as a remedy to temptation, it was once believed that you could consider the ending (i.e., the consequence) of an action, and weigh it against the possible "rewards" of any indisgression (sp?).
BUT:
when taken too far, this deadens life. after all, you could look at the entirety of life, and say that we all end up dead. if that's the case, what's the use (significance) of all our "flapping about" in the interim???
martin heidegger, in sein und zeit (being and time), adopted a similarly buddhistic outlook. death (the end) gives meaning to each action. if the end is considered in all activities, then presumably all activities are directed (focused) towards meaning, and are not "frivolous" or "distracting."
the "problem" is that we are living a story that we are not the author to. we are not privvy to when the ending will precisely take place. therefore, as we do not know what end we are headed towards, or how long we have before we "arrive" (at that destination of non-arrival), how can we "organize" our lives towards that end?
it's funny that typically, in our society, certain knowledge of the end (i.e. you have six months to live) brings about a kind of radical mid-life crisis (end-life crisis?) in which people are expected to do all of these things that they'd "meant to do" or "always secretly wanted to do"; in the movies, people act really crazy and irrational, jumping out of airplanes or riding bulls.
from an outside perspective, it sometimes seems pretty silly... but then again, there is a real energetic going on. it's like all of this energy has been saved up, conserved, so that a person could sustain him/herself over the next day and the next and the next; and suddenly, that person realizes that s/he was saving it up for nothing. no gain. no loss. and then that energy explodes.
... i mentioned this previously, with regards to reversals of cliche platitudes. "live each day as though it were your last" converted to "live your last day as though it were each [every] day." i still believe this is true. not that i am physically able to take care of everything that needs to be taken care of... far from it! but i try to live in such a way that, were i to die tonight, well, i'd have no real regrets...
funny, on a blog devoted to regrets, to speak of having none...
but i'm beginning to realize what regrets are. if you see that regret and hope are two sides of the same coin, and that regret is the shadow of a lost hope, and hope is the risk of another regret, then BOTH cease to become very problematic. regret and hope are just a natural part of life, just as memory and projection are natural "tools" in our progression through life. neither are particularly good or bad. it's just the fixation on one or the other, and the inability to see life as it is that becomes- imbalanced...
Friday, May 30, 2008
untoad story, first life, continuation
He hears a distant scraping roar, and other voices, not his brother’s. He peers far to his left, towards the other end of the long canal, the end opposite the tunnel. He sees a couple of familiar figures, the two skaters of his neighborhood, Jason and Troy, doing half-pipes on the inclines. They, like his brother’s friends, haven’t eyes low enough to see him. So he pretends not to see them. He folds his forearms across his eyes, trying to black out the world.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
The young boy obediently gets up, stands clumsily, brushing the dust off his back.
Jason peers down the length of his rat-shaped nose. “So, where’s your brother?”
The young boy nods towards the tunnel. It’s still possible to hear, faintly, echoes bouncing off the dirty concrete walls. Jason has to believe him.
Jason stares at the tunnel for a few seconds at least. Then, he shakes his head slowly, like a dog shedding water in slow motion. When he looks at the young boy again, it’s so that he can smile through him.
“Listen, kid.” He leans out, the arm gripping the chain link extending straight, his only anchor. “What’s your name again?”
Jason had never asked him his name before, so the “again” part’s just his way of being friendly. As if he had once had even a passing thought of him.
“Randy,” murmurs the young boy.
It’s pretty clear that Jason doesn’t hear the name, but it’s also quite clear that he doesn’t particularly care. “Well, kid,” he continues, “your brother’s not always around.” Jason’s weaselly eyes roll around, as if to drive home the point. “And if you tell him, well, you might feel safe for a little while. But when you’re by yourself, just like you are now, then.”
He leaves it at that.
And then he nods to Troy.
Before Randy realizes what’s going on, Troy pushes him from behind so that he falls into the concrete slope. He feels the wind rush out of him as his chest slams hard. He places his small palms beside him to push himself back up, but Troy plants a foot firmly into the small of his back.
“I wouldn’t get up if I were you,” he calls, laughing, from somewhere up above. Troy’s foot springs off Randy’s back, leaving a sharply painful footprint.
And that’s when he hears the sound.
Randy turns his head towards it, even as it deafens him, the sound of a phonebook tearing. He sees the eating edge of green plastic wheels spinning hungrily towards his head.
And then, for a moment, Randy blanks out.
When he comes to, his throat is hoarse, and he feels warm wetness between his legs, his pants legs sticking to his thighs.
Dim and fuzzy at first, he hears voices.
“Whoo hoo!” he hears. It’s Troy. “You did it!”
Jason’s voice is breathless, but struggling to remain calm, nonchalant. “Check it out,” he chuckles. “The runt wet himself.”
“Yo, we better get out of here,” Troy says giddily. “That kid screams like a fucking girl.”
And then Randy hears the two of them, Jason and Troy, running up the slope beside him to a wire-cut hole in the chain-link fence, and from there, out into the weedelia field.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
The young boy obediently gets up, stands clumsily, brushing the dust off his back.
Jason peers down the length of his rat-shaped nose. “So, where’s your brother?”
The young boy nods towards the tunnel. It’s still possible to hear, faintly, echoes bouncing off the dirty concrete walls. Jason has to believe him.
Jason stares at the tunnel for a few seconds at least. Then, he shakes his head slowly, like a dog shedding water in slow motion. When he looks at the young boy again, it’s so that he can smile through him.
“Listen, kid.” He leans out, the arm gripping the chain link extending straight, his only anchor. “What’s your name again?”
Jason had never asked him his name before, so the “again” part’s just his way of being friendly. As if he had once had even a passing thought of him.
“Randy,” murmurs the young boy.
It’s pretty clear that Jason doesn’t hear the name, but it’s also quite clear that he doesn’t particularly care. “Well, kid,” he continues, “your brother’s not always around.” Jason’s weaselly eyes roll around, as if to drive home the point. “And if you tell him, well, you might feel safe for a little while. But when you’re by yourself, just like you are now, then.”
He leaves it at that.
And then he nods to Troy.
Before Randy realizes what’s going on, Troy pushes him from behind so that he falls into the concrete slope. He feels the wind rush out of him as his chest slams hard. He places his small palms beside him to push himself back up, but Troy plants a foot firmly into the small of his back.
“I wouldn’t get up if I were you,” he calls, laughing, from somewhere up above. Troy’s foot springs off Randy’s back, leaving a sharply painful footprint.
And that’s when he hears the sound.
Randy turns his head towards it, even as it deafens him, the sound of a phonebook tearing. He sees the eating edge of green plastic wheels spinning hungrily towards his head.
And then, for a moment, Randy blanks out.
When he comes to, his throat is hoarse, and he feels warm wetness between his legs, his pants legs sticking to his thighs.
Dim and fuzzy at first, he hears voices.
“Whoo hoo!” he hears. It’s Troy. “You did it!”
Jason’s voice is breathless, but struggling to remain calm, nonchalant. “Check it out,” he chuckles. “The runt wet himself.”
“Yo, we better get out of here,” Troy says giddily. “That kid screams like a fucking girl.”
And then Randy hears the two of them, Jason and Troy, running up the slope beside him to a wire-cut hole in the chain-link fence, and from there, out into the weedelia field.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
begging the question
FROM: http://www.nizkor.org/features/fallacies/begging-the-question.html
What is "Begging the Question?"
"Begging the question" is a form of logical fallacy in which a statement or claim is assumed to be true without evidence other than the statement or claim itself. When one begs the question, the initial assumption of a statement is treated as already proven without any logic to show why the statement is true in the first place.
A simple example would be "I think he is unattractive because he is ugly." The adjective "ugly" does not explain why the subject is "unattractive" -- they virtually amount to the same subjective meaning, and the proof is merely a restatement of the premise. The sentence has begged the question.
What is it Not?
To beg the question does not mean "to raise the question." (e.g. "It begs the question, why is he so dumb?") This is a common error of usage made by those who mistake the word "question" in the phrase to refer to a literal question. Sadly, the error has grown more and more common with time, such that even journalists, advertisers, and major mass media entities have fallen prey to "BTQ Abuse."
While descriptivists and other such laissez-faire linguists are content to allow the misconception to fall into the vernacular, it cannot be denied that logic and philosophy stand to lose an important conceptual label should the meaning of BTQ become diluted to the point that we must constantly distinguish between the traditional usage and the erroneous "modern" usage. This is why we fight.
What is "Begging the Question?"
"Begging the question" is a form of logical fallacy in which a statement or claim is assumed to be true without evidence other than the statement or claim itself. When one begs the question, the initial assumption of a statement is treated as already proven without any logic to show why the statement is true in the first place.
A simple example would be "I think he is unattractive because he is ugly." The adjective "ugly" does not explain why the subject is "unattractive" -- they virtually amount to the same subjective meaning, and the proof is merely a restatement of the premise. The sentence has begged the question.
What is it Not?
To beg the question does not mean "to raise the question." (e.g. "It begs the question, why is he so dumb?") This is a common error of usage made by those who mistake the word "question" in the phrase to refer to a literal question. Sadly, the error has grown more and more common with time, such that even journalists, advertisers, and major mass media entities have fallen prey to "BTQ Abuse."
While descriptivists and other such laissez-faire linguists are content to allow the misconception to fall into the vernacular, it cannot be denied that logic and philosophy stand to lose an important conceptual label should the meaning of BTQ become diluted to the point that we must constantly distinguish between the traditional usage and the erroneous "modern" usage. This is why we fight.
a philosophical question
does it make sense to say that something has meaning "in and of itself?"
what does that mean, in practical (not just mathematical) terms? is it a kind of symmetry (frankly, the only kind of symmetry experienced in my life tends to be absurd/meaningless, i.e., the ironic symmetry of the "return trip down")? or is it a kind of sense of structure? is internally consistent meaning something similar to the japanese character for sincerity, that the heart "means what it says?" and if so, then doesn't meaning relate to speaking, and isn't speaking/language the "external" structuring of thoughts?
how can such immanent meaning even be aware of itself? how can it see that it is consistent? consistent with what?
just messing with these questions. honestly, i'd rather avoid them completely. philosophical issues are fundamentally irresolvable, i think. at some point, faith jumps into the picture, with its "leaps." and then we just realize we're jumping to conclusions. always jumping.
philosophy as such entertains. but living is an entirely different animal. it has its own motivations. its own meanings. just because we question what those meanings are doesn't mean that we can or even want to change them in any way. if anything, philosophy just makes most people feel acutely the absurdity of their existence.
it does for me, anyway.
... but then again, maybe absurdity is at the heart of civilization. it is the attempt to distance oneself. and maybe if we are, like, totally far out, then we can forget what we used to be, and what we are.
what does that mean, in practical (not just mathematical) terms? is it a kind of symmetry (frankly, the only kind of symmetry experienced in my life tends to be absurd/meaningless, i.e., the ironic symmetry of the "return trip down")? or is it a kind of sense of structure? is internally consistent meaning something similar to the japanese character for sincerity, that the heart "means what it says?" and if so, then doesn't meaning relate to speaking, and isn't speaking/language the "external" structuring of thoughts?
how can such immanent meaning even be aware of itself? how can it see that it is consistent? consistent with what?
just messing with these questions. honestly, i'd rather avoid them completely. philosophical issues are fundamentally irresolvable, i think. at some point, faith jumps into the picture, with its "leaps." and then we just realize we're jumping to conclusions. always jumping.
philosophy as such entertains. but living is an entirely different animal. it has its own motivations. its own meanings. just because we question what those meanings are doesn't mean that we can or even want to change them in any way. if anything, philosophy just makes most people feel acutely the absurdity of their existence.
it does for me, anyway.
... but then again, maybe absurdity is at the heart of civilization. it is the attempt to distance oneself. and maybe if we are, like, totally far out, then we can forget what we used to be, and what we are.
fear of irrelevance
we are a cognitive and a literary society.
even if a large percentage of us don't actively "think" or "read," our consciousness seems structured in cognitive and literary ways. for example, our greatest societal and individual fears have more to do with cognitive and literary "breakdowns" than with "real" material concerns.
here's a list of fears that i have, which i believe most people nowadays share:
fear of forgetting (alzheimer's), greater than that other debilitating disease, parkinson's (inability to control motor functions)
fear of being forgotten
fear of being humiliated
fear of being irrelevant
and my greatest fear: that my children will experience meaningless suffering, or pass on before i do...
these are some of the fears that I have. and you can consider them all, in one form or another, related to thinking or "stories" (issues which are themselves intimately tied together).
death in itself, for me anyway, ceases to have as much stigma as it used to. sure, there are grotesque and awful and drawn out ways to die, but in the end, well, it's just the end, isn't it? and, face it, FACE IT, no, really! FACE IT! we all go in the end. no one's found the immortality pill yet. the best they've done is botox or cosmetic surgery to make your skin stretch over your dying insides.
but the loss of meaning or honor, why, issues like that seem less easy to stomach. which is my point. i am, and maybe we are, a society that lives and breathes a "storybook life." and in stories, people suffer and die all the time. but a good story needs to retain a semblance of meaning, and draw a certain degree of interest from its readers, or it becomes unread and forgotten. and so, what i fear, and maybe what others fear, is that the story (our lives), with all its plot twists, doesn't make sense, is unconvincing, or is unreadable, and hence only worthy of being forgotten, irrelevant, etc.
arguably, the issue of children is also related to meaning, although i'm not so selfish as all that. my fear for my children is a much more visceral thing. i would gladly die if i could spare my kids real suffering... they are, quite frankly, the only reason i am alive...
...(doubting my own statements)...
... hmmm... actually, i think that most of the fears i cited above are just re-incarnations of the death fear. it's just that we imagine that if we "survive" in memory (whether in the memory of individuals we've known, or in "cultural memory"), then we've achieved a degree of immortality (in the sense that we become relevant so long as someone remembers us)... BUT in actuality, that too will come to an end.
ultimately, we will all be forgotten and irrelevant. ALL OF US.
... so what's the use of crying? or being afraid?
... (more reflection)...
i come back to my children. i look upon them, see how each new thought forms spontaneously within them, how their expressions and gestures explode unbidden, ignited by that spark within their eyes...
this is what i fear for. the loss of children (mine in particular). the end of the possibility for other possibilities. death can cancel ME out, and the world could forget me completely. who cares, i'm old hat... but spare the children. let them live a story of their own, let their stories at least come to the same point where i am now, having lived long enough to have the equanimity to face my own individual end in peace.
even if a large percentage of us don't actively "think" or "read," our consciousness seems structured in cognitive and literary ways. for example, our greatest societal and individual fears have more to do with cognitive and literary "breakdowns" than with "real" material concerns.
here's a list of fears that i have, which i believe most people nowadays share:
fear of forgetting (alzheimer's), greater than that other debilitating disease, parkinson's (inability to control motor functions)
fear of being forgotten
fear of being humiliated
fear of being irrelevant
and my greatest fear: that my children will experience meaningless suffering, or pass on before i do...
these are some of the fears that I have. and you can consider them all, in one form or another, related to thinking or "stories" (issues which are themselves intimately tied together).
death in itself, for me anyway, ceases to have as much stigma as it used to. sure, there are grotesque and awful and drawn out ways to die, but in the end, well, it's just the end, isn't it? and, face it, FACE IT, no, really! FACE IT! we all go in the end. no one's found the immortality pill yet. the best they've done is botox or cosmetic surgery to make your skin stretch over your dying insides.
but the loss of meaning or honor, why, issues like that seem less easy to stomach. which is my point. i am, and maybe we are, a society that lives and breathes a "storybook life." and in stories, people suffer and die all the time. but a good story needs to retain a semblance of meaning, and draw a certain degree of interest from its readers, or it becomes unread and forgotten. and so, what i fear, and maybe what others fear, is that the story (our lives), with all its plot twists, doesn't make sense, is unconvincing, or is unreadable, and hence only worthy of being forgotten, irrelevant, etc.
arguably, the issue of children is also related to meaning, although i'm not so selfish as all that. my fear for my children is a much more visceral thing. i would gladly die if i could spare my kids real suffering... they are, quite frankly, the only reason i am alive...
...(doubting my own statements)...
... hmmm... actually, i think that most of the fears i cited above are just re-incarnations of the death fear. it's just that we imagine that if we "survive" in memory (whether in the memory of individuals we've known, or in "cultural memory"), then we've achieved a degree of immortality (in the sense that we become relevant so long as someone remembers us)... BUT in actuality, that too will come to an end.
ultimately, we will all be forgotten and irrelevant. ALL OF US.
... so what's the use of crying? or being afraid?
... (more reflection)...
i come back to my children. i look upon them, see how each new thought forms spontaneously within them, how their expressions and gestures explode unbidden, ignited by that spark within their eyes...
this is what i fear for. the loss of children (mine in particular). the end of the possibility for other possibilities. death can cancel ME out, and the world could forget me completely. who cares, i'm old hat... but spare the children. let them live a story of their own, let their stories at least come to the same point where i am now, having lived long enough to have the equanimity to face my own individual end in peace.
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