Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Monday, 22 March 2010
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
Sunday, 14 March 2010
1
Unfortunately my first properish art-work not knowing anything about how to protect it from damage, & so much damage & detail lost & vain attempts to re-do later, this what survives or exists in place of the original it.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Language, Antinomy - Again
In a post on Kant's Antinomies I said the truth of any language statement rests upon the inescapable foundation of language's truthfulness or meaningfulness, and this is why the antinomy is a false notion simply on principle. One knows this to be so without having to look at whatever particular antinomy may be in question, as this seeks to declare mutually incompatible language statements to be capable of co-existence, i.e. that they can contradict each other. A commenter sought to explain two plus two equals four being true not because it is a consistent statement of language but because it reflects the external world. However mathematics is an autonomous language that needs no reference to a world 'beyond itself'. The very thought of a world beyond itself has no place within the language of mathematics; it is a meaningless intervention within that mathematical language, the same as it would make no sense within the score for a piece of music. That the world or language of mathematics does reflect or correspond to the forms of the natural world, even at the most abstract, complex levels is because this intelligence imbues all of existence, the human mind included. Life and the intelligence intrinsic to life animates all within life. Life is not divided against itself. And so ordinary language that is self-contradictory is merely a false use of language that will be found to be simply erroneous.
However the language of ordinary discourse unlike that of mathematics is not entirely autonomous; that is, all that is referred to cannot all be contained on the page. However, many language statements cannot be said principally to point to some external reality, and are a matter of the correct working of language. An example below from an earlier post:
An idea extremely prevalent in the current era is that everything is equally valid. For instance you cannot, you will be told, say that one work of art is greater than another because of this equal validity of everything. So a quick look at the logic at play here.
Everything is equally valid. Therefore all statements are equally valid. And an example of one such statement within the totality of equally valid statements is that:
Everything is not equally valid.
And so if everything is not equally valid, then the first statement that everything is equally valid is false. So the statement of all being equally valid contains within itself its own disproof.
So the truthfulness of this was purely a matter of language and the equal validity of all was shown to be self-contradictory and so false. The idea of all being equally valid violates the necessary internal logic of language. Were there no such intrinsic order or intelligence to language, then no statements could be said to make any sense. However there are uses of language whose truth or falsehood rests also on their correctly referring to the world they allegedly point to. So, 'I am now standing on my head reciting a nursery rhyme' is a false statement as I am not doing those things. However as a matter of language it is fine. No such false statements can exist within mathematics.Statements within that field are purely autonomous. If it is true as a matter of mathematical language then it is true.
Someone might then think that statements of ordinary language are not primarily a matter of the internal logic or intelligence of that language, and so for one to say that 'I am wearing black shoes,' is true solely on the basis of whether it reflects that particular case. If he is wearing black shoes then it is true, and language has nothing to do with it. However any statement of language is existentially a statement of language, and if that person were to say instead, 'Black I wearing shoes am', then that would be not a reflection of anything but simply gibberish. It fails as a matter of language. So even the simple statement of wearing black shoes must first be a sensible matter of language. All language in the sense of a truth tool inescapably just so rests on the internal meaningfulness and logic of that language, which again can lead us back to the antinomy or paradox as simply a wrong use of language.
However the language of ordinary discourse unlike that of mathematics is not entirely autonomous; that is, all that is referred to cannot all be contained on the page. However, many language statements cannot be said principally to point to some external reality, and are a matter of the correct working of language. An example below from an earlier post:
An idea extremely prevalent in the current era is that everything is equally valid. For instance you cannot, you will be told, say that one work of art is greater than another because of this equal validity of everything. So a quick look at the logic at play here.
Everything is equally valid. Therefore all statements are equally valid. And an example of one such statement within the totality of equally valid statements is that:
Everything is not equally valid.
And so if everything is not equally valid, then the first statement that everything is equally valid is false. So the statement of all being equally valid contains within itself its own disproof.
So the truthfulness of this was purely a matter of language and the equal validity of all was shown to be self-contradictory and so false. The idea of all being equally valid violates the necessary internal logic of language. Were there no such intrinsic order or intelligence to language, then no statements could be said to make any sense. However there are uses of language whose truth or falsehood rests also on their correctly referring to the world they allegedly point to. So, 'I am now standing on my head reciting a nursery rhyme' is a false statement as I am not doing those things. However as a matter of language it is fine. No such false statements can exist within mathematics.Statements within that field are purely autonomous. If it is true as a matter of mathematical language then it is true.
Someone might then think that statements of ordinary language are not primarily a matter of the internal logic or intelligence of that language, and so for one to say that 'I am wearing black shoes,' is true solely on the basis of whether it reflects that particular case. If he is wearing black shoes then it is true, and language has nothing to do with it. However any statement of language is existentially a statement of language, and if that person were to say instead, 'Black I wearing shoes am', then that would be not a reflection of anything but simply gibberish. It fails as a matter of language. So even the simple statement of wearing black shoes must first be a sensible matter of language. All language in the sense of a truth tool inescapably just so rests on the internal meaningfulness and logic of that language, which again can lead us back to the antinomy or paradox as simply a wrong use of language.
Friday, 26 February 2010
Nietzsche and Conscience
Opening randomly the book Nietzsche in Turin, I met the line talking of Ecce Homo, "In Nietzsche's case he makes himself fearless, noble, without psychological murk, combative, untainted by Christian notions of sin and conscience."
The idea here is of the idea of sin and conscience as being diseased false impositions on the free self. While the inculcation of feelings of guilt regarding one's very human existence, as with much of traditional organised religion, is of course just so diseased, still the existence of conscience as a reaction to 'sin' is an inseparable aspect of being human. The conscience is the barometer to our self-realising. Just as action and reaction exists in the physical domain, the same applies in the inner sense. For a human to be not possessed of a conscience would be to be a diabolical automaton, who for instance could sexually abuse a child, and feel no inner consequent reality. The whole attempt to deny the existence of sin and conscience is an infantile form of materialism where the world of cause and effect, held so very dear, comes to a total stop where the world of consciousness is concerned. Cause and effect are attempted to be done away it in the field of consciousness.
I've written here in earlier pieces on gnosticism, where the individual tries to flee from 'flawed' human existence back into a spiritual perfection, and Nietzsche's here, as is the general attempt to deny the existence of sin, is a similar, more contemporary form of this same fleeing. Rather than face a world that includes pain, sorrow, etc., one attempts to deny these impediments' very existence, thus leaping over these obstacles to one's perceived happiness. However the famous Beyond Good and Evil is very much a manifestation of evil if one sees its necessary implications where the most evil actions like child abuse and mass murder are excused as not evil at all. Rather than a freedom beyond the concepts of good and evil, it is more a case of Beneath Good and Evil. The man in truth of course doesn't need those concepts to be in truth, it is an inner living truth rather than an ideologically sustained one, but the concepts themselves do refer to genuine realities, and the attempt to deny this is as said the modern equivalent of the gnostic unable or unwilling to cope with reality fleeing from existence into a spiritually immature version of same, where an intrinsic aspect of being, the conscience, is declared to be hacked off, and that the words 'good' and 'evil' simply don't refer to any external reality, that they are essentially unreal words. And the reality is anyone who does behave in a diabolical fashion in his actions can but reap in his inner world what he sows, as shown in a work like Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. The self is infallible, one is exactly as one is.
One final tangential observation, a while back having just read Dostoevsky's The Idiot, and then dipping into Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, what an ugly impression Nietzche's work made, where things like love and compassion are themselves described as diseased, weak phenomena; Neitzsche painting himself into an ever narrowing ideological corner whose false dimensions cannot but eventually collapse in upon themselves.
The idea here is of the idea of sin and conscience as being diseased false impositions on the free self. While the inculcation of feelings of guilt regarding one's very human existence, as with much of traditional organised religion, is of course just so diseased, still the existence of conscience as a reaction to 'sin' is an inseparable aspect of being human. The conscience is the barometer to our self-realising. Just as action and reaction exists in the physical domain, the same applies in the inner sense. For a human to be not possessed of a conscience would be to be a diabolical automaton, who for instance could sexually abuse a child, and feel no inner consequent reality. The whole attempt to deny the existence of sin and conscience is an infantile form of materialism where the world of cause and effect, held so very dear, comes to a total stop where the world of consciousness is concerned. Cause and effect are attempted to be done away it in the field of consciousness.
I've written here in earlier pieces on gnosticism, where the individual tries to flee from 'flawed' human existence back into a spiritual perfection, and Nietzsche's here, as is the general attempt to deny the existence of sin, is a similar, more contemporary form of this same fleeing. Rather than face a world that includes pain, sorrow, etc., one attempts to deny these impediments' very existence, thus leaping over these obstacles to one's perceived happiness. However the famous Beyond Good and Evil is very much a manifestation of evil if one sees its necessary implications where the most evil actions like child abuse and mass murder are excused as not evil at all. Rather than a freedom beyond the concepts of good and evil, it is more a case of Beneath Good and Evil. The man in truth of course doesn't need those concepts to be in truth, it is an inner living truth rather than an ideologically sustained one, but the concepts themselves do refer to genuine realities, and the attempt to deny this is as said the modern equivalent of the gnostic unable or unwilling to cope with reality fleeing from existence into a spiritually immature version of same, where an intrinsic aspect of being, the conscience, is declared to be hacked off, and that the words 'good' and 'evil' simply don't refer to any external reality, that they are essentially unreal words. And the reality is anyone who does behave in a diabolical fashion in his actions can but reap in his inner world what he sows, as shown in a work like Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. The self is infallible, one is exactly as one is.
One final tangential observation, a while back having just read Dostoevsky's The Idiot, and then dipping into Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, what an ugly impression Nietzche's work made, where things like love and compassion are themselves described as diseased, weak phenomena; Neitzsche painting himself into an ever narrowing ideological corner whose false dimensions cannot but eventually collapse in upon themselves.
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Ditch
The ditch was really demons; the ditch only a shape the demons assumed. It was by day they did the assuming, and by night the truth would become clear. But if instead it was dark by day and bright by night, then it would be by night they would do the assuming and by day the truth be clear.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Determinism, Sound
There is the notion, a rampant ideology even, that everything is determined. What does 'determined' mean here? That everything is determined by something else. Nothing stands alone. You could hear some sound, and that sound is, say, a bird singing. So then the proponent of the idea will say that the sound is determined by the existence of the bird and its biological capacities for making sound, and the existence of the bird is determined by the existence of reality, and reality is determined by ... what? How can it be determined by something other than itself, since itself, reality, what is real, is all that is. But ignoring that contradiction, this is determinism. Nothing is to be experienced as or in itself; its higher truth is that it has been determined by something else preceding it. And naturally with sound, it is true that something else is causing the sound, but just because something is causing it, what difference does that make? You might imagine yourself at a music concert, complaining that the music is determined by the sound-making capacities of the instruments, and so . . . So what? [ Though, and it would be too involved to go into now, I think it would be far better to say that musical sound in music, has been initiated or preceded by a physical instrument rather than 'determined' by it. ]
But allowing that sound is determined, or caused, and so this world of determinism holds true; and if it is to fully hold true then all must be able to be described as determined. Well, what about silence. Silence is not determined by anything other than itself. It is meaningless to try and assert that silence is determined by lack of sound, as lack of sound or lack of something doesn't exist, and so how can something that does exist, like silence, be determined by something that doesn't exist? So in silence is truth beyond determinism.
Though silence cannot be experienced as an idea but only as itself, and so it becomes clear how much of an enemy this silence is to to the likes of this determinism. For determinism, materialism, etc are creatures of language, thought; manifestations and lures of an atrophied, sickening state of consciousness, and their intellectually self-contradictory claims to life's 'meaninglessness' betray themselves as just such false manifestations. True thought is intrinsically & tautologically true and meaningful, so the very notion of life's being meaningless is a parody of thought. The word 'meaningless' means without meaning, and so if life is without meaning, then it contains no meaningful statements about life, and so cannot contain the statement of its being meaningless. The idea of life's being meaningless is tautologically a meaningless idea, i.e. not an idea at all. Identically notions like Camus' idea of the absurd. If life were genuinely absurd, it could not contain the idea of its being absurd since true ideas depend on life's being meaningful and not absurd.
A true idea is or exists, is a genuine manifestation of reality; while a false idea is a sequence of words which offers the illusion of comprising a genuine intellectual structure, but if examined properly is shown to be an illusion, unreal.
But allowing that sound is determined, or caused, and so this world of determinism holds true; and if it is to fully hold true then all must be able to be described as determined. Well, what about silence. Silence is not determined by anything other than itself. It is meaningless to try and assert that silence is determined by lack of sound, as lack of sound or lack of something doesn't exist, and so how can something that does exist, like silence, be determined by something that doesn't exist? So in silence is truth beyond determinism.
Though silence cannot be experienced as an idea but only as itself, and so it becomes clear how much of an enemy this silence is to to the likes of this determinism. For determinism, materialism, etc are creatures of language, thought; manifestations and lures of an atrophied, sickening state of consciousness, and their intellectually self-contradictory claims to life's 'meaninglessness' betray themselves as just such false manifestations. True thought is intrinsically & tautologically true and meaningful, so the very notion of life's being meaningless is a parody of thought. The word 'meaningless' means without meaning, and so if life is without meaning, then it contains no meaningful statements about life, and so cannot contain the statement of its being meaningless. The idea of life's being meaningless is tautologically a meaningless idea, i.e. not an idea at all. Identically notions like Camus' idea of the absurd. If life were genuinely absurd, it could not contain the idea of its being absurd since true ideas depend on life's being meaningful and not absurd.
A true idea is or exists, is a genuine manifestation of reality; while a false idea is a sequence of words which offers the illusion of comprising a genuine intellectual structure, but if examined properly is shown to be an illusion, unreal.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
A Start
You have to make a start somewhere, and so here’s as good a place as any. And having made a start, who knows where you might get to? And wherever it may be you get to, without the start you certainly wouldn’t have got there.
That’s the recommendation so, is it? – to get somewhere you need to make a start, and so it’s good to make starts. Well, what if this somewhere you get to isn’t at all the kind of place you’d want to be getting to? You’d be better off without your start. It might be good so, you might think, if say before making your start you could look down from above, abstractly, at this place you’re going to get to, give it a good look, and having given it this good look, you might end up thinking, no, that doesn’t look like the kind of place I want to be getting to, and so naturally you don’t go there.
But that’s not really the way it works – looking down from above abstractly. You only get there by following the path that gets you there. And once you’re on the path, you can’t really go separating yourself from the path, for that’s where you are. You might try and think yourself somewhere else, but that’s only all in your own head; and if you stop thinking it, then it won’t even be in your own head.
So where you are is on the path, the path that leads you there, and once you’re there you’re not really in a position to go questioning this there, for this is where you’ve got to, on your own steam. It’s no good saying, no, I want to be somewhere else. Close your eyes, concentrate and visualise all you like, open them again and you’ll find yourself exactly where you already were and still are. If you really want to be somewhere else, you’ll have to go there; you won’t be able to think yourself there. And who knows, this too may turn you to be a very different place when you get there than what you’d hoped and imagined before getting there. You thought you were heading for some heavenly vision, but it turns out to be something else altogether, this destination at the end of the path you’ve been taking. You should, it turns out, have been paying more attention to the path you were taking rather than thinking about the destination towards which you thought you were heading; for whatever path you take, whatever is on the path is where you’ll end up going. It’s no good moaning afterwards that you thought it was going somewhere else.
That’s the recommendation so, is it? – to get somewhere you need to make a start, and so it’s good to make starts. Well, what if this somewhere you get to isn’t at all the kind of place you’d want to be getting to? You’d be better off without your start. It might be good so, you might think, if say before making your start you could look down from above, abstractly, at this place you’re going to get to, give it a good look, and having given it this good look, you might end up thinking, no, that doesn’t look like the kind of place I want to be getting to, and so naturally you don’t go there.
But that’s not really the way it works – looking down from above abstractly. You only get there by following the path that gets you there. And once you’re on the path, you can’t really go separating yourself from the path, for that’s where you are. You might try and think yourself somewhere else, but that’s only all in your own head; and if you stop thinking it, then it won’t even be in your own head.
So where you are is on the path, the path that leads you there, and once you’re there you’re not really in a position to go questioning this there, for this is where you’ve got to, on your own steam. It’s no good saying, no, I want to be somewhere else. Close your eyes, concentrate and visualise all you like, open them again and you’ll find yourself exactly where you already were and still are. If you really want to be somewhere else, you’ll have to go there; you won’t be able to think yourself there. And who knows, this too may turn you to be a very different place when you get there than what you’d hoped and imagined before getting there. You thought you were heading for some heavenly vision, but it turns out to be something else altogether, this destination at the end of the path you’ve been taking. You should, it turns out, have been paying more attention to the path you were taking rather than thinking about the destination towards which you thought you were heading; for whatever path you take, whatever is on the path is where you’ll end up going. It’s no good moaning afterwards that you thought it was going somewhere else.
Friday, 15 January 2010
The Dream of a Ridiculous Man
The Dream of a Ridiculous Man by Fyodor Dostoevsky, starring Jeremy Irons.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
History or Memory
What is history but memory, a kind of bureaucratizing of memory rather, a rendering it official; though perhaps at times, or even often, the substance of this history just fabricated or warped memory, some story convenient for the teller, his story; a nice, simple version of events whose bold, clear lines and elegant delineations others go on to inhabit in all innocence, convinced by these smooth clear contours and the desire to be just so convinced - for who doesn’t yearn for smooth and clear contours; and so, all in all, a geometry of certainty invoking, most convenient for the teller, actions, logical ones, seamless extensions of those bold historical lines, and onwards these lines push out into the naked spaces beyond, facts built on fictions, the conjuring of the future by fraudsters of the past.
Too abstract? Well let’s say you want to undertake some actions, vile ones, and, however it relates, you have something or other damaged, or say knocked down. You claim someone else did the damaging or knocking down, someone nefarious, and now you want justice and to tighten up security, so this way in come your actions. Everyone, or as good as, believes you; and who wouldn’t, for you’re one in a position of authority - and what is authority? Something to which one stands in relation - and where is it one stands? Most likely beneath it, unless, that is, you’re the one actually with the authority. So there it stands above, authoritative, commanding; and so naturally everyone, having understood where they stand, believes you.
And also, along with all this authority, you have in your possession a whole army of storytellers, and all they’re ever waiting for, this army, is a story to tell, and now they’ve got their story and off with them - it’s your story and it’s they’re the ones who’ll tell it. And each of these storytellers seems to think himself an island, an autonomous kingdom, attached perhaps yes to a remote control, but at one end is truth and at the other end himself, and in whose hand anyway is it, this remote control, but his own, so of course he’s an island, independent and autonomous; and so he tells his story, his version of events, and it’s all about the way he tells it. Thus reality is presented - in black and white, or perhaps in colour, but all the same, in black and white.
A man weaves a basket, takes a good look round, steps into the basket and sits himself down. There he is, curled up, delighted with himself and his basket. He nods and smiles at passers-by.
Whatever about the basket, whatever that’s all about, the story flourishes, whole books are brought out, films produced. It’s evolving in all kinds of ways, growing ever more elaborate, organic, its dubious roots unnoticed - even if they are at times sticking out all over the place.
Masterpieces are produced, or at least proclaimed. ‘Chillingly prescient,’ ‘Deeply relevant,’ ‘A voice for our times,’ variously pronounce the various critics, those other members of the storytelling ranks. ‘The lives we live now’ is mentioned in some or other context – the masterpiece some invaluable help in this area. Oddly enough this ‘lives we live now’ seems to imply a singular phenomenon rather than a plural; that is to say, us collectively living this one life we live now. You might be at one end of this life, pulling away; but there’s someone else at another end, and he’s also pulling away; and so we’re all pulling away madly together, wherever it is we’re pulling it. There must be somebody somewhere overseeing it all, making sure we’re all working together, in tandem, and not some of us pulling against each other, in opposite directions, the whole thing being pulled God knows where.
But anyway awards are offered and accepted for these masterpieces, speeches made, photographs taken. There’s no stopping it, it seems, this story. Where is it all going?
Too abstract? Well let’s say you want to undertake some actions, vile ones, and, however it relates, you have something or other damaged, or say knocked down. You claim someone else did the damaging or knocking down, someone nefarious, and now you want justice and to tighten up security, so this way in come your actions. Everyone, or as good as, believes you; and who wouldn’t, for you’re one in a position of authority - and what is authority? Something to which one stands in relation - and where is it one stands? Most likely beneath it, unless, that is, you’re the one actually with the authority. So there it stands above, authoritative, commanding; and so naturally everyone, having understood where they stand, believes you.
And also, along with all this authority, you have in your possession a whole army of storytellers, and all they’re ever waiting for, this army, is a story to tell, and now they’ve got their story and off with them - it’s your story and it’s they’re the ones who’ll tell it. And each of these storytellers seems to think himself an island, an autonomous kingdom, attached perhaps yes to a remote control, but at one end is truth and at the other end himself, and in whose hand anyway is it, this remote control, but his own, so of course he’s an island, independent and autonomous; and so he tells his story, his version of events, and it’s all about the way he tells it. Thus reality is presented - in black and white, or perhaps in colour, but all the same, in black and white.
A man weaves a basket, takes a good look round, steps into the basket and sits himself down. There he is, curled up, delighted with himself and his basket. He nods and smiles at passers-by.
Whatever about the basket, whatever that’s all about, the story flourishes, whole books are brought out, films produced. It’s evolving in all kinds of ways, growing ever more elaborate, organic, its dubious roots unnoticed - even if they are at times sticking out all over the place.
Masterpieces are produced, or at least proclaimed. ‘Chillingly prescient,’ ‘Deeply relevant,’ ‘A voice for our times,’ variously pronounce the various critics, those other members of the storytelling ranks. ‘The lives we live now’ is mentioned in some or other context – the masterpiece some invaluable help in this area. Oddly enough this ‘lives we live now’ seems to imply a singular phenomenon rather than a plural; that is to say, us collectively living this one life we live now. You might be at one end of this life, pulling away; but there’s someone else at another end, and he’s also pulling away; and so we’re all pulling away madly together, wherever it is we’re pulling it. There must be somebody somewhere overseeing it all, making sure we’re all working together, in tandem, and not some of us pulling against each other, in opposite directions, the whole thing being pulled God knows where.
But anyway awards are offered and accepted for these masterpieces, speeches made, photographs taken. There’s no stopping it, it seems, this story. Where is it all going?
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Dwelling
"Dwelling."
"Verb or noun?"
"Verb."
"In?"
"In?"
"In what?"
"In what what?"
"Dwelling in what?"
"Dwelling in a dwelling."
"Verb followed by noun?"
"Yes."
"Verb or noun?"
"Verb."
"In?"
"In?"
"In what?"
"In what what?"
"Dwelling in what?"
"Dwelling in a dwelling."
"Verb followed by noun?"
"Yes."
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
North or South
I've always been fascinated, even obsessed, with stories of polar expeditions; with every facet of these adventures from the human element to the logistical to the scientific, and have long harboured a desire to write a fictional account of one of these expeditions - to which pole it doesn't matter, they're both the same. And so having laboured for years in silence, below an excerpt of dialogue from my finally produced work.
"It's bloody freezing!"
"It's unbelievable. I had no idea it was going to be as bad as this. John, did you have any idea it was going to be this cold?"
"Well, I knew it was going to be pretty cold, but nothing like this. I can't understand why anybody's been coming here."
"It's bloody freezing!"
"It's unbelievable. I had no idea it was going to be as bad as this. John, did you have any idea it was going to be this cold?"
"Well, I knew it was going to be pretty cold, but nothing like this. I can't understand why anybody's been coming here."
Monday, 21 December 2009
This Rubbish
"This rubbish."
"What about it?"
"It's good, isn't it?"
"Yes, it certainly is good rubbish."
"What about it?"
"It's good, isn't it?"
"Yes, it certainly is good rubbish."
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Scaffolding
The scaffolding was safe to use, which was a relief. There it was, crawling up all over the front and sides of the big old building. Up you could get, and up you could confidently remain. One could step with sureness onto whatever there was to be stepped onto, sure that you weren't going to come crashing.
How could you be sure? Well in the first place it looked solid enough, not that scaffolding ever looks particularly solid, but still as far as scaffolding goes it looked solid enough. But other than that, and more importantly, there was a sign, an authoritative looking one, on which was written, "Scaffolding Safe To Use."
And so a sign, and you can't go arguing with signs - or if you can it would be pointless, more in the way of a soliloquy than an argument. Interrogate all you like, all you'll get is the same monotonous statement.
But who put the sign there? Someone responsible. Yes, but who? Who is responsible? Well, whoever specifically is responsible is someone responsible, a responsible person, and by virtue of his responsibility he is responsible for ascertaining the safety of the scaffolding.
And how do we know this person is sufficiently responsible in such matters?
He has been adjudged to be so by someone else even more responsible.
So if you're going to go ascending and placing yourself atop this scaffolding, you can put your trust in how steady it all looks, the authoritativeness and accuracy of the sign, and the responsibility of those responsible for putting up the sign. You could also decide to ignore all assurances from signs and the like, and just take things in your own hands, leaving perhaps a little gathering below gathered around and debating matters.
"I don't like the look of it at all."
"Yes, but look at the sign."
"True, true, there is the sign. You can't go arguing with signs, especially ones like that."
"But who put it there?"
How could you be sure? Well in the first place it looked solid enough, not that scaffolding ever looks particularly solid, but still as far as scaffolding goes it looked solid enough. But other than that, and more importantly, there was a sign, an authoritative looking one, on which was written, "Scaffolding Safe To Use."
And so a sign, and you can't go arguing with signs - or if you can it would be pointless, more in the way of a soliloquy than an argument. Interrogate all you like, all you'll get is the same monotonous statement.
But who put the sign there? Someone responsible. Yes, but who? Who is responsible? Well, whoever specifically is responsible is someone responsible, a responsible person, and by virtue of his responsibility he is responsible for ascertaining the safety of the scaffolding.
And how do we know this person is sufficiently responsible in such matters?
He has been adjudged to be so by someone else even more responsible.
So if you're going to go ascending and placing yourself atop this scaffolding, you can put your trust in how steady it all looks, the authoritativeness and accuracy of the sign, and the responsibility of those responsible for putting up the sign. You could also decide to ignore all assurances from signs and the like, and just take things in your own hands, leaving perhaps a little gathering below gathered around and debating matters.
"I don't like the look of it at all."
"Yes, but look at the sign."
"True, true, there is the sign. You can't go arguing with signs, especially ones like that."
"But who put it there?"
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Sackcloth
A sackcloth, and within this sackcloth, darkness. Yes well, darkness - what else... but if we could see into this darkness, what else besides the darkness? instead of this darkness rather. Most likely, assuming something - and assuming something we must for if we assumed nothing then we wouldn't be seeing anything besides — we'd see coal. Coal is the object one is most likely to see in a sackcloth, besides or instead of darkness.
But black coal amidst a background of darkness — would we really be able to see this coal? But it doesn't have to be all impenterable darkness, does it? But if one could see it, the coal, would it really be worth seeing? But that's not a question you can go asking yourself. Imagine yourself engaged in ordinary everyday life — if you can imagine such a thing, it shouldn't be too difficult — and this fool peering over your shoulder, asking whether it's really worth seeing whatever it is you happen to be seeing at the time; providing a critical overview, an ironic commentary on the worthiness or not of all the seeing. Maybe you don't find it so hard to imagine.
But coal so: that's what you'd most likely be seeing in a sackcloth - if you could see it, if it was there to see and you weren't prevented by the darkness. If it wasn't there to see, it wouldn't matter about the darkness. And in any case, seeing is enough to be getting on with without worrying about whether it's worth seeing or not... worth seeing if it can be seen; worth seeing if it can't... You could keep yourself going an awful long time with those kind of questions. Those kind of questions and more: Is it even worth knowing it's worth seeing? How am I to know it's worth knowing it's worth seeing? - What a question.
This I see is going nowhere, or worse, it is going somewhere and the somewhere is synonymous with the going; but going isn't staying still, it's progressing, and so while it is yes going somewhere, and at any given moment that somewhere is inseparable from the going — the somewhere you've been going is precisely where you are — but even so you are still going beyond where you are and deeper into and towards and beyond somewhere else. But if you stop going there, what happens then?
You set up camp. “I'm stopping going. I'm happy with here. Yes, if I kept going that somewhere I'd be passing through would certainly be better than here, but still you can't spend all your life going… or maybe you can, but you have to stop sometime, or if not necessarily stop, you can hardly be blamed for the stopping — out of exhaustion, for a rest. Not everyone, only the very few, can keep going and going.
"And so here's good enough for me - for a while or forever, whatever. I can't be blamed. I've gone far enough. I'll pace some boundaries, make myself comfortable."
If you're going to stop somewhere, or stop going somewhere, you might as well make yourself comfortable while you're at it. It would it hardly be better, would it, to make yourself uncomfortable while you're at it?
I started off with a sackcloth and darkness and I've ended up here, however it happened. Would it have been better to have stuck with the sackcloth and the darkness? No, you have to go somewhere and so I got to here. But here is where this, if not me, stops.
But black coal amidst a background of darkness — would we really be able to see this coal? But it doesn't have to be all impenterable darkness, does it? But if one could see it, the coal, would it really be worth seeing? But that's not a question you can go asking yourself. Imagine yourself engaged in ordinary everyday life — if you can imagine such a thing, it shouldn't be too difficult — and this fool peering over your shoulder, asking whether it's really worth seeing whatever it is you happen to be seeing at the time; providing a critical overview, an ironic commentary on the worthiness or not of all the seeing. Maybe you don't find it so hard to imagine.
But coal so: that's what you'd most likely be seeing in a sackcloth - if you could see it, if it was there to see and you weren't prevented by the darkness. If it wasn't there to see, it wouldn't matter about the darkness. And in any case, seeing is enough to be getting on with without worrying about whether it's worth seeing or not... worth seeing if it can be seen; worth seeing if it can't... You could keep yourself going an awful long time with those kind of questions. Those kind of questions and more: Is it even worth knowing it's worth seeing? How am I to know it's worth knowing it's worth seeing? - What a question.
This I see is going nowhere, or worse, it is going somewhere and the somewhere is synonymous with the going; but going isn't staying still, it's progressing, and so while it is yes going somewhere, and at any given moment that somewhere is inseparable from the going — the somewhere you've been going is precisely where you are — but even so you are still going beyond where you are and deeper into and towards and beyond somewhere else. But if you stop going there, what happens then?
You set up camp. “I'm stopping going. I'm happy with here. Yes, if I kept going that somewhere I'd be passing through would certainly be better than here, but still you can't spend all your life going… or maybe you can, but you have to stop sometime, or if not necessarily stop, you can hardly be blamed for the stopping — out of exhaustion, for a rest. Not everyone, only the very few, can keep going and going.
"And so here's good enough for me - for a while or forever, whatever. I can't be blamed. I've gone far enough. I'll pace some boundaries, make myself comfortable."
If you're going to stop somewhere, or stop going somewhere, you might as well make yourself comfortable while you're at it. It would it hardly be better, would it, to make yourself uncomfortable while you're at it?
I started off with a sackcloth and darkness and I've ended up here, however it happened. Would it have been better to have stuck with the sackcloth and the darkness? No, you have to go somewhere and so I got to here. But here is where this, if not me, stops.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Chekhov & Carver
The book of Chekhov short stories I am dipping into contains the high recommendation at the back by Raymond Carver that Chekhov is "the greatest short story writer who has ever lived", thus helpfully distinguishing Chekhov from all the great short story writers who haven't ever lived.
Coin
There was a coin worth a good bit of money - was a good bit of money. But then they changed the currency and it was worthless.
Vantage Point
They spoke of life as though it were something distinct from themselves, something they would observe from a critical distance. And so what could it be, this imaginary vantage point, but the beginning and end of their wisdom.
Friday, 13 November 2009
And You
"And you didn't like it, no?"
"No, I thought it was shit."
"Really, really. In what sense?"
"In the undiluted sense."
"No, I thought it was shit."
"Really, really. In what sense?"
"In the undiluted sense."
Space, Blank, Uninterrupted
Space, blank, uninterrupted, but then a fissure, a crack, a corridor, and down it you’re walking. So a corridor and doors, lots of doors. Open any one you choose. You might be told to get out, you might be asked to come in, you might even be told come in. But just like this – in these clothes? Yes, you’re fine as you are, or if not quite fine as you are, you’ll do. You’ll have to do. So come in as you are, for how else could you come in but as you are? Well, you could try letting on to be not as you are, to be someone else, someone fictitious, an imaginary creation, a composite of other characters, their best traits, unified in this being who walks in the door. And so in you walk - who could fail to be impressed?
So we’ll say you’re accepted as you are, this character – that is you’re accepted as you appear to be. You could hardly expect to be accepted as you don’t appear to be.
But how long do you think you could keep this going, this performance? Indefinitely? Noone knows a contrary to the appearance so why not? But mightn’t it be a bit easier, less demanding, if you hadn’t decided to unify the best traits? The only way from such a height is down. Perhaps you could instead unify the worst traits…but who would want to share a room with such a composite except maybe other similar composites? What a room! If someone who wasn’t such a character walked in what would they do to him? I’d advise him to get out quick. Take one look, mutter something about the wrong room, apologise and go.
But the chances of finding yourself in such a room are slim, and anyway, even if such a room with such a set of inmates does possibly lie at the other end of one of the doors, that’s hardly a reason to remain out there forever in the corridor.
So we’ll say you’re accepted as you are, this character – that is you’re accepted as you appear to be. You could hardly expect to be accepted as you don’t appear to be.
But how long do you think you could keep this going, this performance? Indefinitely? Noone knows a contrary to the appearance so why not? But mightn’t it be a bit easier, less demanding, if you hadn’t decided to unify the best traits? The only way from such a height is down. Perhaps you could instead unify the worst traits…but who would want to share a room with such a composite except maybe other similar composites? What a room! If someone who wasn’t such a character walked in what would they do to him? I’d advise him to get out quick. Take one look, mutter something about the wrong room, apologise and go.
But the chances of finding yourself in such a room are slim, and anyway, even if such a room with such a set of inmates does possibly lie at the other end of one of the doors, that’s hardly a reason to remain out there forever in the corridor.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Grand Tome
Here’s another grand tome produced, presented, placed proudly but sternly on the publisher's desk. It creaks under the weight. Another vital part of the oeuvre. I present it to the world, all fifty million fucking words of it. May the world prove itself worthy.
Fifty million - an exaggeration. Perhaps only half a million, or even less again. But anyway, either way, such credible characters, such distillations. But are we really so lacking in credible characters that another few microscopically examined bores are some invaluable addition to our lives? Perhaps if one reads enough credible characters one might become one oneself. That might be what it's all about. Either that or the sheer volume of words has a beneficial effect.
“Ah but it’s not just the sheer volume of words. It’s the order he places them in.”
Yes, there is that. But imagine if someone was to lift up this book, a manuscript rather, the spine held in the hand, and the hand gives it a good shake and down tumble all the words, shaken loose from the hundreds of pages. Imagine the effort re-assembling them.
“My God, what’s happened to my manuscript?!”
“Don’t worry about your manuscript. Your manuscript’s fine. It’s the words that were in it that’s the problem. They’re all over the place. Can you remember what order they were in?”
The author, the great man- accept that it’s a man - is dumbfounded. “The order…the order…” he mumbles. “No, no…I could never remember the precise order. At least I think not. Some sections are embedded, yes here,” pointing to the heart. “No here,” - the head. “But this was the final draft. The only one.”
Final draft? It seems all these words have been whittled down. Revised and refined. Again and again. He’s written out this whole thing several times – without killing himself! It’s amazing what man can endure.
Fifty million - an exaggeration. Perhaps only half a million, or even less again. But anyway, either way, such credible characters, such distillations. But are we really so lacking in credible characters that another few microscopically examined bores are some invaluable addition to our lives? Perhaps if one reads enough credible characters one might become one oneself. That might be what it's all about. Either that or the sheer volume of words has a beneficial effect.
“Ah but it’s not just the sheer volume of words. It’s the order he places them in.”
Yes, there is that. But imagine if someone was to lift up this book, a manuscript rather, the spine held in the hand, and the hand gives it a good shake and down tumble all the words, shaken loose from the hundreds of pages. Imagine the effort re-assembling them.
“My God, what’s happened to my manuscript?!”
“Don’t worry about your manuscript. Your manuscript’s fine. It’s the words that were in it that’s the problem. They’re all over the place. Can you remember what order they were in?”
The author, the great man- accept that it’s a man - is dumbfounded. “The order…the order…” he mumbles. “No, no…I could never remember the precise order. At least I think not. Some sections are embedded, yes here,” pointing to the heart. “No here,” - the head. “But this was the final draft. The only one.”
Final draft? It seems all these words have been whittled down. Revised and refined. Again and again. He’s written out this whole thing several times – without killing himself! It’s amazing what man can endure.
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