Occam's Razor Meets Experimental Philosophy

So to follow up on that, if perfection is harmony between action and belief, it seems a strong motivator for reducing one's moral code to a bare minimum.  Complex codes, and especially poorly thought-out morality, become an impediment to perfection.  Moral codes containing internal confliction and contradiction, therefore, would be severely damaging to the self, for they prevent perfection by their very nature (at least in the context of those inconsistencies).

And yet, how many people can honestly say that they follow a simple moral code?  For that matter, how many people can claim that they follow a single moral code?  How many people can claim that all dimensions of the self - all the individuals that are packed into a single "body" - really value the same things?  Do the work face and fun face smile at the same jokes?  Does the tired body long for the same activities as the rested one, or the over-tired one?  Does the heart seek the same relationships as the hormones?

Were we to exist in the environment in which we developed, I think things would be simpler.  Why does my dog enjoy a degree of harmony and self-confidence that I lack?  Human beings no longer exist in the world that built us.  The rules of copulation are not the same as when our lives were threatened on a constant basis by creatures who were stronger and faster than us.  Our native attitudes towards food are not designed with supermarkets in mind.  We have placed ourselves into a foreign environment for which we are not designed (and an environment that changes far too fast for evolution to support).

So where could the support come from?  Can we refine down our moral core to something simple enough to survive?  Is there a set of ethics and morality without internal contradition, and that is not in direct conflict with our nature as animals - a nature that we can at best resist but not deny?

I try to picture a life where one can not feel embarrassed or ashamed when snapping at someone who did not deserve it, simply because circumstances made them appear to be a threat.  Or where it is okay to acknowledge physical attraction to someone with whom there is no intention to enter into a encounter/relationship. 

Society does not permit these things.  Why?  Because it leads to people feeling uncomfortable, people feeling uncertain, feeling insecure.  Perhaps because there is no clear way to reconcile such things to our current set of moral standards.

What would a simple moral code look like?  I am thinking this might be a reasonable one:

1)  Have fun and try to learn.
2)  Spread laughter and happiness when possible.
3)  Embrace love.
4)  Support other people's best interests as you understand them wherever they do not conflict with your own.

P.S. That last one will annoy some people, who will argue that it should be "Support other people's best interests, even if it interferes with your own" - but I maintain that that defies the survival instinct, and as such is in direct conflict with our animal nature, i.e. unsupportable.

P.P.S. I struggled for a while about whether there should be something in there about supporting one's family/offspring, but in the end I decided that it is already accounted for in 3 and 4.

The Value of Insecurity

I have a hypothesis that the root of insecurity lies in imperfection.  So in a universe with no external standards of absolute truth, what is imperfection?  It is, of course, relative - in the sense that a thing is deemed imperfect if one's recollection of it does not conform to, or match up with, one's own personal standards.

There are two branches to this line of thought.  First, for those people who define themselves by the constructs, opinions, and moral codes of others (whether "others" represents parents, society, religion, etc.), perfection becomes a question of what matches those standards, i.e. one is insecure about those things that do not conform to those external expectations.  I should not be fat, and so I am insecure in my weight.  I should not leave my earwax on the doorhandle, I hope no one noticed.

For people who rely upon an internally-driven moral code, insecurity derives from there.  Whether one is pseudo-aware (you know, the people who define their moral code by some function (usually an inverse) applied to the societal norm - "I will wear my pants around my knees specifically because I am not supposed to") or deliberately independent ("I will decide for myself what kind of clothing to wear and how to wear it, and any relation to societal norms is through deliberate consideration of how they will or will not serve my needs"), insecurity comes from the recognition that what one has done is not in alignment with what should be.

What makes this tricky (at least in the latter case) is that it is hard to distinguish between imperfection resulting from lack of adherence to one's own moral code, and imperfection resulting from a lack of faith in the legitimacy of one's own moral code (after all, if you have a code you don't fully believe is correct, following it still leads to the same uncertainty/insecurity).

So what is perfection?  Harmony between action and belief.  When acting in harmony with one's beliefs, there is no place or need for insecurity.

Which, like so many things, brings one back to the Path of the Warrior.  Or to say it another way, insecurity can be a signpost letting you know that you have strayed from that Path.

Of the Dangers of Showering In a Hotel Bathroom

Okay, time for a new career.  I want to be the person who comes up with shampoo descriptions.  Balancing shampoo?  Is there a second tier of products you can buy once you are prepared, like tightrope-walking shampoo?  Or what if you are not really into balance?  Can I buy extremizing shampoo (for radical, infuriating hair - available in atheist and ecumenical variants)?

Yes, Yes, I'm Vocally Challenged

So why restrict myself to posting just words, I ask.  No reason, I suppose.  While the music is mine, I should note that the artwork is not.  Thanks, A, for your never-ending supply of amazing drawings!

I am still up in the air on the whole idea of posting my music online, so if you have any thoughts on the matter, do share.

Out For a Beerwalk

Kopo was big for his age.  At nearly a centimeter in height, he was amongst the tallest of the Zwerschmig, and with a year left before his Tzermonbier, it would not surprise anyone if he spiked up another millimeter, or perhaps even two.  It was not unheard of.

Earlier in the day, Kopo had been resting after a rousing game of zlauff with his friends, when his mind began to wander.  He remembered staring at the curved wall of his family's stein, his thoughts on nothing in particular, and then it happened. Just behind the smooth, glassy ceramic he saw a passageway, fading in, fading out.  Idly, he wondered if this was what his parents did during anfuirbier, but that just wasn't possible - it tooks months of training to transport between steins.  It simple wasn't possible to learn on your own.

Though someone had to learn it on his own, right?  The first Zweschmig to beerwalk obviously could not have been taught by anyone else.  He must have figured it out.

Kopo had stood and shuffled to stand in front of the vurmloche.  Beyond the solid wall - for he reached out and touched it to be sure - it was like watching the scenery through a train window, not that he had ever done that.  Blink, and there was a tall stein sporting dragons.  Blink, a squat scyphus with satyrs entwined around the shank.  But there were other scenes too, strange and foreign, for which he knew no words.

Kopo rapped upon the wall of the stein once more, comforted by its solidity and grainy fragrance.  Tired from so many bouts of zlauff, he turned his back to the edge once again and slid down to sit upon the bottom of the mug.  Again his mind went blank, and that was when he fell back into another world.

Martina's Infallible Goat, Part 2.7

"Will there be anything else?" asked the greasy-haired store clerk from behind the register.

Sven glanced at the running total on the receipt before turning to the others.  "That accounts for $4,182.  How much do we have?"

Martina flipped open her notepad.  "$4,700 even."

Oliver pointed to the emulsion turbine housing.  "How much for that?"

"$500," replied the clerk.

"We'll take it!" Oliver pronounced before anyone could question him.  And then, as if he suddently felt an obligation to explain, he turned back to his team, shrugged, and observed "sometime just having the box is enough to convince an orangutan that you've got what's inside."

It was clear from her expression that Martina did not find the argument compelling, but her brother had a way of seeing things that was unique - like he lived in a world that was just slightly askew from everyone else's.  Besides, he hadn't said anything about her purchasing the musical duct tape, and her reasons for wanting that were no more defensible.

"Okay," said Sven, turning back to the clerk.  "Is there anything we can get for the remaining $18?"

The man thought for a moment, and then rumaged in a bin behind the counter.  After a minute he stood and presented a strange device, vaguely gun-shaped, but with a thin needle at the front and a strange bladder below the grip.  "I have this refurbished Pleuronectidae deflater.  Over $200 new, and only been used a few times.  It's a little sticky around the trigger, and there is a glob of something green still stuck to the barrel.  Not toxic, though.  They assure me it isn't toxic.  I suppose I could let you have this for $18."

The group shared glances, most of them saying 'I am far too tired to care at this point'.

"Sure," replied Sven.  "We'll take it."

The Fallacy of Normality

For the extremes of humanity
Are we drawn and repelled
Enamored and disgusted

Placing icons on pedestals
To study, admire, inspire, despise
Like guideposts, living and dead

But inside our own selves, our own lives
All those extremes boil and roil and bubble
Hiding in our personal mists and shadows
Displayed in our storefront window displays
And disguised as moderation

Bedtime Thoughts

Not normally one to get all sentimental, but I can think of no better way to slide into the new year than with the laughter of friends.

P.S.  The only way that the words "too" and "chocolate" fit together in a sentence is in the opposite order, such as in "yes, I would like some chocolate too, thank you."

The Most Important Things Are Simple

How silly of me.  It is not about finding it, it is about picking it up.

Recent Thoughts

Okay, so that last one was really long.  Yeah, I know.  Sorry about that.  I came across an old directory filled with stuff I had written some time ago, and since I had never shared them anywhere it seemed like posting them here might be a reasonable thing to do.  On a positive note, I have no plans to post the really long stuff.

So lately I find myself thinking about habits.  Bad habits, naturally, because one never sits back and says "hey, that is a really good habit of mine - I should keep doing that."  Funny how we don't even call good stuff 'habits'.  No one says "I'm in the habit of breathing" or "I make a habit out of eating healthy foods".  I'm not saying they're not habits, just that I, for one, never think about them that way.  [Nor do I eat enough healthy food to call it a habit, by the way.  That was just an example.  I eat them occasionally, of course, but more at the level where I might call it a quirk.  Or perhaps "an event", or a "once-a-year thing to keep people guessing" thing.  Definitely not a habit.]

So I am thinking about habits, and that get me thinking about compulsion and obsession.  And then I realize that I have been thinking about compulsion and obsession for nearly a week.  Nonstop. 

This makes me chuckle.

But the funniest part is that I have no intention of stopping this train of thought until I figure it out.  Maybe I will think about it while eating a cookie...

A Matter of Perspective

This is not my bed. It is the sort of thing you know without having to think about it, and he realized it even before he was fully awake.

As the fractions of seconds crawled by and consciousness returned, he remembered. I was injured. I had been careless, and not checked the integrity of the door lintel. It fell and hit my head. I am fortunate to be waking up at all, even if it is in a hospice cot. But even as the thought ran its course he knew it to be wrong. The bed beneath him was firm and unusually supportive, the corners of it distinct but most definitely not the thick wooden dowels normally used to support the canvas hammock.

The sheets were wrong as well. They were warm and soft like the finest angora wool, and spun to nearly impossible smoothness. Not a hospice. Where am I?

Fully awake now, the man kept his eyes closed and focused on his other senses. He could make out a muted humming, electronic, mechanical, and most definitely like nothing he had ever heard before. He discerned numerous voices, distant and carrying on conversations that were clearly unrelated to him. He heard static from a television in the next room, and thought it to be rain.

Across his forehead was the gentle pressure of a bandage. At least I remembered that correctly. He felt the sheets again, the crispness of the hospital bed, and consciously wondered at the strange fabrics and textures. His clothes were gone, he realized, replaced with a frock that tied in the back. The string pressed into his back uncomfortably.

He listened for breathing. Hearing none, the man cautiously opened one eye and then the other.

“What is this place?” he asked of no one, the words practically dragged from his lips by his sheer awe of a modern hospital room. Have I died? Is this Heaven?

He studied the small, private accommodations from beneath the sheets, his eyes focusing intensely and deliberately upon every item in the room. Safety was always more easily found in new surroundings, of course, where unfamiliarity held back the laziness that would otherwise be tempered only by one’s desire to survive. The man liked new places, and this was as unusual as he might ever have dreamed, and certainly more than he could have imagined in wakefulness.

He took note of the dangers around him – the sharp corner of the bedside table waiting to crack open the skull of the careless if they tripped, the large, heavy-looking, glass-faced box that could easily come loose from the wall to fall upon someone if he passed too close. He wondered at the functional nature of the wall switches, and where the two closed doors might lead. He speculated about what strange images he might behold were the window not covered by the thick, flower-patterned fabric.

It was over an hour before the man felt that he was sufficiently familiar with the room to risk rising from his bed. He sat up slowly, carefully, watching that his patient’s gown did not catch upon the rails of the bed. With great care he touched the floor with his bare foot – only the big toe at first, followed by some weight upon the heel. The floor was neither slick nor weak, and he decided to test his full weight upon it.

The tiling held firm, and the man slowly began to walk toward the shaded window. Before he was halfway there, however, he heard a sound from behind him. Someone at the door. The man turned halfway and stepped behind his bed as the door opened.

“Mr. Gallager!” exclaimed the RN, her stethoscope swaying before her like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “You are awake! What an excellent sign!”

“You know my name,” said the man slowly, cautiously. “How?”

“Your ID, of course. In your wallet.”

The man named Gallager hesitated. To admit that he had no idea what a wallet was could be a dangerous admission, at least until he learned more about the situation. “My eye dee. In my wallet. Of course.”

The nurse smiled as she approached him, motioned toward the edge of the hospital bed. “Here. Sit while I take your blood pressure. Good.” She wrapped the nylon bulk around his arm, affixed the Velcro tab.

“Are you feeling a little dazed, Mr. Gallager? Not to worry. That was a rather nasty bump on the head there. I understand it was from a construction accident?”

The man nodded, speechless. A female physic. And so… fast. He stared at the device around his arm as it slowly deflated. He sighed heavily as she removed the device. What great fortune! It would have been so easy for that device to have malfunctioned, to remain inflated. I could have lost my arm were it to have become affixed like that.

“Well, don’t you worry a bit,” said the nurse as she beamed a broad smile at the man. “Like I said, the fact that you are up and about so soon is an excellent indication that it was not as bad as it could have been. God has smiled upon you, I dare say.”

Marge McFallan, the man read the name on her badge as he wondered at the strange material from which it was formed. “Yes. Smiled on me today. I am very, very lucky.” And he meant every syllable of it.

“Would you like for me to open your window, Mr. Gallager? It is a beautiful day.”

“Yes. I would. Thank you very much.”

Marge McFallan swayed her wide hips toward the window. “A lovely day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. Only a wisp or two of cloud in a beautiful blue sky, and the–”

“WHAT!!” the man named Gallager practically shouted.

The nurse turned her head to look at him. “I was just saying that it is a beautiful day. Only a few clouds in the sky, and the birds are singing.” A look of concern came over her face as she made a mental note to mention the incident to the MD on duty.

The man relaxed. It was a joke, that’s all. Just a joke. He turned to face the window as he heard the shade being swept aside.

“B..bl…blue,” he sputtered, his eyes wide, his face drained of color. A blue sky! How can this be?! I am a priest… This can’t be! There has been a mistake! But there could be no denying the distinct powdery blue he saw. “Why?” he asked in a throaty whisper. “What did I do?”

The nurse spun to face him, her expression a mix of concern and confusion.

“I… I… do not resent… death. But why?” he begged of the nurse, “Why have I been banished… to Hell?!”

Maggy McFallan had no answer to his question. She could not have come up with one if she were discussing the matter with a half dozen friends over a cup of coffee. But then, no answer was needed. Unless, of course, it was to rush to the man’s side and gently lower him onto the bed as he fainted.

* * * * *

Day 1

Nurse McFallan was kind enough to provide me with a sheaf of paper, and what paper this is! I can hardly stop from running my hands against it. Each sheet is so precisely dimensioned. I fear to touch the edges lest I cut myself. And this writing implement, the pen, is equally worthy of attention. I dared not ask the nurse regarding its design for fear of arousing suspicion as to my origins should it turn out that this is not Hell after all. Still it is a wonder to me how the writing fluid, which is so quick to dry upon the paper, is kept from clotting within the device itself.

As regards the matter of origins… Something has truly gone awry. I am keeping this journal, this diary if you will, in the event that I do not live long enough to unravel the mystery by myself. But I leap ahead of myself again. If this is to make sense at all to anyone, I must start sensibly.

Perhaps the best place to begin is with the last occurrence of normalcy that I can recall. I arrived at my house late in the evening. I had been delayed in returning home from the church, and was in a terrible rush to meet with Emily. Too much of a rush, unfortunately. As I entered my house I was distracted, and failed to examine the lintel before stepping through the doorway into the foyer. It was careless, of course, the kind of error that one would expect of someone too young to fully understand the dangers of the world – the rashness of a four-year-old, perhaps. And naturally, of course, the lintel fell as I passed underneath.

When I awoke in this room, this hospital room as I have learned it is called, I could not believe my fortune. Surely God had smiled upon me, preserving my life for some design, some need of His. I felt truly blessed that I would be so chosen. But as I came to wakefulness it became clear that something was wrong. The bed, my clothing, the room. Nothing was as it should have been, and I began to suspect that my first inclination was wrong. I had not been spared, but had truly died and gone to Heaven.

Nurse McFallan came into my room then, and I became more convinced than ever that I had passed beyond. Her actions were so swift, seeming to be almost careless. Surely no one could survive more than a few hours with such… recklessness, unless her intellect was so far advanced that she could make and assess great volumes of observations in the blink of an eye. And yet she walked, nay strode, across the room, almost negligently. She operated strange machines and equipment, she moved confidently and casually, and no harm came to her.

By this point there was no longer any doubt within my mind. I was dead, and this was Heaven. But the cruelest awakening was yet to come. As the nurse swept away the fabric that shaded the window I saw it. My hand still shakes at the memory, although the window has long since been covered over again. Outside I saw the sky. The beautiful reddish-pink sky that I hold so dear, but failed to appreciate enough… was gone. Instead I saw blue – the blue sky of Hell. That is when I fainted.

Since awakening again I have spoken with nurses and physics (which they call doctors), and heard many things. Some are almost mundane, if one could call anything here by such a name. I will be moved into a new room tomorrow, a room in an area that, they tell me, is for recovering patients who are having difficulties of one kind or another. Apparently I fall within such a category. I have no reason to doubt them, although I fear to make any trip without having more time to understand the dangers of this new world.

If I am right and this is indeed Hell, then I will have little choice in the matter. I will be moved to a new place, and before being able to prepare for the journey, even before being allowed to study my new surroundings adequately. I will be at the whim of fate, which we all know is a very unfortunate, and usually fatal, situation.

Yet, there is another thing that I have heard. Those people around me have informed me, in fact insisted, that this is not Hell. They assure me that I am in the everyday world, in a city called Des Moines, and in a region named Iowa. Perhaps it is just an issue of naming, for I have overheard people beyond my room making reference to Hell, but the nurses and doctors assure me that this is not the case. But then they also assure me that it is normal for the sky to be blue, and so I am not sure what to believe.

I have asked, gently, about the specifics of my arrival here, and was told that I was brought in by construction workers late yesterday afternoon. They have provided clothes and personal belongings, but they are not mine. I do not even recognize the type of fabrics of which they are made. Included in these belongings is something called a ‘wallet’. It contains slips of paper that I gather represent local currency, as well as identifying documents. One of them, labeled ‘Driver’s License’ has a picture on it. Although the address is unfamiliar, there can be no doubt that it is mine, in part because my name is upon it, but more specifically because it includes the most amazing likeness of myself – drawn in colors, and with such precision that I would almost swear that I was looking into a still, deep pond.

I have sought even more information, but they have requested that I rest and relax, assuring me that they will answer all my questions after I sleep again. Since there is no point in aggravating my wardens, if this is Hell and that is indeed what they are, I have agreed. In support of their assurances that this is not Hell, I must say that everyone has been very friendly, and seems to be genuinely caring. Most definitely not traits that the scriptures use to describe eternal damnation…

Day 2

Today has been even more bewildering than yesterday, if such could be possible. I have indeed been moved to a different room, one that houses several patients at once, and I must say that the journey was beyond disturbing. It is fortunate beyond belief that we survived even the first few feet. The way the orderlies (that is what the nurses and doctors call the people who assist in non-medical matters) rushed around corners, how they talked amongst themselves without paying attention to what they were doing or where they were going – it was terrifying. And yet, as terrifying as it was, nothing happened. We arrived without incident or injury.

In fact, I have yet to see anyone here paying sufficient attention to their actions to assure their own safety, but nothing untoward happens. One of my roommates named Robert, a small, wiry fellow with black hair and a beard only upon his chin, has just now walked right underneath the large box suspended from the wall (it now has images flashing behind the glass, and they call it a teevee). Yet it did not fall upon him. I inspected it earlier and saw that it was attached to the wall with metal bolts, devices that we know to be faulty by their very essence. It should be prepared to fall at the slightest provocation, but it does not. I have not dared to test its stability with my own life, naturally.

That I have awakened into a new world, there can be no doubt. The strange and mysterious devices and the hideous azure sky are evidence enough. For example, I was brought a ‘newspaper’ by an orderly. It presented information about events that were occurring hundreds of miles away, and yet these events supposedly occurred only recently – within the last few hours! How information could be relayed so quickly I cannot fathom. And the paper itself is pure artwork! It would take a person weeks to write so much, and so carefully. There are sketches and drawings possessing the most fantastic accuracy. But the most bizarre and amazing thing is that there are many copies of it. Roger, for example, looks at a paper right now that is essentially identical to the one that sits here upon my bed. But as strange as all of this is, it is not the most unusual property of this new world.

The people are careless! Everyone! No one pays attention to what they do, or to the world around them. And yet, each one seems to possess the most amazing good fortune. Not a minute goes by when one of them endangers himself, and survives without incident. I cannot but conclude that this entire new world is a most blessed place, a most kind and comforting haven for those who have lived a decent life. There can be no other explanation. Blue sky or not, I cannot see how anyone could describe this wondrous place as anything but Heaven.

I have also learned more regarding the details of my arrival here. The nurses tell me that I was injured in an accident at the site of the construction of a new building. Apparently I was not paying attention to where I was going, and was struck in the head with a metal girder as it swung. Naturally this is absurd, but I have begun to develop a theory as to what happened.

When I was brought to the seer on my sixth birthday… On second thought, perhaps I had best take a step back in my writing. It occurs to me now that whoever might someday read this might not share my origin, and will not understand my background.

In the real world, by which I mean my world, a person becomes a responsible adult at the age of six. It is the age at which a parent is no longer responsible for the safety of the child, for no person beyond that age would be willing to live under the exact instructions of another. That passage into manhood (or womanhood) is marked by a visit to an oracle who will try to unearth details regarding the life that lies ahead for that person.

People are told a variety of things, from immediate dangers to hints of waiting love, upcoming fortunes of treasure to omens of great portent. When I made my visit, however, an odd thing was told to me. The seer said only one sentence, and that was this. “Changeling, you alone are destined to learn of Heaven and Hell before your final Fate.”

It was this statement that had led me to the priesthood, of course, and while I had thought many months – years, in fact – about the title I was given, I never understood it. In yesterday’s confusion I had not thought much upon the issue, but now the memories have come back to me and I think I understand.

I have been brought before death into this world, this Heaven, so that I might understand the comfort and forgiveness that awaits the good and faithful.

Day 3

I have come upon a most disturbing thought. If I have come into this world only as a visitor – into a life that was not my own – then it seems most likely that, as a ‘changling,’ someone from this world would have been sent into mine. Why, you might wonder, is this thought disturbing? For that, I must describe what I have learned today.

While I have avoided speaking with the others in my room until I feel more comfortable with my situation, I have spent a great deal of the day observing them, watching them, listening. And I have discovered a very important thing: these people most definitely do not have heightened intellects. When first I had observed Nurse McFallan I had assumed that rather than careless, she was possessed of an extraordinary mind capable of careful observation of her world as a casual, almost negligent act. How else could she behave so brazenly and not become injured?

But as I observe my roommates it has become very clear that this is not the case. What these people possess is not superior intellect, but rather great fortune. This led me to wonder if this fantastical luck was something belonging to the people or the place, and so I began to experiment.

This morning I approached the teevee hanging from the wall. I placed my arm in such a way that it might be injured, though not badly. The object did not fall. As I gained confidence, I took greater risks, and by the end of the hour I was standing fully underneath the device such that it could have fallen directly on my head and killed me. Yet it did not.

Convinced that this luck is not a matter of personal nature, but rather a pervading characteristic of the place, I have decided that my earlier hypothesis is correct. I am being shown Heaven. For what purpose I cannot guess, but there is no longer doubt in my mind.

There is, however, fear, and for the reason to which I have already alluded. If I am here in this world, then it seems probable that someone from here is in mine. It seems likely that his behavior would be similar to that of the people who I see around me, particularly since I already know that he was injured, severely injured, as a result of careless distraction. And so I must wonder this. What will happen if he awakens into my world? I fear that he will not last terribly long, and I grow concerned as to what will happen to me if he should die whilst we are thus exchanged, an outcome that I doubt less and less with each passing moment. Will I remain in Heaven? Will I be returned to my own home? Will I, as his mirrored reflection, die as well? Of course, I cannot hope to find an answer to this question, but it plagues me all the same.

Day 4

Today I have begun in earnest speaking to those others with whom I share this room. There are four in addition to Robert, who I have already mentioned, and each was happy to discuss with me what brought them into this hospital. Yet, my conversations with the last few told me nothing more than I learned from speaking with the first two or three. The details, the specifics, were different, but each was here because of some accident.

This is not surprising of course, for only the mentally unbalanced would deliberately cause himself harm or suffering, but what startled me was the similarity in attitude of each man in turn. Whether it was Robert’s burn, Chester’s broken limb, or any of the other ailments, the accidents they described each could have been – nay, should have been – much more serious. Fatal, in fact. Yet none of these men seemed to have any appreciation for the great fortune that life has handed them, these gifts from God. Almost to the contrary, they seem to focus and constantly refocus upon the specific injuries that they had sustained. I found it a most disturbing, in fact annoying, habit, and one that seemed, without exception, ingrained in each of their personalities. It was as if for each of them, good fortune was insufficient. They wished – in fact, expected – more.

I listened as they spoke about their lives. They were resentful that fate should bring even the slightest discomfort, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was their own negligence, their own carelessness, that was the cause of their pain. When I spoke with Carl, who had been cut by an opponent’s knife during a fight in a tavern, the avoidance of responsibility was too much for me to ignore, and I asked him about it.

“Carl,” said I, “you are so very lucky that you were not cut upon the neck. Or stabbed through the heart. Why are you so bitter about what had happened?”

Carl looked at me as if I had gone to madness. “He knifed me!” he exclaimed.

“But was that not a risk of having challenged him to a battle?” I asked.

“A little fight,” he explained. Then he cursed for a time, and went on to explain that his opponent fought unfairly. I cannot say in truth that I understand his view. When I asked him why he entered into the fight at all, he told me that he was upset and gave a myriad of reasons for his anger. Try as I might, however, he seemed unwilling, perhaps unable, to comprehend the idea that deliberately entering into a fight might be dangerous.

As I spoke with each person, I also inquired about the world around us. I asked them what they thought of it, gently seeking confirmation of my conclusion that this is Heaven. Yet each person assured me that it was not. Some spoke of places that they might go upon their death, but none seemed willing to even consider the possibility that they were already in Heaven. In fact, they seemed more inclined to describe their world as some kind of Hell, expressing anger and frustration at what they, more than once, termed ‘the unfairness of it all’.

These conversations have convinced me that I have been transferred to some kind of ward for the mentally ill. This would not be surprising, given what must have seemed a most disturbing reaction on my part to the color of the sky, or my unfamiliarity with simple native customs. I must make it my utmost priority to arrange release from this institution, lest I never have the opportunity to meet with people of sound mind.

Day 14

It has now been a week since my release from the hospital. I have spent these last days visiting new, wondrous places – parks, woods, villages, and even the center of the city called Des Moines. I have ridden within buses and trains, and learned to make use of the countless implements that still strike me as being more of magic than science – the overhead light, the stove, and even an electric razor. But most amazing of all, I have come to realize that the great fortune that I have observed is not for individuals alone, but a worldly matter. There can be no more doubt. This is Heaven.

Already I have begun to relax in this new world. No longer do I check each door lintel, nor do I prop books or other objects underneath a window when I open it. However I do not think I shall ever be able to adopt the level of careless abandon of those I observe around me. I still watch in amazement at their casual, distracted use of knives or other sharp implements, their lack of attention as they cross the street.

But for all of the awe and amazement I hold, for as certain as I am that I have been brought into the kingdom of God Himself, there is still a thing that troubles me. It is the people, of course – the natives of this Heaven to which I have been transported. Perhaps I am simply naïve, but in my heart I am convinced that the people of Heaven should be… happy. And yet, almost without exception, everyone I meet here does not simply lack the happiness that I am certain they should feel, but rather feels a misery, a sense of despair or resentment that I simply cannot fathom.

And so I am left to ask myself, over and over again: how can this be Heaven when nearly everyone is so sad?

Day 20

I have been deluded, misled by my own desires. This is no Heaven. Where at first I thought that we were simply in error about the color of the sky, that blue should represent Heaven and not Hell, I now realize that we had been correct all along.

I have watched the people of this land; I have seen what softness has done to them. And as much as I once hoped to linger in this land of comfort and forgiveness, each morning I now pray that I will have been delivered back to my own world. Its harshness is a small price to pay for the chance to live in a world united.

Although I know that I wrote it yesterday and the day before that, I must write it once again – I dearly miss my fellow man. Not the sad creatures of human form that inhabit this city around me, but the real people of my own world, under my own red sky. People who grasp for joy and happiness, who can recognize a blessing and can afford to take a moment for thankfulness.

This Hell, for that is truly what it is, has become unbearable to me. The complaints, the whining, the lack of appreciation that defines this society – softness has brought these people nothing but misery, a depravity so deep that they can no longer recognize goodness and kindness even when it is thrust so forcefully into their faces. This lack of appreciation, what struck me at first as simply strange, and then humorous, has become a constant, personal insult to everything I see, to everything I believe to the very depths of my soul.

Each day I spend here has become a torture – a twisted, psychological torture unlike anything I have ever experienced and beyond anything with which I am prepared to deal. I, myself, can no longer find joy in the gentleness I witness, for my thoughts immediately turn to what those around me would say. I see kindness, and instead of feeling joy I think only of how everyone else would ignore it. I fear for myself to remain here lest, as the years might beat away at my sanity, I become like them.

There are priests here, I have learned recently. Despite my ever-growing desire to avoid contact with the people of this world, I felt obligated to speak with one, if only to exchange professional views. The conversation did not last long, but it has caused me to wonder if there is a god in this world. And if so, what would He be like?

As a mere mortal, I could easily see myself creating a world just like this. I could imagine myself, out of love for my children, creating a world of comfort and forgiveness, one that would be supportive of their lives – pens that only rarely clot, devices that only fail when so badly mistreated or ill-designed that no other alternative remains, accidents that almost always result in only superficial and temporary discomfort. Yes, that is a world that I would design, and I would do so thinking that I was a kind and benevolent Father bestowing happiness and ease.

But I am mortal, and far from omniscient. I must wonder what kind of cruel creature, knowing the misery that this false sense of entitlement heralds, would assemble a world thusly? What is to be gained by providing comfort when its only effect is to encourage people to belabor themselves into depression over their own negligence?

I also cannot help but wonder what people from this world would think of my own. I have found amusement these last days at the thought of this world’s Martin Gallager being thrust under my red skies. Would he call it Hell? Would he notice the camaraderie and happiness that my world’s people share, or the appreciation we have for every shred of good fortune that leaks through? Would he look up at the red skies and wonder at the cruelty of a god who makes such a world, unable to appreciate the divine gift that it represents?

Would he long to return to this world as badly as I long to return to mine?

* * * * *

This is not my bed. It is the sort of thing you know without having to think about it, and Martin Gallager realized it even before he was fully awake.

His eyes blinking open, the man sat up quickly. Unfortunately, at just that moment a physic with a wooden tray was passing near the cot. The man’s head collided with the serving platter, sending boiled peas and milk to the floor.

The man screamed and grasped for his forehead. His hand came in contact with the bandage, several inches before he had expected to stop the motion, sending an even more severe pain shooting across his skull. In anguish and frustration he jumped out of the cot. The physic, who had backed away in caution and confusion, watched as the man slipped on the wet peas and tumbled forward. He cringed as Martin Gallager’s head came crashing down onto the end of the sturdy dowel from the next cot.

The entire hospice ward now stared in confusion and disbelief as the lifeless body oozed its crimson fluid. Emily, who had waited patiently, expectantly, for three weeks, began to cry. The silence from the other patients was deafening as they each said their own silent prayers for the soul of their unknown, deceased friend. The physic moved especially slowly to avoid slipping on the wet, wooden floor.

Rock Hudson

He called himself Rock Hudson. It wasn’t the name that his parents gave him. In fact, he didn’t even know if he had parents. But he had heard the name once from some people who were walking by and it struck him the right way. He just liked the sound of it, he supposed, and figured that he might as well use it. After all, the original R.H. certainly wasn’t doing anything with it anymore.

Some people might have said that it was silly to bother with a name at all. Rock was not particularly social, and spoke to no one. No one spoke to him, not even so much as to address him by name. He didn’t really mind, though. He was a loner by nature, and quite comfortable with himself in that regard.

In other regards, however, Rock was not as satisfied. More than anything in the world he wanted to fly. He spent most of his time staring up into the wild blue yonder, envious of the birds that took their gift so lightly.

Had he parents, they would have told Rock to quit his silly daydreaming, to focus on more realistic expectations.

“You are not a flyer, Rock,” they would have said. “Look at you, all grit and dirt. Down to Earth, that's what you are.  Face it, you are not the aviator type.”

“But I could be,” Rock would have replied. “I will fly someday! I will! You'll see!”

But Rock was older now, and time had eroded his dream from enthusiasm to wistful desire. He still hoped that things would change one day, but he was no longer as optimistic as he had once been. The years will do that to you, he would think to himself.

Lately Rock had taken to sitting by the river all day long. He would listen to the sounds of the white water tumbling past, and contemplate the fish. Swimming was another thing he wanted to have a try at, but that seemed almost as unattainable as flying.

“You would sink like a stone, boy,” his imagined parents would tell him. “Right down to the bottom. Now why don’t you just sit there and behave for once.”

Rock didn’t mind being still and silent. It came naturally to him, in fact. He had to admit that he was very good at it, and that it certainly made more sense for his type than flying or swimming. But that did not mean that the desire wasn’t there.

And then one day it happened. Rock had all but given up hope, almost forgotten the dream, until a young man came bicycling out from the center of New York City. He was tall and slender, the typical bicyclist. He wore the tight-fitting pants, the sleeveless shirt, and Rock nearly laughed at him in his hard, pointy hat.

For some unknown reason the man had stopped suddenly. He dismounted his two-wheel vehicle and left it on the side of the road as he walked over and sat beside Rock.

Neither said a word for a long time, but Rock knew that his life was about to change. And then suddenly, as if compelled by unknown forces, the man took action. He picked Rock up off the ground, hefted him once in the palm of his hand, and then threw him mightily into the river.

It didn’t last long, of course, neither the flying nor the swimming, but it was definitely worth the wait. Besides, Rock knew that it would only be a few hundred thousand years before he reached the shore again. It would only be another few hundred thousand years more before evolution would be kind enough to provide another opposable-thumbed launch vehicle. And then only a few hundred years beyond that before he would have another go.

Even before finishing his swim to the river’s bottom he was already making plans for how he would do it better when the opportunity came again. He had to start preparing now if he wanted to make the most of his next chance.

The Game

        “Ah, I see you have chosen a new specimen to torment,” observed the Father.
        Loki flashed a thin, cruel smile, his eyes remaining focused below.  “Yes,” he said after a time.  “This one is fresher.  Look how he runs after the bait.”
        Odin sighed at the dispassionate attitude.  It was a heartless game that they all had played at one time or another, but his son never seemed to tire of it.  Motioning with a wizened finger, he called attention to the creature’s movement.  “Look how far he strays from the young.  What are you using to goad him?”
        “Same as with the others.”
        “I don’t remember the last one being so bold.”
        The god of fire looked into the Father’s eyes.  As if worried that Odin might break down and interfere with his experiment, he pushed the wrinkled hand aside.  “This one is different – much smarter when it comes to solving problems, but seemingly without any sense of value.  Watch how he scurries after the colored paper.”
        Odin nodded as he watched, and then his expression grew quizzical.  “He stopped.”
        “Yes,” agreed Loki.  “He does that from time to time.  If he remains still for too long, I throw something in there to get him running again.”
        “Such as?”
        “Oh, it’s always something different.  Last time it was a punctured tire, and that kept him moving for days.  Maybe this time I’ll try a promotion.”
        The two gods watched, curious how the creature would react to this new stimulus, but it remained still and unresponsive.
        “Why not try putting some errors on his credit report?” offered Odin.
        Nothing.
        Time crawled by as the deities continued to twist and turn the man’s life.  A winning lottery ticket, a false arrest.  A minor illness, then a major one.  Political upheaval, a seductive encounter, an automobile accident.  The man refused to navigate the maze, and Loki became irate.
        “I think he has figured out the game,” Odin mused.  “Set him free, I say.  He’ll offer no more enjoyment to you.”
        “Hah!  And be bested by a mortal?  I’ll not give up that easily.”
        “Not bested, my son.  You simply pushed this one too far.  Put him away for now, and return again on the morrow.  Perhaps with some rest he will be willing to run again.  Which jar is his?” asked Odin, turning towards the shelves.
        “That one.”  Loki snatched the container from his Father’s hand, and unceremoniously dumped the human into it.
        “Will he be able to breathe with the lid on so tightly?” asked Odin.
        Loki shrugged, having grown disinterested in the unresponsive mortal.  “What do I care?  One can hardly place a boot down without stepping on a dozen of them.”
        As the fire god strode off, Odin picked up the jar.  The human sat unmoving, and the Father began to wonder if he might already be dead.  Stealing a glance to confirm that Loki had truly left, he gave the jar a vigorous shake.  The man bounced from side to side, but otherwise remained motionless.
        Odin replaced the jar upon the shelf and left.  He, too, had lost interest.

######

        Bruised and battered, he held himself still and calm.  It was said that life has its ups and downs, and his entire existence had been an undeniable example of that simple law.  There comes a point, however, where fate and misfortune become absurd, almost personal in nature, and the reality to which one subscribes becomes surreal.
        This is how it was for the man in the jar.  After years of struggling to win some ephemeral, unnamed contest, he realized that, in fact, he was no further along than the day he was born.  So he stopped.  Stopped running, stopped chasing, stopped fearing that he was falling behind.  And then, amazingly, the absurdity stopped too.  Could that be coincidence?

Omnimpotence

Oh, crap, not again, I thought, as the unwitting construction worker sprouted feathers about his balding head.

It is not as fun as you would think, being omnipotent. It sounds nice on the surface, naturally, but I've come to realize that the problem is one of value. When everything you think becomes a reality, everything is equally… well, worthless.

I wasn’t always like this.  I wasn’t even like this last Tuesday. And I'm not even sure what changed. This strange turn of events has given me, however, some insights that would never have occurred to me before. For example, the scriptures say that on the seventh day God rested. Very doubtful.  More likely, they simply didn’t have the word “retired” back then.

Here is what I suspect really happened. The first few days were a mess. Total confusion. Things happening seemingly at random, with no explanations or logic forthcoming. Then God (or whatever He called Himself) caught on to the pattern.  Just like I did. “I'm doing this,” he realized. “My thoughts are taking form.”  He probably chuckled then. And again. And then laughed aloud, whatever ‘aloud’ means before there is air and sound. He tried it out deliberately a few times, giving us wonders like the giraffe and the platypus.

Then it got boring, and eventually disturbing. Until it happens to you, you can’t really appreciate it. No boundaries, no challenges, no needs. It makes you wonder whether you are really alive, or simply a figment of your own imagination. That is not a conundrum, you know. “Cognito ergo sum” and all that, but just because you are does not mean you are alive.

So this is my guess. God spent the first few days making stuff – light, the world, artichokes, whatever. Then he realized what I now realize, that the stuff of the universe is just putty. It takes whatever form you want, so any chunk of it is basically indistinguishable from any other. You don’t like the balding construction worker with feathers sprouting out of his head?  Fine - he becomes a scantily-clad supermodel. Or a sunset. Or an ironic allegory.  It doesn't matter without any rules.

The funny thing is that normal people talk about this all the time. “We are all connected,” they say. “There is a one-ness to the universe.” “Life is what you make of it.” “It is all relative.” “Expectation forms reality.” Yeah, sure, it sounds deep when you don’t take it to an extreme, but the truth is unsettling.

So what then?  God comes to realize that nothing is really any different than anything else, so he decides to play a game. This is a sad attempt to establish meaning in a fundamentally meaningless universe.  But it's not like He has anything else to do, right? The game is kind of like stacking up dominoes in a particular pattern, and then tapping the first one to see how they all fall. Except in this case, the dominoes think and feel, and can right themselves to fall again. The dominoes love, cry, and desperately seek higher meaning. They want to know their place in the universe. I wonder, do individual molecules of clay wonder about their place in the bigger blob?

As for the pattern, He lays them out as simple things, but with His best guess as to what will produce a respectable higher culture, an enlightened species acting as responsible stewards for a given environment - a species that might even awaken someday to the true nature of the meaningless universe. If it were me, I would have laid out lots of patterns, different starting arrangements in different environments to see which ones work out the best. It's not like there is a shortage of planets, after all.

And then He sits back and watches. Sure, He can change the fate of individual dominoes by picking them up and shaking them around, but why pick out some instead of others? They are all made of the same clay. The point is what happens to the whole picture, not an individual domino. If you have to keep rearranging the game pieces midstream, it means you didn’t set it up right in the first place. In the rules of the game, it’s a loss. So on the seventh day - you retire. Let the universe unfold as it will. That is as meaningful as anything else you might come up with – which is to say, not at all.

Not to change the subject, but here is an interesting side note: I can hear people thinking. It took me by surprise the other day, and I felt rather guilty about it. At first, anyway. I had been wondered what was going through someone’s mind, and, well, there it was. Unintended voyeurism. But then I also realized that it hardly made a difference. What is privacy to a piece of clay?

But what really convinced me that it was okay was when I began to hear actions. The funny thing about hearing actions is that you don’t need to be omnipotent to do it; you just have to pay attention. So my reasoning went like this: if actions are the true measure of person, and they are – for lack of a better description – in the public domain, then listening to thoughts, which are only gossamer figments of potential futures, is not really a big deal.

Then I heard someone praying. I had thought it would sound different than other thoughts, feel different, but it doesn’t. It’s ironic, really, that every thought is a prayer.  So if God were inclined to respond to prayers (which, from my perspective, would defeat the whole point of setting up the dominoes in the first place), how would He decide which ‘prayers’ to answer? Would it be the artfully crafted, premeditated, I-am-thinking-on-my-best-behavior-now-O-Lord prayers, or would he be more responsive to the spontaneous, uncensored, this-is-what-I-am-at-the-core-of-my-being thoughts? Or would He simply listen to people’s actions to decide what they really thought was important?

But I digress.

The big question is this: what do I do now? And this is my conjecture. Well, not so much conjecture as desperate hope. Here are the circumstances.

One of the little lumps of clay does something funny. It changes water into wine, perhaps. God doesn’t care at first, any more than I do when the fire hydrant blinks and quotes Shakespeare. After all, I can’t control my thoughts all the time either. But then He realizes that it never would have occurred to Him to do that, nor was it part of the original rule set.  So if not Him, then who?

And so God starts to pay closer attention. Yes, indeed. Something else, someone else, is changing the rules of the game.

What happens then? I have no idea. Will something come around and remove all the extraneous feathers from that poor construction worker’s forehead? That would make for a happy ending, for the alternatives are rather depressing. Am I God, reawakened into uselessness? Am I an emergent Consciousness, come unaware into a vacated universe? Am I simply a dreamer, taking a momentary break from my rules of self-constraint? How… lonely.

Oh, look. Another construction worker. Or is that the same one?

Martina's Infallible Goat, Part 17.3

…which is when Sven realized that there were no more darts in the cartridge. “Great, now what are we going to do about all of these orangutans?” he grunted to Michaella as they hoisted the emulsion turbine housing. As if in a fit of universal irony, it was at that precise moment that the thunderheads broke, and hailstones began cascading down onto the parapet.

Oliver ungracefully inched his way out from under the pile of rubble that had been their observation post before the attack started. It was clear from the look on his face that he had formulated a solution, and an ingenious one at that. But as he opened his mouth to speak, the golden halibut began rising into the air, enlarging and expanding in a surprisingly threatening fashion.

“Well,” he observed instead, “this is new. Can anyone reach the Pleuronectidae deflater?”

Toadisms

Here are eleven things of which I seem to need constant reminding. If they sound wrong to you, then they undoubtedly are.  To you.  And if they make sense, you too may one day find yourself posting such thoughts on an unadvertised, philosophical amphibian blog.

1. You are nothing more than a collection of arbitrarily selected points from an infinite space. So is everything else. You simply aren't important. Get over it.
2. If you knew everything there is to know, you wouldn't bother with any of this. Since you don't know everything there is to know, it is reasonable to expect that things will usually not go the way you expected. This is not a reason to whine and complain. It is called the mystery of the infinite, and it is where magic lies. Stop feeling frustrated by it, and start using it.
3. Outcomes are inherently worthless. The value of something lies in the investment of effort. Do not throw away your failures, as they carry just as much value as your successes. Don't dwell on the outcomes of your successes, for they don't have meaning or value beyond being reminders of the investment you made to achieve them. Same thing goes for your failures.
4. Don't do things for other people. You can't do things for other people. Value comes from investment, and solving someone else's problem is just stealing an investment opportunity from them. This is okay, however, when the other person does not want or intend to make the investment themselves. The fact that the other person does not recognize this is not your problem. Neither is it your responsibility to point it out to them. Don't point it out to them unless they ask, as this is called “being an asshole”.
5. Do things the way you want to do them, the way you want to remember yourself as having done them. This is the reason to do things a certain way. Someone else's expectations should not enter into it. Their expectations are inherently tied to their perspective on the world, and that perspective changes constantly. Your guess as to the nature of their expectations is even flimsier. You can use such guesses to guide your actions, but the guesses should only be factors in making a decision about what to do. How you do it is an expression of self, and nothing more. And nothing less.
6. “Thank you” is a drug. If you inhale, you trap yourself into thinking that your actions are for the benefit of others. Your actions are there for only one purpose – to define you. That other people appreciate them fools you into thinking that their opinions of what is right or wrong, good or bad, or valuable or worthless have some bearing on things. Everyone is going through life just as cluelessly as you are. Most people are more clueless. If you are doing something for appreciation, you are going to be disappointed because you are putting your judgment of yourself – an act from your reference frame – into the hands of someone who does not operate in that reference frame.
7. There is no right and wrong beyond what you feel in yourself. Sorry, but that is just the way it is. It is all just blobs in an infinite space, and you are not any more important than anything else – not another person, not a rock, not an emotion, not the number 12. You are also not any less important.
8. The world does not need you to defend it. Truth does not need you to defend it. Your honor cannot be defended – it is formed by your actions, and interpreted differently by everyone. You have no control over how other people view it through their own filters, and what others make of it should not affect you any more than their expressions of appreciation. You don't live in the same world as them, so their conclusions do not necessarily apply to you.
9. The opinions of others belong to others. Do not borrow, steal, or photocopy without prior authorization. You are the one responsible for giving this authorization, and should only do so when you are convinced that it is the right thing to do. This includes – most especially – their opinions about you.
10. Do not expect behaviors, attitudes, or opinions from other people. They don't know you, they don't know what you want, they don't know how to please you even if they want to. The best you can hope for is a lucky shot in the dark. Since you will never know what they were shooting for, you might as well assume that it was to please you, as it leads to a less stressful day. Even when it seems like an absurd assumption to make, it is your invested effort that produces value and meaning, so you might as well invest it wisely.
11. Absurdity can be found everywhere. It is the basis of humor and learning. Do not dismiss it as irrelevant. Embrace it for what it has to offer, which is every bit as meaningful as the predictable and the expected. Generally more so. Just because something is absurd does not mean it is wrong.
12. Each day is a new game, but do not strive to win. There is no winning, because there is no scoring

It's Going...Going...Here!!!

I think the universe is made up of a lot of stuff.  A lot of people think that, I suppose, although I am not sure we would mean the same thing by that statement.  If you asked a handful of people on the street to list some examples of what one might find in the universe, you might get answers like: stars, gas clouds, asteroids, planets, etc.  People who are slightly less astronomical in nature might give examples like: chairs, rocks, clouds, pizza, etc.  People who are slightly less materialistic might include love, irony, conflict, etc. in the list.

I would not list any of these.

It is not that I think you won't find these things as you wander around, it is just that when I say that the universe is made up of a lot of stuff, I am talking about what is "out there" independent of an observer.  I like the phrase "out there" because it is a perfect example of how language, which is formed by thinking, also forms thinking.  Because we organize our experiences using a framework that utilizes concepts like space (and time, but that is germane to the example), people generally assume that space (or time) is an inherent property of the universe.  We say things like "there is stuff out there in the universe", as if it is a foregone conclusion that all that stuff is in some way external to one's self.

I, too, would say that all the stuff that is "out there" is external to one's self, but I don't mean it from a spatial perspective.  When I say that there is something "out there", I mean that it is not part of me.  And yet, that is where I would be wrong.  If I had said that correctly, I would have said the following:  When I say that there is something "out there", I mean that it is not wholly subsumed by my definition of myself.

Why do I draw the distinction?  It comes to this: if I do not contain at least some part of the the thing that is "out there" within the infinitude which is me, how could I relate to it?  How could I experience it?  What common basis would we have by which to share an interaction?  We must have something in common, and so it cannot really be completely separate from me.

But is the thing that I am reclining on at the moment a chair?  Many years ago I had a wonderful discussion about whether a footstool was still a footstool if I decided to wear it on my head.  At what point does it become a hat?  In that example, one might say that we are just debating semantics.  "Call it what you will, but the physical characteristics are what they are."

So this leads to two points.  First, it suggests (pretty strongly) that a thing's value is dictated not by the thing itself, but rather by the expectations and perspectives of the person assessing the value.  This is not too hard to follow.  The value of a tissue to someone with a runny nose is high, its value to a child who is perfectly willing to blow her nose on her sleeve is considerably less.

Second point:  It is really easy to think that an object's characteristics are inherent to the object when everyone you speak with shares the same basic cognitive framework as yourself.  That we all agree that the footstool/hat has "immutable" physical characteristics is not confirmation that those physical characteristics are inherent to the object... because we are all using the same basic cognitive framework to make the assessment.  If we are all using the same framework, it is perfectly reasonable that we would all see the same thing the same way.

So this itself leads to several interesting questions:

• How can we tell whether there is anything "out there" at all?
• Why would we suspect that the framework is establishing artifacts of "reality"?
• How can we determine which artifacts are consequences of the universe, and which are come about because of the framework?

To the first of these questions, I would say this:  I do not believe that the things that one experiences are completely separate from the self, but I do believe they are not contained entirely within the self.  Why?  Because when I meet someone for the very first time, and that person has experienced something that I have as well (we both have eaten chocolate, visited the Grand Canyon, etc.), we are able to share experiences that corroborate with each other. 

Example:  Person A meets Person B.  Person C meets Person B.  Persons A and C then meet, and can discuss Person B.  When A and C find that they have observed the same things (B has brown hair, B has blue eyes, whatever), there are only a few possibilities. 

It might be that only one person exists at all (A, for example), and all the rest are nothing more than aspects of A.  This cannot really be disproved (well, hasn't yet over the past few thousand years' worth of philosophers' efforts), but I reject it simply because it does not make me happy (i.e. I acknowledge that it is a possibility, but I continue to look for logically cogent explanations that don't require that to be the truth).

The other option is that although A, B, and C might not be completely independent "things" (I would argue that they cannot be completely disjunctioned if they are able to communication with each other), there are aspects of each that make them distinct from each other (i.e. why they are different people at all).  For A, whatever aspects of B and C that are not the same as for A must be "out there", i.e. exist outside of A's self.

Next: Why would we suspect that the framework is involved in establishing artifacts of "reality"?  Well, there are a couple of easy answers.  First: quantum mechanics tells us so.  We think about things in terms of space, for example - the electron is located at point P.  But in QM, position (as just one example) is not a property of the electron itself, but rather a consequence of asking the question "where is the electron?"  In other words, it is the measurement process that gives rise to the idea of the electron's location.

Emotions suggest this as well.  When a person does something in different frames of mind, that person experiences things differently.  This is a variant on the old "seek and ye shall find" idea.

Now, how much of a role the framework plays is another question, but I'll get back to that later.

How can we determine which artifacts are consequences of the universe, and which are come about because of the framework?  The best way to do this would be to adopt a new framework, and examine how things change as a result. 

Too hard?  Too much like a chapter out of a Casteneda book?  Okay then, another alternative would be to establish a model of how things really work starting from a logic based on experience.  One such set started with "A is not 'not A'" turned out to be very fruitful, although I personally do not find it to be sufficiently comprehensive.  There are situations in my experiences where such logic does not hold true, and so I cannot accept it as a fundamental truth (only a situational truth founded on specific assumptions/conditions).

There are a few basic principles that I see repeated pretty much everywhere:  union, disjunction, and exchange.  Since I have not come across anything that does not combine some combination of these three principles, they are what I have come to accept as reasonable philosophical building blocks.  Since I can experience these three things without regard to space, I assume that space is not fundamental.  Since I can experience these three things without regard to time, I assume that, likewise, time is not fundamental. 

Without space and time, most of the things that are normally considered "out there" (like chairs and rocks and stars) become secondary, by which I mean I assume them to potentially be artifacts of my organizational framework, not fundamental aspects of the universe.

So what kinds of things are potential "atomic" building blocks?  I don't know.  Further, I consider it distinctly possible that such things are not merely unknown, but unknowable.  The only way I can describe (to myself or others) the facets of the universe I experience is through the filter of my personal framework.  It seems... logical.... that anything that I can actually describe, then, must already be tainted by that framework, skewed by those things that I personally bring into the equation.

If I were terse in nature, or Chinese, I might summarize this vast explosion of words by saying:  The Tao that can be named is not the Tao.

But then, the endpoint/conclusion is not really the point, is it?  The journey is what matters.  That, obviously, is a brand new idea that has never been expressed before.  But what I find interesting, what I had not considered before, is the possibility that it holds not merely for activities, but even for trains of thought.  No, wait.  I had thought of that before, I just called it something else.

To Share or Not To Share

Things can be broken down into three categories: those that cannot be given, and those that can.  In case you are thinking that I have an odd sense of counting, you might have read an earlier post.  Still, let me appease you by further breaking down the latter category.  Of those things that can be given, some remain with you after the giving, and some don't.

Some examples of things that fall into these catrgories:

• Can't be given:  Understanding, self-confidence, time (can be donated, but not given), growth, value (in one's self and in things)
• Given and retained:  Knowledge, perspectives, emotional states, energy, motivation, some opportunities (though this usually is a variant on knowledge)
• Given and gone:  Physical things, money, time (donated but not received), other opportunities (i.e. those that are exclusionary in nature)

I find the breakdown is generally thought-provoking, but the latter two (i.e. the subdivisions of "things that can be given") are what really have me thinking this afternoon.  Specifically, I find myself wondering at why people hesitate or refuse to share those things that are in the "given and retained" category. 

Sure, in some cases the reasons are clear - two people in competition, for example, might withhold information.  But sometimes I see people who don't want to share things for which there appears to be no down-side to the sharing (though of course there is - albeit a potentially irrational one):

• I am not going to tell you how to do that
• No, you cannot have a copy of this (legally shareable) electronic file
• I don't want you to have that opportunity if I can't have it too

It's pettiness, to be sure.  But I find myself wondering if it comes, at least in part, from being brought up in a materialistic society.  Do we get caught in the mindset of "if I give it to you, I have less for me"? 

Or do thoroughly non-materialistic people do the same thing...  Is it just emotions out of control?  It isn't just meanness, though.  Is it a form of jealousy?

No point.  No answers.  Just musing.

A Lament For Honesty

What strikes me as truly unfortunate about the human condition is the impractical nature of honesty.  The way (at least most) people are brought up in the love/hate dichotomy of unambiguous communication seems to be a perfect recipe for everlasting frustration.  We are told to "be honest", but also to "be kind" - and with the understanding that sometimes the two do not go together.  And when the two are in conflict, the "right" solution is ambiguity.  "Does this look good on me?"  What do we say?  Not "no, not particularly", but rather "I prefer the other one".  We skirt issues, we avoid, we redirect.

Part of the problem is that life is, by its very nature, full of uncertainty long before we ever add to it through deliberate ambiguity.  If there exist (for anyone) any absolute truths, they are few and far between under the best of circumstances.  Two different people will not necessarily agree on whether "it looks good on you" (which, by the way, is not the topic that led to this post, but merely the stereotypical example of the little white lie).  Deliberate lack of clarity blends in with inherent uncertainty, leaving us walking examples of the traditional sitcom.  (Maybe that is why we never speak honestly with each other - it would be too hard on the network executives to find things to air on Tuesday night.)

But we don't just live with uncertainty, we thrive on it.  It sustains us in the face of doubt, it salves our fear of rejection.  "Does s/he like me?  Does s/he not?"  Were it not countered by more emphatic drivers such as fear of being along and the urge to procreate, would we ever be prepared to gamble the hope of acceptance against the possibility of rejection?

To make matters worse, we are story-telling creatures.  We are natural pattern-finders, and every datum demands an explanation for why it is so, and what it implies for the future.  That we have insufficient knowledge or experience to make any such evaluation or prediction with any reasonable level of confidence seems immaterial - we create the stories anyway.  And lacking contradiction, we simply proceed with our "truth", making judgements, setting expectations, getting angry and frustrated when those expectations are not met.

The irony is that not only do we not attempt to uncover additional data to better understand, but human nature makes it intensely difficult (at least in some circumstances) to do so even if we want to.  For example: We are all insecure.  We all know that we are all insecure.  And yet, to walk up to someone and ask "what do you think about me?" is social unconscionable.  Perhaps I am in a minority of people who are curious about such things, but I doubt it.

I wonder if one cause is our tendency to view ourselves as a single thing without finer resolution or division.  In such a state of believe the idea that a person might not like something about me is indistinguishable from the idea that the person does not like me.  Yet we are all complex combinations of a great many facets - not only aspects that make up a personality, but distinct personalities that comprise a person.

Do I need you to like all of me?  Has it ever occurred, in the entire course of human history, that one person has liked everything about another (especially for all time and in all circumstances)?  Said this way, it suggests that it could be as simple as accepting that being liked is a matter of degrees, and that we can put the issue to rest by coming to grips with that. 

But it isn't that simple.  Accepting that someone can like a part of you but not all of you is one step - the (comparatively) easy one because it is something over which a person has control.  It is my mind, after all, my thoughts, and I can decide (at least hypothetically) to not be offended if someone does not accept/like everything about me.  But there are two people in this equation.  Person A cannot do much about how person B lives/thinks/behaves.  Will you reject me in totality because there is a subset of me that you do not like?  Or the more insidious version: might a single action/word/look cause you to hate/fear/disrespect me?  If I like you and want to build a relationship (of any kind), will I risk showing you something you might not accept?  Can I trust you to not reject everything for the sake of that one part?  How strong does a friendship have to be to support a dislike?  How many friendships end simply because we are unwilling/unable to discuss these things?

Why Fear for the Future of Humanity?

Sometimes you hear a phrase come up a disproportionate number of times in a day.  Yesterday, that phrase was "All things in moderation."

Surely I am not the only one who finds this expression to be subtlely disturbing. 

(Though in defense of the species in general, I will acknowledge that several years ago I heard someone express the following hope-inducing variant:  "All things in moderation, including moderation")