XCI - what's in a dream-wish?

song of the week: claude debussy, reverie
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79UfWizjGiQ

a dream-kiss, that made me at once more solitary, and at once more whole. where is my tired, knowing look now? where is my canny discretion, my wistful smile, my quiescent detachment, my reverie, these able tools of my isolation? oh, c'est la vie, even of me. all the fine music and turgid prose and fantastic adventuring of late cannot easily dispel even such magic-thought. god have mercy, tender mercy.

XC - a hundred years of solitude

song of the week: coldplay, clocks
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbI1FpLd4Vk

there are few books which begin as confusingly to a seasoned reader as this one. there are also few books which have the wherewithal, or some would say the audacity, to reveal themselves to the reader only at its last third or so. but there are truly few books which capture the fleeting and magical essence of human folly and passion as well as this one.

there are few views as pretty in this island as that of the promontory at marina bay, overlooking the river from just after the fullerton bay hotel. there are few spots better to observe the fine towers of glass and metal, the curvature of the bay, and the adjacent, esoteric collection of crafted attractions and regal colonial buildings. there are few spots as intrepidly swept by the wind, or lightly surrounded by calm waters. it was, in all, a very impressionistic afternoon.

and impressionist lucidity often lends itself well to philosophising. i considered my life over every year, to the somewhat more lived-in age of twenty four. it was a bit nostalgic, but also very mysterious, to consider how i came exactly to be me. what sea-changes made me to be the sum of emotions, feelings and justifications i wanted me to be? but the long and short of it was that these were unanswerable questions of which the events had been forgotten. logic and theory often give way, gracefully or not, to rote subsistence and the quiet comfort of non-introspection.

anyway, i only left after being gratified by this line: humanity may require society to flourish and do great things, but it is only in solitude that satisfaction is found.

LXXXIX - ontologies

my head is full from trying to understand time. it is a very interesting question. what is time? does it exist a priori, does it exist outside of the mind?

can God undo time?

we never think about it except when we do, but it seems extremely unsatisfactory that there are so many things in life which are difficult to fundamentally understand.

i am inclined to think that Newtonian time is a feature of human understanding. it co-exists relative to the material world and its alterings... but the mind needs time to think, right...

the mind is not then, strictly physical either... is it?

is existence definitional? if you knock on my closed door, am i everywhere in the room at once, or a mixture of it with an exact position? if i look at the past, could i consider a space-time object?

i don't think the past can exist/ if it exists only as memory.

LXXXVII - death exists, not as the opposite of life but as a part of life

frédéric chopin, nocturne op. 9 no. 2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZUw78FXpG4

today i was looking at some birds fly, as they sometimes do when it rains. i often wonder why birds do that. i mean, if i think it's cold and stormy, sheesh, what does a bird think, right. but no, birds often fly about quite gleefully when its raining. i think they enjoy it. i think they flat out enjoy flying about in the rain. so as i sat there on the steps looking at maybe three dozen birds flying as they pleased, in a dizzying array of circuitous loops, dives and flutters, i wondered why the hell they were doing it, and as it was drizzling lightly, i came to the conclusion after about fifteen minutes that they must have had been doing it for fun. plain old willy-nilly fun. those birds were having fun. i dunno if that means anything to you, but it seemed uncanny to me. animals have fun too. they enjoy being alive.

and the other side of this coin of life is that there are birds who will never fly. i wondered how those birds feel. i don't know if they feel lonely, but i guess it's just as bad to have the unbearable feeling of never flying. or having the joy of flight taken away from you. miserable and abandoned, defenseless. and i was reminded of the quote in norwegian wood, that "death exists, not as the opposite of life but as a part of life."

and that's where i am right now. i don't look at life and say i want to live everyday to the fullest, i just want to be happy today, i just want the people around me to be happy, i want to do my best as far as i can. that's rubbish. i can't help but feel an unbearable feeling that there are people out there dying. i can't help but feel that life is so meaningless because somewhere out there someone who has only one shot at life is not getting his money's worth. someone out there is cold, hungry, and miserable, and curses life. that is not fair. i can't be, not like this. i can't look at myself in the mirror and wonder where the hell the greater things are. the things i believe in are worthless. i will someday die and the things that i've done are worth fuck-all. the whole world is worth fuck-all. and for the most part i don't care. i don't care that i'm alive. i don't care to be a good full man. i don't care, i don't care! in my empathy i've realised that my whole life is a selfish thing because i cannot share it with someone who doesn't less deserve to have the things i have. how can i live breathe and fly when someone else cannot. how can i be a human being when all this is meaningless. how can the good of God be good if it cannot even surpass what i think is good? what the fuck!

how can i look at birds fly and feel like this? but how can't i?

and so maybe it's fairer if death were the end. i just don't understand it at all. i'm a christian, sure. but how about those who never get to choose without the duresses of life? and for the record, fuck predestination. there's a difference between God knowing that i'm saved and my choosing it. i'm not having this conversation right now.

i think ecclesiastes is right but i wish it were wrong. life really is meaningless. our lot is to live simply and enjoy what we can. oh but i wish it were wrong. look at us. every human has worth. that's all. Somebody ought to be fucking doing something about this.

the answer is Jesus, sure, fine, i get it. but my mind and my heart and strength don't see it.

LXXXVI - this life or the next

i think i know the answer. and it is very sad.

the answer that i have decided is correct is very simple.

we must lose everything in this life in order to gain holiness with God.

i wish that i had the strength to rebel. there are many things that i cannot bear to renounce. i know that to deny these things would destroy me humanly. i cannot bear to give up the good things, the things that i believe in, unless i believe that i give them up for something better; yet i cannot bear to give up these things. i fear that to give up my heart and my head and my strength would empty me. but i cannot rebel. i cannot rebel because my soul knows that there is a God, and it believes in him. i cannot rebel because my soul loves God - as only my faith-filled soul could. i wish i were dead; i would give up everything of me if i could simply die. and so that is my truth. i have given up one extreme and therefore must follow the other. just as Jesus gave up his godhood and became sin's sacrifice, so i am asked to give up my manhood. in the end this life is utterly meaningless.

life is deception
faith is truth
God is love

LXXXV - oh take me back to the start

song of the week: coldplay, the scientist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqWLpTKBFcU

it's sobering to know that i am not immune to regretting my mistakes. it sucks to know, actually. it sucks to know.

"... the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes."

life is different in this light. i'm not sure if i'm good or bad, if i'm the cure or the disease. i'm not sure if i'm doing the right thing, by other people, by me, by whatever.

this is a season of, of all things, regret. it becomes harder to ask, what is the meaning of all this? as if i had lost the right to do so, to live as if i were finding it out.

i was playing this song driving home last night. and i know, you know, i know they say that life is incomparable to the hereafter, life now is like pigs in mud, etc. but whatever happens, at least we were once alive, i think for goodness' sake that everyone deserves to say that with dignity.

and i was driving home and i wished that you were around, dl. i wish that i could share a bit of the world with you. it's not that bad in the right places. it's not even that bad in the wrong places.

i'll try not to screw it up abit more.

LXXXIV

elton john, daniel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFJ2YrztYUg

tell me, dl, is God all that they say he is?

LXXXIII - bible thoughts

song of the week: black sabbath, war pigs
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtqy4DTHGqg
the energy in these old videos is incredible. absolutely untouchable today.

anyway, this is my favourite bit of pure irony in the bible. it's arguably a pretty important bit, too.

“The fire and wood are here,” Isaac said, “but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”
Abraham answered, “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”

of course, there was the famous donkey talking bit, the fire on sodom bit, the after-flood rainbow bit... the list goes on. but that first one was pure irony.

anyway i was wondering a little bit about the bible lately. firstly, that Jesus was called to lose his godliness (in taking on sin), which is clearly the most difficult thing conceivable, god-or-man-wise. how can Jesus still be God after that? well, he went on the cross, and the rest is history, as they say. anyway, i guess my calling is to lose my humanity, in a fashion.

Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

also,

Then he said to them all: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.
For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it.
What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit his very self?"

interestingly, this last verse seems to contradict my point. but i'll leave it at that for now. let's just say it has to do with whose interpretation of "self" is to be believed.

secondly, does the holy spirit give us faith (or materially enable us to have faith) or do we need faith to have the holy spirit? this is a very tricky question, and quite easily answered in circular fashion. apart from any bible-derived answer, my intuition is that it happens simultaneously, but that's terribly illogical. without going any further, and i don't really care for the answer, to be quite honest,

“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."

thirdly, imagine telling your son not to steal. ideally, he'd listen to you, but the time will come when he has to make that decision for himself, and not merely because you once told him not to steal. now, isn't that a far more meaningful decision than when you tell him not to steal and he doesn't? similarly, God told Adam not to eat of the forbidden fruit. you see, the thing i don't get is, why is choice so beautifully enshrined in Christ, and yet we have the law so full of legal moralism*? what kind of liberty and choice do we retain if the law is so incredibly prohibitive and inhuman? and how are we to choose to love God with all our heart, mind, soul and strength if we must deny ourselves to follow Christ?

*generally, the four bases for criminalisation are harm (harm to others), offence (e.g. racist propaganda), legal moralism (e.g. pornography, private homosexualism) and paternalism (e.g. drugs).

i'm going to have a lot of hard questions for that day. until then, i really don't know why i'm still alive. i often wonder, what is the meaning of all this. and i feel more human because of it. i feel, neo-human.

LXXXII - i am not denial

song of the week: pearl jam, yellow bedletter
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hs8y3kneqrs

going through my old stuff, there were at least four things which weighed heavily with me. one was for love past. one was for a mistreated friend. i'll carry those a bit longer.

one was for an old photo of me, as a little boy. i knew it, but i hardly recognised it. i had no doubt that it was me, in fact, i was convinced that it was me. you could pull out any photo of me as a boy and i'd know it was me. but i didn't recognise the look in my eyes; a look of utter vulnerability. i felt like hugging the little boy there. but i'm old now. maybe my mum still sees me like that.

the other was my old journal stuff. some of it was angsty, some of it was about what the younger me thought were really cool dreams, or memorable encounters. but what made more of an impression on me was the idealist, purist christian stuff i wrote. and i didn't reject it, even though i know more clearly the kind of christian i am now, i.e. not so naively purist. i know that i am purist at one level, but i've come to be kinder to the world, for the most part.

and that's been at the back of my mind for awhile. what is the standard i hold myself to? i do think it's a Godly standard at one level, but it's more humanly now, to be precise, it's my standard. i hold myself to a standard which allows me to be fully who i am - an alive human being, trying to do something for this world.

and that contradicts the word. it says, if anyone wants to follow me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily. and the purist me believes in this denying. whoever seeks his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. i believe it, yes i do. but here's this: how can you deny that which you don't know?

and that's the whammy of it. the more fully i know what life is, the more fully i can choose what to believe in and what to do. and nevermind my inherent interest in freedom and self-fulfilment, i don't think that denying what i don't know is worth more than denying what i do know about life and what i love about it. and i do believe i can do it, that i can lead a Godly life in my own image. the sentence sounds awful, but accept it on the reasons i've given. i do believe i can be my own man, a Godly one at that.

the first and greatest commandment is this: love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your mind, with  all your soul and with all your strength. nevermind the second commandment, i got that down pat. back to the first, observe this, only the soul is not of this realm. and that tells me - i must know what my heart and mind and strength is before i can love God with them. and now is the only chance i have. and for the record, only my soul fully loves God right now, i can't explain it besides saying that it's how my soul feels to me.

this is too confounded. let's just say that i believe in the good of many things right now.

LXXXI - clearing space

song of the week: barenaked ladies, call and answer
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xS8XLMxeWLk

there are so many things in life that we carry with us. and so many things besides which slip out of our fingers.

i was doing today what i always wondered why people do, when they burn their old letters, old things. i was just doing it, and i eventually realised it. it had to do with mental classifications - obviously, most of those things i'd kept were stuff i'd once decided to keep. but i'd shifted the mental classifications, or to be more precise, i'd shifted. those were things a younger me would have kept. but i wasn't young anymore.

and it didn't really matter what those things meant, because i wasn't young anymore. it's just, the finality of it is quite sad.

and i realised that i regretted some of the things the younger me did. and i wished that i could go back and be in those moments, saving myself, saving those moments, fixing them, doing right, doing right by people.

if this is what it means to grow old, i'm not sure it's very fun at all.

LXXX - an exposition on play

what is play?

i didn't start thinking about play with a question like this. i do read the philosophers, but no, i don't like to ask, much less answer, questions that begin like this. what is law? eesh, legal theory. what is property? now that was interesting. but let me tell you how i got started - it began with a warped, a detached, a meta-play sort of pride. and i love the word "meta". metaphysics, metaheuristics, metarealism. metta world peace. let me copy out the first line in its wiki article: Meta ... is a prefix ... used to indicate a concept which is an abstraction from another concept, used to complete or add to the latter. now that is beautiful.

i felt proud that i've never truly been addicted to any game. games were, in the past, distractions for me, and not serious ones. i never dota-ed that hard, partly because i knew that it cost too much, and partly because i got tired of it at its highest. well, i never reached its highest, but i knew that the micro (by micro, i refer to the skill) i needed to get there was not worth the effort, nor would it give me satisfaction. i played dota for its teamwork. dota is only one example, the other large one being cs, but eventually i thought that cs too was individualistic. anyway, my point is that computer games were never more than hobbies for me. yes, i did play them a lot, but they were never a lifestyle.

so, what is play? play to me is activity which is chiefly fun. however, i think that true play tends also to be in large parts both educational and enlightening, with regards to the self and with regards to reality. if there is a commonly held view that work is the opposite of play, i would say rather that work is income earning activity, and therefore play is neither necessarily nor sufficiently definitionally excluded from work. woo, big words.

so why did i think about play? this essay began with a feeling that i knew play, that i knew both the very attraction and detraction of games, that i knew the time-efficiency of play, that i could break down into distinct sequences the relationship that i had with play. and i knew that i often went into crusty play very quickly. but before i explain that word, crusty, let me show you my play development observations.

Pagan

Skeptic

Noobie play

Experienced play

Pro play

Appreciative play

Crusty play

Jaded play

Reawakened play

Retro play

as a Pagan, you think play is rubbish. you think games are for kids, a waste of time, unimportant to the self. you think kids play too much computer (which i actually agree with) and would have yours do crosswords to unwind.

a Skeptic thinks that most games are silly, basically allure only through flash and gimmickry, and teach bad values. he thinks Poker is cheating but Snakes and Ladders is safe. he is basically not a Pagan but not a Believer either.

a Newbie is one of those short lived personas who don't know how lucky they are. as robbie williams sings, youth is wasted on the young. noobie fun is the most innocent of fun - the world is brand new after a rain, the birds are singing and every click and spin brings treasure and new, unexplored possibilities. mistakes do not exist in a noobie's consciousness. if a noobie wonders if he is one, he instantly ceases to be a noobie.

an Experienced player is one who decides not to be a noobie. he understands that the game wants to teach him things, and he in turn wants to learn them, although he does not yet necessarily know whether these are good or bad things. he knows only that he is improving at the game. this is fun if the player likes to get better, and thinks that as a pro he will derive utmost satisfaction from the game - this latter point is especially important. if not, he will at this point realise that he never wants to be a pro, and simply becomes a sometime gamer. where the game is not a good game, it is also possible that the gamer sees it for what it is, and decides that pro play of that game is not desirable. but this scenario is uninteresting.

it is not impossible for an experienced gamer to skip pro play and still become an appreciative gamer or a crusty gamer, but in truth i believe that he cannot truly judge a game without being pro at it at one point or another.

a Pro gamer is simply one who owns Experienced gamers. pro gamers only desire to play balanced instances of games, i.e. against other pro gamers. it is hard, lonely work becoming a pro gamer. it is harder, lonelier, staying there. 

an Appreciative player is something that i wish more of us would become - yes, the graphics are nice, the levels are well designed, the gameplay and timing is rhythmic and symphonious, but more importantly, that the creative design, art direction and cultural standard of the game are good at both high and regular levels of abstraction. an appreciative player is both a gamer's gamer and a game-designer's gamer. he sees things that developers want him to see, laughs at the inane things that make designers laugh, and cries when little tragedies occur in a game. he knows that the game teaches good things, that it acts as a mirror of life, and that in each player's gameplay much can be observed about their belief systems and lifestyles. in other words, he is a Believer.

Crusty - now we're getting warm. merriam-webster.com gives crusty as being of surly incivility in address or disposition. and i do believe that many gamers are crusty in the broader sense of being bad-mannered to other gamers, because of the isolated gaming environment we find ourselves in, but possibly also (if less likely) in the narrower sense of seeing ourselves as having grown past the game. we've learnt all that we wanted from a game, or it has taught us all that it could teach us. we play like old uncles play checkers - cynically, sarcastically and insensitively. we shrug when we win and chuckle blithely when we lose. we're like old sea dogs - crusty.

a man may or may not become crusty, and he may or may not become appreciative. in other words, these are optional, advanced phases. many men are happy to be noobs all their lives, many are happy to be hobbyists, enthusiasts, avids, fanatics, sharks, or facilitators. many don't care, it's true. but these things you say about gaming, you could also say about life.

Jaded players have a common understanding - that they have spent way too long playing something. maybe they were too ignorant. maybe they were too weak. maybe they were having a rough time elsewhere. they're not unlike ex-alcoholics; they're bitter. there is a way not to feel jaded - and that is to understand gaming relationships better.

Reawakened play is a sweeping term used to refer to gamers who rediscover the joys of a certain game after a hiatus. few games have true replay value, in that new things can be learnt (or new fun had) after the third or fourth play through, and that includes after having read walkthroughs and guides. few games indeed. but many a time gamers link up and play through stuff together, if only to walk again through their old corridors of power, and revisit their old haunts. a shining example would be MUD, text-based games. these are also old enough to be Retro, but a game (or indeed, anything) has to meet another requirement to be retro. Reawakened play is often closely linked to appreciative play, but it does of course require a good game to encourage appreciation.

Retro play has a requirement written in solid, typeface, bold and underlined font, which is that it must be of a game which was well played in the gamer's past. that's what retro is - that once upon a time your daddy played this game, although to you it would only be old school; that is, only your dad can claim that it is retro. a retro game (following this classification) would be FF7. retro play is fun if and only if it is the kind of game that is fun fifteen years into the future, when it can barely run, requiring 16-bit greek that requires emulators. oh shit i just thought of a truly retro game i will never have back - strike commander. if there is a god, he would someday deign to let me play that game. c:/. cd/sc. sccd.

something intrinsically important is left to be explained, something which underlies and resonates through everything i have just mentioned, a single question - what is a good game? and here i hesitate, this i find inherently difficult to answer. what is good is subjective but can also be rationally and reasonably discovered; of what is good, i do not fear to answer. but what is a good game? for i feel that games are often misunderstood, being children of their times (and we live in strange, fluid times). they are badly understood by both gamers and non-gamers, and do not always stand to gain from their attractive characteristics.

but let me nonetheless begin to answer what i think is a good game. i believe that a good game is intuitive and logical, and if it is a unique, even warped type of logic, provided it is strictly coherent in itself, then it is that much better for it. it is intuitive in that its reward systems make sense to a gamer who is willing to delve into the fictions and artificial constructs of the game. i believe that a good game teaches both micro and macro, with micro being technical skills and macro being strategic thinking both inside the game and outside the game. in this regard, i think that a game should reward the highest micro skills, but not place a premium on them. a game should not penalise gamers who do not use the best systems. the glitz and glamour of a game should be icing, nothing more or less. a good game should be fun for noobies, it should be fun for experienceds, and it should be fun for pros. the learning curve of a good game should be realistic at each level; it should be balanced in that it rewards each level of proficiency accordingly, and not merely with a handicap system. a good game should ideally produce an immersible experience, but not create one so overwhelmingly saturated that a gamer's imagination cannot be properly applied to his gaming experience. obviously, the difference in this regard between a computer game and a board game can be startling; a proper comparison may be implausible. but no less, i believe that a good game cultivates the imagination, and does not inhibit it. a good game teaches a gamer adaptive skills, tactical efficiency and exposure to various schools of thought. a good game teaches a gamer to anticipate and pre-empt other gamers. i firmly believe that a good game should teach life lessons, both in single player and multi-player mode. i believe that a truly good game is fun even the third or fourth time through. i believe that a truly good game spans generations. finally, i believe that a good game is like art in that it reflects humanity.

so my hope is that play is not something we think of lightly, not something we do not often ask ourselves the importance of with regards to our maturity, and not something we eventually dismiss and relegate from our lives. as nietzsche once said, men should learn to live with the same seriousness with which children play. and i think chesterton is both right and wrong when he says, it is only we who play badly who love the game itself.

----------

oh my god...

Title: The Perfect Game
Author: G. K. Chesterton

We have all met the man who says that some odd things have happened to him, but that he does not really believe that they were supernatural. My own position is the opposite of this. I believe in the supernatural as a matter of intellect and reason, not as a matter of personal experience. I do not see ghosts; I only see their inherent probability. But it is entirely a matter of the mere intelligence, not even of the motions; my nerves and body are altogether of this earth, very earthy. But upon people of this temperament one weird incident will often leave a peculiar impression. And the weirdest circumstance that ever occurred to me occurred a little while ago. It consisted in nothing less than my playing a game, and playing it quite well for some seventeen consecutive minutes. The ghost of my grandfather would have astonished me less. 

On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself, to my inexpressible astonishment, playing a game called croquet. I had imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leach and Anthony Trollope, and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and luxuriant side whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I had a semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire contest. It is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the argument; but it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of the game. 

"Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson!" I cried, patting him affectionately on the head with a mallet, "how far you really are from the pure love of the sport--you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the Game itself. You love glory; you love applause; you love the earthquake voice of victory; you do not love croquet. You do not love croquet until you love being beaten at croquet. It is we the bunglers who adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we to whom it is art for art's sake. If we may see the face of Croquet herself (if I may so express myself) we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our play is called amateurish; and we wear proudly the name of amateur, for amateurs is but the French for Lovers. We accept all adventures from our Lady, the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside her iron gates (I allude to the hoops), vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls, impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our balls seek honour in the ends of the earth; they turn up in the flower-beds and the conservatory; they are to be found in the front garden and the next street. No, Parkinson! The good painter has skill. It is the bad painter who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician, the bad musician loves music. With such a pure and hopeless passion do I worship croquet. I love the game itself. I love the parallelogram of grass marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers of my sacred Fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is music. The four colours are to me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom, or the white of Easter Day. You lose all this, my poor Parkinson. You have to solace yourself for the absence of this vision by the paltry consolation of being able to go through hoops and to hit the stick." 

And I waved my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety. 

"Don't be too sorry for me," said Parkinson, with his simple sarcasm. "I shall get over it in time. But it seems to me that the more a man likes a game the better he would want to play it. Granted that the pleasure in the thing itself comes first, does not the pleasure of success come naturally and inevitably afterwards? Or, take your own simile of the Knight and his Lady-love. I admit the gentleman does first and foremost want to be in the lady's presence. But I never yet heard of a gentleman who wanted to look an utter ass when he was there." 

"Perhaps not; though he generally looks it," I replied. "But the truth is that there is a fallacy in the simile, although it was my own. The happiness at which the lover is aiming is an infinite happiness, which can be extended without limit. The more he is loved, normally speaking, the jollier he will be. It is definitely true that the stronger the love of both lovers, the stronger will be the happiness. But it is not true that the stronger the play of both croquet players the stronger will be the game. It is logically possible--(follow me closely here, Parkinson!)--it is logically possible, to play croquet too well to enjoy it at all. If you could put this blue ball through that distant hoop as easily as you could pick it up with your hand, then you would not put it through that hoop any more than you pick it up with your hand; it would not be worth doing. If you could play unerringly you would not play at all. The moment the game is perfect the game disappears." 

"I do not think, however," said Parkinson, "that you are in any immediate danger of effecting that sort of destruction. I do not think your croquet will vanish through its own faultless excellence. You are safe for the present." 

I again caressed him with the mallet, knocked a ball about, wired myself, and resumed the thread of my discourse. 

The long, warm evening had been gradually closing in, and by this time it was almost twilight. By the time I had delivered four more fundamental principles, and my companion had gone through five more hoops, the dusk was verging upon dark. 

"We shall have to give this up," said Parkinson, as he missed a ball almost for the first time, "I can't see a thing." 

"Nor can I," I answered, "and it is a comfort to reflect that I could not hit anything if I saw it." 

With that I struck a ball smartly, and sent it away into the darkness towards where the shadowy figure of Parkinson moved in the hot haze. Parkinson immediately uttered a loud and dramatic cry. The situation, indeed, called for it. I had hit the right ball. 

Stunned with astonishment, I crossed the gloomy ground, and hit my ball again. It went through a hoop. I could not see the hoop; but it was the right hoop. I shuddered from head to foot. 

Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily after that impossible ball. Again I hit it away into the night, in what I supposed was the vague direction of the quite invisible stick. And in the dead silence I heard the stick rattle as the ball struck it heavily. 

I threw down my mallet. "I can't stand this," I said. "My ball has gone right three times. These things are not of this world." 

"Pick your mallet up ," said Parkinson, "have another go." 

"I tell you I daren't. If I made another hoop like that I should see all the devils dancing there on the blessed grass." 

"Why devils?" asked Parkinson; "they may be only fairies making fun of you. They are sending you the 'Perfect Game,' which is no game." 

I looked about me. The garden was full of a burning darkness, in which the faint glimmers had the look of fire. I stepped across the grass as if it burnt me, picked up the mallet, and hit the ball somewhere--somewhere where another ball might be. I heard the dull click of the balls touching, and ran into the house like one pursued.

LXXIX - universalising the particular and particularising the universal

song of the week: ff7, ahead on our way
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afZPyBvuXPk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bG0JLyzzmI

i realise that i don't like to blog as much as i like to post on facebook, which is kinda like a more serious tweet. which is really kinda dumb in retrospect. but i guess it's alright because i don't need to record everything.

anyway, i've had a lot of thoughts lately, but nothing really poetic or lyrical, nothing much to write about. but there's been a lot of soul searching, well, not my soul per se, but i mean, deep thinking. i think i can remember most of it without writing it all down, and that's the point, i guess.

i don't like to toot my horn, but i often find it strange that i'm so god damn charming. it is bemusing, to say the least. if i weren't so self-aware i'd quite likely still be a playboy sort. ah, the smaller mysteries of life.

where is my god damn coffee.

i've been wandering around a lot lately, on foot, with different bunches, and in my mind. i think, i think... i think that to write it down would somehow... fail to capture the ephemeral, the mysterious, the ineffable charm of the past few weeks. i'm just, living in the present, the middle of now, to be precise. making it up as i go along, living like every day is special. i feel happy. i feel solid. i feel as if i've come out of a deep place and i'm walking on a road that goes somewhere i know is good. the road could have potholes but i couldn't give a flying fuck. i'm not cheerful. i'm just, really, alright. i almost couldn't be better. and i believe it more than when i thought that i couldn't be better. i could say it again just to enjoy the feeling of saying it, i almost couldn't be better. and that's a good life, isn't it?

i'm sorry that i didn't see this girl off, but, i mean, whatever, right? it was the insidiousness of it, just the insidiousness of it. like i said, fuck this, i'm not afraid of Anything.

i realise that the only mask i have left on, of all the very openness and directness and transparency that i wish to be known for, is that i want to wear the mask of the Anti-Hero. i covet it, i treasure it, i revel in it. i love the Anti-Hero idea, i dig it, i wish to symbolise it, i want to bring it to the next level. it's so fucking cool. and speaking of masks... i think to a large extent we are the masks that we wear. we create ourselves, or at least, the external person that we want to be. and very often a mask becomes a character. but i don't believe in wearing masks. i did when i was younger, but i've slowly seen the good of not wearing a mask. i think there's nothing to be afraid of, that needs to be hidden behind a mask. whether or not the world accepts me, or anyone, is something i don't want to find out from behind a mask.

when i was jogging home just now, well i was walking, to rest my slightly injured leg, i found myself praying to God to give every man, woman and child on the face of this earth just one happy day this year. just one goddamned unblemished, unadulterated, unqualified Happy Day. One Day Of Happiness. and i realised that between God and the devil, it was more likely the latter who would grant me this wish, assuming either had the power to do so. i mean, that is the biblical perspective. but i found myself no less wishing for God to give every human being alive ODOH. we live three hundred and sixty odd days a year, i don't think it's too much for the Almighty to give one bloody day of happiness to everyone, right? but it made me wonder whether living for such a cause was right, whether i subconsciously wanted everyone to be happy, something fleeting, but no less human, no less important in life, Life. i mean, why is it so much to ask? why must it always be, the eternal, salvation of souls, etc. so annoying. but those... are the rules, like it or not, those are the rules i somehow... believe in. my soul belongs to God, but i don't know if i love him all the time with all my strength and mind and heart. my heart firmly belongs to this world, and i'd be the first to say so... even though i figure it's ultimately otherwise. but i believe... in the good of ODOH. it's human, it's compassion, it's something to live for, something worthy.

there's too much tension out there.

LXXVIII - farewell, farewell.

song of the week: bob dylan - don't think twice, it's alright

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GtkVGClqrT4

well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
even you don’t know by now
an' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
it’ll never do some how
when your rooster crows at the break of dawn
look out your window and i'll be gone
you're the reason i'm trav'lin' on
don't think twice, it's all right

an' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
that light i never knowed
an' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
i'm on the dark side of the road
but i wish there was somethin' you would do or say
to try and make me change my mind and stay
we never did too much talkin' anyway
so don't think twice, it's all right

so it ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
like you never done before
an' it ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
i can't hear you any more
i'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' walkin’ down the road
i once loved a woman, a child i'm told
i give her my heart but she wanted my soul
but don't think twice, it's all right

so long, honey babe
where i'm bound, i can't tell
but goodbye's too good a word, babe
so i'll just say fare thee well
i ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
you could have done better but i don't mind
you just kinda wasted my precious time
but don't think twice, it's all right

LXXVII - a preface (quoted)

The following Sermons contain the substance of what I have been preaching for between eight and nine years last past. [In the year 1747.] During that time I have frequently spoken in public, on every subject in the ensuing collection; and I am not conscious, that there is any one point of doctrine, on which I am accustomed to speak in public, which is not here, incidentally, if not professedly, laid before every Christian reader. Every serious man who peruses these, will therefore see, in the clearest manner, what these doctrines are which I embrace and teach as the essentials of true religion.

But I am throughly sensible, these are not proposed in such a manner as some may expect. Nothing here appears in an elaborate, elegant, or oratorical dress. If it had been my desire or design to write thus, my leisure would not permit. But, in truth, I, at present, designed nothing less; for I now write, as I generally speak, ad populum, — to the bulk of mankind, to those who neither relish nor understand the art of speaking; but who, notwithstanding, are competent judges of those truths which are necessary to present and future happiness. I mention this, that curious readers may spare themselves the labour of seeking for what they will not find.

I design plain truth for plain people: Therefore, of set purpose, I abstain from all nice and philosophical speculations; from all perplexed and intricate reasonings; and, as far as possible, from even the show of learning, unless in sometimes citing the original Scripture. I labour to avoid all words which are not easy to be understood, all which are not used in common life; and, in particular, those kinds of technical terms that so frequently occur in Bodies of Divinity; those modes of speaking which men of reading are intimately acquainted with, but which to common people are an unknown tongue. Yet I am not assured, that I do not sometimes slide into them unawares: It is so extremely natural to imagine, that a word which is familiar to ourselves is so to all the world.

Nay, my design is, in some sense, to forget all that ever I have read in my life. I mean to speak, in the general, as if I had never read one author, ancient or modern (always excepting the inspired). I am persuaded, that, on the one hand, this may be a means of enabling me more clearly to express the sentiments of my heart, while I simply follow the chain of my own thoughts, without entangling myself with those of other men; and that, on the other, I shall come with fewer weights upon my mind, with less of prejudice and prepossession, either to search for myself, or to deliver to others, the naked truths of the gospel.

To candid, reasonable men, I am not afraid to lay open what have been the inmost thoughts of my heart. I have thought, I am a creature of a day, passing through life as an arrow through the air. I am a spirit come from God, and returning to God: Just hovering over the great gulf; till, a few moments hence, I am no more seen; I drop into an unchangeable eternity! I want to know one thing, — the way to heaven; how to land safe on that happy shore. God himself has condescended to teach the way: For this very end he came from heaven. He hath written it down in a book. O give me that book! At any price, give me the book of God! I have it: Here is knowledge enough for me. Let me be homo unius libri. [A man of one book.] Here then I am, far from the busy ways of men. I sit down alone: Only God is here. In his presence I open, I read his book; for this end, to find the way to heaven. Is there a doubt concerning the meaning of what I read? Does anything appear dark or intricate? I lift up my heart to the Father of Lights: — “Lord, is it not thy word, ‘If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God?’ Thou ‘givest liberally, and upbraidest not.’ Thou hast said, ‘If any be willing to do thy will, he shall know.’ I am willing to do, let me know, thy will.” I then search after and consider parallel passages of Scripture, “comparing spiritual things with spiritual.” I meditate thereon with all the attention and earnestness of which my mind is capable. If any doubt still remains, I consult those who are experienced in the things of God; and then the writings whereby, being dead, they yet speak. And what I thus learn, that I teach.

I have accordingly set down in the following sermons what I find in the Bible concerning the way to heaven; with a view to distinguish this way of God from all those which are the inventions of men. I have endeavoured to describe the true, the scriptural, experimental religion, so as to omit nothing which is a real part thereof, and to add nothing thereto which is not. And herein it is more especially my desire, First, to guard those who are just setting their faces toward heaven, (and who, having little acquaintance with the things of God, are the more liable to be turned out of the way,) from formality, from mere outside religion, which has almost driven heart-religion out of the world; and, Secondly, to warn those who know the religion of the heart, the faith which worketh by love, lest at any time they make void the law through faith, and so fall back into the snare of the devil.

By the advice and at the request of some of my friends, I have prefixed to the other sermons contained in this volume, three sermons of my own, and one of my Brother’s, preached before the University of Oxford. My design required some discourses on those heads; and I preferred these before any others, as being a stronger answer than any which can be drawn up now, to those who have frequently asserted that we have changed our doctrine of late, and do not preach now what we did some years ago. Any man of understanding may now judge for himself, when he has compared the latter with the former sermons.

But some may say, I have mistaken the way myself, although I take upon me to teach it to others. It is probable many will think this, and it is very possible that I have. But I trust, whereinsoever I have mistaken, my mind is open to conviction. I sincerely desire to be better informed. I say to God and man, “What I know not, teach thou me!”

Are you persuaded you see more clearly than me? It is not unlikely that you may. Then treat me as you would desire to be treated yourself upon a change of circumstances. Point me out a better way than I have yet known. Show me it is so, by plain proof of Scripture. And if I linger in the path I have been accustomed to tread, and am therefore unwilling to leave it, labour with me a little; take me by the hand, and lead me as I am able to bear. But be not displeased if I entreat you not to beat me down in order to quicken my pace: I can go but feebly and slowly at best; then, I should not be able to go at all. May I not request of you, further, not to give me hard names in order to bring me into the right way. Suppose I were ever so much in the wrong, I doubt this would not set me right. Rather, it would make me run so much the farther from you, and so get more and more out of the way.

Nay, perhaps, if you are angry, so shall I be too; and then there will be small hopes of finding the truth. If once anger arise, Eute kapnos, (as Homer somewhere expresses it,) this smoke will so dim the eyes of my soul, that I shall be able to see nothing clearly. For God’s sake, if it be possible to avoid it, let us not provoke one another to wrath. Let us not kindle in each other this fire of hell; much less blow it up into a flame. If we could discern truth by that dreadful light, would it not be loss, rather than gain? For, how far is love, even with many wrong opinions, to be preferred before truth itself without love! We may die without the knowledge of many truths, and yet be carried into Abraham’s bosom. But, if we die without love, what will knowledge avail? Just as much as it avails the devil and his angels!

The God of love forbid we should ever make the trial! May he prepare us for the knowledge of all truth, by filling our hearts with his love, and with all joy and peace in believing!"

- John Wesley

LXXVI - why couldn't we drive it out (cont.)

song of the week: j s bach, bwv 1041, allegro assai
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=317hA8TYPlo

Lord, i'm not the best man in the world, but i'm going to hold you to your word.

LXXV - football season is over

song of the week: bob dylan, mr tambourine man
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVuVXqWfQeE

i was talking to my good friend two days ago. yesterday i wondered, how come you're always so sure you'll live?

it's a pretty silly question to be asking a dying man. but that depends on who's doing the supposing.

anyway, it's not that silly for the rest of us. but that's also on who's supposing.

though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin', madly across the sun
it's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
and but for the sky there are no fences facin'
and if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
to your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
i wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're seein' that he's chasing

LXXIV - emotional baggage

incredible, indelible, infuriating.

emotional baggage, get the fuck out of my way.

i can't believe how many fucking times i must say that how cool i appear doesn't reflect how i feel about things.

LXXIII - checkpoint: home, government of self, government of people

you know, every year when i look back on the things i've learnt in that past year, i usually feel a sense of self-awareness and maturity. it's kinda hard to explain, but i think it's true. it feels like i'm progressively becoming a more complete, well, if not more complete, then a wiser young man; i've sort of experienced an actual point in my life where i feel that i'm older and wiser and learnt a little bit more about the truth and reality of life. i've reached a point where i can say, there, look, i've arrived; i've levelled up, in some new direction, in some new dimension. and the funny thing is that sometimes i get the feeling that i'm about as fully grown as i can and ought to be, i'm there and alright, but then i do keep growing, there is something new for me to learn, having climbed a step only to arrive at the foot of the next one. i've reached a checkpoint, but there's more ahead, and it feels natural to grow further. it never feels like the next phase isn't supposed to happen; even if the next bit is unexpectedly momentous, i can see the path which led to it and where it henceforth leads. and it also incidentally feels a little silly that i was pleased with myself at each prior checkpoint, a sort of ignorant self-assuredness. and so, bemusedly, yet expectantly, and somewhat optimistically, i do accept that i have tons of growth left to be doing in the years to come. anyway, i feel like i've just crossed one.

school was tepid this semester. the first few weeks of the holidays were likewise. as much as i enjoyed hanging out and getting nothing done, i suppose it was not a waste of time only in as much as the resting may well have been a good thing for me. anyway i did end up going to adelaide to visit my mum, but i did leave singapore reluctantly. i figure i don't like to travel because i love singapore.

but i did love australia too. younghusband, being on the road, getting to know aussies, seeing adelaide, the country, i loved it all. i told a friend that i hadn't at that time found a single thing i didn't like about australia, and my opinion remains the same. indeed, coming back to singapore, i found myself asking questions that i'd always known the answers to, questions about the future.

i'd been doing a bit of reading too. i went through what i call the "classiest book ever read on a train and a plane", plato's "the republic". and i found socrates' vision to be something which i believed in. i thought a lot about what he said, a whole lot. and i grew cynical of politics, of hegemonies, of people's ambitions, desires, the things they called beauty and what was good, and i believed in philosophy and in the pursuit of wisdom.

and then there was "'84". i said, "norwegian wood", and she said, "'84". so okay, i read it. and to me, it's one of the best. there's very little that i can say about the book that would do it justice, but orwell is a visionary and an artist. i can scarcely believe that such literary genius once existed. the book's ending is so horrific but so necessary, so perfect, so undeniably right. maybe i could be rational about it and dismiss the book, saying that it could never happen (well, history has it's examples), or that the horrors of vaporisation and torture would never be permitted, or that with some understanding of the legal concepts of duress and insanity, i could in some way disconnect myself or even forgive myself if i'd basically done what winston had done in those circumstances, i.e. betrayed julia to the rats. but the concepts of doublethink, of conscious and subconscious goodthink, crimestop, blackwhite etc. well, those are real. those are real ideas, and they exist, and they have real power. and the parallel between bb and god was something, too.

so that was '84, orwell's god-is-power against socrates' philospher-king. and i thought, what else do i read now? i thought of j s mills' "on liberty", and i thought of kafka, of the existentialists. i bought a penguin classic (my favourite kind) on "the consolations of philosophy", but that turned out kinda watered down. i thought of re-reading the gospel, to re-assess my foundations.

so having returned from australia, i was doing a bit of soul searching. i spent some time at the pool steps, thinking about my life. i knew that my world had grown, and that i would be making choices very soon, and i could have proper alternative choices for once. i wondered what i would live for, and at what bent. but i figured i'd do the right thing when the time came, because that's one thing i know about myself for sure.

and now, by metaphorical randomness, i managed to borrow a copy of lky's book, "hard truths". and i believe in this book, and in this man, and in this book's purpose. so, socrates, orwell, lky. that seems about right.

and i figure along the way, those questions will have their inklings re-affirmed.

LXXII - starlight

song of the week: johnny cash, sunday morning coming down
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBWFJ85n_w0

writing sure is funny when you're on holiday. sure, there are things to talk about. but they're mostly all details: things you see, foods you eat, places you visit, people you meet, and the random things you think about off the top of your head, i.e. without much rumination. and as much as i'd like to be writing about things to help me remember (and therefore to cherish) them, i don't think that's the way i write. at any rate, i don't think that's the way i'd like to be writing. i think, create, improvise from ideas, from feelings, from themes, things that i think about in places where i go to do my thinking, sorta like as a groundswell of thematic ideas. and then the details matter, the details catch me at moments, and shimmer through to my mind's eye. and not before, i think, not the other way around. life is full of details that flash by because we're not paying attention, because our mind isn't in the right place, receptive to the right thing. and all the things we see are just details, all the things we don't see are just periphery. but when something pops by at the right time and in the right place, it fits into the mind like a piece of an impressionary jigsaw puzzle. and a detail like that becomes an emblem, a motif, a signet.

and going on about my writing process, something i don't think i've ever done (blissfully ignoring the most part of it as being simply "inspiration"), i like to fix my mind on a strong idea or feeling that i have, something which usually is allowed to drift in my subconscious for awhile (the idea of permitting subconscious thought being perhaps illogical), and something i sort of test for worthiness before being mindfully engaged (i.e. whether the idea is genuine, sound and valid, isn't selfish or foolish, etc.). i then tend to think about it at length in a preferred place, i.e. during/ after exercise, on a bus, out my window, or at my desk. if a chance jigsaw detail or two fits in, i put some story angles and subplots together, arrange them in order as if it were a full story, and off i go. and i realise that i tend to write in threes, and i like to use fitting adjectives and apter synonyms. i try not to say more that i have to, but i also try to catch the feeling of my thoughts, spirit and letter. i like my themes to resonate from start to end.

my aim in writing is to read the things i've written and hopefully manage to re-live the same sort of feelings that were felt at that point. and then, if all goes well, i want to judge that my writing is mature and sound. and i do want to feel that i'm writing something that will always be good enough for my own reading. that's it. and i try not to edit, or to re-arrange stuff, to preserve the initial thinking chronology.

anyway, the funny thing for me is that i'm not homesick anymore (i was before leaving). it might be back later, but right now, i really like this country. it's pretty flat all round, doing okay economically, really cheery sort of place, almost fully english speaking, and nicer than i think south africa was. i'm even starting to hear things with an aussie accent, which is pretty funny. the stars are beautiful too, this bed is comfy too, the dog is really great too. see, all just details. somewhere stage left, life is churning out all these little details, and somewhere stage right, life is just laughing them off.

you know, last night i was looking at the stars, and i've probably not seen them like that before. and i thought, not at all sadly, no, i thought, rather seriously, and i don't know if i'm dreaming, but i meant it, i meant it, i thought, girl, if you were here, i'd try to kiss you.

LXXI - the wind up bird makes its sound

today i saw a girl who was so cute that i had to write about her.

and i'm not going to defend myself, generally or particularly. but to tell the truth, i don't usually like to look at girls - because if i see them on the street then they'll never be there again, because if they're someone i just see around from time to time i don't want to think about them too often, and if they're someone i know i'm usually wary of appearing to be interested. i'm single, but also single-minded to a t (the literal meaning applies). so the fact is that i almost always look away. i'm almost always better off disinterested, or so i believe.

and to me it's certainly very amateurish to have a crush on someone you don't know. but i think i'll give the circumstances a quick once over. why, why, might you ask. and i almost actually don't know. if the closest path between two objects is a straight line, then in a similarly direct fashion, perhaps a brief supposition that i'd been noticed by a cute girl is idiosyncratically gratifying. hiding behind big words, oh, for shame! but there's another wrinkle, i think. and that is that there is always life, beautiful and random, after every thing has been said and done; after every heart has done it's searching, after every sigh has been exhaled, and after every wistful feeling has been safely kept away. and when i say random i don't actually mean random, only metaphorically random. but today i had the feeling that life would not pass me by.

and it went something like this. right, so i spotted her a short distance away. and then i turn my head in another direction, eyebrows raised, clearly thinking, my gosh she's cute. and of course i notice, not looking directly at her, that she smoothed her hair across her brow and behind her ear, with a slight smile coming around on her lips and her eyes. i sometimes wonder whether girls do that subconsciously. anyway i hesitate to walk past her, look around, and then decide to do so, because it was the way i wanted to go. i looked her right in the eyes. and there was a look in there. and that was it. eight points, nine seconds. and i thought, golly, she's so cute, she should be in a picture. as in, colloquial for "movie". i don't remember much else about her, partly because i didn't look at her that hard. partly also because who can remember after awhile, right.

i'd gone swimming earlier today in the afternoon. i actually did quite well. after that i'd hung on the side of the pool to gently and carefully think about things, allowing my thoughts to swell and subside, much like the physically wallowey feeling of water in a pool. and i wasn't emo, of course. mild physical exertion (and a corresponding slight accomplishment) often puts me in a zennish mood. and i thought about how this window was closing, and the way in which it was closing (or so i surmised) seemed unhesitant. was i ready to accept that? i knew that i was close to the brink, but i didn't know where (or whether) i'd shifted across that tangent. i wondered if i had. and i saw that it was indeed like the last one, although maybe with less finality. but i knew better than to guess at the future; i'd done enough guessing for two, as it were.

and after that i cautiously felt as if i'd stepped out of a cold place into a place with soft, warm sunlight. i felt like rubbing my hands and looking carefully at them, and more than carefully.

and later, for that brief, strangely captivating moment, i caught a fleeting impression that life would not pass me by.

LXX - not winding my spring

song of the week: deep purple, child in time
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OorZcOzNcgE
if there ever was any doubt why i love purple. but no.
i would give a month of my holidays to watch them play live.

ah, the great seventy. i wonder, i really wonder, what it feels like to be a man at that age. i mean, at that point, i guess most would feel as if there's nothing left that can physically be achieved. maybe this feeling will come earlier. well i hope i won't feel as if there's nothing otherwise left that can be achieved. but what would it feel like? to feel that there would only be a few years of time left to do something meaningful for those you love, to at least be a model of aged satisfaction. to feel that all past grievances might as well be relinquished, all regrets might as well be forgotten, any wish for one more achievement might as well be extinguished... what would it feel like, to live without wanting more life, or more of life. what would it feel like to be waiting for the end of life? i don't know if it would be a feeling of unmotivation, or of purposelessness and disconnectedness. but i suspect it would feel like never having to wind your own spring, day by day, day after day. and if you stop and think about it, perhaps when you're old you might never need or want to get going again. but just as easily, we could stop and think, just right now. for who knows, who knows tomorrow, right.

i once had this sort of feeling, for six weeks. in truth, i was at sispec, expecting to move on to ocs. of course, that never happened. but i got the feeling that i was only there for the time being, and being in that frame of mind, i realised that i stayed disconnected. i felt like i was in a temporary place, and ended up being a totally  (and to me, weirdly) nice person on the outside. it was very strange. if i didn't think the people around me would matter in six weeks time, i never thought worse of them or judged them or measured them. but neither did i accept them. and that is something i will never do again. i don't care how nice i seem, and that often goes without having to be said. but i always try to accept somebody. and i guess that's the key, isn't it? time is nothing, next to compassion, next to empathy, next to love.

now. the past three weeks of the holidays have turned out exactly as i didn't care to foresee, that is, uneventfully. of course, i watched the playoffs, one of the first times in my life i've ever been able to enjoy some moments of them. but to be honest, i've been spending my days trying to fill them up, day in and night out. ever since this tactical patience, oh i'm so sick of it, though...

and i'm not afraid yet but i'm afraid of the insidiousness of it. i'm afraid of the slippery hands of time, i'm afraid of... i'm afraid that... and i can't change anything. i'm afraid that it's going to be hopeless, and only more and more so. i'm afraid that i'm waiting on a loss. i'm afraid it'll be like it was with joanne.

sweet child in time, you'll see the line
the line that's drawn between, the good and the bad
see the blind man, shooting at the world
bullets flying, taking toll
if you've been bad, lord, i bet you have
and you've not been hit by flying lead
you'd better close your eyes,
oh, bow your head
wait for the ricochet

ah, fuck it. i'm not afraid of shit. i'll live a man. i challenge you, loneliness, and you, despair, and you, rejection. i challenge all of you.

LXIX - a slight abeyance

song of the week: deep purple, soldier of fortune
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ya2Ix9JoHG8
boy, a grand old rock song with footage from my favourite game. this is so good it should be illegal.

i have often told you stories about the way
i lived the life of a drifter, waiting for the day
when i'd take your hand and sing you songs and maybe you would say
come lay with with and love me, and i would surely stay

my head's in a mess. besides that, calm. i figure i'm waiting, but for what? i guess it's a keener kind of waiting, which is to say i think it's closer. again, for what? and this time i can't answer. i can't say. impossible to say.

i accept it as the price to pay for liking someone. to call it hidden costs would over-simplify the idea, but it's no less correct from a bemused point of view. dismay, at a moment's notice.

so i am not so steady after all. it was probably, certainly, easier when i didn't entertain the idea of girls. it was then an illusion to think that i was, okay.

and that is not to say that my foundations are not built on solid rock. but it is accurate to say that i saw the wind and began to sink. nor is it to say that i left home with my share, but it is accurate to say that thorns grew with me. neither would i agree that i worried or ran after things (as a pagan), but i would say that my heart was not always with the treasure in the field.

so help me, Lord. take this cup away, yet not my will, etc.

but i feel i'm growing older
and the songs that i have sung echo in the distance
like the sound of a windmill going round
guess i'll always be a soldier of fortune

i'm not ready to quit. but i was hoping it would be easier. i guess it's not a strategic patience but a tactical patience i'm for.

and i think you could see it in my eyes.

LXVIII - why couldn't we drive it out

When they came to the other disciples, they saw a large crowd around them and the teachers of the law arguing with them. As soon as all the people saw Jesus, they were overwhelmed with wonder and ran to greet him.
 

“What are you arguing with them about?” he asked.

A man in the crowd answered, “Teacher, I brought you my son, who is possessed by a spirit that has robbed him of speech. Whenever it seizes him, it throws him to the ground. He foams at the mouth, gnashes his teeth and becomes rigid. I asked your disciples to drive out the spirit, but they could not.”

“You unbelieving generation,” Jesus replied, “how long shall I stay with you? How long shall I put up with you? Bring the boy to me.”

So they brought him. When the spirit saw Jesus, it immediately threw the boy into a convulsion. He fell to the ground and rolled around, foaming at the mouth.

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”

“From childhood,” he answered. “It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”

“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.”

Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

When Jesus saw that a crowd was running to the scene, he rebuked the impure spirit. “You deaf and mute spirit,” he said, “I command you, come out of him and never enter him again.”

The spirit shrieked, convulsed him violently and came out. The boy looked so much like a corpse that many said, “He’s dead.” But Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him to his feet, and he stood up.

After Jesus had gone indoors, his disciples asked him privately, “Why couldn’t we drive it out?”

He replied, “This kind can come out only by prayer and fasting.”

LXVII - mopeying

song of the week: matchbox 20, if you're gone
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=clKAdQnwJ7A

last week was beautiful. i didn't write about it, or even write it down, so i've forgotten most of what happened. but i didn't really want to write about it either - to quote one of my favourite pianists, mutatis mutandis, the music played was improvised on a certain night and should go as quickly as it comes. and i think i'd like to live a little more like that. life is fleeting, and the present might be sufficient if i let it. the things that are imprinted (fondly or not) on our memories will eventually return.

i keep seeing things around me that remind me of scenes in norwegian wood. in those moments, i always want to ask people if they've read the book; i want to talk to them about the thoughts i've drawn from it, that mean so much to me. i don't think i've ever had a favourite book before this one.

one of my favourite parts is when the girl the main character (Toru) loves talks about the boy she first loved (Kizuki, their childhood friend, killed himself). the three were usually always together, and toru always thought kizuki was charming and brilliant. but she tells him that when toru wasn't there, kizuki always felt inadequate and frustrated with himself, and was ashamed to be with her at those moments. and she tells toru that she always loved the weak side of kizuki as much as his strong side, but he never realised it. i love this idea.

the unbearable lightness of being is incredible. i don't think anyone could get it from reading it once. it's the thinnest but hardest-to-grasp book i've ever had. the author is incredibly gifted at creating scenes and interpreting them, and each scene is quite remarkable, each explores the human condition so brilliantly. it's so melancholic and despairing, but it's also so filled with understanding and empathy. we are all deeply flawed, yet capable of compassion. a quote from part 2 chapter 11:

"... human lives are are composed [novelistically], ... like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven's music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realising it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.

It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious occurrences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station and death or the meeting of Beethoven, Tomas, Tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty."

anyway, this week has been dreadful. typically, it's been the doldrums of any good holiday - being bored of doing nothing. it makes me wish for last week, which is superficially ironic: einmal ist keinmal. been thinking and wondering about stuff too much, which makes me mopey and unlikable (a great detraction).

i get the feeling it won't be, again. and that is really, really terrific.

LXVI - after wistful

i find myself drifting, detachedly, into a reflective reverie. and i wonder if i miss you. i wonder why i'm lost without you. or rather why i hide. unwilling to allow the effusive sides of myself to appear. withdrawn, restrained, distracted. faraway.

and i guess that i don't know what i want. i guess that if i knew i'd be alright with and without you. but i'm not really there now, and for awhile now.

you make me want to be me.

LXV - perhaps on the unbearable lightness of being

song of the week: keith jarrett, koln concert
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wivo94ylmhE&feature=BFa&list=PL31E319015DCF2B9E&index=1

when a man looks forward in life, what does he see? dissatisfaction? an epic struggle against mediocrity? is he minded to master his own destiny?
when he looks back, again, what does he see? embarrassment and contempt at his own frailties? the natural consequences of his actions given the limitations and circumstances he faces? a more accepting understanding of himself?
when he thinks of the present, what does he see? is he bored, dulled by rigmarole? is he at peace? does he live with honour and trustworthiness? does he have compassion for the people around him and for himself?
what is existence? is a life lived once worth anything? why stop and think if only to press on? why continue as if starting was a choice already made and stopping not a possibility?

i often think i know what i see, i often am confident of my position on each subject. but i think these are questions that are worth considering once in a while, if only to be sure for that while. and who knows when i'll be caught unaware of having thought differently? when i'll value something more than i used to, or less? when i'll have the presence of mind to be objective, be truthful? there may be no false meaning in any life, but thinking along these lines points a person towards... meaning. truth. hope. love. peace. everything or nothing. i don't think anyone can provide the answers to anything, much less for anyone else. i guess at the bottom of it, reality is an illusion but it keeps life going.

i guess what i want to say is, people want things to remind themselves that they're not mediocre. that in this life, with its uncertain premises, theoretical untidiness and fragile coherence, making something of it is in itself something meaningful. living, loving, working and all that, worth doing in itself being done.

LXIV - riding the SBS

song of the week: elisa, wild horses.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWJyk40Y2Zw
she sings it absolutely gorgeously in my book.

i was on the bus today, and as it goes, when i'm on the bus i do a lot of thinking. and it often seems like i enjoy the thinking i get done on the bus. today was another such time.

it made me happy to be talking to this girl today.

but maybe that's all there is to it. i don't mind if it is, because it really makes me happy. i ask God, why is it that everything else i want just falls into my life so easily, except for this one little thing, that bugs me so often and so badly. everything else. i'm grateful for it, and you know i am. and the years i've had waiting, and nothing. only girls that won't be mine.

what could be better than to do what i want? i thought that one day i would meet God and i would look at him for a long, long time and i would see him seeing all of me, and i would say, all those years... and he would say, and now you see why. and i would nod and sigh contentedly, or maybe i'd kneel down. and he would say, all that time, i was only waiting for you to give up what you wanted and all the worries and troubles and angst that came with it, and learn to yearn for me and what i wanted, and you would be my child.

and i said, okay, i'll do it.

delirious?, follow.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDpOjqCGj74

LXI - insipidity

song of the week: led zeppelin, rock n roll. catchy as classic hell.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeJkDewhTEw
see also: kashmir
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hW_WLxseq0o
basically the song that led zep is most proud of. they sure don't make bands like they used to.

i find it funny that sometimes the most well-received songs are ones that the makers aren't the proudest of. for example, smoke on the water, sweet child of mine, stairway to heaven.

i hesitate to write about personal emo stuff because i don't like to be reminded of it. in fact, if i ignore it, it goes away. and i usually like to be stoic about this sort of thing. ineptly, shruggingly, stoic.

but what's the point of having a blog and not being ten kinds of emo?

went and smacked golf balls today. felt hell of good. fixing a swing isn't fun unless things click into place, and then it feels good. i actually prefer fixing this kind of thing by myself. i don't like coaches and i don't like people who give advice about technique. mainly because i'm observant enough and i know myself really well, i work from basics, i'm methodical, and i work hard. and partly because most people talk through their ass.

no. i'm too proud. but the first part is true. i really do like to fix things myself. it feels like a self-realisation journey, a mental process that leads to physical prowess through designed repetition. i like to make sense of how my body acts, i like to feel things work, forces play, limbs flow, mechanics operate. i like to feel it.

i like those moments when i realise what i'm doing wrong, and what i can do to fix it. i love those moments. it's kinda sad that sometimes the same thing creeps back in. but it's human of me, right. i mean, we'd all love to have perfect 'something', just pick up something and intuitively understand how to use it, and precisely when to use it. but that's not true in most cases. most people really do work like hell to make things look effortless. we can emulate them, but without individually grinding away at the basics and at the flaws and bad habits, we'll never be truly good, we'll never be able to apply our borrowed skills in varying scenarios.

one good thing about playing multiple sports, or being good at multiple things, is of course, stretching yourself in different ways. sometimes the same things i learn in one thing can be applied, with the necessary modifications, to allow a moderate degree of success in another thing. but the habits that develop for one thing also tend to become impediments to others. i like to leave something for awhile and come back and discover i'm still pretty good at it, but when i don't it's actually quite depressing. haha. but that's life.

"... you will be children of the most high, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. be merciful, just as your father is merciful." - i was thinking today why i don't go to church anymore. well, it's been on my mind for awhile. i mean, what kind of proper christian doesn't go to church? i love God, but i don't love church. in fact, i don't like it at all. church is to me one of the most uninspiring things that christians do. but still i wonder if i should faithfully, sheepishly (as in like a sheep, i.e. obediently), go. i want to give more. it feels like i'm asleep. not cold, just dormant.

and sometimes the thing that pops into my head is, why can't i find a girl to like that likes me? why can't things be so simple? why don't things happen the way they used to? and in the end, i find that these are uninteresting questions. i don't like to complain, and i don't think these questions are really worth reflecting on. i guess i just have less answers than questions.

school this semester has been terribly inane. i don't want to talk about it. i hope to get Bs, because i'll memorise the stuff. not terribly inspiring. my favourite part of the day is actually... reading a book for fifteen minutes before i lie down to sleep. sigh, i almost need more things to look forward to (stuff like, girls).

LX - reflections on a hobby

song of the week: duane allman, goin' down slow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkFOBZRAbMU
clearly the man. his work makes me smile.

haha. think i'll talk a little bit about my guitar hobby.

you know, my favourite work pastime is to listen and trace guitar players' playing and influences. guitar music history, basically through wikipedia, interviews, fan pages. behind the music, there's a tapestry of story, musical history and collaborative interaction between the great guitar players of each age. many musical threads run together to create each guitar player and each band and each rock genre and each age. in the chaos of making music in a band different styles and aspirations meld in tempo and key and time signature and musical understanding to create a sound that both depicts and defines the players. it's wonderful.

i'm not going to talk much about guitar tone specifically. suffice to say that it... it is really wonderful. different guitars sound so different. you could tell by listening, and then understanding their technical characteristics, and then by listening to the type of songs they are used for, and then sometimes, if i'm lucky enough, by getting to play them. every man is an indiana jones of tone. it's a bit connoisseur-ey, cos you really have to know what and how to hear things sometimes when people get all excited talking about their tone. tone is a pretty sexy thing.

the second guitar that i ever bought was off an ad on luthermusic classifieds. heh, it's still there. but obviously most people use soft nowadays. anyway, it was a craftsman les paul, flamed top. don't know what it had and what it was made of, but well. can't remember too much about it, now. i think i first tried to learn november rain and fade to black on it. haha, that went alright. pretty squawky in a bad way, that one. sold it off and got an epiphone sg, also pretty squawky in a bad way. but it was an alright guitar, pretty light. should have changed the pickups, but back then i didn't know it would have made a difference. it was basically the guitar on which i learnt to play rock.

it's interesting that i didn't really buy much stuff back then. in some ways, having soft really sped up that part. i guess if you don't think about needing something then you just won't need it, which is true of a lot of things. and i guess i didn't think about things like tone and quality and feel. i just played with what i had. but it's hard to go back to being a minimalist when it comes to guitar things, at least in the sense of having less quality. having less things is not so bad, because really a good guitar and amp is basically all you need to be awesome. i could do with just those two, but i'd envision a three thousand dollar guitar and a two thousand dollar amp. i mean, i could play pretty well if i went back to the two hundred and fifty guitar and one hundred and ten amp, and i could probably feel pretty good about it and all, but i'd be cookin' with the first set.

having good stuff doesn't make up for not being able to play, and i'll be the first to say it. i'm happy with where i am, and i know where i am, going forward. i miss playing in a band. it's hard to want to improve without the band; it's much easier to stagnate. of course, improving on technique is clearly my own thing to work on. there's cycles to applied learning, but it takes time, which i find quite precious lately. i do some recording when i feel like it, but it's songs that are recorded, not guitar playing. haha. i used to think of myself exclusively as a guitarist, but usually when i record it's cos i want to sing. and i think singing has to be whatever is true; there's no bad singing if it's true. must be brave to sing.

the first really classic thing i bought was the fender stratocaster. jimi, ritchie, stevie, eric... i thought i'd save for a les paul first, but when my sg had problems i actually first got the stratocaster, cos it was cheaper than a les paul. i like it alot. it feels like i'm a part of something, a class of guitar players who mainly play the stratocaster. it's such a classy guitar. when i hold it i feel like i'm holding a real art piece. i actually think guitars are cooler than cars. i mean, you drive a car, and basically it's not important how well you drive it, long as you get from A to B without knocking the thing. it's a box with four wheels, right. a guitar, on the other hand, talks about music, and music, in the humanly pursuits of this world, is truly noble. i mean, it's not a violin, and it's not a piano, it's kinda more recent than those two, and it obviously sounds a lot ruder, but the idea is basically good: the pursuit of music.

and the guitar has been good to me for very very long. a lot of times i feel sad about things and i pick up the guitar and play until i feel sleepy enough to fall instantly asleep, cos i don't like having to wait to sleep. guitar playing makes me feel bluesy which is alright when i'm sad about stuff. it's like a voice coming out of my hands, coming from my heart. it's not the best voice in the world but it's not bad, and it's alright to me. playing makes me think of all the guitar players who play when they feel emotional, and it feels like i'm drawing from this emotional relatedness. a lot of these people look really grandfatherly, and talk like that too. they play like they miss things that they love. i like that.

a lot of the time, playing in a band must mean that each instrumentalist must play less to play more. i've come to accept that, and embrace it. i've come to value the role of each instrument, understand how it forms part of the sound. bands, like any other combined human endeavour, have their problems. how five people with different motivations and values and valuation systems come together to produce something that is them is pretty amazing. i mean, every now and then i pick out something that i don't like that i want to say, but would be pretty hard to take. i don't like to do things just to have fun, in fact i sometimes despise people who say that. my idea of having fun is to be good. anyway, i guess my point is that constructive communication is as much a skill as it is flattery and fortune. so even if the band is just, really, to bang on things and make loud awful noises, i want to do it with some semblance of accomplishment. and i suppose as we get older it's going to be harder and harder to play together, or at or for something, if at all. i mean, how many lawyers' meets need rock bands. haha. but it'll be fun all in all lar. i guess we could play at weddings. or someone could run a bar and... hire us.

there's still so much to do out there on the horizon. some places aren't meant for me, but some are, and i don't intend to miss on them. i honestly think i'd rather be at home getting to where i want to be with the guitar than travelling. haha, at least if i'm single. guess that's one for the future.

LIX - haha, oh yeah. more licks.

song of the week: lynyrd skynyrd, tuesday's gone
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QT9_tEzjtIU
best classic country rock song, best classic country rock band. well there's grateful dead too. my dad loves this stuff: dylan, young, the eagles, crossby, stills and nash... but tuesday's gone is my choice.

the most important passages in the bible to me are where faithful people challenge God. Abraham pleading for Sodom. Job. Jonah. i can't think of more. does Jesus count? there's very few, which is a pity. maybe in Yancey's book, disappointment with God, which is based substantially on Job, there's more. life is struggle, and it's different for everyone. if 'to live is Christ and to die is gain', what are we missing? who's ready to say that; but shouldn't we all be? i feel skeptical and inadequate at the same time. but i'm human. everyone has their struggles.

i never knew how absurdist i was until wikipedia showed me:

(Simplified) Relationship between existentialism, absurdism and nihilism Atheistic existentialism Theistic existentialism Absurdism Nihilism 1. There is such a thing as meaning or value Yes Yes Yes No 2. There is inherent meaning in the universe (either intrinsic or from God) No Maybe, but humans must have faith to believe there is Maybe, but humans can never know it No 3. Individuals can create meaning in life themselves Yes, it is essential that they do Yes, but that meaning must incorporate God Yes, but it must face the absurd and it must be individual by the "absurd creation" in order to have meaning and sense No, because there is no such meaning to create 4. The pursuit of gaining intrinsic or extrinsic meaning in the universe is possible No, and the pursuit itself is meaningless Yes, and the pursuit itself may have meaning Maybe, the pursuit itself may have meaning No, and the pursuit itself is meaningless 5. The pursuit of constructed meaning is possible Yes, thus the goal of existentialism Yes, thus the goal of existentialism No No 6. There is a solution to the individual's desire to seek meaning Yes, the creation of one's own meaning Yes, the creation of one's own meaning before God Yes, but it is based on the individual's personal meaning since it's impossible to know the inherent meaning in the universe (if one exists) No

i know i'm supposed to be in the second column, but my physical being feels very sympathetic towards the third. very, very sympathetic. and i know in a table form it looks like atheistic existentialism is quite different from absurdism, but sartre's wiki article makes me feel sympathetic to existentialism too, maybe more than sympathetic. see where charles de gaulle vetoed sartre's arrest for civil disobedience, saying, "you don't arrest Voltaire". haha.

there's so little we know about history and great thought of the past. it's amazing and tragic. when we try to look for records (well, wikipedia is basically reliable) on things they did, it's so much based on secondary sources. it's something like a pity that most brilliant people were misunderstood or suffered or didn't live very long. but they were brilliant in their time, and they overcame so much adversity, with and for their brilliance. and we know so very little. i mean, there are so many ideas and theories that have been discovered before us, and which could mean so much to us if we could be aware of them, but we're so ignorant, so blissfully ignorant at that. we are... cogs more than we are cognitive. no. we must make an effort to embrace the work left by men and women before us.

the parallel in popular music is too obvious. what will be the music of my son's and daughter's generation? will they forget allman, clapton, hendrix, page, vaughan ... all my heroes. like i've never known... bach, mozart, mendelssohn, beethoven, chopin, schumann, hadyn, tchaikovsky. sigh. i must do better than that.