. American action films have made a fruitful industry out of not worrying too much about clever if you can be very strong. This almost completely defines the action genre. It is about guys (usually) chasing each other, thumping each other and blowing shit up. This is where T:S comes home and delivers. It's got all the things you look for in an action flick: big guns (tick), attack helicopters (tick), funky secret commando hand signal stuff (tick), blowing shit up (tick, tick, tick), and best of all, big tough guys taking an absolute flogging (sadly I don't mean an actual flogging on a rack. I think the only SF film to deliver that particular delicacy must be Starship Troopers. If you know of any others please, please tell me). In this instance I mean fisty-cuffs to the snoz stuff.
This is what kept me going. I really liked seeing Sam Worthington2 get killed, take a nude mud bath, be beaten, shot at, beaten again, killed again, resurrected, beaten again, and then suicide. Not only is that a thrashing and a half, but it is also one heck of a character arc! And, he just eats it up. I want the next film to be about Marcus Wright stirring things up in the afterlife. OOOHHH - Marcus Wright Vs The Mummy!! I would so totally go and see that. The human equivalent of the bear vs shark question. Brilliant.
But I digress. Again.
On the way home I thought of a great drinking game for this film. It goes like this - first of all you need to get all resistance (shame they skipped the Steampunk possibilities - but one can't have everything) and build (or borrow if you're not well suited to experimental conditions) an alcohol distillation set up ("a still")and make some moonshine (Please remember to cut the juice you get!) then you and your mates all take a swig and settle down to watch this film. Once it starts, every time Marcus Wright does something brutal or has something brutal done to him you have another shot. I leave it up to you to decide if kissing Helena should count. In this way, if you are by some miracle still conscious by the end of the film, you really don't really care that most of the film made no sense and that John Connor is a total arse.
Everybody Wins!3
1. There is both a "Vietnam War for Dummies" and a "War on Terrorism for Dummies" actually published. I thought I was being funny, but it turns out satire is too easily just being inaccurate.
2. Who, BTW, was awesome as Macbeth. Man, I love that version. Even better than Polanski's. Really.
3. Except the humans. And Sam Worthington.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Not What it Seems
Since the Enlightenment our western culture has revered the advances and solutions that science has delivered. It is one of those fields of human endeavour of which we are very proud.
After all, We fought our way up from thinking that all flesh contains the maggots that may crawl out of it from death and that the entire firmament spins about us, the magical centre of the universe to a much more detailed, specific, understood and known set of laws and reasons and consequences. We can make a machine and send it to another planet via a complex set of other machines and operate it from here for years of reseach and images. We can measure things so small that they become unpredictable in their behaviour and so discover another realm of knowledge enticing us forwards, we can split the centre of an atom and power a city with it. In short, we have become wizards. But just like Bod, we also call up things we cannot control.
We introduce Cane Toads to deal with a moth they don't eat, we have no way of dealing with the waste outcomes of splitting atoms, we can clone sheep, but we aren't really sure why we might do that. So we have Wizard Watchers, people versed in the lore of science, and ready to protect the interests of the greater good of humans. We call them ethicists. We trust that they are at the front lines, balancing our powers with our responsibilities, weighing the possible good with the largely unknown dangers, calling upon the broader communities for discussion, awareness, support and concensus.
Oh wait, I obviously strayed into science fiction there for a moment. When was the last time you heard an appeal from an ethicist for debate? Actually can you name an ethicist? Um .... Peter Singer? Is he? Does he count? I don't know.
What I do know, is that when I read a news article this morning about a court granting permission to a 17 year old to remove his breasts after having been on a gender-reassignment hormone treatment since the age of 13 everything seemed to be in order until I came across this quote from the ethicist (I excerpt here from the article, my emphasis added):
'But ethicist Nick Tonti-Filippini said mainstream medicine did not recognise hormone treatments and surgery as treatment for gender dysphoria. He said it was a psychiatric disorder qualifying under American guidelines as a psychosis because "it's a belief out of accordance with reality".
"What you are trying to do is make a biological reality correspond to that false belief." he said.'
Well that set off my "danger danger" antenna. My understanding is that psychosis is an extreme level of measure, a non-functional state of mental operation. A level, let us remember for a moment, that was applied in the not-too-distant-past to creative types ( NZ author) and women not deemed suitably compliant or docile by their husbands and used as an excuse for labotomies, elcetric shock torture and extreme confinement. But also, and perhaps more importantly, the way this has been formulated as being abberant in relation to an objective "reality".
So apparently, whenever any of us have an idea or a wish to use our will to make reality different, we're possibly just plan psychotic. A line like this is inviting criticism of everything from hair dye, tattoos, and dressing in BSG costume through to going to university and even the entire field of science itself. Where does Mr Tonti-Filippini intend to draw the line?
What a double whammy. I presumed that if ethicists exist, they would be humanists. It seems this has been naive. It seems also, that Mr Tonti-Filippini would find many of my behaviours and desires to defy existing reality as being aberrant enough to justify the label psychotic and so deprive me of my capacity to contribute to the human endeavour of growth and expansion (in ways that do not simply involve the multiplication of our number) and nested inside that issue is his presumption of an objective "reality". In the words of Dylan Moran, "Why does no one say, let's be realistic, oil me ?" Why is reality presumed to be locked in, ordered, un-changeable?
It is easy enough to discover that much as Alex in the court case identifies as "he", our ethicist actually identifies himself as "Dr Tonti-Filippini, Catholic bio-ethicist". Ahh. A little bit more detail gives a lot more context to that right-wing quote. Of all the versions of this news story promulgated across the various news sites of the interwebs, no one bothered to do any more than repeat the copy and the flaws of the first story filed.
Proving in the end that judges in courts can still make thoughtful, humanist decisions, but we only hear about them through the irritating whine of bigots masquerading as informed specialists and the haze of lazy journalism. We, in the form of science have created from our own efforts amazing tools, but we clog their workings ourselves.
I welcome our robot overlords.
After all, We fought our way up from thinking that all flesh contains the maggots that may crawl out of it from death and that the entire firmament spins about us, the magical centre of the universe to a much more detailed, specific, understood and known set of laws and reasons and consequences. We can make a machine and send it to another planet via a complex set of other machines and operate it from here for years of reseach and images. We can measure things so small that they become unpredictable in their behaviour and so discover another realm of knowledge enticing us forwards, we can split the centre of an atom and power a city with it. In short, we have become wizards. But just like Bod, we also call up things we cannot control.
We introduce Cane Toads to deal with a moth they don't eat, we have no way of dealing with the waste outcomes of splitting atoms, we can clone sheep, but we aren't really sure why we might do that. So we have Wizard Watchers, people versed in the lore of science, and ready to protect the interests of the greater good of humans. We call them ethicists. We trust that they are at the front lines, balancing our powers with our responsibilities, weighing the possible good with the largely unknown dangers, calling upon the broader communities for discussion, awareness, support and concensus.
Oh wait, I obviously strayed into science fiction there for a moment. When was the last time you heard an appeal from an ethicist for debate? Actually can you name an ethicist? Um .... Peter Singer? Is he? Does he count? I don't know.
What I do know, is that when I read a news article this morning about a court granting permission to a 17 year old to remove his breasts after having been on a gender-reassignment hormone treatment since the age of 13 everything seemed to be in order until I came across this quote from the ethicist (I excerpt here from the article, my emphasis added):
'But ethicist Nick Tonti-Filippini said mainstream medicine did not recognise hormone treatments and surgery as treatment for gender dysphoria. He said it was a psychiatric disorder qualifying under American guidelines as a psychosis because "it's a belief out of accordance with reality".
"What you are trying to do is make a biological reality correspond to that false belief." he said.'
Well that set off my "danger danger" antenna. My understanding is that psychosis is an extreme level of measure, a non-functional state of mental operation. A level, let us remember for a moment, that was applied in the not-too-distant-past to creative types ( NZ author) and women not deemed suitably compliant or docile by their husbands and used as an excuse for labotomies, elcetric shock torture and extreme confinement. But also, and perhaps more importantly, the way this has been formulated as being abberant in relation to an objective "reality".
So apparently, whenever any of us have an idea or a wish to use our will to make reality different, we're possibly just plan psychotic. A line like this is inviting criticism of everything from hair dye, tattoos, and dressing in BSG costume through to going to university and even the entire field of science itself. Where does Mr Tonti-Filippini intend to draw the line?
What a double whammy. I presumed that if ethicists exist, they would be humanists. It seems this has been naive. It seems also, that Mr Tonti-Filippini would find many of my behaviours and desires to defy existing reality as being aberrant enough to justify the label psychotic and so deprive me of my capacity to contribute to the human endeavour of growth and expansion (in ways that do not simply involve the multiplication of our number) and nested inside that issue is his presumption of an objective "reality". In the words of Dylan Moran, "Why does no one say, let's be realistic, oil me ?" Why is reality presumed to be locked in, ordered, un-changeable?
It is easy enough to discover that much as Alex in the court case identifies as "he", our ethicist actually identifies himself as "Dr Tonti-Filippini, Catholic bio-ethicist". Ahh. A little bit more detail gives a lot more context to that right-wing quote. Of all the versions of this news story promulgated across the various news sites of the interwebs, no one bothered to do any more than repeat the copy and the flaws of the first story filed.
Proving in the end that judges in courts can still make thoughtful, humanist decisions, but we only hear about them through the irritating whine of bigots masquerading as informed specialists and the haze of lazy journalism. We, in the form of science have created from our own efforts amazing tools, but we clog their workings ourselves.
I welcome our robot overlords.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Under the One Roof
Indeed a new month has rolled into view and taken up residence on the couch - you know in the one spot that has the best view of the tv and the hallway and the kitchen - the spot the alpha person in the house takes. That's where May is sitting right now. It is just a guest, so I'm letting it go.
There's always been something very comforting about a positive communal living arrangement to me. Possibly due to being raised in rural environments where it is hard to see the roofs of ones neighbours, let alone easily interact with them, and so whoever is under the roof where you are is the sum total of what you've got to deal with. The idea that there might be people of my age or who share my interests under that roof rocked my world when I moved out of home and continues to do so. Sometimes I wonder why I live alone now. But nothing is absolute (except maybe for the rule that nothing is absolute).
Yes yes the internet means we can all be under the one roof, and of course at a very fundamental level we are all part of the great oneness .... but as these things remain somewhat intangible in my moment-to-moment reality. Actually physically seeing people and sharing meals and laughing at spontaneous convergences of personality, circumstance and wit remains a delicious pleasure that simply cannot be replicated in any other medium. And like a child, I still try and glut myself with it, and in doing so trigger the need for withdrawal and reflection to balance it out again and feel whole, both myself, and a social self and only in the gentle repeated mixing of aloneness and togetherness does this blend mature and rise and become some very tasty bready product that I love to be and share and be again.
Ah. I am feeling the concrete of the path and the dirt of possibility and the walls of protection and the sky of opening and the joy of being held and the lure of the quiet room. Perhaps I need another coffee before I deal with May. It got one day in under my guard, but I've got my eye on it now. A bleary, unfocused eye but it is all I have to offer.
There's always been something very comforting about a positive communal living arrangement to me. Possibly due to being raised in rural environments where it is hard to see the roofs of ones neighbours, let alone easily interact with them, and so whoever is under the roof where you are is the sum total of what you've got to deal with. The idea that there might be people of my age or who share my interests under that roof rocked my world when I moved out of home and continues to do so. Sometimes I wonder why I live alone now. But nothing is absolute (except maybe for the rule that nothing is absolute).
Yes yes the internet means we can all be under the one roof, and of course at a very fundamental level we are all part of the great oneness .... but as these things remain somewhat intangible in my moment-to-moment reality. Actually physically seeing people and sharing meals and laughing at spontaneous convergences of personality, circumstance and wit remains a delicious pleasure that simply cannot be replicated in any other medium. And like a child, I still try and glut myself with it, and in doing so trigger the need for withdrawal and reflection to balance it out again and feel whole, both myself, and a social self and only in the gentle repeated mixing of aloneness and togetherness does this blend mature and rise and become some very tasty bready product that I love to be and share and be again.
Ah. I am feeling the concrete of the path and the dirt of possibility and the walls of protection and the sky of opening and the joy of being held and the lure of the quiet room. Perhaps I need another coffee before I deal with May. It got one day in under my guard, but I've got my eye on it now. A bleary, unfocused eye but it is all I have to offer.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Generation Kill
There's always someone worse off.
It's not meant to be a cheering thought, but it is. As a fat, white, middle-class-ish Australian, roughly 92% of the world is worse off than I am, but of course I don't usually see them and so, every now and then, I just completely forget.
This week I've been reminded of this fact by watching the HBO mini series "Generation Kill".
There are many levels on which this mini-series is fascinating. Before I get into any rave or meandering, I'll own up immediately to the following points:
1. It is based on a book (Generation Kill by Evan Wright. There's quite a good review with excerpts at the New Statesman). I haven't read it but my brother-in-law is reading it and tells me that the two versions are very close.
2. I read (and "enjoyed") Jarhead.
3. I couldn't finish 'Catch 22' (but intend to give it another go now that I have some more 'water under the bridge').
4. I loved 'Waiting for Godot'.
5. I work in a (local) government body.
I'm not sure where to start. It's not so much about American politics (or even so much even about the war) as about bizarre reality. This is not a 'story' but neither is it a contrived 'reality' show or documentary or mock-u-mentary. A long time ago we might have used the term cinema-verite to describe something like this - but actually I think this is a new flavour, a new style. A very modern, unsentimental, "unpurposed" approach to this kind of subject matter.
As the first credits came up, I thought "Why am I exposing myself to yet more American culture and *another* take on Iraq?" - not the thoughts of a ready-to-cheer fan, but what drew me into the world of this group of men was the understated treatment of a hysterical, terrifying, aggro subject in a neutral, intelligent way. Nothing about the marines' behaviours, thoughts, language, politics or concerns are explained, diminished, justified or homogenised. Some of them are very thoughtful brave men, and lots aren't.
How does anyone stay sane in this environment of continual flip-flopping of command, the petty focus on 'grooming standards' above issues of resupply (of rations and ammunition - "you want logistics, join the army. Marines make do."), the constant 'bad comms' and blackmarket for essentials like batteries (what good are night vision goggles without power?), friendly fire, rotting feet and superstitions?
They don't.
These men are warriors. They're also opportunists, psychos, working Joes and reporters. They aren't philosophers or diplomats or politicians. They're warriors, trained to kill and cultured to win. They're largely fuelled by video games, sugar and caffeine. I am unsettled by how easily I can relate to them and their bickering and sing-songing on what must have been interminable drives , their dark, wry humour and the restlessness and frustration they experience of being deployed into tasks and positions they were not trained for and unused for exactly the missions they were.
What is best about this series is the attention to remaining complex. In one scene, the motorcade is passing a body. The body is vivid, bloody, personal. The camera tracks a number of responses in the marines (interest, sadness, revulsion) the reporter is shocked, and his immediate response is to raise his camera and take a picture. One of the marines confronts him "that's exploitation man" and he is shamed. The Reporter - our everyman for the viewer, our representative of the media - is the one who could least handle the moment but did so by turning it into an image, something that could be documented and filed. Distancing himself from it in one of the ways that we all do. Otherwise, what would he do with that experience of seeing and smelling that death of an innocent? What action, what sense is there for him? What is there for us? We saw these deaths too, despite the control over what images went out, we saw civilians hurt and murdered.
I am finding this series to be complex, confronting, valuable. I'm not sure it should be called entertainment. I don't know what to think. More importantly, I don't know what to do.
Still not cheering, but definitely a fan.
It's not meant to be a cheering thought, but it is. As a fat, white, middle-class-ish Australian, roughly 92% of the world is worse off than I am, but of course I don't usually see them and so, every now and then, I just completely forget.
This week I've been reminded of this fact by watching the HBO mini series "Generation Kill".
There are many levels on which this mini-series is fascinating. Before I get into any rave or meandering, I'll own up immediately to the following points:
1. It is based on a book (Generation Kill by Evan Wright. There's quite a good review with excerpts at the New Statesman). I haven't read it but my brother-in-law is reading it and tells me that the two versions are very close.
2. I read (and "enjoyed") Jarhead.
3. I couldn't finish 'Catch 22' (but intend to give it another go now that I have some more 'water under the bridge').
4. I loved 'Waiting for Godot'.
5. I work in a (local) government body.
I'm not sure where to start. It's not so much about American politics (or even so much even about the war) as about bizarre reality. This is not a 'story' but neither is it a contrived 'reality' show or documentary or mock-u-mentary. A long time ago we might have used the term cinema-verite to describe something like this - but actually I think this is a new flavour, a new style. A very modern, unsentimental, "unpurposed" approach to this kind of subject matter.
As the first credits came up, I thought "Why am I exposing myself to yet more American culture and *another* take on Iraq?" - not the thoughts of a ready-to-cheer fan, but what drew me into the world of this group of men was the understated treatment of a hysterical, terrifying, aggro subject in a neutral, intelligent way. Nothing about the marines' behaviours, thoughts, language, politics or concerns are explained, diminished, justified or homogenised. Some of them are very thoughtful brave men, and lots aren't.
How does anyone stay sane in this environment of continual flip-flopping of command, the petty focus on 'grooming standards' above issues of resupply (of rations and ammunition - "you want logistics, join the army. Marines make do."), the constant 'bad comms' and blackmarket for essentials like batteries (what good are night vision goggles without power?), friendly fire, rotting feet and superstitions?
They don't.
These men are warriors. They're also opportunists, psychos, working Joes and reporters. They aren't philosophers or diplomats or politicians. They're warriors, trained to kill and cultured to win. They're largely fuelled by video games, sugar and caffeine. I am unsettled by how easily I can relate to them and their bickering and sing-songing on what must have been interminable drives , their dark, wry humour and the restlessness and frustration they experience of being deployed into tasks and positions they were not trained for and unused for exactly the missions they were.
What is best about this series is the attention to remaining complex. In one scene, the motorcade is passing a body. The body is vivid, bloody, personal. The camera tracks a number of responses in the marines (interest, sadness, revulsion) the reporter is shocked, and his immediate response is to raise his camera and take a picture. One of the marines confronts him "that's exploitation man" and he is shamed. The Reporter - our everyman for the viewer, our representative of the media - is the one who could least handle the moment but did so by turning it into an image, something that could be documented and filed. Distancing himself from it in one of the ways that we all do. Otherwise, what would he do with that experience of seeing and smelling that death of an innocent? What action, what sense is there for him? What is there for us? We saw these deaths too, despite the control over what images went out, we saw civilians hurt and murdered.
I am finding this series to be complex, confronting, valuable. I'm not sure it should be called entertainment. I don't know what to think. More importantly, I don't know what to do.
Still not cheering, but definitely a fan.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Silences & Secrets [dull, self-indulgent post. No need to read, really]
I've been having trouble writing lately, and after a bit of reflection, I realise it's because I don't tell enough emotional truth.
When I don't acknowledge the depth of my feelings and hopes, I am clamping down on who I am in a way that doesn't actually benefit me, or anyone around me. I keep quiet about stuff, I tell myself a sanitised version of things. I'm not saying I should be in some kind of uncontrolled verbal-diarrhoea-type-state, but that effectively I'm spending a lot of my time in that wide and expansive place that has so much room for so many of us - De Nial. I keep my own secrets from myself so well that over time I forget them. I hold my opinion so quietly that after a while it fades away. While non-attachment is generally a good thing, I haven't been doing it right - my non-attachment has been a barely disguised form of giving up. That's not good.
I thought about this when I was watching New Amsterdam. One of the things I like about John is that he stays authentic to himself - he tells the truth. He lives his life, and accumulates and looses, relationships, knowledge, stuff, love, family. If the people around him paid attention to what he says, they'd soon figure out his secret, but most of them don't. This is the privacy we have in the modern world - disinterest. Is there a cost? Sure there is! He's treated like a nutter by most of his colleagues, but he holds this in balance with the freedom of living his own truth.
The cost in my life from trying to control everyting from changing, or being lost, or forgotten or hurting has been to slowly ossify in a set of behavious that I never really wanted, but seemed like a good compromise at the time. This is what makes my writing stilted and slightly forced, and quick to dry up - because the price of control is a closed, entropic system, slowly leaking energy towards stasis.
I guess that it effects other parts of my life, but I can't really see them. I can only see it through the prism of this one frustration. Everything else in my life I seem to fatalistically accept as my lot. This systemic link to my own (previously useful survivial) behaviours and the current broader state of impasse has slowly emerged in front of my mind like lemon juice on paper under heat - I swear it wasn't there a minute ago! But now that it is, I better make a copy of it before it fades (trap for the new players with the lemon juice thing!) and make a move.
When I don't acknowledge the depth of my feelings and hopes, I am clamping down on who I am in a way that doesn't actually benefit me, or anyone around me. I keep quiet about stuff, I tell myself a sanitised version of things. I'm not saying I should be in some kind of uncontrolled verbal-diarrhoea-type-state, but that effectively I'm spending a lot of my time in that wide and expansive place that has so much room for so many of us - De Nial. I keep my own secrets from myself so well that over time I forget them. I hold my opinion so quietly that after a while it fades away. While non-attachment is generally a good thing, I haven't been doing it right - my non-attachment has been a barely disguised form of giving up. That's not good.
I thought about this when I was watching New Amsterdam. One of the things I like about John is that he stays authentic to himself - he tells the truth. He lives his life, and accumulates and looses, relationships, knowledge, stuff, love, family. If the people around him paid attention to what he says, they'd soon figure out his secret, but most of them don't. This is the privacy we have in the modern world - disinterest. Is there a cost? Sure there is! He's treated like a nutter by most of his colleagues, but he holds this in balance with the freedom of living his own truth.
The cost in my life from trying to control everyting from changing, or being lost, or forgotten or hurting has been to slowly ossify in a set of behavious that I never really wanted, but seemed like a good compromise at the time. This is what makes my writing stilted and slightly forced, and quick to dry up - because the price of control is a closed, entropic system, slowly leaking energy towards stasis.
I guess that it effects other parts of my life, but I can't really see them. I can only see it through the prism of this one frustration. Everything else in my life I seem to fatalistically accept as my lot. This systemic link to my own (previously useful survivial) behaviours and the current broader state of impasse has slowly emerged in front of my mind like lemon juice on paper under heat - I swear it wasn't there a minute ago! But now that it is, I better make a copy of it before it fades (trap for the new players with the lemon juice thing!) and make a move.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Conversation
Having had a chance now to check both sides of the spectrum, I can confidently assert that good conversation is one of the greatest pleasures of the human condition. Not *the* greatest, obviously, but certainly in the top 10. Also, it has great longevity. Dancing vigorously, sex, winning races or tussles, child birth, these are a young person's game. Chess/Go, conversation, these kinds of pleasures of the mind last and last and last. As long as the mind does.
Apart from passing on one's genes, this is the source of the other immortality, to pass on a taste of the mind. Don't believe me? Think of an inspiring quote - there's your own proof - pretty unlikely you quoted your mum, or anyone else you've ever met for that matter.
It's not just about talking either, there's a big space for listening in the world. What a gift - to be heard.
Feel like a challenge? Give a good listen to someone today.
Apart from passing on one's genes, this is the source of the other immortality, to pass on a taste of the mind. Don't believe me? Think of an inspiring quote - there's your own proof - pretty unlikely you quoted your mum, or anyone else you've ever met for that matter.
It's not just about talking either, there's a big space for listening in the world. What a gift - to be heard.
Feel like a challenge? Give a good listen to someone today.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Touching Base
Ma often used to say "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" and it got to be ingrained. That's not a handy habit for a writer. Life's going on all around, but I don't want to seem like a whinger, so the habit is to clam it up. Swallow it down and get on with going through the motions.
Ma does it herself - a phone call will run out of steam, and she'll say "well, there's nothing else to report" as though we're talking just to entertain me. This last month or so, I've been doing that to myself. Not talking just to be in touch and shoot the breeze, no, it's been a bit "nothing to report" as though there has to be something newsworthy going on in order to say - hey - what's good for dinner? or how funny is it that Dumbledore's meant to be gay? Or, man, I am bored! It's tough to heal the breach when you're not talking to yourself. There's no-one to be the go-between.
The thing I like about this time of year is that there's a push to be in touch *anyway*. If you're into the G-d thing one way or the other, or summer solstice, or just the end of the year (please, please, let the next one bring the good stuff!!) you can just send a message saying "I'm thinking about you, and wishing nice things into your life" and I think that's just brilliant.
So this morning I feel like I'm back talking to myself, and we're patching things up. She's given me some chocolate and said sorry, and I've promised not to shut her out and pretend like nothing's happening. Yeah, it's getting better. Our world seemed to shrink a lot this year and that's quite a weird experience. I think we've passed through the worst of the transition now, and starting to find a way to inject a bit more imagination and humour into things without resorting to outright denial and escapism will be good. (Note future tense there - still learning!)
Anyway, from us and Riley to you and yours, for no reason at all, have a great weekend!
Ma does it herself - a phone call will run out of steam, and she'll say "well, there's nothing else to report" as though we're talking just to entertain me. This last month or so, I've been doing that to myself. Not talking just to be in touch and shoot the breeze, no, it's been a bit "nothing to report" as though there has to be something newsworthy going on in order to say - hey - what's good for dinner? or how funny is it that Dumbledore's meant to be gay? Or, man, I am bored! It's tough to heal the breach when you're not talking to yourself. There's no-one to be the go-between.
The thing I like about this time of year is that there's a push to be in touch *anyway*. If you're into the G-d thing one way or the other, or summer solstice, or just the end of the year (please, please, let the next one bring the good stuff!!) you can just send a message saying "I'm thinking about you, and wishing nice things into your life" and I think that's just brilliant.
So this morning I feel like I'm back talking to myself, and we're patching things up. She's given me some chocolate and said sorry, and I've promised not to shut her out and pretend like nothing's happening. Yeah, it's getting better. Our world seemed to shrink a lot this year and that's quite a weird experience. I think we've passed through the worst of the transition now, and starting to find a way to inject a bit more imagination and humour into things without resorting to outright denial and escapism will be good. (Note future tense there - still learning!)
Anyway, from us and Riley to you and yours, for no reason at all, have a great weekend!
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
The Ram Has Touched the Wall
Commitment is an odd creature, don't you find?
I have not had a close relationship with it so far during my life, so it has been an interesting experience lately as my wishes bring me closer and closer to what have always looked like shoals of certain destruction. I have sought out every other possible path to gaining what I want and they each ended in a cul-de-sac. One, untried and undesirable option left, to commit to living as an employee (not a contractor) to commit to the purchase of large items in the promise that their later (greater) value will support my dotage. Down this path I go, with much trepidation and an exit strategy tucked under one wing.
I have been escaping my own life by immersing myself in the life of Rome. I was bewitched by this, and have started again from the beginning of the series. There's so much to say about it, it will have to be another discussion. What I really wanted to turn over, was this one point, very early on, where Mark Anthony says, with a huge passion, "the ram has touched the wall!" and they're off! What the?!
The whole Roman way of life was a commitment in terms that are quite hard to reconcile with our modern/post-christian morals. This particular comment was compelling and I could not make out what it was about, but from the context it clearly had great importance.
So I looked it up, and here's a good explanation from someone else who's name I have lost:
"It was a strict policy of battle. When a city was to be under siege, they had a chance to give up, to submit to Rome’s rule. However, once the battering ram touched the outer wall of the city’s defenses, the commanding Roman officer was not allowed to accept surrender, was unable to give quarter or show mercy.”
“The policy was designed to put pressure on the enemy. If they weren’t absolutely sure they could withstand the siege, they better give up, because once the ram had touched the wall, that was it.”
That was it - indeed!
So here I am, feeling at once both under siege, and at the same time be-sieging my own previous life with these changes and desires for a future. Confused? Oh yes. If I wasn't cautious of mixing times and empires, I'd now segue into a Cassandra theme, but enough altogether.
Let it just be thus, as a koan to my world this week.
The ram has touched the wall.
I have not had a close relationship with it so far during my life, so it has been an interesting experience lately as my wishes bring me closer and closer to what have always looked like shoals of certain destruction. I have sought out every other possible path to gaining what I want and they each ended in a cul-de-sac. One, untried and undesirable option left, to commit to living as an employee (not a contractor) to commit to the purchase of large items in the promise that their later (greater) value will support my dotage. Down this path I go, with much trepidation and an exit strategy tucked under one wing.
I have been escaping my own life by immersing myself in the life of Rome. I was bewitched by this, and have started again from the beginning of the series. There's so much to say about it, it will have to be another discussion. What I really wanted to turn over, was this one point, very early on, where Mark Anthony says, with a huge passion, "the ram has touched the wall!" and they're off! What the?!
The whole Roman way of life was a commitment in terms that are quite hard to reconcile with our modern/post-christian morals. This particular comment was compelling and I could not make out what it was about, but from the context it clearly had great importance.
So I looked it up, and here's a good explanation from someone else who's name I have lost:
"It was a strict policy of battle. When a city was to be under siege, they had a chance to give up, to submit to Rome’s rule. However, once the battering ram touched the outer wall of the city’s defenses, the commanding Roman officer was not allowed to accept surrender, was unable to give quarter or show mercy.”
“The policy was designed to put pressure on the enemy. If they weren’t absolutely sure they could withstand the siege, they better give up, because once the ram had touched the wall, that was it.”
That was it - indeed!
So here I am, feeling at once both under siege, and at the same time be-sieging my own previous life with these changes and desires for a future. Confused? Oh yes. If I wasn't cautious of mixing times and empires, I'd now segue into a Cassandra theme, but enough altogether.
Let it just be thus, as a koan to my world this week.
The ram has touched the wall.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Money Changes People
The etymology of "stock exchange" came up today and that got me talking about the intriguing development of the idea of "currency" alongside the barter/unsecured coinage system that people used to get by with in local economies. Which linked over to the the quantum-self-help-guru world where money is referred to as "energy", and driving in the car this morning the thought that "money changes people" is often a derisive or negative thing to say.
You know what I mean, there's occasionally an interview with some new sensation where they assert "Money hasn't changed me" or won't or one of those variations.
I wonder why they want that money then if not to change? If not to enable a broader scope of activity, a change of venue or an expansion of influence, where is the motivation for the activity that results in the cash they apparently don't desire.
For some reason Russell Crowe came to mind. Now I don't think that he's ever been one to say anything this flaccid, but he's the kinda guy who *could* and it would make at least some sense. Liked rugby league, buys a league team.
But what about those people who say they would win lotto and keep working?! What's with that? Why buy the lotto ticket then? This sounds slightly white-shoe brigade, but it's not meant to be. Actually I'm coming at it more from a "wouldn't the world be better if more of us were more emotionally and creatively fulfilled - and wouldn't moving towards that state be the first thing you'd act on if you were given a wad of cash?" point of view.
I'm not saying that I expect everyone would open an orphanage or buy Sumatran rainforest to protect orangutans - but *some* people would. Other people might take up watercolours, or scuba diving, or leave the town they were born in and see some other parts of the country. Usually with a bit more of a smile, and a bit more patience at the red lights along the way. Most people harbour a secret desire and acting towards that, even partially, constitutes a change.
Ergo, I guess, when people say they "wouldn't change" they mean only in a *bad* way.
How frustrating then, that this useful word which is conceptually neutral seems to be loosing valency. For a positive meaning to the word "change" which words can we fall back on in English - "improvement"? Euch. How 80s.
So thinking back to the money as energy or within the context of currency... the entire structure we have for exchange, for transaction - it's all predicated on the supposition that all is in motion, that there is no true static point anyway.
The only static point in the entire universe then is in human minds where we think we can attain some perfect state and hold it. Despite how much money we may someday win in lotto.
You know what I mean, there's occasionally an interview with some new sensation where they assert "Money hasn't changed me" or won't or one of those variations.
I wonder why they want that money then if not to change? If not to enable a broader scope of activity, a change of venue or an expansion of influence, where is the motivation for the activity that results in the cash they apparently don't desire.
For some reason Russell Crowe came to mind. Now I don't think that he's ever been one to say anything this flaccid, but he's the kinda guy who *could* and it would make at least some sense. Liked rugby league, buys a league team.
But what about those people who say they would win lotto and keep working?! What's with that? Why buy the lotto ticket then? This sounds slightly white-shoe brigade, but it's not meant to be. Actually I'm coming at it more from a "wouldn't the world be better if more of us were more emotionally and creatively fulfilled - and wouldn't moving towards that state be the first thing you'd act on if you were given a wad of cash?" point of view.
I'm not saying that I expect everyone would open an orphanage or buy Sumatran rainforest to protect orangutans - but *some* people would. Other people might take up watercolours, or scuba diving, or leave the town they were born in and see some other parts of the country. Usually with a bit more of a smile, and a bit more patience at the red lights along the way. Most people harbour a secret desire and acting towards that, even partially, constitutes a change.
Ergo, I guess, when people say they "wouldn't change" they mean only in a *bad* way.
How frustrating then, that this useful word which is conceptually neutral seems to be loosing valency. For a positive meaning to the word "change" which words can we fall back on in English - "improvement"? Euch. How 80s.
So thinking back to the money as energy or within the context of currency... the entire structure we have for exchange, for transaction - it's all predicated on the supposition that all is in motion, that there is no true static point anyway.
The only static point in the entire universe then is in human minds where we think we can attain some perfect state and hold it. Despite how much money we may someday win in lotto.
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