Truth is something you discover, some element of the Out There you interact with for a greater understanding of the rest. Ideas, though, particularly true ones, are things created; articulated, defined creatures of thought. They are not themselves truth, but if your skill and style are good enough, they can point the way to it, show others the way to making their own discoveries.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Immersion(1)
I've understood for some time that there were unformed, perhaps unreal, elements to existence, things we pull into reality through cognition. Our being as willful, conscious entities is what permits this to take place, and such a perspective has done much to influence my developing metaphysical perspective; the idea of an ambiguous undertone to reality, an undefined yet characteristic basis for the formation of all structured ideas, is actually the inspiration behind this blog's title. This is yet a young idea in my thinking, shouldering the huge demands of my experience and perception and, as I hope to outline below, inevitably flawed in its description.
Start from the idea that things may either be known directly, or through reflection. You can experience something, the feeling of wind on your face or an emotion like bliss; or you can think over that experience, remembering how wind and joy felt at the time. As anyone with an appreciation for the value of hindsight will agree, these are very different kinds of knowing. The initial experience involves one sort of context, what I think of as the moment, which includes everything else that was being felt at the time: the sun on your face, the rustle of leaves above your head, a distant sound of birdsong. These amount to a single experience, of which wind on your face is but a single aspect.
Contrast this, then, with reflection, knowing in retrospect. Here context is changed to something quite different; where the moment presented wind on your face as part of a whole plethora of culminating experiences, memory sets it in the context of all that's happened since. If that feeling was followed immediately by the call of a lover, it might be remembered with excitement or contentment; if it presaged a rising thunderstorm, come to blast your favorite tree to smithereens, it would be recalled quite differently; if a bird shit on your head while the wind blew, memory might even make the feeling humorous and a bit gross. In any event, the feeling itself is essentially unchanged; yet in both, it is far from independent. Context and event describe and define each other, each contributing only partially to the other.
I mean to develop this idea further, but I think I need to understand it better before I can do it justice; just the thought that what I need to do about the idea is what the idea is about is enough to make my vision blurry at this point.
Start from the idea that things may either be known directly, or through reflection. You can experience something, the feeling of wind on your face or an emotion like bliss; or you can think over that experience, remembering how wind and joy felt at the time. As anyone with an appreciation for the value of hindsight will agree, these are very different kinds of knowing. The initial experience involves one sort of context, what I think of as the moment, which includes everything else that was being felt at the time: the sun on your face, the rustle of leaves above your head, a distant sound of birdsong. These amount to a single experience, of which wind on your face is but a single aspect.
Contrast this, then, with reflection, knowing in retrospect. Here context is changed to something quite different; where the moment presented wind on your face as part of a whole plethora of culminating experiences, memory sets it in the context of all that's happened since. If that feeling was followed immediately by the call of a lover, it might be remembered with excitement or contentment; if it presaged a rising thunderstorm, come to blast your favorite tree to smithereens, it would be recalled quite differently; if a bird shit on your head while the wind blew, memory might even make the feeling humorous and a bit gross. In any event, the feeling itself is essentially unchanged; yet in both, it is far from independent. Context and event describe and define each other, each contributing only partially to the other.
I mean to develop this idea further, but I think I need to understand it better before I can do it justice; just the thought that what I need to do about the idea is what the idea is about is enough to make my vision blurry at this point.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Mirrormirror
You wake up. The ceiling above your bed sees itself in you, see's all the selves it's ever been in you. Depending on how much you like those reflections you've cast, you leave home quick or slow or not at all.
It's morning, so this day has never seen itself in you before; there's potential there, at least. You seek out good things you can tell the day about itself: "Why look, I've finally stood up to my boss!", or "You're the first one I've worked out with in forever. Good job!", and so on; still, the day isn't the only one looking, and you'll have plenty of old reflections to contend with if you want to make it feel impressive.
People on the street are no help, strangers to themselves that they are, but maybe you make someone feel friendly or otherwise good about themselves. Either way you eventually find a familiar environment, school or work or whatever, where you pass everyone's day. The girls try to see how attractive they are, and mostly you oblige them; sometimes because they like themselves, but mostly just because they should; the boys look for how cool they are, and all you can do is your best impression of whatever that might mean. You're the place, whatever it is the place demands of itself; an endless line of strangers, with endless potential for casting creative reflections, is your only relief.
The day begins getting used to itself, and you to it, so the last thing you want to do is go back to the apartment that knows you so well; a quick stop for supplies is hard enough. Then, you wander.
Now it's you who get's to be the stranger, and the world your mirror; finally you can BE, not just reflect the being. No one asking you to treat them like they want to be, striking obvious poses; no walls caging you into monotonous scenes of who you've been between them. Just wind, and trees, and water; all swirling and flowing through each other, all changing and growing and moving. All being your perfect self, the self no one and nothing can ask to be perfect because you won't sit still long enough for them to pin you down and take your measure. The self that can be anything, not just an endless series of boring expectations.
But unless wandering is your profession, sooner or later your apartment beckons. You step willingly past the bars, close and lock the door yourself; because change, sublime, beautiful, thrilling change, is scary; being anybody is a big responsibility, though one you'll only ever have to yourself. So you settle for staring down the walls, making them see you for once, because maybe afterwards they'll a little different; bolder, perhaps, stronger or wiser. "That's good," you think, "that's who I'll show them. They'll believe that."
It's morning, so this day has never seen itself in you before; there's potential there, at least. You seek out good things you can tell the day about itself: "Why look, I've finally stood up to my boss!", or "You're the first one I've worked out with in forever. Good job!", and so on; still, the day isn't the only one looking, and you'll have plenty of old reflections to contend with if you want to make it feel impressive.
People on the street are no help, strangers to themselves that they are, but maybe you make someone feel friendly or otherwise good about themselves. Either way you eventually find a familiar environment, school or work or whatever, where you pass everyone's day. The girls try to see how attractive they are, and mostly you oblige them; sometimes because they like themselves, but mostly just because they should; the boys look for how cool they are, and all you can do is your best impression of whatever that might mean. You're the place, whatever it is the place demands of itself; an endless line of strangers, with endless potential for casting creative reflections, is your only relief.
The day begins getting used to itself, and you to it, so the last thing you want to do is go back to the apartment that knows you so well; a quick stop for supplies is hard enough. Then, you wander.
Now it's you who get's to be the stranger, and the world your mirror; finally you can BE, not just reflect the being. No one asking you to treat them like they want to be, striking obvious poses; no walls caging you into monotonous scenes of who you've been between them. Just wind, and trees, and water; all swirling and flowing through each other, all changing and growing and moving. All being your perfect self, the self no one and nothing can ask to be perfect because you won't sit still long enough for them to pin you down and take your measure. The self that can be anything, not just an endless series of boring expectations.
But unless wandering is your profession, sooner or later your apartment beckons. You step willingly past the bars, close and lock the door yourself; because change, sublime, beautiful, thrilling change, is scary; being anybody is a big responsibility, though one you'll only ever have to yourself. So you settle for staring down the walls, making them see you for once, because maybe afterwards they'll a little different; bolder, perhaps, stronger or wiser. "That's good," you think, "that's who I'll show them. They'll believe that."
Monday, September 5, 2011
Broken
A real-life PERSONAL update. Like, about me, not just stuff. Enjoy :)
I'm not satisfied with being broken, is I think why I do this. I'm sensitive, and life is life, and somewhere between the two I took a beating or three and learned to be scared. This fear, of people and things that people do, inspired me to absent myself from their company for much of my early life; I sat in corners and read, hoping I'd be left alone. I'd cry, or scream at them sometimes, when they'd out me for being distant and strange like being distant makes you, which of course just reinforced the problem(jesus I can still taste that pain like acid in the back of my throat..). That distance, in turn, removed me from a lot of important social development activities; I usually had a friend, and sometimes even several, so I'm not entirely sure where this impression of my past comes from. That running-away habit when things got hard, maybe? Possibly that I kept quiet through most group activities so I could pretend I was included the way everyone else way. I'm really not sure.
I grew, but kept being scared, and so kept avoiding people(maybe that's it, I just couldn't bring myself to like them through that fear). I had friends, because people usually like me, but something remained off about it. While I was twenty-one, I hit a psychological low point where I just hated existing. I've never had an instinct for suicide, so maybe I don't know as much of suffering as others who do, and even then I never wanted to die. I just didn't want to exist, alive or dead or oblivious or scared or confused, anymore. It likely didn't help that my life was particularly stressful at the time; I'd just dropped out of college without really meaning to, was working 60-hour weeks of boring night shifts with little sleep, making up for that with heavy amphetamine abuse, and this all contributed to my being much more socially isolated than usual, leaving me to stew in that poisonous atmosphere I'd created.
Things got bad, but life never stands still. The job ended, I had a decent chunk of money set aside from it, so I picked up an old habit and ran. I left my home behind, because that's where I was the person who hated existing. I went somewhere else, started work on healing myself, and have been at it ever since. Thing is, I think maybe I've been dodging around the central problem. I've picked up some great skills, to be sure, improved my bodily health immensely and, more recently, reached some sublime insights. But still I run, and still I hide; I don't think cowardice is the right word, because I don't hide from knowing this. Weakness, maybe?
Broken I am, but that's not what I want to be. I'm not content to be like a recovering alcoholic, making the most of the mess left behind by the problem they almost died trying to figure out. This may well get worse before I have it figured out, but the battle is making me stronger and wiser, and I think I can do it.
Because weak I may be, but I'm also smart. Like, really smart, and confident enough in my intelligence to take on the big problems no one's ever made it back from; also possibly just mad, but in either event I think a lot and come up with really useful conclusions. I really don't believe in anything I can't figure out, though I'm sure there are issues I'll need to grow into before I can overcome them. I won't run from this. I'm scared to death of losing it, but if I must then it'll just be one more thing, won't it?
I'm not satisfied with being broken, is I think why I do this. I'm sensitive, and life is life, and somewhere between the two I took a beating or three and learned to be scared. This fear, of people and things that people do, inspired me to absent myself from their company for much of my early life; I sat in corners and read, hoping I'd be left alone. I'd cry, or scream at them sometimes, when they'd out me for being distant and strange like being distant makes you, which of course just reinforced the problem(jesus I can still taste that pain like acid in the back of my throat..). That distance, in turn, removed me from a lot of important social development activities; I usually had a friend, and sometimes even several, so I'm not entirely sure where this impression of my past comes from. That running-away habit when things got hard, maybe? Possibly that I kept quiet through most group activities so I could pretend I was included the way everyone else way. I'm really not sure.
I grew, but kept being scared, and so kept avoiding people(maybe that's it, I just couldn't bring myself to like them through that fear). I had friends, because people usually like me, but something remained off about it. While I was twenty-one, I hit a psychological low point where I just hated existing. I've never had an instinct for suicide, so maybe I don't know as much of suffering as others who do, and even then I never wanted to die. I just didn't want to exist, alive or dead or oblivious or scared or confused, anymore. It likely didn't help that my life was particularly stressful at the time; I'd just dropped out of college without really meaning to, was working 60-hour weeks of boring night shifts with little sleep, making up for that with heavy amphetamine abuse, and this all contributed to my being much more socially isolated than usual, leaving me to stew in that poisonous atmosphere I'd created.
Things got bad, but life never stands still. The job ended, I had a decent chunk of money set aside from it, so I picked up an old habit and ran. I left my home behind, because that's where I was the person who hated existing. I went somewhere else, started work on healing myself, and have been at it ever since. Thing is, I think maybe I've been dodging around the central problem. I've picked up some great skills, to be sure, improved my bodily health immensely and, more recently, reached some sublime insights. But still I run, and still I hide; I don't think cowardice is the right word, because I don't hide from knowing this. Weakness, maybe?
Broken I am, but that's not what I want to be. I'm not content to be like a recovering alcoholic, making the most of the mess left behind by the problem they almost died trying to figure out. This may well get worse before I have it figured out, but the battle is making me stronger and wiser, and I think I can do it.
Because weak I may be, but I'm also smart. Like, really smart, and confident enough in my intelligence to take on the big problems no one's ever made it back from; also possibly just mad, but in either event I think a lot and come up with really useful conclusions. I really don't believe in anything I can't figure out, though I'm sure there are issues I'll need to grow into before I can overcome them. I won't run from this. I'm scared to death of losing it, but if I must then it'll just be one more thing, won't it?
Friday, September 2, 2011
Fool (v.2)
As a person, there is something fundamentally upsetting about discovering that I am wrong. My confidence in my ability to asses and describe the world is shaken and, what's often more distressing, I am shamed before my fellow persons as a fool. And yet rationally, I know that I don't know everything; philosophically, I've even determined that the idea of such a feat of knowledge is inherently untenable; that truth is not one final fact or facts, but rather a series of discoveries, points describing a path of increasing knowledge along an ever-widening, circular course broadening out from the known to the better-known.
Still, a teacher shuts down my suggested answer in calculus class, and my face goes red; my carefully thought out structuring of some chunk of (un)reality runs up against an insurmountable contradiction, and depression ensues.
Discovering personal error is not fun; the sensation of cognitive dissonance, recognition of a deeply fundamental error in one's thinking, is downright painful. And yet such experiences are essential to the discovery of new knowledge, the creation of new wisdom.
It is tempting, in recognizing the ultimate ineffability of pretty much everything, to throw up one's hands in frustration at the uselessness of attempting to draw conclusions. We must inevitably be wrong, or at least inadequately right, so why bother trying? Should we not just accept that we can never know, or at least never really know, and thus enjoy the unassailable position of the agnostic with regard to all things? To be sure, this can be a very comfortable position, much as any renunciation of hope affords certain freedoms; you'd never need worry that you'll be proven wrong, and no new discovery can ever rattle your cage for, lo and behold, you have no cage to rattle! Free from any and all illusions, yes sir!
For one, this notion of one's position is itself illusory; any sane person stands on certain assumptions about the world (that time is sequential, for example, or that you can't fall through the ground if you forget it's solid) which would shatter that sanity were they disproved. But even were one to maintain a lifetime of such delusory fence-sitting, it would be a lifetime wasted on comfort. Before an idea can be criticized and defined as false, likely, partially salvageable, etc., it must be accepted as true, at least provisionally. To say that an idea is definitely true or false because (insert argument here), while maintaining that future evidence or arguments may very well reverse one's position on said idea, is real skepticism and the path of increased knowledge and wisdom. To assert that one can never really know, and so should not even try, is an honest apprehension of reality met with laziness and/or cowardice. It's a sort of cheating, try to be always right by claiming nothing more than one's own ignorance; possibly one of the few positions for which the claim could be accurate.
Still, a teacher shuts down my suggested answer in calculus class, and my face goes red; my carefully thought out structuring of some chunk of (un)reality runs up against an insurmountable contradiction, and depression ensues.
Discovering personal error is not fun; the sensation of cognitive dissonance, recognition of a deeply fundamental error in one's thinking, is downright painful. And yet such experiences are essential to the discovery of new knowledge, the creation of new wisdom.
It is tempting, in recognizing the ultimate ineffability of pretty much everything, to throw up one's hands in frustration at the uselessness of attempting to draw conclusions. We must inevitably be wrong, or at least inadequately right, so why bother trying? Should we not just accept that we can never know, or at least never really know, and thus enjoy the unassailable position of the agnostic with regard to all things? To be sure, this can be a very comfortable position, much as any renunciation of hope affords certain freedoms; you'd never need worry that you'll be proven wrong, and no new discovery can ever rattle your cage for, lo and behold, you have no cage to rattle! Free from any and all illusions, yes sir!
For one, this notion of one's position is itself illusory; any sane person stands on certain assumptions about the world (that time is sequential, for example, or that you can't fall through the ground if you forget it's solid) which would shatter that sanity were they disproved. But even were one to maintain a lifetime of such delusory fence-sitting, it would be a lifetime wasted on comfort. Before an idea can be criticized and defined as false, likely, partially salvageable, etc., it must be accepted as true, at least provisionally. To say that an idea is definitely true or false because (insert argument here), while maintaining that future evidence or arguments may very well reverse one's position on said idea, is real skepticism and the path of increased knowledge and wisdom. To assert that one can never really know, and so should not even try, is an honest apprehension of reality met with laziness and/or cowardice. It's a sort of cheating, try to be always right by claiming nothing more than one's own ignorance; possibly one of the few positions for which the claim could be accurate.
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