Hons, dons, and MA(Oxon)s.
Bring it on.
Labels: life
Monday, 26 October 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
I came to in a quad.
Framed in by walls and ivy, along with a square of pristine grass. I stumbled into a door, up flights of stairs, and through a door, into a room - and there you sat, poring over a comically thick book. I must have laughed out loud.
We hugged. It was the most natural thing to do; it was unforced, thankful, welcoming. Urgent with desire, but not lust. No sound but the whisper of fabric and gentle breathing. You felt as I remembered. Nothing under my fingers but incredible warmth and softness.
You lead me by my hand from your room; I didn't think the day would come. Across the Mathematical Bridge spanning Queens'. Along the Backs and the banks of the Cam. I talked excitedly. About, well, all that has happened. How I'm like now, what I've done. You interjected with pointed remarks, your gnomic mantras and handy aphorisms. Encouraged me with your slow smiles. You were big sister to a little brother who could not possibly comprehend sophisticated you. Then it was your turn. You would not tell me about Africa, nor him, but somehow I could not find it within myself to care. We exchanged stories. Laughed. Agreed to write to each other.
Found myself at a train platform. Left. But not without a hug, smiles, goodwill in our hearts, and fond memories. Kissing may be awesome, but what is it compared to these?
I awoke to tears and regret.
You were the only person in my life whom I felt I could trust with my heart, believe in, tell my darkest secrets too. It was irrational and selfish of me. And what had you to gain? I didn't know how to make you trust me in the same way. You said it best; you always did. "It just doesn't happen." We were together for such a short time, and yet you understood me more than anyone ever did. There was no attractiveness in the insecurity you found within me.
I have nothing left but an idea of you, spirited from the happiest point in my life. A sometime muse - Beatrice, with all her beauty and intellect, to an exceptionally dull and untalented Dante. But above all, a confidante, whom I speak to in hushed tones in the darkest hours of doubt. No more than a ghost, a manifestation of my delusion and desire.
Sometimes, it is simply not enough. I suppose that is why I have this blog. Largely private, and hidden from most of the world, it is privy to a readership in the low tens, a minority of which knows me enough to know of what or whom I speak of. The others are strangers, simply drawn to my perplexing and curious thoughts and ways.
Perhaps I write in the hope that you will someday find this place, in which I have enshrined memories worth remembering, dreams worth dreaming, and thoughts worth thinking. It will not change a thing. You will not think any more highly of me. But having read my words and touched my thoughts, to know of what and how I feel once more - you will have become my confidante once again.
That is all I can hope for.
----
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
We hugged. It was the most natural thing to do; it was unforced, thankful, welcoming. Urgent with desire, but not lust. No sound but the whisper of fabric and gentle breathing. You felt as I remembered. Nothing under my fingers but incredible warmth and softness.
You lead me by my hand from your room; I didn't think the day would come. Across the Mathematical Bridge spanning Queens'. Along the Backs and the banks of the Cam. I talked excitedly. About, well, all that has happened. How I'm like now, what I've done. You interjected with pointed remarks, your gnomic mantras and handy aphorisms. Encouraged me with your slow smiles. You were big sister to a little brother who could not possibly comprehend sophisticated you. Then it was your turn. You would not tell me about Africa, nor him, but somehow I could not find it within myself to care. We exchanged stories. Laughed. Agreed to write to each other.
Found myself at a train platform. Left. But not without a hug, smiles, goodwill in our hearts, and fond memories. Kissing may be awesome, but what is it compared to these?
I awoke to tears and regret.
You were the only person in my life whom I felt I could trust with my heart, believe in, tell my darkest secrets too. It was irrational and selfish of me. And what had you to gain? I didn't know how to make you trust me in the same way. You said it best; you always did. "It just doesn't happen." We were together for such a short time, and yet you understood me more than anyone ever did. There was no attractiveness in the insecurity you found within me.
I have nothing left but an idea of you, spirited from the happiest point in my life. A sometime muse - Beatrice, with all her beauty and intellect, to an exceptionally dull and untalented Dante. But above all, a confidante, whom I speak to in hushed tones in the darkest hours of doubt. No more than a ghost, a manifestation of my delusion and desire.
Sometimes, it is simply not enough. I suppose that is why I have this blog. Largely private, and hidden from most of the world, it is privy to a readership in the low tens, a minority of which knows me enough to know of what or whom I speak of. The others are strangers, simply drawn to my perplexing and curious thoughts and ways.
Perhaps I write in the hope that you will someday find this place, in which I have enshrined memories worth remembering, dreams worth dreaming, and thoughts worth thinking. It will not change a thing. You will not think any more highly of me. But having read my words and touched my thoughts, to know of what and how I feel once more - you will have become my confidante once again.
That is all I can hope for.
----
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
Friday, 16 October 2009
What It Means To Be Human (pt. 1): Asking the Difficult Questions
Consider the following.
"The unexamined life is not worth living," Socrates declared in his Apology, as written by Plato - by which he meant to say that he would rather lose his life on charges of heresy, than be forced by the Athenian authorities to give up his right to examine it, or admit that his belief in inquiry was unbecoming or damaging in any way. In giving himself up to death for this conviction, Socrates has been celebrated as a matyr by the study of philosophy for dying for its ideals.
Let us now remove the statement from the context in which it was made, and apply it to our own lives as a means of determining their worth. Having done so, it becomes a normative statement, in need of for and against arguments, and any philosopher worth his salt would identify it as being problematic.
For example, without having contemplated this statement at all, does a human not examine his life in any way? What if, upon examining your life, you choose to live the rest of your life with it unexamined, if it were at all possible? We need to examine the extent to which, and the methods by which we examine our lives.
But these aside, central to the problem of agreeing with this statement of rhetoric is the need for exclusion of other theories or definitions of worth, namely the worth of a life, which may equally be as valid. If one leads a moral (socially accptable) life, nurtures meaningful relationships, builds a loving family, all within the complete absence of self-reflection, would we consider the life that he led as unmeaningful? What makes Socrates' idea of worth any better?
I will say this in its defense. The most compelling affirmation of Socrates' statement is the notion of autonomy. That the examined life is worth living, only because it is empowered from autonomy that stems from self-reflection. Consider the lack of autonomy which we choose to identify as a Bad Thing. What happens if we do not have autonomy? We simply are, and exist matter-of-factly, cogs turning in the fabric of the universe, processes which manifest physically, age, and die. We respond to our basic needs, biologically programmed as they are within us, to stimuli in the environment and to our experiences. This we are, but we are not agents within the universe, nor are we truly capable of moulding our being or achievements. We are not living our own lives, regardless of how they measure against any other type of worth, and this above all else makes them unworthy. Therefore, a life may still be measured against Socrates' notion of the life worth living, regardless of other reasonable ideas of worth that we may have.
Why live a worthy life at all? Why should I bother? you may ask. Realise, then, that the statement, negative as it is in its essence, essentially suggests that if you are "not bothered", you are better off bereft of life. Dead. We are all perhaps in one of two states: living the worthy life, or as good as dead. Ironically, by having questioned the need for living the worthy life, you have begun to live it yourself.
We have started with the fundamentals, and explored the concept of the examined life. By now, you will have been in contemplation. You will have begun asking yourself questions. But the subject is the self, the mode of contemplation, private, and the extent, local. What happens, then, if we are to take on social issues publicly?
We will have begun to be human.
How so? Upon further analysis, we may describe the notion of autonomy as discussed above as a positive concept of freedom. For the uninitiated, freedom is often seen as a negative concept, as the absence of intrusion. Interestingly, Hegel noted that such an idea of freedom was so vulgar that only the English could have entertained it, and this is indeed true in some respects. (The best work on freedom as a negative concept was done by Hobbes, Locke and Bentham, but I will not dwell on it.) As a philosopher who believed in the classical theory of freedom, Hegel was amongst others such as Mill and Marx, who believed, in the words of Charles Taylor, that freedom was "not a mere opportunity concept, and does not merely consist of opportunities opened up to us by absence of impediment." Rather more than that, to them, freedom was an "exercise concept, which consists of exercising our powers in a certain way."
This classical concept of freedom manifests itself in Aristotle's Politics. Man, he says, is the Political Animal; "zoon politikon", a living being which exists in society, or "politikon zoion", a social animal, a being which resides in the Greek city-state, the "polis". As the Political Animal, Man thrives in communities, social arrangements which he moulds with justice and the rational mind. For Man to enjoy his fullest freedom, he must engage in the organisation and conduct of public life on which his liberty depends.
Importantly, this is not merely about freedom. This is about realising our natures, realising what it means to be human. Hannah Arendt writes that freedom "consists in politics, for the activity of self-government and the social virtues that it requires is the activity in which we most fully realise our natures, and freedom is that self-realisation." Charles Taylor takes it one step further, by saying that freedom "resides, at least in part, of the collective control of the common life. The exercise of such control is the form of activity in which the essence of our humanity is most fully realised." In short, to eschew these activities is to be less than fully human; there is nothing left to distinguish us from beasts. But to embrace them is to become human.
I will offer the following synthesis, that self-examination of one's life makes it worth living, and to be socially involved is to be free and ergo human. Tempting as it is to equivalate the two conclusions, to declare that "To live a worthy life is to be human, and to be human is to live a worthy life," for instance, would be to over-simplify matters and muddle issues. What is clear, though, is that the common value involved is inquiry, and that we owe it to ourselves to embrace it.
What am I proposing? Only this: To seek truth and self-knowledge; to champion the spirit that Socrates embodied - the spirit of inquiry - at the cost of comfort and convenience, so long as we desire to live and to be human. I submit to you that in living enlightened, human lives as individuals, we can only then be a collective, enlightened humanity. We must never fear to confront the polemical; we must commit ourselves to asking the Diffcult Questions. It is our common responsibility, and the least that we must do.
"The unexamined life is not worth living," Socrates declared in his Apology, as written by Plato - by which he meant to say that he would rather lose his life on charges of heresy, than be forced by the Athenian authorities to give up his right to examine it, or admit that his belief in inquiry was unbecoming or damaging in any way. In giving himself up to death for this conviction, Socrates has been celebrated as a matyr by the study of philosophy for dying for its ideals.
Let us now remove the statement from the context in which it was made, and apply it to our own lives as a means of determining their worth. Having done so, it becomes a normative statement, in need of for and against arguments, and any philosopher worth his salt would identify it as being problematic.
For example, without having contemplated this statement at all, does a human not examine his life in any way? What if, upon examining your life, you choose to live the rest of your life with it unexamined, if it were at all possible? We need to examine the extent to which, and the methods by which we examine our lives.
But these aside, central to the problem of agreeing with this statement of rhetoric is the need for exclusion of other theories or definitions of worth, namely the worth of a life, which may equally be as valid. If one leads a moral (socially accptable) life, nurtures meaningful relationships, builds a loving family, all within the complete absence of self-reflection, would we consider the life that he led as unmeaningful? What makes Socrates' idea of worth any better?
I will say this in its defense. The most compelling affirmation of Socrates' statement is the notion of autonomy. That the examined life is worth living, only because it is empowered from autonomy that stems from self-reflection. Consider the lack of autonomy which we choose to identify as a Bad Thing. What happens if we do not have autonomy? We simply are, and exist matter-of-factly, cogs turning in the fabric of the universe, processes which manifest physically, age, and die. We respond to our basic needs, biologically programmed as they are within us, to stimuli in the environment and to our experiences. This we are, but we are not agents within the universe, nor are we truly capable of moulding our being or achievements. We are not living our own lives, regardless of how they measure against any other type of worth, and this above all else makes them unworthy. Therefore, a life may still be measured against Socrates' notion of the life worth living, regardless of other reasonable ideas of worth that we may have.
Why live a worthy life at all? Why should I bother? you may ask. Realise, then, that the statement, negative as it is in its essence, essentially suggests that if you are "not bothered", you are better off bereft of life. Dead. We are all perhaps in one of two states: living the worthy life, or as good as dead. Ironically, by having questioned the need for living the worthy life, you have begun to live it yourself.
We have started with the fundamentals, and explored the concept of the examined life. By now, you will have been in contemplation. You will have begun asking yourself questions. But the subject is the self, the mode of contemplation, private, and the extent, local. What happens, then, if we are to take on social issues publicly?
We will have begun to be human.
How so? Upon further analysis, we may describe the notion of autonomy as discussed above as a positive concept of freedom. For the uninitiated, freedom is often seen as a negative concept, as the absence of intrusion. Interestingly, Hegel noted that such an idea of freedom was so vulgar that only the English could have entertained it, and this is indeed true in some respects. (The best work on freedom as a negative concept was done by Hobbes, Locke and Bentham, but I will not dwell on it.) As a philosopher who believed in the classical theory of freedom, Hegel was amongst others such as Mill and Marx, who believed, in the words of Charles Taylor, that freedom was "not a mere opportunity concept, and does not merely consist of opportunities opened up to us by absence of impediment." Rather more than that, to them, freedom was an "exercise concept, which consists of exercising our powers in a certain way."
This classical concept of freedom manifests itself in Aristotle's Politics. Man, he says, is the Political Animal; "zoon politikon", a living being which exists in society, or "politikon zoion", a social animal, a being which resides in the Greek city-state, the "polis". As the Political Animal, Man thrives in communities, social arrangements which he moulds with justice and the rational mind. For Man to enjoy his fullest freedom, he must engage in the organisation and conduct of public life on which his liberty depends.
Importantly, this is not merely about freedom. This is about realising our natures, realising what it means to be human. Hannah Arendt writes that freedom "consists in politics, for the activity of self-government and the social virtues that it requires is the activity in which we most fully realise our natures, and freedom is that self-realisation." Charles Taylor takes it one step further, by saying that freedom "resides, at least in part, of the collective control of the common life. The exercise of such control is the form of activity in which the essence of our humanity is most fully realised." In short, to eschew these activities is to be less than fully human; there is nothing left to distinguish us from beasts. But to embrace them is to become human.
I will offer the following synthesis, that self-examination of one's life makes it worth living, and to be socially involved is to be free and ergo human. Tempting as it is to equivalate the two conclusions, to declare that "To live a worthy life is to be human, and to be human is to live a worthy life," for instance, would be to over-simplify matters and muddle issues. What is clear, though, is that the common value involved is inquiry, and that we owe it to ourselves to embrace it.
What am I proposing? Only this: To seek truth and self-knowledge; to champion the spirit that Socrates embodied - the spirit of inquiry - at the cost of comfort and convenience, so long as we desire to live and to be human. I submit to you that in living enlightened, human lives as individuals, we can only then be a collective, enlightened humanity. We must never fear to confront the polemical; we must commit ourselves to asking the Diffcult Questions. It is our common responsibility, and the least that we must do.
Labels: thoughts
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Father Time, you grow old.
The days were longer when I was a child
But I have since learnt to hide from the path
of your fell arrow and your dread gaze from
Time to time, ridding me of your time, Time, over time.
Escape eludes me, but your watch is not eternal
I submit not to your imperious will, for this I know -
fools are all who think otherwise - that mortality
Our running time upon this stage, the allotted span
of imprisonment, plays no part in your machinations
Bears not your curse, Time, but the key to liberation
from infinity and the weight of its doldrum -
Oppression, whose sentence we have cheated ourselves
out of, but not your shackles which bind our thoughts -
No more! To think that we are bound in servitude!
For our tri-dimensional bodies slip through
Your thick fingers like fine sand - anchovies
Darting through the coarse mesh of your cosmic net
Cast over jellied butterflies which stick
not onto existence with pins nor clips, poor Warden:
You are Time, yet your reign is ephemeral.
Warm clay shall someday darken with my ashes and blood
Loam will someday close over the shell of
My body, and contemplate the being that once was
It will be then, Time, when I shall spit into
Your eye, triumphant, and return in bliss to
Nothing - which is something in itself - transcendent.
But I have since learnt to hide from the path
of your fell arrow and your dread gaze from
Time to time, ridding me of your time, Time, over time.
Escape eludes me, but your watch is not eternal
I submit not to your imperious will, for this I know -
fools are all who think otherwise - that mortality
Our running time upon this stage, the allotted span
of imprisonment, plays no part in your machinations
Bears not your curse, Time, but the key to liberation
from infinity and the weight of its doldrum -
Oppression, whose sentence we have cheated ourselves
out of, but not your shackles which bind our thoughts -
No more! To think that we are bound in servitude!
For our tri-dimensional bodies slip through
Your thick fingers like fine sand - anchovies
Darting through the coarse mesh of your cosmic net
Cast over jellied butterflies which stick
not onto existence with pins nor clips, poor Warden:
You are Time, yet your reign is ephemeral.
Warm clay shall someday darken with my ashes and blood
Loam will someday close over the shell of
My body, and contemplate the being that once was
It will be then, Time, when I shall spit into
Your eye, triumphant, and return in bliss to
Nothing - which is something in itself - transcendent.
Labels: poetry and verse
Friday, 9 October 2009
alison
- art by Audrey Kawasaki
Oh, it's so funny to be seeing you after so long, girl
And with the way you look, I understand that you were not impressed
But I heard you let that little friend of yours
Take off your party dress
I'm not gonna get too sentimental
Like those other sticky valentines
'Cause I don't know if you are loving somebody
I only know it isn't mine
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true
Well, I see you've got a husband now
Did he leave your pretty fingers lying in the wedding cake?
You used to hold him right in your hand
Ah, but he took all that he could take
Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
When I hear the silly things that you say
I think somebody better put out the big light
'Cause I can't stand to see you this way
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true
My aim is true
My aim is true
-- Elvis Costello
Labels: life, music, poetry and verse
Thursday, 8 October 2009
you may say that I'm a dreamer
and yes it seems that I'm the only one. This world suffers from such a pathological lack of imagination, it makes me weep.
Labels: thoughts