When the road on which Alyami was walking left the trees Alyami knew that his wandering was over, for a little while. The trees framed a sweet valley through which a small, lazy river wound. The trees had the first signs of the oncoming autumn, rosy tips on the leaves that reached furthest towards the sun. Well tended fields of wheat were interspersed with fallow meadows or grazing cattle. The road led down through these trees to a stone bridge, clearly once the site of a ford, the center of a small but prosperous village. There were nearly as many houses of field stone and brick as those of wood, their clay tiles bright in the sunlight.
Alyami plucked a thick-bladed grass stem and blew through his hands a buzz to accompany the cicadas up in the trees. It was a warm day, a day for slow movements and smiles. He was dusty and tired. Tired not only from the walk, but tired of moving on from place to place, from face to face. He wanted to stay long enough to become familiar with a place, to know more of people than a name, for the first time since he had left his home.
Just by the bridge stood an inn. It wasn't grand, but it was well made, clean and cosy. It was late afternoon when Alyami entered the inn, looked around and approved. A person could sit in a corner through an afternoon without wondering whether they were overstaying their welcome. A slightly portly woman, cheeks red around a smiling face, ceased her bustling and welcomed him. She noted the sweat-streaked dust on his face and gave him directions to the water barrel just outside the door and said he could wash while she got him some food and the drink of his choice. He asked what she recommended for a fine day such as this. She looked him over, evaluating him as a merchant must, and said that she would make him a mixed plate of the fruits of the village. A chicken leg, fresh bread, root vegetables, an apple, washed down with cider made from the pears of her sister's farm.
Alyami stepped out and found the dipper in the water barrel. He took a long drink of the warm, but pure, water. A breathe and then another long drink. He poured water over his hands and head, shaking the droplets into the air. Overhead a squirrel rhythmically chattered its indignation at his very existence. The water cooled, cleaned and invigorated him, a transition from traveling to resting. Plans and worries dropped away from him and he felt a calm happiness move through him.
As he ate his simple but delicious meal one of the old men who seem to sprout like mushrooms at the bar struck up a conversation, noticing his instrument and kindly interrogating him on his past, his present, and what were his future plans within their village. He was a wandering entertainer? Would he play tonight? Was he passing on through or was he staying awhile? Alyami smiled and talked between mouthfuls, for a man who moves from place to place becomes intimately familiar with such talk, for while a stranger is always new, being a stranger can become ordinary and commonplace. While his answers were the same as always, he played for his keep, would play if people wished, and he didn't know how long he would stay, it all seemed a little different this time.
As the afternoon turned into evening the inn began to fill. Alyami was charmed to see that the inn was not a private place, not reserved for men trying to escape their lives, but rather a place where mothers and fathers laughed while their children got charmingly underfoot amongst the patrons. Alyami sat quietly, with a slight smile on his face as he absorbed the atmosphere, finding what in him matched what was in them. The joyfully harried innkeeper stopped briefly in her rushing, looked Alyami in the eye and arched a questioning brow. He nodded, took out his rabab and quietly started playing the tuning song, his head bent over the instrument like a father over his newborn daughter. then he began to play.
He played the village and the inn. Tunes of work in the sunshine. Songs of innocent love. The calls of the birds in the trees, and the lowing of cattle. Bawdy songs of the virility of spring and joyful songs of abundant harvest. He then slowed, and quieted his playing, taking them down with him into the long months of dark and quiet that was winter. Then his song changed as he added little pieces of his travels, weaving his memory of other places into the contemplation of winter. He gave them the chattering of monkeys, the wild prayers of the desert, the lap of the waves upon a beach. He took them on a journey, interlacing the music of other nations through the fabric of their lives. Finally he gave them the song of the monsoon in the shelter of his banyan tree, and stopped with tears in his eyes.
While he had played the girl/women of the village had been drawn to him, as is the case with musicians and young ladies everywhere. While the boy/men looked on in displeasure at the girl/women trying to pluck up the courage to walk over to the minstrel, a woman of an age to be well married came over to Alyami.
"I am Ailsa, who are you?"
"I am Alyami, and this is who I am."
"You miss your home."
"I do."
"I miss mine too."
"Where are you from?"
"I am from this village, born and raised."
"Then how do you miss your home?"
"My home left when my love went from me. Do you have a place to stay tonight?"
"I do not, nor for tomorrow, or next week."
"Then come with me and I will give you a home and you can be my home, at least for a while."
"I would like that very much Ailsa."
They left hand-in-hand and through the autumn and winter he lived with her, played his music, exchanged whispered secrets with the children, and chopped wood when absolutely necessary. He had a place, and she had a family, and it was good. Good and easy. When the spring came, and his fingers started to fidget she was the one who told him that he must head on into the wide world for she did not want him to be someone he was not for her. They loved each other in their way, for the time they could, and parted well. He left replenished with the fruit of love, friendship and a home to which he might return. She stayed with a warm memory, and a new home, born from the new love growing within her.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Social Escape Velocity
"Escape velocity" is a term invented by my darling wife that means the necessary amount of distancing oneself from an environment in order to not return to that environment. She originally came up with the term as an observation of her peers in high school leaving her small, rural home town.
In an environment people develop ties, family, work, friends, education, employment and the breaking or reducing of these ties, in that place, takes effort. This effort is part of what I talked about in my post Psychic Activation Energy. When you want to move to a different place you need to put extra effort into organizing where you will live, how to survive and how to get a social life. it is almost always easier simply to stay where you are doing what you have been doing.
Please forgive the wobbly physics in this bit. Now, think of the ties in an environment as gravity and the effort of moving as the fuel in a rocket. A rocket blasting off into space needs enough fuel to achieve escape velocity, the speed necessary for the rocket to escape the gravity of Earth and fly off into space. I believe escape velocity for Earth is seven miles per second and if at any time an object achieves that speed directly away from the Earth it will go into space.
For some people the ties at home are not that strong, the urge to leave is high, and the resources available for leaving are high. These people have a lot of fuel and are able to get enough momentum in their leaving that they move to somewhere else, settle down there and don't feel the need to return. Some people have strong ties to their home environment, aren't eager to leave, and/or don't have the resources to do so anyway. These people don't have the necessary fuel to achieve escape velocity and leave.
Now, the number of people who blast off from Earth in this metaphor used to be pretty low but has increased with increased wealth, transportation, and variety of jobs. If you grow up on a dairy farm you probably are more likely to leave the dairy farm at some point in your life. However, even for those who blast off a good number don't achieve escape velocity and fall back to their original environment.
My wife and I have achieved escape velocity. Neither of us live in, or wish to live in, the environments in which we grew up. Our ties to those places are pretty small. We may come to visit once in a while, but we have an alien spacecraft when we need to leave. Both of our mothers did not achieve escape velocity, my mother when moving to the USA and my wife's mother when leaving for college (or after, I'm not an expert in her history). My father has lived in the USA, would prefer to live in Pasadena, CA, but lives in the UK. He has not achieved escape velocity, and for the best reason ever, he loves his wife.
I think the best example of the effects of social gravity that I know are the members of a group of men just out of high school who moved from Spokane, WA to Portland, OR. I knew these gentlemen because over half of them joined the band Sam's Cross that I formed in Portland. For people in Spokane, Portland is one of the two "big cities" that those from that good sized, but isolated, town that young people go to when wanting to move out and see the world. Within a couple of years half of them were in Portland, flourishing in their art, employed. they had achieved escape velocity. The other half were back in Spokane and had impregnated some lucky woman. They had returned to Earth, and with less available fuel than they had before.
It may seem that I am condemning those without the fuel to achieve escape velocity. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have more admiration for those who have gone to other places, experienced other things, met different people. I think if you haven't really traveled (and I don't mean cruises, or the next state, or an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas) you have a fundamental flaw in your understanding of the world, you simply aren't capable of understanding the world in a visceral way. however, I have no problem whatsoever with people preferring one place to another, and if that place is their original home then that is fine. However, I think of Justin, a talented musician with a great engine of energy who at twenty years of age gave up on the rest of the world to live a mile away from where he grew up, living with someone he knew in high school, and it makes me a little sad.
In an environment people develop ties, family, work, friends, education, employment and the breaking or reducing of these ties, in that place, takes effort. This effort is part of what I talked about in my post Psychic Activation Energy. When you want to move to a different place you need to put extra effort into organizing where you will live, how to survive and how to get a social life. it is almost always easier simply to stay where you are doing what you have been doing.
Please forgive the wobbly physics in this bit. Now, think of the ties in an environment as gravity and the effort of moving as the fuel in a rocket. A rocket blasting off into space needs enough fuel to achieve escape velocity, the speed necessary for the rocket to escape the gravity of Earth and fly off into space. I believe escape velocity for Earth is seven miles per second and if at any time an object achieves that speed directly away from the Earth it will go into space.
For some people the ties at home are not that strong, the urge to leave is high, and the resources available for leaving are high. These people have a lot of fuel and are able to get enough momentum in their leaving that they move to somewhere else, settle down there and don't feel the need to return. Some people have strong ties to their home environment, aren't eager to leave, and/or don't have the resources to do so anyway. These people don't have the necessary fuel to achieve escape velocity and leave.
Now, the number of people who blast off from Earth in this metaphor used to be pretty low but has increased with increased wealth, transportation, and variety of jobs. If you grow up on a dairy farm you probably are more likely to leave the dairy farm at some point in your life. However, even for those who blast off a good number don't achieve escape velocity and fall back to their original environment.
My wife and I have achieved escape velocity. Neither of us live in, or wish to live in, the environments in which we grew up. Our ties to those places are pretty small. We may come to visit once in a while, but we have an alien spacecraft when we need to leave. Both of our mothers did not achieve escape velocity, my mother when moving to the USA and my wife's mother when leaving for college (or after, I'm not an expert in her history). My father has lived in the USA, would prefer to live in Pasadena, CA, but lives in the UK. He has not achieved escape velocity, and for the best reason ever, he loves his wife.
I think the best example of the effects of social gravity that I know are the members of a group of men just out of high school who moved from Spokane, WA to Portland, OR. I knew these gentlemen because over half of them joined the band Sam's Cross that I formed in Portland. For people in Spokane, Portland is one of the two "big cities" that those from that good sized, but isolated, town that young people go to when wanting to move out and see the world. Within a couple of years half of them were in Portland, flourishing in their art, employed. they had achieved escape velocity. The other half were back in Spokane and had impregnated some lucky woman. They had returned to Earth, and with less available fuel than they had before.
It may seem that I am condemning those without the fuel to achieve escape velocity. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have more admiration for those who have gone to other places, experienced other things, met different people. I think if you haven't really traveled (and I don't mean cruises, or the next state, or an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas) you have a fundamental flaw in your understanding of the world, you simply aren't capable of understanding the world in a visceral way. however, I have no problem whatsoever with people preferring one place to another, and if that place is their original home then that is fine. However, I think of Justin, a talented musician with a great engine of energy who at twenty years of age gave up on the rest of the world to live a mile away from where he grew up, living with someone he knew in high school, and it makes me a little sad.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Chapter 11
"Where is he?" she shrieked, 'where is my baby?"
"I am sure he's alright, my daughter, you know how mischievous he can be. I wouldn't be surprised to find him listening behind the hut right now. He's probably laughing at you right now."
"Nerwhal! How can you say such things? My baby is gone, what did I do to drive him away?"
"I'll go look for him daughter" sighed Old Nerwhal creaking to his feet and leaving the hut. He knew there was no use in trying to calm her down, she listened about as well as her son.
Old Nerwhal went out into the cool night and stood for a moment to decide what to do. There was a sliver of moon visible in the sky, so he could see a little ways around him. However, he knew that a mischievous boy under the trees would be invisible, so he decided not to blunder into the darkness. He was an old man and didn't need to break an ankle scurrying after that little bastard. So, the village first.
He stopped by each of the homes of his neighbors, greeting them with courtesy and asking after Little Mika. Their sympathetic looks and shaking of heads confirmed to him that he wasn't in the village and he was indeed a thoroughly unpleasant child. Old Nerwhal's irritation was growing. Where to next?
The village was built on a ledge overlooking a deep valley, one of the very few flat areas in these mountains. A path led up into the wooded hunting grounds above, and a path led down. The path down took a long, circuitous route through trees, meadows, villages, into the valley and thence out into the rest of the world. Up, or down? Old Nerwhal tried to stretch his mind back over the decades, back to when he was a thoroughly unpleasant child. What would he have done? Excitement and rebellion meant down. Walking down was easier than up. Down it was.
Old Nerwhal trudged down along the path, something he didn't like to do at the best of times with his creaking joints. Old Nerwhal had seen enough of what there was to be seen and decided that a flat piece of ground with a nice view was entirely adequate for his needs. It had probably been a full finger of a day since Little Mika had disappeared. How far would he be able to go? Too far for Old Nerwhal's liking.
Just after the third time when Old Nerwhal had asked himself whether he had gone far enough yet he came across a small shape sitting on a fallen tree branch. It sniffled to itself, somehow managing to make the sniffles sound angry and outraged at the injustice of it all.
"Hello Little Mika, what are you doing?" asked Old Nerwhal in his most patient voice.
"I'm going 'way from mountains."
"I see. Why are you doing that?"
"Like in the story. You told me he went down 'cause nothing to do in the village."
"Ah, the story about He From Whom Our Blessings Come when He descended from the mountains to spread the Truth of Peace. I told you that two days ago, didn't I? Hmmmm. So, are you trying to be like Him?" Old Nerwhal was now actually quite interested. This meant that there were two developments that he had doubted would ever come to pass, Little Mika actually listened to his stories, and it was possible that he might actually try to be like Him.
"No. Him is like Mika. Nothing to do in the village. Everyone hates me. Going down mountain." Mika radiated indignation.
"Ah, I see now. You don't like it in the village and are going to go down from the mountains like in the story. Well, that happens to quite a lot of people from our village. After a while they want to see something different, there is no shame in that. However, Little Mika there are some differences from the story. He From Whom Our Blessings Come left in his fifteenth summer, while we hope you will see your fifth. He packed some food, and some clothes, and his walking staff because it is a very long journey. He said goodbye to the village and his mother, asking her to bless him. He knew where he was going and he had a holy mission. he didn't just run off in the middle of the night." Old Nerwhal was trying, but he could tell that Little Mika didn't want to listen. He desperately didn't want to drag the boy all that way uphill. "You know what you need to do this properly Little Mika?
"No."
"Planning is what you need. If you want to leave the village then you need to properly plan. On my big legs it takes three days to walk down the mountain and I get hungry in a morning. It might rain and I get so cold in the rain without a proper coat. I don't know the right way out of the mountains, and it makes me scared and angry when I get lost. If I was going down from the mountains I would leave in the day with all of the stuff I need. How about we go back up to the village and get a good night sleep and tomorrow we will work on our plan?"
"You promise I can go?" asked Little Mika with hardly a shred of trust. Little Mika was a smart enough boy to know that adults tried to trick boys all the time.
"Little Mika, I promise you with everything in my heart that if we can plan for you to be just like He From Whom Our Blessings Flow it will be the greatest day of my life to watch you walk down from the mountain" Old Nerwhal said this with the utmost fervor. "Come on, let's go back, for now."
Little Mika reached up and took Old Nerwhal's hand and together they slowly walked back up the mountain.
"I am sure he's alright, my daughter, you know how mischievous he can be. I wouldn't be surprised to find him listening behind the hut right now. He's probably laughing at you right now."
"Nerwhal! How can you say such things? My baby is gone, what did I do to drive him away?"
"I'll go look for him daughter" sighed Old Nerwhal creaking to his feet and leaving the hut. He knew there was no use in trying to calm her down, she listened about as well as her son.
Old Nerwhal went out into the cool night and stood for a moment to decide what to do. There was a sliver of moon visible in the sky, so he could see a little ways around him. However, he knew that a mischievous boy under the trees would be invisible, so he decided not to blunder into the darkness. He was an old man and didn't need to break an ankle scurrying after that little bastard. So, the village first.
He stopped by each of the homes of his neighbors, greeting them with courtesy and asking after Little Mika. Their sympathetic looks and shaking of heads confirmed to him that he wasn't in the village and he was indeed a thoroughly unpleasant child. Old Nerwhal's irritation was growing. Where to next?
The village was built on a ledge overlooking a deep valley, one of the very few flat areas in these mountains. A path led up into the wooded hunting grounds above, and a path led down. The path down took a long, circuitous route through trees, meadows, villages, into the valley and thence out into the rest of the world. Up, or down? Old Nerwhal tried to stretch his mind back over the decades, back to when he was a thoroughly unpleasant child. What would he have done? Excitement and rebellion meant down. Walking down was easier than up. Down it was.
Old Nerwhal trudged down along the path, something he didn't like to do at the best of times with his creaking joints. Old Nerwhal had seen enough of what there was to be seen and decided that a flat piece of ground with a nice view was entirely adequate for his needs. It had probably been a full finger of a day since Little Mika had disappeared. How far would he be able to go? Too far for Old Nerwhal's liking.
Just after the third time when Old Nerwhal had asked himself whether he had gone far enough yet he came across a small shape sitting on a fallen tree branch. It sniffled to itself, somehow managing to make the sniffles sound angry and outraged at the injustice of it all.
"Hello Little Mika, what are you doing?" asked Old Nerwhal in his most patient voice.
"I'm going 'way from mountains."
"I see. Why are you doing that?"
"Like in the story. You told me he went down 'cause nothing to do in the village."
"Ah, the story about He From Whom Our Blessings Come when He descended from the mountains to spread the Truth of Peace. I told you that two days ago, didn't I? Hmmmm. So, are you trying to be like Him?" Old Nerwhal was now actually quite interested. This meant that there were two developments that he had doubted would ever come to pass, Little Mika actually listened to his stories, and it was possible that he might actually try to be like Him.
"No. Him is like Mika. Nothing to do in the village. Everyone hates me. Going down mountain." Mika radiated indignation.
"Ah, I see now. You don't like it in the village and are going to go down from the mountains like in the story. Well, that happens to quite a lot of people from our village. After a while they want to see something different, there is no shame in that. However, Little Mika there are some differences from the story. He From Whom Our Blessings Come left in his fifteenth summer, while we hope you will see your fifth. He packed some food, and some clothes, and his walking staff because it is a very long journey. He said goodbye to the village and his mother, asking her to bless him. He knew where he was going and he had a holy mission. he didn't just run off in the middle of the night." Old Nerwhal was trying, but he could tell that Little Mika didn't want to listen. He desperately didn't want to drag the boy all that way uphill. "You know what you need to do this properly Little Mika?
"No."
"Planning is what you need. If you want to leave the village then you need to properly plan. On my big legs it takes three days to walk down the mountain and I get hungry in a morning. It might rain and I get so cold in the rain without a proper coat. I don't know the right way out of the mountains, and it makes me scared and angry when I get lost. If I was going down from the mountains I would leave in the day with all of the stuff I need. How about we go back up to the village and get a good night sleep and tomorrow we will work on our plan?"
"You promise I can go?" asked Little Mika with hardly a shred of trust. Little Mika was a smart enough boy to know that adults tried to trick boys all the time.
"Little Mika, I promise you with everything in my heart that if we can plan for you to be just like He From Whom Our Blessings Flow it will be the greatest day of my life to watch you walk down from the mountain" Old Nerwhal said this with the utmost fervor. "Come on, let's go back, for now."
Little Mika reached up and took Old Nerwhal's hand and together they slowly walked back up the mountain.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Dissolution
Having looked at the definition of "dissolute" it may not be the right word. Still, I have a vision in my head of what the process of dissolution is for a person and I'm going to go with that until a more apt word appears to me.
Dissolution to me is a picture of a person, (actually just a man, how sexist) withdrawing from the strictures of society and simply doing what they want, which is largely the seeking of pleasure. In my picture of this the man is slovenly, probably somewhat intoxicated, not doing very much at all.
This picture can be a rather sad and ugly sight. A man disillusioned with his life and giving up out of a sense of futility. Pleasure is a method of escaping rather than a good to be found. There is a sense of shame, a loss of dignity, a self-disgust like a chronic illness.
There is also a romantic picture, the free spirit that really looks into what matters. Instead of pride, diligence, power, prestige, wealth assimilation he chooses freedom, pleasure, beauty, love. The romantic vision is of someone who truly lives as though each moment is his last moment. In this moment I could look at the trees in the wind, slowly getting drunk, or I could wash my filthy shirt. Given those two choices, washing the shirt is a ridiculous idea.
What is the difference between these two states? It is pretty much down to how the dissolute man views himself. Does he feel like the romantic figure or the chronically ill figure? There are some causes that lead to one position or the other, it is much easier to be the romantic figure when coming from a wealthy and stress-free life than from the trauma of poverty, betrayal and trauma, but the end result is largely the difference.
I feel dissolute. The idea of taking pride in appearance, diligence, conformity, and so on seems silly to me. While I am certain that life is improving for people, I don't think this is happening because the norms of society are particularly sensible. I am largely withdrawn from society and value what I want to do over other people's opinion of me. I don't do very much, I am certainly slovenly, I am often somewhat intoxicated (although not now) and almost every day I sit outside watching a palm tree rustling in the wind.
Then I think that perhaps I am simply rationalizing my laziness and lack of resilience. Am I in this position because others have taken pity on me? I came into my present position upon the urging of my wife, when I was miserable and ill. My family and friends have been supportive, but isn't that what someone would do for someone who was generally thought of as understandably unable to take care of themselves? Do I live my present life because of my lack of ability and my disillusionment with our world? Am I a permanently broken, a rather sad figure, supported by kind people? If so, how would I ever know?
What is the difference between these two states? It is my attitude towards the situation. My aesthetic is crumbling empire. The gentleman who goes native*. The dreamer of the dreams who lives in the world of beauty, art, and now. The man who finds the disgust of other people rather silly, for they really think their petty thoughts matter. the man for whom it truly is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, even if that love only lasts ten minutes. When people ask me what I truly want from life, it is this with some good friends.
If I have what I want then why don't I embrace it and dive right in, free of foolish things like guilt, boredom, hope for different things? The truth is that much of the time I do. Yet we all carry around with us the architecture of our society, no matter how crumbled and broken the remnant that might be. I believe that not only is happiness the greatest good, but that people deserve it. More, I think those that can be happy have a duty to be happy for if happiness is the greatest good it is a moral obligation to work towards the highest good. For there to be happiness people must be happy.
I want to wallow in my dissolution, affirm the pleasures of body and mind. I want to feel good, serene, happy, peaceful. I wish to "work" at this without shame or question. I believe this is right for me, an almost spiritual practice, a path of affirmation of what I like in life, what I find beautiful. I don't want to be afraid, retreating from life, drinking myself into oblivion to escape the world, and I don't think I do. My "task" is to chip away at the remnants of societal architecture I carry with me, by which I don't mean removing myself from social norms when interacting with people, but rather judging myself simply by my own principles.
At a minimum the only real harm I might be doing is to myself and my wife, and she tells me I am good for her, and why should I not trust that? Finding my own way to happiness without harm, how could that be a problem for a right-minded person? All I need to do is believe that to the core of my being.
Dissolution to me is a picture of a person, (actually just a man, how sexist) withdrawing from the strictures of society and simply doing what they want, which is largely the seeking of pleasure. In my picture of this the man is slovenly, probably somewhat intoxicated, not doing very much at all.
This picture can be a rather sad and ugly sight. A man disillusioned with his life and giving up out of a sense of futility. Pleasure is a method of escaping rather than a good to be found. There is a sense of shame, a loss of dignity, a self-disgust like a chronic illness.
There is also a romantic picture, the free spirit that really looks into what matters. Instead of pride, diligence, power, prestige, wealth assimilation he chooses freedom, pleasure, beauty, love. The romantic vision is of someone who truly lives as though each moment is his last moment. In this moment I could look at the trees in the wind, slowly getting drunk, or I could wash my filthy shirt. Given those two choices, washing the shirt is a ridiculous idea.
What is the difference between these two states? It is pretty much down to how the dissolute man views himself. Does he feel like the romantic figure or the chronically ill figure? There are some causes that lead to one position or the other, it is much easier to be the romantic figure when coming from a wealthy and stress-free life than from the trauma of poverty, betrayal and trauma, but the end result is largely the difference.
I feel dissolute. The idea of taking pride in appearance, diligence, conformity, and so on seems silly to me. While I am certain that life is improving for people, I don't think this is happening because the norms of society are particularly sensible. I am largely withdrawn from society and value what I want to do over other people's opinion of me. I don't do very much, I am certainly slovenly, I am often somewhat intoxicated (although not now) and almost every day I sit outside watching a palm tree rustling in the wind.
Then I think that perhaps I am simply rationalizing my laziness and lack of resilience. Am I in this position because others have taken pity on me? I came into my present position upon the urging of my wife, when I was miserable and ill. My family and friends have been supportive, but isn't that what someone would do for someone who was generally thought of as understandably unable to take care of themselves? Do I live my present life because of my lack of ability and my disillusionment with our world? Am I a permanently broken, a rather sad figure, supported by kind people? If so, how would I ever know?
What is the difference between these two states? It is my attitude towards the situation. My aesthetic is crumbling empire. The gentleman who goes native*. The dreamer of the dreams who lives in the world of beauty, art, and now. The man who finds the disgust of other people rather silly, for they really think their petty thoughts matter. the man for whom it truly is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, even if that love only lasts ten minutes. When people ask me what I truly want from life, it is this with some good friends.
If I have what I want then why don't I embrace it and dive right in, free of foolish things like guilt, boredom, hope for different things? The truth is that much of the time I do. Yet we all carry around with us the architecture of our society, no matter how crumbled and broken the remnant that might be. I believe that not only is happiness the greatest good, but that people deserve it. More, I think those that can be happy have a duty to be happy for if happiness is the greatest good it is a moral obligation to work towards the highest good. For there to be happiness people must be happy.
I want to wallow in my dissolution, affirm the pleasures of body and mind. I want to feel good, serene, happy, peaceful. I wish to "work" at this without shame or question. I believe this is right for me, an almost spiritual practice, a path of affirmation of what I like in life, what I find beautiful. I don't want to be afraid, retreating from life, drinking myself into oblivion to escape the world, and I don't think I do. My "task" is to chip away at the remnants of societal architecture I carry with me, by which I don't mean removing myself from social norms when interacting with people, but rather judging myself simply by my own principles.
At a minimum the only real harm I might be doing is to myself and my wife, and she tells me I am good for her, and why should I not trust that? Finding my own way to happiness without harm, how could that be a problem for a right-minded person? All I need to do is believe that to the core of my being.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Update
Yes, update. It's all of five hours since the last post about me feeling really depressed. About an hour after that I started doing chores, then more chores, then more than I usually do in three days.
I started feeling better, which progressed through OK, onto pretty good, until now I feel that life is a splendid, beautiful thing. i have tons of energy and there are muscles on either side of my face that are getting worn out from me smiling/grinning. It is quite hard for me right now to really imagine being depressed. This is called, "hypomania."
So, I have gone from depression to near mania in an afternoon, the only environmental thing that changed is that someone came to fix the pool, which is nice but not world altering. This change is called "hyper-rapid cycling" and is very uncommon among those with bipolar disorder.
This is still something for me to be concerned about, but right now - weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!
I started feeling better, which progressed through OK, onto pretty good, until now I feel that life is a splendid, beautiful thing. i have tons of energy and there are muscles on either side of my face that are getting worn out from me smiling/grinning. It is quite hard for me right now to really imagine being depressed. This is called, "hypomania."
So, I have gone from depression to near mania in an afternoon, the only environmental thing that changed is that someone came to fix the pool, which is nice but not world altering. This change is called "hyper-rapid cycling" and is very uncommon among those with bipolar disorder.
This is still something for me to be concerned about, but right now - weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!
Depressed Today
This will be a crappy post to read.
For the first time in nearly two years I am very depressed. I keep having to blow my nose because of the crying. I feel like I am a useless parasite who is incapable of achieving the easiest things in life. No thoughts of suicide, yay!
I have been trying to get someone to come fix another thing with the pool, (almost certainly my fault in the first place) but they didn't call me to set up a time on the correct day, the technician was rude to me when I called, set me up for the most inconvenient time (end of the day) and then didn't show up. I've tried twice today to get any response from the company but they won't call.
My pharmacy was supposed to call me when they refill my prescription (I have unusual pills) but didn't.
In the comment section below an interesting talk about redefining how we think about mental illness I was arguing with someone about whether medications actually work for mental illness. Their position was that mental illness was based on how we are brought up and our environment, so changing lifestyle can fix it. They have some data backing this up and so I wonder if they are right. If they are right it means to me right now that I am depressed because of how I choose to live. It's my fault.
I am, of course, terrified that this means the medication that was working so well for me has stopped working and so I am doomed to spend the rest of my life living as I was before the medication.
I am writing this post that isn't fun because I don't want to be secretive about my mental illness, there is no reason to be ashamed and talking about it helps, even a tiny bit, to make things easier for people like me. I am also writing this so that the people who know my wife can give her some extra support at this time. She is the only person who can really help me by showing that she cares, and in the same way that happiness spreads, misery does too. I know from personal experience that trying to help mentally ill people is hard work emotionally, it takes a toll. So please be nice to my wife while I can't give her what she deserves.
I will update people when I feel better, which I expect should happen by the end of this week.
For the first time in nearly two years I am very depressed. I keep having to blow my nose because of the crying. I feel like I am a useless parasite who is incapable of achieving the easiest things in life. No thoughts of suicide, yay!
I have been trying to get someone to come fix another thing with the pool, (almost certainly my fault in the first place) but they didn't call me to set up a time on the correct day, the technician was rude to me when I called, set me up for the most inconvenient time (end of the day) and then didn't show up. I've tried twice today to get any response from the company but they won't call.
My pharmacy was supposed to call me when they refill my prescription (I have unusual pills) but didn't.
In the comment section below an interesting talk about redefining how we think about mental illness I was arguing with someone about whether medications actually work for mental illness. Their position was that mental illness was based on how we are brought up and our environment, so changing lifestyle can fix it. They have some data backing this up and so I wonder if they are right. If they are right it means to me right now that I am depressed because of how I choose to live. It's my fault.
I am, of course, terrified that this means the medication that was working so well for me has stopped working and so I am doomed to spend the rest of my life living as I was before the medication.
I am writing this post that isn't fun because I don't want to be secretive about my mental illness, there is no reason to be ashamed and talking about it helps, even a tiny bit, to make things easier for people like me. I am also writing this so that the people who know my wife can give her some extra support at this time. She is the only person who can really help me by showing that she cares, and in the same way that happiness spreads, misery does too. I know from personal experience that trying to help mentally ill people is hard work emotionally, it takes a toll. So please be nice to my wife while I can't give her what she deserves.
I will update people when I feel better, which I expect should happen by the end of this week.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Stress of Modern Life
It is a common thought that life today is more stressful than it used to be, that the rushing around to get everything done to meet the requirements put on us by our culture have made the modern world particularly stressful.
I agree that pressure to perform efficiently and effectively is stressful. I agree that living up to the often unreasonable standards of modern society (such as the standard for female beauty in the eyes of females being a photo-shopped anorexic) causes stress. I agree that the constant input of stimuli keeps us at a heightened level of awareness, which is more stressful, and also removes the opportunity to calm down and rest, which is great for reducing stress.
On the other hand, what are really stressful things? I would suggest that the threat of violence, or actual violence is intensely stressful. I would suggest that hunger or disease are extremely stressful things. I would suggest that living without shelter is extremely stressful.
It used to be that people were poorer, more exposed to disease and hunger, and that the services for the mentally ill or destitute were far worse. The amount of work people did was at a minimum the same. People got more sleep and less stimulation, but it seems unlikely that people in previous generations were less judgmental than they are today.
Poor people all over the world really wish to become part of this modern, "stressful" culture in order to get away from their simpler, less frantic lives.
There could certainly be improvements in our modern culture to reduce our stress, sleeping longer, working less, emphasizing happiness and compassion over material possessions, walking instead of driving, etc.. I think it would be more than great if these changes happened, and I think in the future we will slowly drift in that direction. The modern world particularly stressful? No way.
I agree that pressure to perform efficiently and effectively is stressful. I agree that living up to the often unreasonable standards of modern society (such as the standard for female beauty in the eyes of females being a photo-shopped anorexic) causes stress. I agree that the constant input of stimuli keeps us at a heightened level of awareness, which is more stressful, and also removes the opportunity to calm down and rest, which is great for reducing stress.
On the other hand, what are really stressful things? I would suggest that the threat of violence, or actual violence is intensely stressful. I would suggest that hunger or disease are extremely stressful things. I would suggest that living without shelter is extremely stressful.
It used to be that people were poorer, more exposed to disease and hunger, and that the services for the mentally ill or destitute were far worse. The amount of work people did was at a minimum the same. People got more sleep and less stimulation, but it seems unlikely that people in previous generations were less judgmental than they are today.
Poor people all over the world really wish to become part of this modern, "stressful" culture in order to get away from their simpler, less frantic lives.
There could certainly be improvements in our modern culture to reduce our stress, sleeping longer, working less, emphasizing happiness and compassion over material possessions, walking instead of driving, etc.. I think it would be more than great if these changes happened, and I think in the future we will slowly drift in that direction. The modern world particularly stressful? No way.
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