Eudaimonia

I could probably type a 1000 word essay on what I am about to say but the Occam’s Razor equivalent of it is that I hate myself.

Now, let’s analyse why I am doing this.

Is it:

a) I am lazy and dismissive towards putting in extra effort?
b) The Nature of ‘me’ is simple, not complex and therefore a simpler explanation is ‘true-er’?
c) Saying things simply invokes lesser assumptions and simplifies the structure thereby reducing the uncertainties and errors in future ‘calculations? And that theories are not seeking for ‘truth’ but usefulness?

My knee-jerk reaction is that b) and c) are BS but I am withholding judgment on those because I am a kind person, or rather, I might find some truth value in those, or have already but am not doing so because of… a).

a) is definitely true.

But ‘I’ am not science. The same cannot be extrapolated to science without much effort. But because of a), I am putting this on hold for the moment.

(I think I am considering doing this for the IS, among at least 5 other topics held up for consideration.)

Emily (Part 1)

Part 2

I am head over heels crazy over Joanna Newsom. Everyone should listen to her music. Though her voice (especially in the Milk Eyed Mender album) does takes a little listen to like. But don’t let that stop you. People always ask,”Why does she sing like that?” Like what someone on Youtube said,”She does that to keep losers out.” Hey, I really wouldn’t appreciate the music if someone else sang it! She really brings it out. Here’s a beautiful, beautiful song. The more I listen to it, the more I like it.

(If you’re listening to her for the first time, try ’sprout and bean’ and ‘peach plum pear’.

———————-

The meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow
Set to the sky in a flying spree, for the sport over the pharaoh
A little while later the Pharisees dragged comb through the meadow
Do you remember what they called up to you and me, in our window?

There is a rusty light on the pines tonight
Sun pouring wine, lord, or marrow
Down into the bones of the birches
And the spires of the churches
Jutting out from the shadows
The yoke, and the axe, and the old smokestacks and the bale and the barrow
And everything sloped like it was dragged from a rope
In the mouth of the south below

We’ve seen those mountains kneeling, felten and grey
We thought our very hearts would up and melt away
From that snow in the nighttime
Just going
And going
And the stirring of wind chimes
In the morning
In the morning
Helps me find my way back in
From the place where I have been

And, Emily – I saw you last night by the river
I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water
Frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever
In a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky’d been breathing on a mirror

Anyhow – I sat by your side, by the water
You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger
Thoough all I knew of the rote universe were those Pleiades loosed in December
I promised you I’d set them to verse so I’d always remember

That the meteorite is a source of the light
And the meteor’s just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that’s devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

And the meteorite’s just what causes the light
And the meteor’s how it’s perceived
And the meteoroid’s a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

You came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I’m in
Threw the window wide and cried, “Amen! Amen! Amen!”
The whole world stopped to hear you hollering
You looked down and saw now what was happening

The lines are fading in my kingdom
(Though I have never known the way to border them in)
So the muddy mouths of baboons and sows and the grouse and the horse and the hen
Grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen
And the mail is late and the great estates are not lit from within
The talk in town’s becoming downright sickening

In due time we will see the far butte lit by a flare
I’ve seen your bravery, and I will follow you there
And row through the nighttime
Gone healthy
Gone healthy all of a sudden
In search of the midwife
Who could help me
Who could help me
Help me find my way back in
There are worries where I’ve been

Say, say, say in the lee of the bay; don’t be bothered
Leave your troubles here where the tugboats shear the water from the water
(Flanked by furrows, curling back, like a match held up to a newspaper)
Emily, they’ll follow your lead by the letter
And I make this claim, and I’m not ashamed to say I know you better
What they’ve seen is just a beam of your sun that banishes winter

Let us go! Though we know it’s a hopeless endeavor
The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever
Though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning
There is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning

Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now
Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow
Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow
With hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow

And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour
The butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours
And my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines
Come on home, now! All my bones are dolorous with vines

Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight
The way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light
Squint skyward and listen
Loving him, we move within his borders
Just asterisms in the stars’ set order

We could stand for a century
Staring
With our heads cocked
In the broad daylight at this thing
Joy
Landlocked
In bodies that don’t keep
Dumbstruck with the sweetness of being
Until we don’t be told
Take this
Eat this

Told
The meteorite is the source of the light
And the meteor’s just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that’s devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

And the meteorite’s just what causes the light
And the meteor’s how it’s perceived
And the meteoroid’s a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

This is my piece of ‘Art for Art’s Sake’. Created entirely out of nothing and for nothing but which makes me feel extremely glad. Did this in at most 3 minutes on Microsoft Paint. The second attempt at random doodling. I frankly think it’s better than Damien Hirst

(I can imagine the trolls saying ‘how trippy!’.)

I am living the life of the light-hearted and grave-minded.

I was seeking for the grave-minded only to be seeking the heavy-hearted.
When I got the latter, I thought I got the former.
But the latter always evolved into the former eventually if you ferment it the right way.
I think I did, for it was edible.

But I didn’t know that the latter could go because it’s job is done and all that’s left to do is harm.
I was greedy.
I was greedy because I thought that the heavy-hearted had more to give, or even if it had nothing else, it needs to be there for the after-care maintenance. I don’t think so now.
(Or that they’re part of my ‘personality’. Like my ‘personality’ is an objective, fixed constant.)

And I’m letting go of depression, dysthymia, the self-imposed, fantasy-based aspects of schizoid, any forms of self-imposed mood disorders.

To anyone who is feeding undeserving mood leeches in his/her body for vaguely mercenary reasons, please realise that you are doing so and next, please remove them.
The heavy-hearted do not go well with anything.
Not even with wine, fork and flour, which when combined, can go along with almost everything.

The previous post did not start out the way I’d thought it would go. I had ‘intended’ to do something else other than purely observing and theorizing in an anemic (lack of meaning) way. But it was nevertheless important as a prelude to this post.

I was reading some Iris Murdoch earlier and she quotes Professor Hampshire, “It is essential to thought that it takes its own forms and follows its own paths without my intervention, that is, without the intervention of my will. I identify myself with my will. Thought when it is most pure, is self-directing. No process of thought could be punctuated by acts of will, voluntary switchings of attention and retain its status as a continuous process of thought. It seems that I cannot present my own belief in something as an achievement because by so presenting it, I would disqualify it as belief.”

It struck me as interesting on the first count because my search for the thesis topic was not characterized by an act of thought (as I’ve suspected and hated on it). I truly think that thought, when attacked by an especially heavyweight will is anemic compared with the thought raised as a free-ranger.

And I shall adopt the free-ranger into my life, into the blog, however ironic and contradictory the action is w.r.t. to its principle. So far, I have been doing neither. And as a reference to the previous 2 posts, that is how my stint shall start again in a while. Viva.