Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Start the week
Great early morning discussion between Rowan Williams and D. Athill on the radio. Can one imagine a maulvi having a similar talk with a declared agnostic?! But perhaps this is more a cultural thing than a religious point, a particular way of discussing things. And in any case, it may be that with the decline of faith in the west the religious have to acknowledge that other points of view may have some legitimacy, in which case there's a genuine conversation and not just the passing down of the official dogma. Second thoughts: radio is really very reassuring at breakfast time, a bit too reassuring perhaps.
R.W.: "If what people like me are saying is right, and one never knows.." . R.W. always tries to find the common ground. And then they turn to Bach, Wittgenstein...
Well, yes, that type of tentativeness is something you find deeply appealing. not a post-modern scepticism, but a straightforward, old-world decency which allows other people/views to breathe. Also, something strange happens to agnostics in the presence of religious people; it's as if they want to be won over by other arguments. Maybe it's more than that: a matter of personality more than the arguments themselves.
D.A. made the intriguing point: maybe religion made sense in a world which was relatively small, when many things weren't just unknown but unthinkable. With the advance of science, amongst other subjects, there are lots of competing ideas/truths/approaches out there. And religion can only sometimes tangentially comment on them, rather than initiate and transmit them.
But I don't think R.W. was too phased by that; religion has, after all, always lived with the ineffable, the mysterious, with what it can, and what cannot be 'named'. The quest for knowing everything, the belief that we can know it all, does seem far-fetched and smacks of hubris. Not that we can necessarily say anything positive about limits
But I don't think R.W. was too phased by that; religion has, after all, always lived with the ineffable, the mysterious, with what can, and what cannot be named. The quest for knowing everything, for believing that we can know everything, does seem rather far-fetched. Not that we can say anything positively about limits..
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The view from nowhere
"I do find it odd that people mind not knowing about God...I see that there is a very strong human instinct to want to know everything that we already don't know. This seems odd when we live with unknown things all the time; after all, we don't even know whether what we remember about our own lives is what really happened"
---Diana Athill.
With time you don't grow any wiser. With time. Though you'd like to think it wasn't so. To think of what "is" or "isn't" doesn't alter a thing. The pile of books unread grows each year, like a Talib's accumulation of ignorance. 'What can you know?' a poor substitute for who can you know? It ain't what you know, it's who you know, Bulleh.
But say you had read all those books. Then what? A few more conversations, or blog posts perhaps? A few more tangled thoughts, tumbling down. A book is borrowed, on borrowed time. Leaf through the old ones to see what's been marked: ' or + or * for something really important or profound that you simply forget when you return to your backgammon. A conceit, of course, and yet human. The great, simplifying, purifying process revealed by a few signs!
You would like to read for pleasure, just for once. No, that's not it, because you do read for pleasure, with no thought of the 'morrow. Is there another form, a higher type of pleasure that isn't so fleeting, that builds into the pattern of a life, a life lived well?Well?
Who can you cite to help you see yourself now? Not I, but another. We grow into darkness in the sense that more becomes unknown each day. The one thing needful. Memory? Not for self-identity, for Christ's sake. But for Christ's sake.For when we remember our own lives, full of lives, we learn to see, and see again, the view we have from here, this very place, this transient but beautiful bridge over the deepest of waters.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
all quiet on the western front
The black ice, a shadow of its former self, crumpled, clinging to the kerb for solace; lifeless, slightly heretical, unredeemed; the grime of centuries, of history, in its veins. What has become of the sparkling crystals that fell on our face only the day before?
The Roding, frozen over, its dark stillness rising from the deep. and down, far down below, the weeds now rigid like icicles, pointing north, whilst a single fish imagines himself free.
Outside St. Barnabas's, the bright new white Christ looks on at the unreal world. Lowell, or something like that. On your way back, you're careful not to slip and fall-as if that could be avoided by mere attention.An ambulance now stands outside the church and the bells are silent. Walk past a vacant plot, the slow, brown&black guard dog too old or cold to bark.
The silence spanning out, between each word, gives pause for thought. The silences between the stars, in the snow covered fields, around old garages, is a nothing before that between people. A world made up of spaces, that is not a world.
A child leaps in slow motion, like an astronaut on the moon, aware that he is the only one here. And the locked mirrors...what awful fates they hold.
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
The Roding, frozen over, its dark stillness rising from the deep. and down, far down below, the weeds now rigid like icicles, pointing north, whilst a single fish imagines himself free.
Outside St. Barnabas's, the bright new white Christ looks on at the unreal world. Lowell, or something like that. On your way back, you're careful not to slip and fall-as if that could be avoided by mere attention.An ambulance now stands outside the church and the bells are silent. Walk past a vacant plot, the slow, brown&black guard dog too old or cold to bark.
The silence spanning out, between each word, gives pause for thought. The silences between the stars, in the snow covered fields, around old garages, is a nothing before that between people. A world made up of spaces, that is not a world.
A child leaps in slow motion, like an astronaut on the moon, aware that he is the only one here. And the locked mirrors...what awful fates they hold.
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
R's oriental philosophy
wake up early in the morning. love it like this, dark and silent. the light slowly breaking. the floor still cold, bare, reassuringly solid. the rich patterns of the 'Caucasian' carpet quite mystical. objects half-visible. light the fires. as if on the first day. warmth holds things together. the soft crumpled blankets still outline a human figure-me-even when I'm not there, but simply looking at this second version.
but you're never half-asleep: always fully 'there', or not at all. time to take off your protestant hat. make porridge, swirl it around until it's the right consistency. not too much, not too little. think about it.
your hand nearly freezes as it tries to cut the butter (which has been left in the freezer for some odd reason). but you are grateful nevertheless. and eventually it will melt. such is its nature. Descartes. it nearly burns. which is beautiful. you can't think of anything spiritual. Keynes was right: One cannot enjoy good states of mind unless things work.
these lines greatly impressed you, so much so that you closed the book after reading them, so as to not let them escape:
"there are some ends belonging to human life in general rather than to particular skills such as medicine, boatbuilding [Homer?, ends having to do with such matters as friendship, marriage, the bringing up of children, or the choice of ways of life; and it seems that knowledge of how to act well in these matters belong to some people but not to others."
thought I'd tell R of this, to see what she says. but, fingers in mouth, she was dreaming up her own philosophy (so like her!).
what is important in life, she said, is to laugh, smile, sleep, play, make other people happy.
that doesn't seem like an awful lot, darling R! I mean, that seems natural, obvious, almost.
Oh, I don't know, she mumbled, there are many little acts one must think about, cultivate, and instinctively do before we become human or even talk of goodness or 'nature'. small fires are a great civilizing force, wouldn't you agree?
~~~
the flight was canceled but R was unphased by it all and even pretended that she didn't know. "do they have fires in London?" she asked, cheekily.
It makes the most telling difference whether a thinker has a personal relationship to his problems and finds in them his destiny, his distress, and his greatest happiness, or an 'impersonal' one, meaning he is only able to touch them with the antennae of cold, curious thought.
but you're never half-asleep: always fully 'there', or not at all. time to take off your protestant hat. make porridge, swirl it around until it's the right consistency. not too much, not too little. think about it.
your hand nearly freezes as it tries to cut the butter (which has been left in the freezer for some odd reason). but you are grateful nevertheless. and eventually it will melt. such is its nature. Descartes. it nearly burns. which is beautiful. you can't think of anything spiritual. Keynes was right: One cannot enjoy good states of mind unless things work.
these lines greatly impressed you, so much so that you closed the book after reading them, so as to not let them escape:
"there are some ends belonging to human life in general rather than to particular skills such as medicine, boatbuilding [Homer?, ends having to do with such matters as friendship, marriage, the bringing up of children, or the choice of ways of life; and it seems that knowledge of how to act well in these matters belong to some people but not to others."
thought I'd tell R of this, to see what she says. but, fingers in mouth, she was dreaming up her own philosophy (so like her!).
what is important in life, she said, is to laugh, smile, sleep, play, make other people happy.
that doesn't seem like an awful lot, darling R! I mean, that seems natural, obvious, almost.
Oh, I don't know, she mumbled, there are many little acts one must think about, cultivate, and instinctively do before we become human or even talk of goodness or 'nature'. small fires are a great civilizing force, wouldn't you agree?
~~~
the flight was canceled but R was unphased by it all and even pretended that she didn't know. "do they have fires in London?" she asked, cheekily.
It makes the most telling difference whether a thinker has a personal relationship to his problems and finds in them his destiny, his distress, and his greatest happiness, or an 'impersonal' one, meaning he is only able to touch them with the antennae of cold, curious thought.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
the learning tree
It's a miracle I found you in all this space.
---D. Patterson.
But who will read me, when there are only empty pages?Learn what you will, very little will be from books. Remember,off by heart, if you still can.
See what you've become. Eyes straining to read the hurried scrawl. What gives? Mark my plain words. Nothing will come of this. What you find, you cannot keep.
Children of a lesser God
Say: "We believe in God, and in that which has been bestowed from on high upon us, and that which has been bestowed upon Abraham and Ishmael and Isaac and Jacob and their descendants, and that which has been vouchsafed by their Sustainer unto Moses and Jesus and all the [other] prophets: we make no distinction between any of them. And unto Him do we surrender ourselves."
---Q:3:84
Overall, your first, instinctive, impression was to like this film; in particular, the simple lives of the monks, the silences, and the interweaving of texts. But the silences themselves were fraught with a sense of fear, almost-as if one knew what was coming, and worse: one was not prepared, could never be prepared, for the unknown.
And to be charitable, you could feel that it was made with good intentions, was an attempt to open a door to another side of Islam- and for that one must be grateful. In fact, one of the first texts recited is, I think, the one above.
But, the are some very poor moments in the film. Cringe-worthy, in fact.
The terrorist, for example, isn't really an evil guy after all. Why can't you show evil? Instead, he recognizes the piety of the monks after they recite another beautiful Qur'anic verse. In fact, this cardboard cut-out character is shown to be in awe of the monks and leaves them alone at first. All very cliched.
Secondly, the villagers at one stage say to the monks, after learning of the escalating violence in nearby villages [this takes place in Algeria] , that they should stay in the village, that they are the "tree" whilst the villagers themselves are only the "birds" on it. All very flattering to the monks, no doubt. The monastery has been there since the beginning of the village (we are told). But the old men can't even remember the name of the last abbot there!
And this disconnect is evident throughout. The 'mayor' also is shown to be some sort of of typical nervous, bumbling oriental. And he's wholly unconvincing when he says "I know you people" to the monks.
Of course, there are specifically religious points that I find hard to deal with. For example, when prayers are said for a dead terrorist. Nope, can't buy that. Over the last few years I've been living in a country where suicide bombings have been frequent (many in the city I live in...and with a terrible loss of life). Should we pray for the souls of the people who commit these ghastly acts of violence?
In the final analysis, the Muslims aren't really important in this film-it's really about how the monks find their own true faith in suffering, hope, duty. Which is, of course, admirable. But one can't help feel throughout the film that Muslims are children of a lesser God.
[Still, much better than the crappy propaganda film, Munich !]
Thursday, December 16, 2010
the return
white white white aalike
aaa a boundary in death advancing
that is our life, aa that's love,
aaaa line upon line
breaking in radiance, so soft-so dim
aaa ly glaring...
you turn, again. but what if you find yourself not quite your old self, looking slightly askew at what was deeply familiar? into darkened mirrors for what is lost. the silence between your words noted, held against you. there is no betrayal like the betrayal of one's voice. how many more times will you look at your watch, the hands, like your soul, moving in opposite directions, in a widening angle: time of arrival; time of departure.
time, time is the space between me and you, just between us. solace of winter sun. all that is human is frail. solstice, the north that runs through our blood, runs through us, like magnetic grey, tugging at our sleeves. retrace your steps to find oneself, oneself. no more. none the less.
{I would like to add: this post is not, for the most part, about God or cinnamon rolls}
I know you know
I know you.
know.
I know, you know.
the grammars of (y)our soul.
you have the most perfect mouth. except...he said, failing in his words. flailing. tongue-twisted. around her imperfect tongue. you taste as i had imagined you. absolutely. Fantsy, in the heart or in the head?
When I summon intellect it is to the melody
of this longing. Thy hand,
Beloved, restores
the chords of this longing.
Here, in the the thirst that defines Beauty,
I have found kin.
the soft rustling leaves and the shade, the green and the black. was how our time was patterned, if at all. the law of the lawless heart dancing like the light in your eyes, but still veiled.
i hate locks. i wish i could give you
such openness...
to hold.
but time is against me, unthinking, resistant to flowering. if i wrest old words from older texts, it is to win particular hearts.
know.
I know, you know.
the grammars of (y)our soul.
you have the most perfect mouth. except...he said, failing in his words. flailing. tongue-twisted. around her imperfect tongue. you taste as i had imagined you. absolutely. Fantsy, in the heart or in the head?
When I summon intellect it is to the melody
of this longing. Thy hand,
Beloved, restores
the chords of this longing.
Here, in the the thirst that defines Beauty,
I have found kin.
the soft rustling leaves and the shade, the green and the black. was how our time was patterned, if at all. the law of the lawless heart dancing like the light in your eyes, but still veiled.
i hate locks. i wish i could give you
such openness...
to hold.
but time is against me, unthinking, resistant to flowering. if i wrest old words from older texts, it is to win particular hearts.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
religion and violence
For a while I was very fond of Burckhardt, Schuon, etc. (not Guenon, though, who was too dry). Not quite so now, though The Feathered Sun and Fez: City of Islam remain two of my favourite books. What turned me away is the subject of another post but...
Bob posted some disturbing allegations against Frithjof Schuon. I'm not sure if that makes him "controversial" or not, but it did get me thinking about why I like his books (Light of the Ancient Worlds, say) so much.
Of course, that is not to deny that 'religious' people/men (Muslims, Catholics etc.) haven't at times been involved in sickening acts of perversion towards children and women and, more generally, involved in violence towards other human beings. Not something one can easily get around. I mean, you can't really say this is a problem of human beings in general-and not just religion because surely the whole aim of religion is to reform human character? And it won't do to say that this is a problem of organized religion-as if to say, the "real" religion can be found amongst the Sufis and free-spirits.
Certainly, a greater degree of organization increases the potential for, and level of, violence (the State, for example). But on the other hand, as Peter Brown reminds us, religious institutions can sometimes actually prevent the emergence of fanaticism and exaggerated flights of the imagination. The constraints of the Law, Society, Tradition, and Community may act to deter the rootless extremist and the sickened mind.
But the difficulty remains-and is particularly pressing if you're a Muslim living in these troubled times. For what else is Islam to many people but a violent, backward, misogynist institution? How do you explain that religion is so intertwined, historically speaking, with violence (even harder, I imagine, to explain the Crusades and Holy War if you're a Christian). The real question: is it only historically speaking?
But back to Frithjof...
I think one of the reasons was that his approach tied in with my unformulated pluralism: the idea that the inner spirit (haqiqah) is one, whilst the outer paths (shariah) are many (Q:5:48) is deeply appealing. It's not just that it's a great antidote to the crushingly rigid and narrow view of the wahabis and semi-literates..it's that the idea of unity in diversity is a fundamentally beautiful approach in itself.
Secondly, there was this fascination with the 'Red Man' and his heroic, devout, and majestic way of life. "Be ye not conformed"...one can imagine the Red Man giving his assent to this.
Couldn't find quotes from The Feathered Sun but since I'm watching this film today I thought I'd end with these:
"It is metaphysically impossible to give oneself to God without this resulting in something good for the environment; to give oneself to God is to give oneself to man, for the gift of self has sacrificial value of incalculable radiance...
What is blameworthy is not "living in the world", but living in it badly and thus in a certain sense creating it...
Concentration of prayer and rhythm of prayer: these are in a sense the two dimensions of spiritual existence in general and monastic experience in particular...the condition of the monk constitutes a victory over space and time, or over the world and life, in the sense that he places himself by his attitude at the centre and in the present; at the centre in relation to a world full of phenomenon and in the present in relation to a life full of events.
The great mission of the monk is to show the world that happiness does not lie somewhere far away or in something located outside ourselves, in a treasure to be sought or in a world to be built, but precisely here where we belong to God."
Monday, December 13, 2010
brute facts
Well, the choice at Readings: Lesbian Bedtime Stories, Franzen, Dalrymple, Aristotle's ethics. It seems as if almost everything is in that very small bookshop-except the books you really want. The books are there, like so many facts stacked on the shelves, all perfectly aligned, and all you have to do is sift through them and choose...
So, you went back to what you had on your desk at home: The Vertigo Years. Reads a bit like that Johnson book on modernity. A bit like rushing through the history of the world via newspaper clippings: the ordinary, startling aspirations and stupidities of human history. Fact piled on top of fact. Interesting detail upon detail: from a poetic fragment to a scientific discovery; from a rambling discussion on walking to the political dissolution of a world in flux (and when wasn't the world in flux?). Your head begins to spin (perhaps that's the desired effect?).
And this book seems much the same. Crowd the whole world into a few pages. The endless whirl of entertaining tidbits and anecdotes, the unusual and funny, the weird and wonderful. Spliced up (Splissen), this is what you note:
Felix Salten, the creator of Bambi, also wrote the pornographic Josefine Mutzenbacher (1906).
The escape from the lack of political representation into pleasure or culture (or fundamentalism, perhaps?). [Was thinking when I read this: you used to get these miniature busts of Beethoven, Mozart, etc in your packets of Cornflakes!]
Freud...Zzzz (or maybe that's just a bit of repression creeping in there!)
Scnitzler's work aimed to "show the repressed and bewildered people on the page and on stage acting out their neuroses like electrons spinning around an empty core..propelled by unseen forces"
[Good grief! Haven't you got anything better to do?)
Language could not be relied upon...blah..blah..blah.
Reason, Truth, Nature, God. The stable world of the belle epoque. All suddenly seem a bit less real (which is to say: not real). Then what? The desiring self-or maybe not even that, for aren't we just neurons firing away in the dark abyss, or the product of vast evolutionary forces beyond our control ("A death withstood..." said the miserable bastard)..a dying animal?
"There was nothing but physiology, everything else was make-believe...Man was nothing but a mass of highly unstable perceptions creating the impression of personality."
All is provisional, in ferment, relative. The illusion of stability, of civilisation, of there being one perspective must now be put to one side. There are no more guarantors or anchors, and no more vantage points. The heart of darkness. Sovereign becoming. Learn to laugh at the human farce. Go back to the fundamental, first principles (if there are any)...the basic structure: in architecture, in music. The primitive and collectivism as an antidote. The Man of Destiny.
Loos: "This furniture lacks all style..It is a style that will not last. After it, the style of 1899 will have its day, and will be entirely different."
Singular, Unique. Singular...
This is as good as it gets.
"There was no titillation in Schiele's existentialist explicitness, no inviting curves...his were angular, breathing creatures, lonely at the very moment of embrace..[they] looked into the world with eyes wide open, shining with fear or alive with defiance, or deep loneliness; their hands either iconic claws or missing altogether...These hands do not give the warmth of human closeness, they do not grasp the world...his figures are not in touch with one another."
Bacon? Raw, quivering flesh is all there is.
Well, anyone who's been reading this blog will know my views on all this. So, I won't bore you, dear reader. Except to say, I'm sure you can guess which book I bought.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
unfenced existence
No, I have never found
The place where I could say
This is my proper ground,
Here I shall stay;
Nor met that special one
Who has an instant claim
On everything I own
Down to my name;
To find such seems to prove
You want no choice in where
To build, or whom to love;
You ask them to bear
You off irrevocably,
So that it's not your fault
Should the town turn dreary,
The girl a dolt.
Yet, having missed them, you're
Bound, none the less, to act
As if what you settled for
Mashed you, in fact;
And wiser to keep away
From thinking you still might trace
Uncalled-for to this day
Your person, your place.
---Larkin.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Truly, madly, deeply
What do people looking down see? Maybe we saw it once...There is the potential to fall into thought and out of time.
---Thalia Field.
The view from the bridge. A reflection into that other space. The ordering of the soul, an equation in which you freely move. That medieval space of the black and the white, where you are, which means 'I am'.
es animat, pro a mi tot calla encara
Qui en dira a cau d'orella la finestra
on jo vergi a la dolca cristura
que, abrusant-me amb son foc, me reviscoli
---Maragall.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Advice to (from) an old man
Do not speak of yourself (for God's sake) even when asked
Do not dwell on other times as different from the time
Whose air we breathe; or recall books with broken spines
Whose titles died with the old dreams
---Kay Boyle.
Do not speak of God, for Christ's sake.
Of death of which you do not know. Why should the beautiful dwell in anything but life?
'chance determinations'
"And long before our intelligence can help us, the new-born individual survives this tremendous question by his naive faith in the love of his elders."
[Oh, N, please don't try and spoil it by talking about evolution again!]
"Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are"
[Er..I live in a 6 X 8 room with a window overlooking the library]
"they [two young political prisoners] educated me in courage and resourcefulness and when our starvation-level rations were cut in half for me, the Jew, they shared their rations equally with me. They were socialists and lived by that ethic."
"Social definitions can turn privileged citizens into outcasts."
"Captured women were raped and stayed with their children. The invention of slavery as a means of recruiting a labour force taught men how to organize difference-tribal adherence, of race, of religion-into dominance."
On ageing:
"If we fail to make good choices in one stage there is always the next stage in which we can do better. but in old age there is only one next stage and that is death."
Ageing forces us to give up activities, skills, and enjoyments we have long practiced. We have to learn to give up more and more of what we have accomplished, what we have gathered in and what we cherish. Getting old means giving up something forever at every stage of the process...
We cannot make up for lost time. We must accept what is and prepare to let go of it..giving up what we have gathered in and what we cherish means simplifying our lives and letting go of clutter. It means choosing what is truly essential to our well-being and holding on to that...
We must develop whatever we still can develop and learn new ways of seeing, perceiving, and functioning. Learning to continue living with diminished means has its own rewards...we are still part of the great life cycle...one makes peace with one's life and one's way of living; and one learns to treasure the gifts of each day...
In old age people become what they have always been, only more so..There is no single solution-ageing is a dance on uneven ground, undertaken with weakened limbs..soothed by learning to fully experience the present. We have come this far and what there is now is all there ever will be.
Much more than at any stage of life, the old person has to be flexible.
Old people are society's best link with the past, and their knowledge and experience are desperately needed in a mechanized society that is more alienated from nature and natural processes...
In our competitive society people are trained to be self-made and independent. But they also have to learn how to help others and how to accept help without feeling demeaned and diminished.
Old age is the ripening of the fruit, the preparation for the harshness of winter, when the roots grow and strengthen..it is the closing of the circle; the fulfillment of the contract of generations. It needs to be treated with respect and honour."
Do not dwell on other times as different from the time
Whose air we breathe; or recall books with broken spines
Whose titles died with the old dreams
---Kay Boyle.
Do not speak of God, for Christ's sake.
Of death of which you do not know. Why should the beautiful dwell in anything but life?
'chance determinations'
"And long before our intelligence can help us, the new-born individual survives this tremendous question by his naive faith in the love of his elders."
[Oh, N, please don't try and spoil it by talking about evolution again!]
"Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are"
[Er..I live in a 6 X 8 room with a window overlooking the library]
"they [two young political prisoners] educated me in courage and resourcefulness and when our starvation-level rations were cut in half for me, the Jew, they shared their rations equally with me. They were socialists and lived by that ethic."
"Social definitions can turn privileged citizens into outcasts."
"Captured women were raped and stayed with their children. The invention of slavery as a means of recruiting a labour force taught men how to organize difference-tribal adherence, of race, of religion-into dominance."
On ageing:
"If we fail to make good choices in one stage there is always the next stage in which we can do better. but in old age there is only one next stage and that is death."
Ageing forces us to give up activities, skills, and enjoyments we have long practiced. We have to learn to give up more and more of what we have accomplished, what we have gathered in and what we cherish. Getting old means giving up something forever at every stage of the process...
We cannot make up for lost time. We must accept what is and prepare to let go of it..giving up what we have gathered in and what we cherish means simplifying our lives and letting go of clutter. It means choosing what is truly essential to our well-being and holding on to that...
We must develop whatever we still can develop and learn new ways of seeing, perceiving, and functioning. Learning to continue living with diminished means has its own rewards...we are still part of the great life cycle...one makes peace with one's life and one's way of living; and one learns to treasure the gifts of each day...
In old age people become what they have always been, only more so..There is no single solution-ageing is a dance on uneven ground, undertaken with weakened limbs..soothed by learning to fully experience the present. We have come this far and what there is now is all there ever will be.
Much more than at any stage of life, the old person has to be flexible.
Old people are society's best link with the past, and their knowledge and experience are desperately needed in a mechanized society that is more alienated from nature and natural processes...
In our competitive society people are trained to be self-made and independent. But they also have to learn how to help others and how to accept help without feeling demeaned and diminished.
Old age is the ripening of the fruit, the preparation for the harshness of winter, when the roots grow and strengthen..it is the closing of the circle; the fulfillment of the contract of generations. It needs to be treated with respect and honour."
a jumbled mind for a jumbled time
no, it wasn't the mind, or just the mind, but the rag-and-bone shop of the heart. you should have been reading Galor's Inequality and Land Ownership but instead you turned to what was on your desk and read randomly (or not so randomly)and from which you gathered the following...
Irfan asked you: how does one make time for reading? To which the answer was: you don't! The reason why I've failed so spectacularly as an academic-well, a bit of early-morning melodrama doesn't hurt anyone-is that, as I was saying to Antonio just the other day, I don't take it (or myself) very seriously.
Academics is a bit of a con, to be honest. A high-minded prank.
But if one reads out of pleasure and not to advance one's career, that's a recipe for disaster. Something will give. So, the essential problem is this mismatch that sees you working on your secondary, not primary, interests. Yes, obviously, but not just that.For even if that were not the case you're sure your mind would be distracted by other areas and that you'd still prefer to be a bit jumbled up, amateurish, and naive rather than a clear-headed specialist. There are many things in life.
~~~
I said to R, who was still half-asleep: what do babies dream of: dragons and clouds, I suspect!
What does anyone dream of, R answered, with a bright and serene look on her face.
No, I mean without the world how can there be dreams?
She said, some might argue that too much of 'the world' prevents them from coming to us.
Oh, R, you're impossible!
And yet here I am before you.
What I mean is this: you've had such little time in the world.
Is that why an hour with you seems endless?, she replied, giggling to herself.
Charming! You little monkey...
No, you misunderstand me, little Man, as usual! For what is true-whether it be in a dream or in reality, has little to do with time. A moment with the beloved is not something that can be counted.
You know, you're awfully clever for a little baby!
Well, reading isn't everything. And because I'm young, I'm open to the world.Now dear, go back to sleep and dream of your cinnamon rolls!
~~~
okay, next post for the quotes...
Irfan asked you: how does one make time for reading? To which the answer was: you don't! The reason why I've failed so spectacularly as an academic-well, a bit of early-morning melodrama doesn't hurt anyone-is that, as I was saying to Antonio just the other day, I don't take it (or myself) very seriously.
Academics is a bit of a con, to be honest. A high-minded prank.
But if one reads out of pleasure and not to advance one's career, that's a recipe for disaster. Something will give. So, the essential problem is this mismatch that sees you working on your secondary, not primary, interests. Yes, obviously, but not just that.For even if that were not the case you're sure your mind would be distracted by other areas and that you'd still prefer to be a bit jumbled up, amateurish, and naive rather than a clear-headed specialist. There are many things in life.
~~~
I said to R, who was still half-asleep: what do babies dream of: dragons and clouds, I suspect!
What does anyone dream of, R answered, with a bright and serene look on her face.
No, I mean without the world how can there be dreams?
She said, some might argue that too much of 'the world' prevents them from coming to us.
Oh, R, you're impossible!
And yet here I am before you.
What I mean is this: you've had such little time in the world.
Is that why an hour with you seems endless?, she replied, giggling to herself.
Charming! You little monkey...
No, you misunderstand me, little Man, as usual! For what is true-whether it be in a dream or in reality, has little to do with time. A moment with the beloved is not something that can be counted.
You know, you're awfully clever for a little baby!
Well, reading isn't everything. And because I'm young, I'm open to the world.Now dear, go back to sleep and dream of your cinnamon rolls!
~~~
okay, next post for the quotes...
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
names
i sometimes catch myself. thinking to myself, my mind wandering as i walk across the path, the path i make by my own walking. never look back because you know there's nothing there. you'll never find it. instead, you look down, look down to the fragile earth. thankful. thankful of the life that has been given to you when others...
Levinas: a sobering up, wakefulness.
nothing has moved me as much as this. perhaps Rothko at the tate. yes, of course. and Tarkovsky. yes.Bach, too, at times. but no matter how much (how much?) your mind wanders it comes back. names and names..but the nameless. a letter, on the blank canvas. that is simple, -ko. but the blank page.
why crow? this is not political. why, crow? what names do you have? what names do you have now God, God of the crows?
Monday, December 06, 2010
thoughtlessness
Such a cumbersome word. But still, in English at least, it hardly conveys any radical failure of character; it's more akin to being absent minded or careless. But what is this 'being absent' and is it actually possible that someone couldn't care for someone else whatsoever? I couldn't give a fig?
A thought came to me. And can it, must it, also be for someone. To put it the other way around, and less extremely: is thoughtlessness the inability to think of anyone but oneself?
"Morality is a matter of thinking clearly and then proceeding to outward dealings with men."*
Is it though? Is reason/thought about sifting through the evidence, being logically consistent, and then acting? Reason tells us what the ends are (or the means to those ends, whatever they are) and then the will moves us to act. Is that how it is? And if we take those ends as simply 'given', is that not a form of thoughtlessness?
The whole language of preference and choice seems suspect. Why? Because it appears that it's all a mere matter of pleasure or desire and we'd like to think that action, right action, is about sound judgement. In short, can pleasure be a reason?
Strange that this post should tally with the last, in particular the view about kindness and "clear thinking". What is meant by 'and' here?
My two cents.
Thinking is not the same as understanding (or, if you like, understanding is a particular and distinct way of thinking). Being clever or 'intelligent' is not necessarily the same thing as being educated or wise. God knows, you've seen many people who are formally very intelligent but still, in some respects, idiots. Also, that understanding is not always gained from books or thought, but from life and experience: music, art, love, friendships and many other things:
The quality of our attachments is the quality of our understanding
(Aristotle or Iris? It doesn't matter).
*=
"On this view one might say morality is assimilated to a visit to a shop. I enter the shop in a condition of totally responsible freedom., I objectively estimate the features of the goods, and I choose. The greater my objectivity and discrimination the larger the number of products from which I can select. (A Marxist critique of this conception of bourgeois capitalist morals would be apt enough. Should we want many goods in the shop or just 'the right goods')"
---Iris M.
A thought came to me. And can it, must it, also be for someone. To put it the other way around, and less extremely: is thoughtlessness the inability to think of anyone but oneself?
"Morality is a matter of thinking clearly and then proceeding to outward dealings with men."*
Is it though? Is reason/thought about sifting through the evidence, being logically consistent, and then acting? Reason tells us what the ends are (or the means to those ends, whatever they are) and then the will moves us to act. Is that how it is? And if we take those ends as simply 'given', is that not a form of thoughtlessness?
The whole language of preference and choice seems suspect. Why? Because it appears that it's all a mere matter of pleasure or desire and we'd like to think that action, right action, is about sound judgement. In short, can pleasure be a reason?
Strange that this post should tally with the last, in particular the view about kindness and "clear thinking". What is meant by 'and' here?
My two cents.
Thinking is not the same as understanding (or, if you like, understanding is a particular and distinct way of thinking). Being clever or 'intelligent' is not necessarily the same thing as being educated or wise. God knows, you've seen many people who are formally very intelligent but still, in some respects, idiots. Also, that understanding is not always gained from books or thought, but from life and experience: music, art, love, friendships and many other things:
The quality of our attachments is the quality of our understanding
(Aristotle or Iris? It doesn't matter).
*=
"On this view one might say morality is assimilated to a visit to a shop. I enter the shop in a condition of totally responsible freedom., I objectively estimate the features of the goods, and I choose. The greater my objectivity and discrimination the larger the number of products from which I can select. (A Marxist critique of this conception of bourgeois capitalist morals would be apt enough. Should we want many goods in the shop or just 'the right goods')"
---Iris M.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Take care !
Gradually, the two [kindness and clear thinking]have come more and more together in my feelings. I find that much unclear thought exists as an excuse for cruelty, and that much cruelty is prompted by superstitious beliefs.
(Russell, in one of his somber moods, from his autobiography, via Nabs, my Old English carrier pigeon!)
"If we take pigeons as an example..."(Aristotle). Normal pigeons are not into constant work. They lounge in sun, bathe in rain. They don't travel far for a meal. They maintain close contacts.
--Thalia Field.
What is amazing and utterly astonishing about life is that people take care. Perhaps not of themselves, as much as they should, but of others, for others.
I know the boffs want to explain this by evolution but why go down that road (or any road!). Ethics as the limit of reason? No, that's not it either.
~~~
in the early morning, dew and stars still marking their presence, on course, of course. you catch a glimpse of the tired, weak sun's reflection and think to yourself: the sun itself is a distant reflection. before the light was everywhere; now it finds solace in the frames of the library's dark high windows. place has become important once again. light finds its true Form. but direction without strength is a terrible fate.
what shape will the day take? no-one can tell-even if they could. the light in this season is spent, hangs around buildings, trying to rekindle ancient affinity with brick and stone. waiting, as if that was its essence. solitary, thoughtful, as if it knew these were difficult times, its winter mind cleansed and cleansing, aware of departures. no second thoughts.
~~~
take care: a way of saying farewell. before one signs one's name or jots down some abbreviation, an initial, perhaps. the simplicity of a letter-like 'K', even though crooked. and 'R,' which folds itself around itself, which is like a thought in water, is but a derivative or relative of 'K'?
(Russell, in one of his somber moods, from his autobiography, via Nabs, my Old English carrier pigeon!)
"If we take pigeons as an example..."(Aristotle). Normal pigeons are not into constant work. They lounge in sun, bathe in rain. They don't travel far for a meal. They maintain close contacts.
--Thalia Field.
What is amazing and utterly astonishing about life is that people take care. Perhaps not of themselves, as much as they should, but of others, for others.
I know the boffs want to explain this by evolution but why go down that road (or any road!). Ethics as the limit of reason? No, that's not it either.
~~~
in the early morning, dew and stars still marking their presence, on course, of course. you catch a glimpse of the tired, weak sun's reflection and think to yourself: the sun itself is a distant reflection. before the light was everywhere; now it finds solace in the frames of the library's dark high windows. place has become important once again. light finds its true Form. but direction without strength is a terrible fate.
what shape will the day take? no-one can tell-even if they could. the light in this season is spent, hangs around buildings, trying to rekindle ancient affinity with brick and stone. waiting, as if that was its essence. solitary, thoughtful, as if it knew these were difficult times, its winter mind cleansed and cleansing, aware of departures. no second thoughts.
~~~
take care: a way of saying farewell. before one signs one's name or jots down some abbreviation, an initial, perhaps. the simplicity of a letter-like 'K', even though crooked. and 'R,' which folds itself around itself, which is like a thought in water, is but a derivative or relative of 'K'?
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
the drowned, reflected world
They are a long inspection of a drowned, reflected world, in which no sky is visible except by reflection; the water fills the whole frame. ..In these paintings, emptiness matters as much as fullness, and reflections have the weight of things. ..to conjure up the negated object, with the help of allusive and always indirect words, which constantly efface themselves in a complementary silence, which involves an undertaking which comes close to the act of creation.What showed on its surface, the clouds and lily pads and cat's-paws of wind, the dark patches of reflected foliage.the abysses of dark blue and the opaline shimmer of light from the sky, were all compressed together in a shallow space, a skin, like the space of painting . The willows touched it like brushes . No foreground, no background; instead, a web of connections
The same. The same.
then once, in a flash,
fresh ground,...
black, grey, green, and blue
water, stone, grass and sky
and each unique set stone!
---August 11th, 2008.
(K. Clark on Monet, and R. Lowell).[b]efore the metal shaving mirrors
and see the shaky future grow familiar
We are all old-timers
each of us holds a locked razor...
---Lowell
Cage [ I ].
I, that I b.
~~~
Restless night. At 1 (and then again at 3) woken up by some incredibly loud music. A mix between bhangra and Prince, I thought to myself, half awake. Also, incredibly good, though infuriating. Knew I would never hear that tune again, or know what it was. Let it go.
Still in the twilight zone, wondered what Montaigne would have done. No, no use, letting it wash over as if I wasn't concerned, or thinking that it would eventually come to an end, didn't work.
H woke up at 4 and then R at 5. Early morning lecture so I had to wake up at 6 anyway. 45 minutes to find some kind of peace, some sort of space that would carry me through the day...then, out of the blue, I was suddenly at City airport, getting ready for one of those trips within a trip (like a dream within a dream). I'd forgotten my book, but wasn't overly concerned for some odd reason. And then, amongst the ruins, down a steep incline, there was this beautiful singing tree, deeply familiar, autumn leaves shimmering in the late afternoon light, the light in August caught, concentrated, reflected, drowned.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
life, the universe, ...42.
Now, what was the question again?
The problem with academics is that they think they know the answer to every question and, perhaps more importantly, that that is what ultimately counts in life. The 'view from nowhere', 'Knowing', 'truth', or a knowing doubt, truthfulness..that's what it's all about. What is "it"? What cannot be known cannot and should not be spoken of.
What I did hate, though, and what finally set me at a run out of town after dark at the end of the term..without turning in my grades, was that the place was all anti-mystery types right to the core,-all expert in the arts of explaining, explicating and dissecting, and by these means promoting permanence.
Invariably it's the technician's spirit, the algebraic soul lurking in the background. Universal causality. This for that. What, exactly, is the first philosophy?
F. Rosenzweig:
"My life has fallen under the rule of a "dark drive"..The small-at times exceedingly small thing called "demand of the day" which is made upon me in my position at Frankfurt, I mean, the struggles with people and conditions, have now become the core of my existence..Now I only inquire when I find myself inquired of. Inquired of, that is, by men rather than by scholars...[T]he question asked by human beings have become increasingly important to me...
Everyday life, it is clear, cannot possibly be ignored; one cannot exist entirely in the sublime realm of theory, no matter how "essential" it may seem when compared to dull, tedious reality."
Are you a philistine, then?
Perhaps. But it is a sign of good health to find that the most ordinary is worthy of attention and respect, and that some things must be passed over in silence. Not only is it that you cannot know everything; it is that you do not want to anyway.
{I think that's why, from a personal point of view, the comments section has been more enjoyable than writing the posts or, perhaps one should say, it's offered a different type of enjoyment, one that doesn't necessitate any comparisons}
What was that Russian term again, the one for 'thinking with others'? When so much of life is already confrontational, is there any need to add to it?
The double negation:
I am, therefore I think
We are, therefore...
The problem with academics is that they think they know the answer to every question and, perhaps more importantly, that that is what ultimately counts in life. The 'view from nowhere', 'Knowing', 'truth', or a knowing doubt, truthfulness..that's what it's all about. What is "it"? What cannot be known cannot and should not be spoken of.
What I did hate, though, and what finally set me at a run out of town after dark at the end of the term..without turning in my grades, was that the place was all anti-mystery types right to the core,-all expert in the arts of explaining, explicating and dissecting, and by these means promoting permanence.
Invariably it's the technician's spirit, the algebraic soul lurking in the background. Universal causality. This for that. What, exactly, is the first philosophy?
F. Rosenzweig:
"My life has fallen under the rule of a "dark drive"..The small-at times exceedingly small thing called "demand of the day" which is made upon me in my position at Frankfurt, I mean, the struggles with people and conditions, have now become the core of my existence..Now I only inquire when I find myself inquired of. Inquired of, that is, by men rather than by scholars...[T]he question asked by human beings have become increasingly important to me...
Everyday life, it is clear, cannot possibly be ignored; one cannot exist entirely in the sublime realm of theory, no matter how "essential" it may seem when compared to dull, tedious reality."
Are you a philistine, then?
Perhaps. But it is a sign of good health to find that the most ordinary is worthy of attention and respect, and that some things must be passed over in silence. Not only is it that you cannot know everything; it is that you do not want to anyway.
{I think that's why, from a personal point of view, the comments section has been more enjoyable than writing the posts or, perhaps one should say, it's offered a different type of enjoyment, one that doesn't necessitate any comparisons}
What was that Russian term again, the one for 'thinking with others'? When so much of life is already confrontational, is there any need to add to it?
The double negation:
I am, therefore I think
We are, therefore...
Monday, November 29, 2010
khalwa...
That's it,
that's joy, it's always
a recognition, the known
appearing fully itself, and
more itself that one knew.
---Denise.
and knowing isn't everything. this you always knew.
someone asked me: with regards to the things that you are instinctively drawn to: do you always make them your own? but surely such a thing is neither possible, nor desirable? for the desirable comes to us (or it doesn't)...all one can do is be open to it, not will it or possess it. a question to myself.
but, also, to 'make something one's own' requires an incredible amount of creativity, inward concentration, human generosity, or 'expansiveness'. does it also mean one ceases to be oneself? and even then, the beautiful is never owned and never fully comprehended. mysteries are only deepened; there are always veils and there is a thirst that is never quenched (he says, putting his jewish hat on).
the following was shared with me by flowerville. you can read the full chapter online.
slow learning:
We have to learn to give up more and more of what we have accomplished, what we have gathered in and what we cherish. Getting old means giving up something forever at every stage of the process. The trick is to learn how to give up things gracefully and without despair...
We must accept what is and prepare to let go of it...
As long as we are alive, we have the capacity to develop compensatory skills and seek new insights...
Living consciously...one strives to make new relationships in order to stay rooted in life...
Much more than at any previous stage of life, the old person has to be flexible...
Old age is the ripening of the fruit, the preparation for the harshness of winter, when the roots grow and strengthen, a time when leaf mold decays, making a seedbed for the new growth of mushrooms. It is the closing of the circle...'
---Gerda Lerner.
but, also, the opening of another circle...
that's joy, it's always
a recognition, the known
appearing fully itself, and
more itself that one knew.
---Denise.
and knowing isn't everything. this you always knew.
someone asked me: with regards to the things that you are instinctively drawn to: do you always make them your own? but surely such a thing is neither possible, nor desirable? for the desirable comes to us (or it doesn't)...all one can do is be open to it, not will it or possess it. a question to myself.
but, also, to 'make something one's own' requires an incredible amount of creativity, inward concentration, human generosity, or 'expansiveness'. does it also mean one ceases to be oneself? and even then, the beautiful is never owned and never fully comprehended. mysteries are only deepened; there are always veils and there is a thirst that is never quenched (he says, putting his jewish hat on).
the following was shared with me by flowerville. you can read the full chapter online.
slow learning:
We have to learn to give up more and more of what we have accomplished, what we have gathered in and what we cherish. Getting old means giving up something forever at every stage of the process. The trick is to learn how to give up things gracefully and without despair...
We must accept what is and prepare to let go of it...
As long as we are alive, we have the capacity to develop compensatory skills and seek new insights...
Living consciously...one strives to make new relationships in order to stay rooted in life...
Much more than at any previous stage of life, the old person has to be flexible...
Old age is the ripening of the fruit, the preparation for the harshness of winter, when the roots grow and strengthen, a time when leaf mold decays, making a seedbed for the new growth of mushrooms. It is the closing of the circle...'
---Gerda Lerner.
but, also, the opening of another circle...
the black moon
Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed--
You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak,
And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--
you a radiance fair!
Know you what such a moment holds for me?
...If ever I were eloquent. . .
---Rostand
Sunday, November 28, 2010
(), )
Turned our backs to one another...bound by the empty space ( )
A life in parenthesis...the moment before, the moment after:
Wie kann es sein, daB ich, der ich bin,
bevor ich wurde, nicht war,
und daB einmal ich, der ich bin,
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?
5:21 In order to give prominence to these internal relations we can adopt the following mode of expression:)
'How to live'..breathe in, and out. Breathe in...
Coming to the end of the book on Montaigne. Quite good, dear C. Can't remember a word, though! Which is probably just as well. There is no formula. The digression is the path.
Would never say 'God save England' (May the Lord protect me!) but might, just might, be tempted to say God save England from the Europeans (and vice versa!) All that long-winded theorizing. For Christ's sake! When all is said and done, the time has come to speak in plain English, ma cherie.
The ontological argument can be saved by a comma. Can others be saved by a " ) "
Compassion, not knowledge. "Walk on," said the Buddha.
A life in parenthesis...the moment before, the moment after:
Wie kann es sein, daB ich, der ich bin,
bevor ich wurde, nicht war,
und daB einmal ich, der ich bin,
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?
5:21 In order to give prominence to these internal relations we can adopt the following mode of expression:)
'How to live'..breathe in, and out. Breathe in...
Coming to the end of the book on Montaigne. Quite good, dear C. Can't remember a word, though! Which is probably just as well. There is no formula. The digression is the path.
Would never say 'God save England' (May the Lord protect me!) but might, just might, be tempted to say God save England from the Europeans (and vice versa!) All that long-winded theorizing. For Christ's sake! When all is said and done, the time has come to speak in plain English, ma cherie.
The ontological argument can be saved by a comma. Can others be saved by a " ) "
Compassion, not knowledge. "Walk on," said the Buddha.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
five or six
"Every hour has sixty minutes, every minute has sixty seconds. But on one given day, I might film only twenty seconds. So, of course, that doesn’t represent my life - but it presents something that was important to me. A moment. Why did I film that moment? For some reason, I felt I should film it, without knowing, without rationalising. I just had to do it, and that’s all. Therefore, in essence, maybe those twenty seconds define me, you see – not the other twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and forty seconds. Maybe that little moment is essentially me. Who knows?"
The element of chance is a definite artistic category in your work.
"Again, you can go back to Dostoevsky in that respect. It is all about the moment when two people meet, that one second when they really click and understand. So seconds can be very important...
Film is not eternal. Everything is fleeting. How much is left of 12th century art?..
Well, [a] misfit ... I’m an outsider. I’m a monk. I’m somewhere else, I have my own life, my own small set of friends...I live in
---Jonas Mekas, interviewed by Grisseman, 2008.
London, as everyone knows, consists of five or six villages. I forget. The Commons, the village greens, etc., etc. In each place, at each moment, there are a thousand histories, a thousand mirrors, carrying on without you. And in just one, there was a hidden moment with you. But I forget where it was. As chance would have it. Isn't the city, with its myriad images, a reflection of that lost time?
Friday, November 26, 2010
a digression on jews and muslims
late 14c., from L. digressionem (nom. digressio) "a going away, departing," noun of action from pp. stem of digredi "to deviate," from dis- "apart, aside" (see dis-) + gradi "to step, go"
Jean Weir in his 'De Praestigis daemonum' (1564) had calculated that 7, 409, 127 demons were working for Lucifer.
You find this fascination for detail laughably ridiculous. Slightly more serious, though, is the religious fanaticism that lies behind it. Of course, not 'counting' can sometimes also be diabolical ("we don't do body counts," they said about Iraq).
What's disturbing about certain aspects of religion is the flights of fancy it can inspire. The mind, unmoored, unrestrained by facts, veers off into all sorts of useless directions. The fanatic, unaware of his own humanity or that of others, disparages the ordinary and the complex and opts for the "heroic" and the simple. The springs of motivation are clear-cut and elementary; the end is dazzlingly self-evident and irreducible, and the possibility of a revision of one's ideas of how to live are ruled out from the beginning, which is another way of saying that he never allows his ideas and values to brush up against the social fabric of reality.
But the 'anti-religious' types are no less boring and predictable. Those who can't see any beauty or truth in religion or other cultures are often, to my mind at least, as closed-in and narrow in their outlook as the conservatives (and possibly the fundamentalists as well).
So, when E-k writes about the dispersion of jewishness in America I can understand that at a personal level ('understanding' is already once removed from feeling perhaps). I mean, to lose one's identity is,no doubt, a personal tragedy. Politically, of course, it might not be such a bad thing for the Palestinians!
And from my own experience I know that some of my cousins/friends are deeply concerned about losing their muslim identity living in Britain and the States. And yet, to be honest, such a thought never occurred to me in all my years there nor does it interest me one bit.
Recently got in touch with an old friend who chose a religious life. Very moderate person, not a 'beard'. Read Augustine's City of God in school days -and not to refute, but to learn. And you've still got a lot of admiration for his quiet dedication to a kind of life that he passionately believes in. There's something to be said for that and you would be wrong to say that there isn't something there that deeply appeals to you. The 'life of the mind' isn't all that great if you haven't got much of a mind, and you doubt it would be even if you did.
So, I don't think of myself as a 'British Muslim' at all. Questions of identity are, to paraphrase Augustine, not a problem unless I think about them! Can one stand aside from one's faith and still be religious: a non-Muslim muslim? Again, questions of faith are only interesting to those who are out of the circle of faith (this horrifies my non-religious friends who believe everyhting should be questioned, scrutinized, even though that's very bad manners).
Can one renounce one's faith? Possibly. But I was born somewhere else, and this nose of mine, which no-one as of yet has commented upon,that neither Roxana, or anton, or nikki knows, though both jewish and muslim is, to not put too fine a point on it, still quintessentially Kashmiri!
Jean Weir in his 'De Praestigis daemonum' (1564) had calculated that 7, 409, 127 demons were working for Lucifer.
You find this fascination for detail laughably ridiculous. Slightly more serious, though, is the religious fanaticism that lies behind it. Of course, not 'counting' can sometimes also be diabolical ("we don't do body counts," they said about Iraq).
What's disturbing about certain aspects of religion is the flights of fancy it can inspire. The mind, unmoored, unrestrained by facts, veers off into all sorts of useless directions. The fanatic, unaware of his own humanity or that of others, disparages the ordinary and the complex and opts for the "heroic" and the simple. The springs of motivation are clear-cut and elementary; the end is dazzlingly self-evident and irreducible, and the possibility of a revision of one's ideas of how to live are ruled out from the beginning, which is another way of saying that he never allows his ideas and values to brush up against the social fabric of reality.
But the 'anti-religious' types are no less boring and predictable. Those who can't see any beauty or truth in religion or other cultures are often, to my mind at least, as closed-in and narrow in their outlook as the conservatives (and possibly the fundamentalists as well).
So, when E-k writes about the dispersion of jewishness in America I can understand that at a personal level ('understanding' is already once removed from feeling perhaps). I mean, to lose one's identity is,no doubt, a personal tragedy. Politically, of course, it might not be such a bad thing for the Palestinians!
And from my own experience I know that some of my cousins/friends are deeply concerned about losing their muslim identity living in Britain and the States. And yet, to be honest, such a thought never occurred to me in all my years there nor does it interest me one bit.
Recently got in touch with an old friend who chose a religious life. Very moderate person, not a 'beard'. Read Augustine's City of God in school days -and not to refute, but to learn. And you've still got a lot of admiration for his quiet dedication to a kind of life that he passionately believes in. There's something to be said for that and you would be wrong to say that there isn't something there that deeply appeals to you. The 'life of the mind' isn't all that great if you haven't got much of a mind, and you doubt it would be even if you did.
So, I don't think of myself as a 'British Muslim' at all. Questions of identity are, to paraphrase Augustine, not a problem unless I think about them! Can one stand aside from one's faith and still be religious: a non-Muslim muslim? Again, questions of faith are only interesting to those who are out of the circle of faith (this horrifies my non-religious friends who believe everyhting should be questioned, scrutinized, even though that's very bad manners).
Can one renounce one's faith? Possibly. But I was born somewhere else, and this nose of mine, which no-one as of yet has commented upon,that neither Roxana, or anton, or nikki knows, though both jewish and muslim is, to not put too fine a point on it, still quintessentially Kashmiri!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
under construction
Thanks to Miguel for pointing me to this wonderful song!
At the corner, he paused to watch the work of the wrecking crew. The great metal ball swung at the walls, passed easily through brick, and entered the rooms, the lazy weight browsing on kitchens and parlors. Everything it touched wavered and burst, spilled down. There rose a white tranquil cloud of plaster dust. The afternoon was ending, and in the widening area of demolition was a fire fed by the wreckage ... Paint and varnish smoked like incense. The old flooring burned gratefully - the funeral of exhausted objects. Scaffolds walled with pink, white, green doors, quivered as the six-wheeled trucks carried off fallen brick. The sun, now leaving for New Jersey and the west, was surrounded by a dazzling broth of atmospheric gases.
---Bellow.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
the lawless heart
what is the way to your heart? what are its stations? and why does the black crow wait, his thoughts like a grave shade within the shade. those folded wings hold what space: forest in the silence; silence in the forest.
'the night is so dark
the way so short
yet you do not wake
against my heart'
the winter soul, that forgets its way; your tracks covered by snow, you forget north and south, the differences between me and you.
the lawless heart. Var. when the ice melts, and the roses awake from their dream, then there is another forgetting, like the shade within a shade.
(poem, G. Hill; photo: courtesy of an incredible artist, Roxana)
the winter soul, that forgets its way; your tracks covered by snow, you forget north and south, the differences between me and you.
the lawless heart. Var. when the ice melts, and the roses awake from their dream, then there is another forgetting, like the shade within a shade.
(poem, G. Hill; photo: courtesy of an incredible artist, Roxana)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
the lives of others
"Time is everything; Man is nothing."
---Karl Marx.
"Time is everything."
--little, darling R.
"Will there be a time when I'm grown up and understand things?" asked R.
"Inshallah," I replied.
"But what if I don't understand things?"
"Er...then you can write a blog!"
~~~
Took little R to the zoo. Despite the lovely lazy Sunday feel to it, the leafy shade, the slow meandering that reminds one of the importance of useless things, she wasn't mightily impressed. Perhaps the elephants and hippos were too big for her little eyes to take in; she seemed to gravitate to the smaller animals like the birds (but not too small: ants are not very interesting). Or perhaps some of the animals were just too weird (aren't all animals weird, though?). Camels, for instance. And the white lama had a very odd personality.
Or maybe it was that she didn't realize some of them were actually animals. The giant turtles hardly moved. She might have thought they were just very large stones.
But I really think it was this: animals are boring bastards. They actually don't do much. Now, I'm not saying I expect to see them playing cards, or playing some Bach, but just lazing in the sun all day like that. Dear me! You can see Protestantism has had no effect on them! The closed, opaque lives of others...
"But, but..." R said eagerly, "people look at me and probably say the same thing. And for all I know they probably look at you black sun and think the same: closed, lazy, an odd personality...need I go on?"
"Oh R, that's the last time I bring you to the zoo!"
"Yes, let's go back and read some Montaigne"
"We understand nothing of a dog's experience...they understand nothing of ours, when for example they watch us stare interminably at the pages of a book. Yet both states of consciousness share a certain quality: the 'zest' or 'tingle' which comes when one is completely absorbed in what one is doing. This tingle should enable us to recognise each other's similarity [and] in turn should lead to kindness."
(emphasis added by R)
---S. Bakewell, On Montaigne.
---Karl Marx.
"Time is everything."
--little, darling R.
"Will there be a time when I'm grown up and understand things?" asked R.
"Inshallah," I replied.
"But what if I don't understand things?"
"Er...then you can write a blog!"
~~~
Took little R to the zoo. Despite the lovely lazy Sunday feel to it, the leafy shade, the slow meandering that reminds one of the importance of useless things, she wasn't mightily impressed. Perhaps the elephants and hippos were too big for her little eyes to take in; she seemed to gravitate to the smaller animals like the birds (but not too small: ants are not very interesting). Or perhaps some of the animals were just too weird (aren't all animals weird, though?). Camels, for instance. And the white lama had a very odd personality.
Or maybe it was that she didn't realize some of them were actually animals. The giant turtles hardly moved. She might have thought they were just very large stones.
But I really think it was this: animals are boring bastards. They actually don't do much. Now, I'm not saying I expect to see them playing cards, or playing some Bach, but just lazing in the sun all day like that. Dear me! You can see Protestantism has had no effect on them! The closed, opaque lives of others...
"But, but..." R said eagerly, "people look at me and probably say the same thing. And for all I know they probably look at you black sun and think the same: closed, lazy, an odd personality...need I go on?"
"Oh R, that's the last time I bring you to the zoo!"
"Yes, let's go back and read some Montaigne"
"We understand nothing of a dog's experience...they understand nothing of ours, when for example they watch us stare interminably at the pages of a book. Yet both states of consciousness share a certain quality: the 'zest' or 'tingle' which comes when one is completely absorbed in what one is doing. This tingle should enable us to recognise each other's similarity [and] in turn should lead to kindness."
(emphasis added by R)
---S. Bakewell, On Montaigne.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
what dreams may come
Well, the last conversation of the day, at about 11:30, had me say: "we might as well be Hindus" . The other person nodded and said, " why not". And it ended there. But how did it begin?
Just a throwaway line about how we're both sick of eating meat and that it'd be better to eat just vegetables. (Followed by the now obligatory line about how India is doing much better than Pakistan). But nothing else. Just a casual conversation and no further reflections on it. Just let it brush by. Not too surprising either, since on Eid these sentiments usually come to the surface...i.e the colossal waste of life and money, the sheer 'showiness' of religion.
Someone once said that your truest dreams occur just before you wake up. Or maybe they're just the ones you can remember?
So, you wake up saying what you think are words in Hindi! Bizarre! Vir, Var and something else that you've now forgotten. You sit up for a minute trying to recollect. Now that you think of it, R does the same thing. Cheeky monkey!
Yes, that's it. In the dream there's also this weird object with parts that correspond with each of the three words. The first part is a large but thin brownish oval stone. Polished. It's connected to something like..well, something that reminds you of a tree. And this itself, as you move down, branches off into two symmetrical seeds. In fact, you remember hearing the words: " the double-seeded...". and finally this is connected to some roots which, strangely, are a mirror image of the whole object itself. And as if to indicate that there's no finality, the tip of those roots has another outgrowth that repeats the whole thing again (a fractal?)
[Er...what were you saying about therapy, Nabil?]
And what about the words? All you can recall is that 'vir' stands for human being and that that is what is highest.
Of course, now that you think of it , there was this essay by Coomaraswamy that you read many years back that talked about vir, wasn't there? And hadn't that strange student just a few days back asked you-you of all people-to review his essay on Coomaraswamy's essay on craftsmanship? And hadn't you been reading Sennett's 'The Craftsmen' that very day?
One should never look for the origins of dreams. It could be anything ! (the lack of c.r.'s , for example).
Walk to office in the early morning. Not a soul around. Dogs barking in the distance and crows craaing even though I can't see them. Past a lovely tree whose pink petals have nearly all fallen to the ground. Thought to myself, the other day: must take a photograph. And then again, why not just enjoy them and this fall...the strange (random, symmetrical?) pattern they form around the tree.
Leaf through a book on my desk and open it to the page I'd been reading two days back. The first lines that catch my eye are:
"For pray what is the end of Man? Is he created for Happiness? Or for Virtue? For this life or the next?"
Now I'll walk back and have some breakfast. So endeth the dream.
Just a throwaway line about how we're both sick of eating meat and that it'd be better to eat just vegetables. (Followed by the now obligatory line about how India is doing much better than Pakistan). But nothing else. Just a casual conversation and no further reflections on it. Just let it brush by. Not too surprising either, since on Eid these sentiments usually come to the surface...i.e the colossal waste of life and money, the sheer 'showiness' of religion.
Someone once said that your truest dreams occur just before you wake up. Or maybe they're just the ones you can remember?
So, you wake up saying what you think are words in Hindi! Bizarre! Vir, Var and something else that you've now forgotten. You sit up for a minute trying to recollect. Now that you think of it, R does the same thing. Cheeky monkey!
Yes, that's it. In the dream there's also this weird object with parts that correspond with each of the three words. The first part is a large but thin brownish oval stone. Polished. It's connected to something like..well, something that reminds you of a tree. And this itself, as you move down, branches off into two symmetrical seeds. In fact, you remember hearing the words: " the double-seeded...". and finally this is connected to some roots which, strangely, are a mirror image of the whole object itself. And as if to indicate that there's no finality, the tip of those roots has another outgrowth that repeats the whole thing again (a fractal?)
[Er...what were you saying about therapy, Nabil?]
And what about the words? All you can recall is that 'vir' stands for human being and that that is what is highest.
Of course, now that you think of it , there was this essay by Coomaraswamy that you read many years back that talked about vir, wasn't there? And hadn't that strange student just a few days back asked you-you of all people-to review his essay on Coomaraswamy's essay on craftsmanship? And hadn't you been reading Sennett's 'The Craftsmen' that very day?
One should never look for the origins of dreams. It could be anything ! (the lack of c.r.'s , for example).
Walk to office in the early morning. Not a soul around. Dogs barking in the distance and crows craaing even though I can't see them. Past a lovely tree whose pink petals have nearly all fallen to the ground. Thought to myself, the other day: must take a photograph. And then again, why not just enjoy them and this fall...the strange (random, symmetrical?) pattern they form around the tree.
Leaf through a book on my desk and open it to the page I'd been reading two days back. The first lines that catch my eye are:
"For pray what is the end of Man? Is he created for Happiness? Or for Virtue? For this life or the next?"
Now I'll walk back and have some breakfast. So endeth the dream.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
