September 29th, 2009
From the earliest age we are impressed with the lessons of literature: fairness, good faith, perseverance. It used to baffle me when adults failed to practice even the simplest maxims, judging books and doing unto others. And moral instruction is not exclusive to children’s fables, for instance in the ancient Greek tragedies one finds a fairly comprehensive list of poor decisions to be avoided. When I was a child I resolved to take these lessons of literature to heart, to hopefully escape the human propensity to repeat mistakes.
One of the most potent-seeming lessons from antiquity is carpe diem, “sieze the day” and “trust as little as possible to the future”. When I first heard this rather enabling phrase it echoed in my young, susceptive mind. Here again I found that while many adults were quick to praise this notion none were willing to act on it (high school English teachers notwithstanding).
There seemed to me two ways to approach this precept. First there is the literalist approach, which is to say the effective philosophy of a heroin addict. The literalist approach seemed as shortsighted to me then as it does now. I opted for a more measured approach: sieze this day as much as you can while being mindful of your ability to seize tomorrow. All modesty aside, I soon became quite expert at this – to the point where on any given day the only way to have more fun than me was do so at the expense of days to come.
For a long time I thought I was very clever. I was very wrong. Carpe diem is a cruel lie – a lie because it ignores the abiding joys that can’t be got in a single day – those that require stress and toil to achieve but are the food of life without which we are beggars. That you might die before you see them through only gives these endeavors their meaning. It’s true that literature conveys the wisdom of our forebears from across time, but be wary for it brings the balderdash as well.
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September 23rd, 2009
Everyone who hasn’t fallen for one political ideology or another knows that political ideologies are silly things. They are like unto the mythic gardens and fabled fiends of our ancient religions: interesting subjects for a Sunday but by themselves nothing to go to war over. One can make a fair argument, I suppose, for violence against tyranny and privation, but why must this violence always carry the banner of one silly political economic philosophy or other?
Most ideologues support some living or past political system; one can argue which of these has been the most successful, but has any got the whole job done? Others subscribe religiously to some untried fantasy whose fatal flaws are yet unknown. I have my own shaky thoughts about what political system might best serve humanity, but I have not yet found the confidence to firebomb.
Public outrage springs naturally from inequity or at least a commendable empathy for others. Tragically this sentiment in normal people is always railroaded by those infected with that weird passion for political systems. It is these people who ‘know what’s best’ that are the problem, people who cleave to their one way of seeing and consort with strange bedfellows.
Some of us would rather a party of agnostics. A party that recognizes that assertive action is often necessary but is foggy on what form it should take. A party that is dubious about consistency, disdainful of philosophy. What is there but results? For instance, the world actually produces enough food for every living human. Were it not for competing political ideologies every living human would have their food. Are these invented differences of opinion really so important?
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September 16th, 2009
In every generation since the beginning there have been those who have been so arrogant as to imagine that theirs is the last generation. Thus the world has been ending since the day it began. The date is always pending. No one ever pegs the end of days at a thousand years from now. Who would listen? This should tell us that they are expecting something else: attention. A suicide attempt might yield a better result.
Are they using their vacation time? Are they spending their retirement savings? What are they doing still engaged in their workaday lives? If I had any inkling that complete collapse was around the corner I’d be on my fourteenth credit card spray painting “The King Has No Sting” on Machu Piccu. See if they mind you throwing an empty can on the ground. If the Earth is going to be a wasteland my preference is to never use a trash can again. Give the scavengers something to find.
A vision of complete human disaster might seem like a product of a bold imagination; I would argue that it is the delineation of a limited one. The only certainty I have about the future is that it will bear little if any resemblance to our asinine fantasies. How can we begin to plot the trajectory of our species? What young saints and tyrants lurk among the teeming billions? Where are the butterflies that will stir up hurricanes?
People will often point out that our current way of life is ‘not sustainable.’ Was it ever? At what point in our history should we have called a halt, banned experimentation and outlawed progress? The truth is we are headed for countless troubles both expected and unforeseen, but as much as I like to point to our shortcomings I am forced to admit that our species has shown some limited ability to adapt. For that reason alone I think it fair to expect something of a future.
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September 9th, 2009
In the course of life one inevitably encounters here and there those ubiquitous adventurers who hail from that storied colony of the Brave New World: New York City. I know well and count among my friends many denizens of that other place. Many of them are friendly, intelligent folk seeking opportunity and excitement; some are humble atheists escaping religious persecution. Regrettably for them there is a subtle poison that laces their Big Apple, a poison to which all but the purest of hearts will eventually succumb.
The effects of this potent toxin are manifold: self-deception, arrogance, but most critically a kind of obnoxious patriotism, a wholly unjustified faith in the their city. There is a lot to recommend New York; I have visited not a few times and enjoyed the parks and museums, dined at a few excellent restaurants (fewer than they would have you believe). My only complaint really is the awful profusion of these flag-waving victims of themselves.
I met one of these poisonous missionaries while out with mutual friends. He wasted no time in telling us where he was from; they will always give the neighborhood first, for it is this of which they are proudest, but also the borough in case anyone present isn’t familiar with the minutiae of their sprawling world capital. As the night progressed he proceeded to steer every conversation regardless of subject to the glory of New York City. New England clam chowder? You haven’t had it till you’ve been to the West Village. Crime bad in Detroit? You don’t have crime like we have in Brownsville.
When he had ground my civility into nothing I reflexively mumbled something about the “cost of living.” This is what’s called a ‘trigger.’ It drew an outburst from the loyalist, “That’s a myth!” He then elucidated for me: living in rent-controlled neighborhoods, knowing precisely where to shop and the cheapest modes of transportation, and so on. After several minutes of this he concluded, “You just have to know how to manage it.” I said, “Manage what? The high cost of living?” Only a New Yorker would embarrass themselves like that.
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September 2nd, 2009
Planil sails among islands of opalescent cloud, leaving wispy ribbons whither she goes, and thither she weeps in hues of reds and golds. She trails her glittering tears that poise like drizzle in a widow’s web. Her glamour dims, she breaks into dust and scatters by the winds.
Come Middlemarch the glittering tears are loosed from laden clouds; from the circle round where each one crowns there might spring mushrooms of a reddish shade. Out of the darkness creep hobgoblins with ruddy lichen hides, small and limpid spangled eyes with red and gold-rimmed caps. They have spirited away the ornaments that you have lost to heap within their faerie circle for their reverie.
As the hobgoblins steal away these riches rise to animation. These are now the gauderies. The gauderies give revelry for having been delivered of thee. What a splendid thing to escape your neglect, or be absent from your doting. When these tire they melt into the ground – for in the Summer they will Spring; within the faerie circle they will bloom into a rose bush of red and golden ring.
Ere Middlemarch the frosted rose petals fall away and so is born Planil. She shakes off sleep, stretches her arms and spreads her resplendent wings. She lights unto the ether and ascends up to the clouds where she will once again observe you as you love your gaudy things.
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