May 1st, 2011
happiness whilst falling
I’m still in recovery-mode from all the turmoil and work of the last weeks, but in pain or not the sun is out and my extra-strong coffee will probably knock this headache back some. (I fell whilst cleaning and hit my head on the toilet seat as I went down. The lump is not all that tender, but the memory of the shock still lingers along with the headache. Falling is a very odd experience don’t you find?)
All that-is-past aside for a moment, I can feel the future beginning to open its eyes and peer back at me. It’s a nice, hopeful feeling even with the shadow-attendant fears about how the frak I’m going to pay the rent, now that I am officially unemployed. But for some delightfully odd cognitive evolutionary reason, I trust that it’ll all work out. Probably because I can’t imagine myself dead.
Prognostication is a species of falling, I think. You may be able to mitigate the effects to a small degree, but most of the time, what you think you know about your future is really just an abudanace of luck, both good and bad. Like hitting the toilet rim just a glancing blow. It could have been so much worse, but it wasn’t. The reason? There wasn’t one: the luck of physics. And of course there’s the odd working of the imagination, what and how the mind/brain works when we confidently assess what tommorow could bring.
I’m starting to get the sense that what I know about my own happiness is just as much out of my control as is the physics of a soapy hand on a wet floor. I’ve been reading Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert and through humor (he really is funny) and erudition he’s given me a view of humanity that has much more to do with latter-day rationalization from the mouth of Socrates as he slides away on a banana peel.
I haven’t got to the part of the book where he promises not to tell me the secret of happiness, nor to the part where he’ll expose the mechanics of my illusion (which, he says, I will disregard). I’ll likely get there today, since I have declared this a Mary-holiday of a one day duration. (My house is still a horrendous mess, but it’ll have to stay that way until tomorrow. I’m going to sit in the sun, drink coffee and read. So there, you nasty dust buffalos.)
Contra-Gilbert, I do think I know what makes me happy. Yet, I also have doubts about that word “happiness.” I know what gives me pleasure in the moment, especially when I am experiencing it. But even the mostly-tried-and-trues don’t always work. Sun and coffee and a book usually work, but really it is a combination of things (some effecting life by their absence – silly bitchy people who cry at the drop of a hat, for example) effecting the place I am in life at the moment (and here the past comes back, never having really gone away, but like a shadow its form, shape and density is dependent upon the nature of the light source – Given the dependency of shadows on light, do you think shadows can really be said to exist?). Such a literary-caffeine combo wouldn’t always have worked (17-year-old Mary was an alien, probably from Pluto. She did not, for example, drink coffee.), and probably it won’t always work in some future-Mary being. (I cannot imagine a post-coffee Mary any more than I can imagine being dead – this being the crux of the problem of prognostication – the limitations and workings of the imagination.)
I find the “failure” of imagination interesting, but not worrying. I mean, if I’ve fallen through time to reach this moment then I obviously have the necessary amount of good luck and the appropriate access to accidental physics. Banana peel-realized or not, today is about the movement of cool air across my arm, the warm response my shoulders have to the morning sun, the feel of a paper’s edge under my fingers, the sweet-bitter of espresso with brown sugar and the sound of the local black capped chickadee. The feelings I have under these conditions, that, I’m pretty sure, is happiness. It’s funny to think I’m probably wrong.
March 30th, 2011
the adoration of death
Photographs often display as much cultural information as they do scenic. Looking at posed photos from another time or place often creates a sense of surreality and that, I suspect, comes from the oddity of the exposed cultural assumptions.
Look at this and then just list the things you now “know” about what it means to be a woman at that time. If you feel like it, I’d love to read your lists.
Thanks to Letter from Hardscabble Creek for posting the link.
March 26th, 2011
Saving Noah seems to be on “repeat.”
There’s an interesting post over at This is the End. The whole site is concerned with the question of the myth of apocalypse, its effects and its ritual remedies. The author seems to treat the notion as a kind of social nightmare, which I think has some real potential as a metaphor.
One of the things this specific post mentions is Corbières. I had not known that there are supposed to be aliens living in the limestone caves waiting for December 21 2012 to save the few humans in the area.
I’ve always thought about what Noah’s neighbors must have felt when he started promulgating his own version of Corbières in 2012. I’ve never imagined it was a good thing but these two articles in the Telegraph have given me new fuel for that imagining. One of the articles says specifically that the villagers don’t find it funny, and I’m sure I shouldn’t, but I do. Not that I would want to live there in the next months leading up to the 2012 Winter Solstice. They could make it one hell of a party though.
March 21st, 2011
alone-time; learning to be who you are
Peardg sent me this link. It’s about the power of being alone.
Essentially it says that being with other people automatically triggers our capacity to think along with others. We mimic each other, we work hard at understanding the group, we mentally swim along with the ones we are with. The thing that makes this so powerful a mental gift is that we do almost all of this without thinking about it: unconsciously. This is what it means to be a social species.
Mentally we find other people distracting. Other people can inhibit our memory formation, our thinking, our experiencing of what we (as individuals) think.
Perhaps this explains why seeing a movie alone feels so radically different than seeing it with friends: Sitting there in the theater with nobody next to you, you’re not wondering what anyone else thinks of it; you’re not anticipating the discussion that you’ll be having about it on the way home. All your mental energy can be directed at what’s happening on the screen. According to Greg Feist, an associate professor of psychology at the San Jose State University who has written about the connection between creativity and solitude, some version of that principle may also be at work when we simply let our minds wander: When we let our focus shift away from the people and things around us, we are better able to engage in what’s called meta-cognition, or the process of thinking critically and reflectively about our own thoughts.
As the article points out, how much time alone is necessary depends upon the person. Recently I read an interview with John McPhee in which he says he needs to wander around mentally for hours every day in order to get that few hours of productive writing accomplished. This is the same thing I suspect.
Some of us can sit down and drop into that meta-space. I cannot. In order to think well, to separate myself from my sense of duty, my sense of others, I have to wander alone and uninterrupted by that bug-a-boo, a sense of social obligation. I wish it had an off button. The only thing I’ve been able to come up with apart from just being out where there are no people is the closed and locked door of my car. In my house even my dirty dishes trigger that sense of “ought.” So I go out.
I have to stop writing now. I have to go to work.
March 19th, 2011
the experience of self and zombies
I found Phantasmagoria by Maria Warner. Stars, what a good writer. In fact she’s so good I find it a bit hard to keep my mind on what she’s saying, so taken I am by how she’s saying it.
I know I found her through someone else, probably Chas Clifton or Bron Taylor but I can’t remember now. Probably doesn’t matter, but I’d like to thank who ever it was.
Phantasmagoria is a huge book full of interesting things so I’m going to break it down. Right now I want to talk about her chapter on zombies.
She starts with what she calls “a very brief genealogy of the zombie” which I find hilariously funny as a phrase. I’m not sure why exactly, except the whole point of a zombie is that they no longer have genealogies, since that requires a self. That linkage which is a familial past, a sense of placement that one has by being the past’s arrow into the future, is just what a zombie has taken from them.
Warner’s commentary on the creation our current concept “zombie” through the vicious destruction of the slave self is interesting but what I find really fascinating is the process of metaphorical extension of that history, that cultural genealogy, into the world of art.
Their (zombie) incarnate but numb and vacant condition reproduces the state of someone captured on film forever: materially present but also entirely absent.
I’d never really thought of movie “people” like that, as an echo of our deep anxieties about being cogs, or cannon fodder (or canon fodder?). A well greased cog is still a cog. It might make one feel as if the machine won’t wear our edges down so fast, won’t make us spin uselessly quite as quickly, but we know it only delays the inevitable. Is that what our movies have become? Our new religion? Our stories to both soothe and point our mortality, our dying? Do I do that, experience—at some probably unconscious level—the image as a “spirit”? Or as a material entity without an independent “self”? Are moving images zombies?
The thing that amazes me is in all the angst about the loss of feeling, we generate an ocean of pain, outrage, fear—feeling. When will that sink in? When will we get that the loss of soul hasn’t done what we feared?
While the quest for human spirit has engendered a train of spirits—from angels to ectoplasms—in modernity, soul is now chiefly figured by its absence.
Sure. But where from there? Because we still have the experience of living, of presence, even if it is from the point of view of the terror of absence.
The point of Warner’s book—the logic of the imaginary—has been to show that the things we use to think about our self/spirit/soul—”wax, air, light, and shadow”—are rooted in how we are, how we think, how our body is. But, these tools to think, these experiences of self/spirit/soul turn out to be “contingent, shaped in relation to time and experience”, as are all metaphors. As we are.
So our experience of a unified self, this thing captured by the term “soul” is dying in our world. We have become zombies not because humans are being particularly nasty to other humans. We always do that. Probably always will. We’ve become zombies because we need new metaphorical ways to think about the experience of self as a multiplicity since we’ve finally gained enough knowledge to realize that unity is a phantom and that it has left the material world which generated it.
In other words, we have finally realized that the way we experience our selves do not always reflect the facts of the case.
Wowzers.
March 8th, 2011
this is what it means to be human
and why I like it. We can do this:
via Wimp
February 23rd, 2011
what it means to understand what the world is really like just because you live in it
I saw this video when I came back home today, just as I’m getting into section two of Philosophy in the Flesh. The video made me think about the fundamental power that our capacity to reason through metaphor gives us. It is that power, along with attention to actual experience, that allows us to understand and predict the lion’s probable reaction—and get away with part of their kill. It has other implications as well, such as the fact that it works (hence human survival) means that our basic metaphors and cognitive unconscious probably share many of the same structures as most life forms that share environments and life-ways (i.e. hunters, scavengers, etc). It brings into question Nagel’s bat thing, for one. We might, in fact, know much of what it’s like to be a lion if our base metaphors and our cognitive unconscious share many “genetic” similarities.


