Here's a physical challenge for you:
Grab a pencil and a piece of paper. Go ahead I'll wait.
Great. Now draw two triangles, one on top the other. The first triangle should have one corner pointed straight up. The second should have one corner pointed straight down. Shade in what you've drawn.
If asked, you'd probably say that you just drew a star, and you'd be right. But you wouldn't be totally right, because you haven't just drawn a star. While putting pencil to paper, you've actually created two things: a star and the space that isn't the star. The un-star. The non-star.
You have no choice but to do so, but we rarely think about the act of drawing something as the act of drawing two things. We rarely think about the negative space that is created by changing a blank piece of paper with a few pencil marks. But there it is. You've created a delineation. An image that's nothing but star, and its recursive image thats everything but star.
In art, the two images are called the figure (the star) and the ground (the empty space).
Now the mental challenge: think back to the last time you had to make a decision. It can be as simple as ordering water at a restaurant or as complex and meaningful as asking your girlfriend to marry you. The action that you took, and every action you've ever taken in fact, is just like putting the pencil to that paper. You've created something intentionally and created something else unintentionally, but unavoidably.
Unfortunately, real life isn't as simple as a blank sheet of paper. There are way too many moving parts. So when you make a decision, you might not just be creating two things, but three or four or nineteen hundred. It's difficult to imagine. Which is precisely why we tend not to think in those terms.
Let's say for example that you choose to head West to LA (to make yourself a star). In that instant, you are defining yourself and defining the environment you're in at the same time. You remove yourself from a place - which changes it. You add yourself to a new city - which changes it. And if you're ego wasn't large enough by then, realize that your actions directly define the world around you based on your presence.
You have no choice but to do two things at once. The most important thing to remember is that while you believe you are creating something beautiful, you may also be creating something negative at the same time. The only way to do that, is to not think only of the star you're creating as the artwork - but to focus on the entire sheet of paper. Start to see every action as drawing that star, and the world around you - your entire life - as the sheet of paper, and you'll be on the right track.
Now stop doodling, and go outside. There's a ton of cool stuff to do out there.
27 May 2008
19 May 2008
A Kite With No Wind
Outside, the mild rain is building its way up to a downpour. Thin nylon and cardboard caps are getting soaked steadily as several hundred graduates are piled on top of each other waiting for a keynote speaker to finish so they can hear their name being called. On the face, it seems like the worst possible cost/benefit analysis - three hours in the rain for twenty seconds worth of excitement. No matter the pompous nature of the event, or what anyone else says, there's a good chance that you and your parents are there just to hear your name and watch you walk across the stage with your diploma in hand.
Inside, a group of parents, friends and siblings who keep nodding off are watching the ceremony on closed circuit television. Everyone is just slightly damp, and there's not enough seats for everyone, but it's warm and the sound quality is pretty solid. From my spot standing in the corner, I can barely make out what's happening on the screen because of the angle I'm at, but I imagine it's a stuff white guy trying to look impressive and talking about the road of life. Open doors. New paths. Exciting times. He folds the last page of his speech and thanks the audience, and as he moves away from the microphone a strange thing happens: The people in my room start clapping.
They start clapping with abandon.
People are applauding a screen. They are applauding the flattened image of a man being displayed in a remote location. They are clapping at the sound waves coming through speakers several hundred feet away from the man's actual voice. At once, this seems both natural and unusual.
After all, what is the purpose of clapping? I venture to say that it's to show appreciation to a performer. Thus, it seems that, to be meaningful, a speaker should be able to hear the applause. If a speaker isn't aware of his applause, does it even matter to him?
I caught a glimpse of this feeling a while back when a friend and I were asked to perform a slam poetry piece for another friend's video project. Instead of delivering the words to a small crowd of coffee shop kids, the rumble of espresso machines and shuffling feet in the background, the occasional clap or holler coming from the sides - we were speaking into a camera on a sound stage. It was empty. It felt alien, like there was a lack of energy. What was worse was, I couldn't tell if we'd done well or done terribly because there were no boos or claps. There was just silence - no feedback. I imagine that if the man on the stage hadn't had a live audience, he wouldn't have felt nearly as comfortable as he did. And still, I'm guessing he doesn't even realize that there were more crowds clapping for him far off in the distance.
There's another side to clapping though - it's for the audience. In theater, the curtain call is really important because it allows the audience to give thanks to the performer. It's a two-way street. We get to show how much we liked something, and the performer gets that ego-shining praise. We all win. We all feel good about ourselves.
So what happens when the performer doesn't get the benefit of the applause?
Despite the speaker not being able to hear the applause (and, thus, it not really mattering), the audience still clapped because it was a natural response. We clap when speakers are done. Whether they are there or not. We feel good about ourselves, somehow engaged in the process of the performance, it reminds us that we're there.
I spent the entire graduation not clapping. I didn't even clap for my friend when she crossed the stage. It was arbitrary anyway. Her knowledge of the clapping, to me, was all that mattered, and since she couldn't know one way or the other, I chose not to. Plus, I'll admit it seemed silly to me to clap at a screen - an object that is part of the performance, but not actively engaged in it. I would have been applauding an inanimate object.
There are organizations out there that will swindle you out of your money. They are charity organizations that thrive on getting small and large donations utilizing a selling point of emotion while only delivering a fraction of your dollar to the people they claim to help.
A person calls, tells you they need money for children with cancer, and you gladly give $100. That $100 is split up so that $5.00 is given to the research, and $95.00 is given to the call center and the company for operating costs. It's criminal.
But I think of it in exactly the same terms as clapping at a screen. Applauding an image that isn't there.
The audience applauding feels incredible about itself because it's doing something good, something that comes naturally. But what they are doing doesn't really matter on the other end. We hide the fact that what we're doing doesn't matter so that we can enjoy and revel in the task of responding and appreciating the performer. If the solicitor told you that almost none of your money would actually go to charity, you wouldn't give any, so it's important that you believe what you're doing is good. That you're being a saint. And that's what the company is selling you - an easy chance to be a saint.
The audience applauding an image is engaged in an automated response that is rendered hollow by the technology we have. It really does not matter whether they clap or not. Not to anyone it should matter to - namely the speaker.
We will have to confront the oddities and ethical questions that technology brings along. We'll also get to note the weird behavior we see when people are faced with technology and don't have a socially normal response to give it (some people clapped, others awkwardly looked around before clapping and some refused to clap altogether). But now, we have to confront the ethical questions about doing the right thing in a meaningful way. It feels great to give money to charity, but if the money isn't being put to use, you're not doing anything meaningfully or actively good. You just think you are.
How many things in your life seem ethical and meaningful until you investigate further? We live in a time now where doing the right thing is becoming easier and easier. You can pick up Ethos Water at Starbuck's and pretend to be helping water conservation in third world countries. You can give your credit card number to someone who calls you and pretend to fund Leukemia research. You can add a facebook application that says you're reducing carbon emissions.
It all feels really good, but in the end, are you just applauding yourself or can the speaker hear you?
I challenge you to be heard.
Inside, a group of parents, friends and siblings who keep nodding off are watching the ceremony on closed circuit television. Everyone is just slightly damp, and there's not enough seats for everyone, but it's warm and the sound quality is pretty solid. From my spot standing in the corner, I can barely make out what's happening on the screen because of the angle I'm at, but I imagine it's a stuff white guy trying to look impressive and talking about the road of life. Open doors. New paths. Exciting times. He folds the last page of his speech and thanks the audience, and as he moves away from the microphone a strange thing happens: The people in my room start clapping.
They start clapping with abandon.
People are applauding a screen. They are applauding the flattened image of a man being displayed in a remote location. They are clapping at the sound waves coming through speakers several hundred feet away from the man's actual voice. At once, this seems both natural and unusual.
After all, what is the purpose of clapping? I venture to say that it's to show appreciation to a performer. Thus, it seems that, to be meaningful, a speaker should be able to hear the applause. If a speaker isn't aware of his applause, does it even matter to him?
I caught a glimpse of this feeling a while back when a friend and I were asked to perform a slam poetry piece for another friend's video project. Instead of delivering the words to a small crowd of coffee shop kids, the rumble of espresso machines and shuffling feet in the background, the occasional clap or holler coming from the sides - we were speaking into a camera on a sound stage. It was empty. It felt alien, like there was a lack of energy. What was worse was, I couldn't tell if we'd done well or done terribly because there were no boos or claps. There was just silence - no feedback. I imagine that if the man on the stage hadn't had a live audience, he wouldn't have felt nearly as comfortable as he did. And still, I'm guessing he doesn't even realize that there were more crowds clapping for him far off in the distance.
There's another side to clapping though - it's for the audience. In theater, the curtain call is really important because it allows the audience to give thanks to the performer. It's a two-way street. We get to show how much we liked something, and the performer gets that ego-shining praise. We all win. We all feel good about ourselves.
So what happens when the performer doesn't get the benefit of the applause?
Despite the speaker not being able to hear the applause (and, thus, it not really mattering), the audience still clapped because it was a natural response. We clap when speakers are done. Whether they are there or not. We feel good about ourselves, somehow engaged in the process of the performance, it reminds us that we're there.
I spent the entire graduation not clapping. I didn't even clap for my friend when she crossed the stage. It was arbitrary anyway. Her knowledge of the clapping, to me, was all that mattered, and since she couldn't know one way or the other, I chose not to. Plus, I'll admit it seemed silly to me to clap at a screen - an object that is part of the performance, but not actively engaged in it. I would have been applauding an inanimate object.
There are organizations out there that will swindle you out of your money. They are charity organizations that thrive on getting small and large donations utilizing a selling point of emotion while only delivering a fraction of your dollar to the people they claim to help.
A person calls, tells you they need money for children with cancer, and you gladly give $100. That $100 is split up so that $5.00 is given to the research, and $95.00 is given to the call center and the company for operating costs. It's criminal.
But I think of it in exactly the same terms as clapping at a screen. Applauding an image that isn't there.
The audience applauding feels incredible about itself because it's doing something good, something that comes naturally. But what they are doing doesn't really matter on the other end. We hide the fact that what we're doing doesn't matter so that we can enjoy and revel in the task of responding and appreciating the performer. If the solicitor told you that almost none of your money would actually go to charity, you wouldn't give any, so it's important that you believe what you're doing is good. That you're being a saint. And that's what the company is selling you - an easy chance to be a saint.
The audience applauding an image is engaged in an automated response that is rendered hollow by the technology we have. It really does not matter whether they clap or not. Not to anyone it should matter to - namely the speaker.
We will have to confront the oddities and ethical questions that technology brings along. We'll also get to note the weird behavior we see when people are faced with technology and don't have a socially normal response to give it (some people clapped, others awkwardly looked around before clapping and some refused to clap altogether). But now, we have to confront the ethical questions about doing the right thing in a meaningful way. It feels great to give money to charity, but if the money isn't being put to use, you're not doing anything meaningfully or actively good. You just think you are.
How many things in your life seem ethical and meaningful until you investigate further? We live in a time now where doing the right thing is becoming easier and easier. You can pick up Ethos Water at Starbuck's and pretend to be helping water conservation in third world countries. You can give your credit card number to someone who calls you and pretend to fund Leukemia research. You can add a facebook application that says you're reducing carbon emissions.
It all feels really good, but in the end, are you just applauding yourself or can the speaker hear you?
I challenge you to be heard.
15 May 2008
This Weakness
Just picture it.
You're lying on a beach, a light sweat struggling to form on your skin as the same breeze that's pushing a sailboat on the horizon along brushes over you.
You're inundated with an erupting crowd, standing at the free-throw line about to sink two buckets to bring your team within striking distance of the win. The net swishes once, twice. Your heart keeps pounding.
You're sitting relaxed in an office with a woman asking you questions, and you're nailing all of them. You know by the time you shake her hand and walk out, she'll be convinced that hiring you is the best option for her company.
Visualization is powerful. Within ourselves, we have a unique power to place our bodies in a different situation than the one we're presently in. We can even trick ourselves into having sense experiences that we're not having - that's how strong our imaginations are. You can smell the salt-sea air, you can hear the flash of cameras, you can hear the woman's voice.
Apparently it's also a strong tool for achieving goals. When you have a goal in mind, you're supposed to visualize yourself achieving it. Somehow, by seeing yourself doing it either 1) You believe that it is possible (or inevitable even) or 2) You become familiar with the sensual experience of achieving that goal which makes it easier to confront.
It's not uncommon to imagine what a job interview will be like. Or what taking a test will feel like. Almost every guy I know has practiced what he'll say to ask a girl out before actually getting in the same room with her. All of this gives us the most information possible so that we can go through with striving for a goal.
I wonder if we do this with ethics, though.
It seems obvious to want to see yourself achieving goals. It's a physical action, so the imagination can take over with ease. But what about envisioning yourself as the best possible ethical version of you? Do we walk through scenarios where we'll have to make a moral decision and choose the right path?
I'll take the most vivid example. Say, for a moment, that your moral code requires that you emulate another historical figure because that historical figure is the embodiment of perfection. Since emulating that person, and thus, acting ethically, is a goal (albeit an occasionally inactive one) it seems like someone would benefit from sitting down, closing their eyes, and imagining reaching that goal.
I see this breaking down into two parts - one easy and one more abstract. The first would be an active goal, like imagining yourself confronted with a lost wallet, finding the person's contact information, and returning it. By envisioning this, you should be able to recognize the situation and "repeat your actions" so to speak if and when the situation occurs in real life. You will have practiced being ethical in the imaginary world as a means to be ethical in the real one.
The second is more difficult, and that stems from imagining yourself as "being like" something or someone. Since the act of being is passive and active, imagining this is a little harder. But that, to me, seems to make it even more desirable to try to imagine. If it's more difficult a thing to imagine, wouldn't it follow that it would also be more difficult a thing to achieve in the real world? Taking the time to imagine such a thing could only help in truly emulating, truly being like an ethical figure that's worthy of striving for.
As for me, I'm headed back to the beach.
You're lying on a beach, a light sweat struggling to form on your skin as the same breeze that's pushing a sailboat on the horizon along brushes over you.
You're inundated with an erupting crowd, standing at the free-throw line about to sink two buckets to bring your team within striking distance of the win. The net swishes once, twice. Your heart keeps pounding.
You're sitting relaxed in an office with a woman asking you questions, and you're nailing all of them. You know by the time you shake her hand and walk out, she'll be convinced that hiring you is the best option for her company.
Visualization is powerful. Within ourselves, we have a unique power to place our bodies in a different situation than the one we're presently in. We can even trick ourselves into having sense experiences that we're not having - that's how strong our imaginations are. You can smell the salt-sea air, you can hear the flash of cameras, you can hear the woman's voice.
Apparently it's also a strong tool for achieving goals. When you have a goal in mind, you're supposed to visualize yourself achieving it. Somehow, by seeing yourself doing it either 1) You believe that it is possible (or inevitable even) or 2) You become familiar with the sensual experience of achieving that goal which makes it easier to confront.
It's not uncommon to imagine what a job interview will be like. Or what taking a test will feel like. Almost every guy I know has practiced what he'll say to ask a girl out before actually getting in the same room with her. All of this gives us the most information possible so that we can go through with striving for a goal.
I wonder if we do this with ethics, though.
It seems obvious to want to see yourself achieving goals. It's a physical action, so the imagination can take over with ease. But what about envisioning yourself as the best possible ethical version of you? Do we walk through scenarios where we'll have to make a moral decision and choose the right path?
I'll take the most vivid example. Say, for a moment, that your moral code requires that you emulate another historical figure because that historical figure is the embodiment of perfection. Since emulating that person, and thus, acting ethically, is a goal (albeit an occasionally inactive one) it seems like someone would benefit from sitting down, closing their eyes, and imagining reaching that goal.
I see this breaking down into two parts - one easy and one more abstract. The first would be an active goal, like imagining yourself confronted with a lost wallet, finding the person's contact information, and returning it. By envisioning this, you should be able to recognize the situation and "repeat your actions" so to speak if and when the situation occurs in real life. You will have practiced being ethical in the imaginary world as a means to be ethical in the real one.
The second is more difficult, and that stems from imagining yourself as "being like" something or someone. Since the act of being is passive and active, imagining this is a little harder. But that, to me, seems to make it even more desirable to try to imagine. If it's more difficult a thing to imagine, wouldn't it follow that it would also be more difficult a thing to achieve in the real world? Taking the time to imagine such a thing could only help in truly emulating, truly being like an ethical figure that's worthy of striving for.
As for me, I'm headed back to the beach.
08 May 2008
Who Isn't on First?
For whatever reason, the trick of implanting writing devices into a story makes it better. We believe that a story is more intelligent, has more depth, or has some great meaning when the writer uses - what are essentially - tricks.
Take a minute and think of three or four of your favorite movies or books. At some point in the story, there's a solid chance that the main character - the lovable rogue bucking the system, proving that heart wins out over money, handsomely wooing the young object of his love - there's a solid chance that a puppy or kitten shows him affection.
This is one of my favorite tricks. You denote which character the audience is supposed to love by having an innocent being - like a dog or cat or baby - show him a lot of love. Usually, the owner will note how unusual it is for their normally distant (or fussy) pet (or child) to be so sweet to a stranger. This let's us know that the main character is 1) naturally lovable 2) unique and 3) probably has bacon in his pocket.
This is one of my favorite tricks because of how easy it is and how prevalent in literature it is. It also works in reverse. You can easily show an audience your bad guy by having a really lovable pet growl and snarl at him. Or bite him in the trousers. Because that's telling and hilarious at the same time. Especially if he's wearing heart-covered boxers.
This got me thinking about the important we place on symbols and signifiers, the common ones anyway. I soon realized that I could make a heroic statement about almost any inanimate object.
The key here is that inanimate objects have no real ethical value - they don't commit acts of moral sin or acts of moral heroism. They can't, because they aren't living or cogent or active. But we can make it seem that way.
Some inanimate objects deserving of medals:
The Shoe: Steadfast and supportive, the shoe is always there when I need it. Reliable to a fault, it selflessly protects me from the elements - things that might harm me like rain puddles and errant nails. Even if I lose my temper and throw my shoe across the room, it never faults, never attacks me back, and always stays right where I leave it to be used again the next day.
The Computer Speaker - Without the incredibly versatile speaker, life would be a much more silent, dismal place. It fills the room with just the right amount of glorious music for me to enjoy without irritating the neighbors, and it even lets me know what actors are saying in movies. It, too, can be thrown across the room without retaliation.
The Fancy Feather Boa That My Friend Wore To This One Halloween Party - More than just a costume accessory, the boa became an icon for the night. It embodied the idea of the party, and idea that we could change ourselves for just one evening and grow into the realm of possibilities. That boa was soft and gentle, always willing to be close by in case it needed to comfort you. What's more, it was unselfish with its talents, allowing that comfort to be used by anyone who wanted to partake. Plus, it looked great.
It seems obvious that most good things we can say about inanimate objects involve inaction or defense. Since they can't do anything on their own, we have to bring them to life ourselves or notice the traits that they possess as something more than what they are.
But it's not hard. We essentially give human traits to these objects and they become more than objects - they become symbols or metaphors. We have to put that meaning into them, though. They don't come with it already installed. Thus, we could place almost any meaning into almost any object.
Obviously, the next step is to note that we can do that with humans as well. We can shape the meaning of our existence in almost any way. We can define ourselves beyond our usefulness or our skills our traits. We can inject meaning and symbolism into who we are or who are friends are or into the villains into our lives. This notion has a ton of implications about the roles we end up playing in life.
Of course, the obvious exception to the rule is The Brave Little Toaster - an inanimate object that actually is brave and little and, I think, is going on a journey to find its mother or something.
Which reminds me: call your mother. It's almost mother's day.
Take a minute and think of three or four of your favorite movies or books. At some point in the story, there's a solid chance that the main character - the lovable rogue bucking the system, proving that heart wins out over money, handsomely wooing the young object of his love - there's a solid chance that a puppy or kitten shows him affection.
This is one of my favorite tricks. You denote which character the audience is supposed to love by having an innocent being - like a dog or cat or baby - show him a lot of love. Usually, the owner will note how unusual it is for their normally distant (or fussy) pet (or child) to be so sweet to a stranger. This let's us know that the main character is 1) naturally lovable 2) unique and 3) probably has bacon in his pocket.
This is one of my favorite tricks because of how easy it is and how prevalent in literature it is. It also works in reverse. You can easily show an audience your bad guy by having a really lovable pet growl and snarl at him. Or bite him in the trousers. Because that's telling and hilarious at the same time. Especially if he's wearing heart-covered boxers.
This got me thinking about the important we place on symbols and signifiers, the common ones anyway. I soon realized that I could make a heroic statement about almost any inanimate object.
The key here is that inanimate objects have no real ethical value - they don't commit acts of moral sin or acts of moral heroism. They can't, because they aren't living or cogent or active. But we can make it seem that way.
Some inanimate objects deserving of medals:
The Shoe: Steadfast and supportive, the shoe is always there when I need it. Reliable to a fault, it selflessly protects me from the elements - things that might harm me like rain puddles and errant nails. Even if I lose my temper and throw my shoe across the room, it never faults, never attacks me back, and always stays right where I leave it to be used again the next day.
The Computer Speaker - Without the incredibly versatile speaker, life would be a much more silent, dismal place. It fills the room with just the right amount of glorious music for me to enjoy without irritating the neighbors, and it even lets me know what actors are saying in movies. It, too, can be thrown across the room without retaliation.
The Fancy Feather Boa That My Friend Wore To This One Halloween Party - More than just a costume accessory, the boa became an icon for the night. It embodied the idea of the party, and idea that we could change ourselves for just one evening and grow into the realm of possibilities. That boa was soft and gentle, always willing to be close by in case it needed to comfort you. What's more, it was unselfish with its talents, allowing that comfort to be used by anyone who wanted to partake. Plus, it looked great.
It seems obvious that most good things we can say about inanimate objects involve inaction or defense. Since they can't do anything on their own, we have to bring them to life ourselves or notice the traits that they possess as something more than what they are.
But it's not hard. We essentially give human traits to these objects and they become more than objects - they become symbols or metaphors. We have to put that meaning into them, though. They don't come with it already installed. Thus, we could place almost any meaning into almost any object.
Obviously, the next step is to note that we can do that with humans as well. We can shape the meaning of our existence in almost any way. We can define ourselves beyond our usefulness or our skills our traits. We can inject meaning and symbolism into who we are or who are friends are or into the villains into our lives. This notion has a ton of implications about the roles we end up playing in life.
Of course, the obvious exception to the rule is The Brave Little Toaster - an inanimate object that actually is brave and little and, I think, is going on a journey to find its mother or something.
Which reminds me: call your mother. It's almost mother's day.
05 May 2008
The Deeds are Left to Purchase
Is opportunity as good as having an actual experience?
I sat down and really thought about whether or not I'd be alright if I heard the news that the Mona Lisa had been burned. On the universal sentiment of great art being destroyed and the collective humanity lessened, sure, I'd feel sad. But on a personal level, I realized I didn't actually care.
I suppose that makes me heartless, but the key is a matter of experience. I will most likely never see the Mona Lisa. Therefore, I have no vested personal interest in whether it exists in the future or solely in the past. I'm sure there are plenty of manifest qualities about the Mona Lisa - perhaps my life is affected in some way that I can't directly connect, but affected nonetheless. On the whole, though, my life is unchanged whether the Mona Lisa is still in the Louvre available for viewing or reduced to ash.
My position comes from my not equating opportunity with experience. I can see a logical argument to contradict my personal feelings by saying that the "possibility of seeing the Mona Lisa" is as good or almost as important as "seeing the Mona Lisa". For example, let's say we were talking about economic growth instead of art. Isn't the opportunity to make as much money as possible better than not having the opportunity at all?
This, of course, is the American Dream.
Some quick problems with the dream of opportunity:
1) In order to equate possibility with the experience, I would also have to equate opportunity with failure. After all, without a guarantee of success - which opportunity doesn't have - it is as likely that I will succeed as that I will fail. Thus, there's no inherent value to opportunity that makes it as significant as experience.
2) There's reasonable doubt to claim that opportunity (or possibility) does not exist. It certainly doesn't follow from common sense, but there is also nothing in the way of proof that shows that possibility or true free will exist. In fact, there is also equally strong evidence that the world is predetermined (a thought that follows well with religion and with something like monism).
Of course there is a gut response to opportunity. It's obvious to me that living in the United States is better than living in Communist Russia. At least the chance exists to create a good life for myself. So then, what does opportunity really mean?
I suppose I'm starting to form "opportunity" into two types: Soft Opportunity and Hard Opportunity.
Soft Opportunity can come from the mere existence of an object or goal - The Mona Lisa exists, therefore I could go see it.
Hard Opportunity speaks to the mechanics of actually being able to do something - The Mona Lisa exists, I have the funds for air travel, the museum where its housed will be open, I can withstand the lines, I have eyesight, therefore I could go see it.
The reason I feel compelled to delineate between the two is because opportunity on its own means very little. Or, at least, there is a difference between real opportunity and perceived opportunity. I would argue, quite liberally, that the American Dream doesn't actually exist for many citizens. The fact that they live in the United States does nothing to make that "opportunity to make life good" exist in any real form in their lives. Because there are other factors that go into whether an opportunity can be utilized beyond the opportunities existence.
Therefore, since I (at the current moment and at no perceivable time in the future) have the funds to travel to France - it matters very little to me whether the Mona Lisa exists or has been sprayed with acid.
I'm getting back into how things affect us in the micro and macro, and this seems like an extreme view to take, but I still have to question what role a painting I will never see plays in my life. Still thinking, is the key phrase.
I sat down and really thought about whether or not I'd be alright if I heard the news that the Mona Lisa had been burned. On the universal sentiment of great art being destroyed and the collective humanity lessened, sure, I'd feel sad. But on a personal level, I realized I didn't actually care.
I suppose that makes me heartless, but the key is a matter of experience. I will most likely never see the Mona Lisa. Therefore, I have no vested personal interest in whether it exists in the future or solely in the past. I'm sure there are plenty of manifest qualities about the Mona Lisa - perhaps my life is affected in some way that I can't directly connect, but affected nonetheless. On the whole, though, my life is unchanged whether the Mona Lisa is still in the Louvre available for viewing or reduced to ash.
My position comes from my not equating opportunity with experience. I can see a logical argument to contradict my personal feelings by saying that the "possibility of seeing the Mona Lisa" is as good or almost as important as "seeing the Mona Lisa". For example, let's say we were talking about economic growth instead of art. Isn't the opportunity to make as much money as possible better than not having the opportunity at all?
This, of course, is the American Dream.
Some quick problems with the dream of opportunity:
1) In order to equate possibility with the experience, I would also have to equate opportunity with failure. After all, without a guarantee of success - which opportunity doesn't have - it is as likely that I will succeed as that I will fail. Thus, there's no inherent value to opportunity that makes it as significant as experience.
2) There's reasonable doubt to claim that opportunity (or possibility) does not exist. It certainly doesn't follow from common sense, but there is also nothing in the way of proof that shows that possibility or true free will exist. In fact, there is also equally strong evidence that the world is predetermined (a thought that follows well with religion and with something like monism).
Of course there is a gut response to opportunity. It's obvious to me that living in the United States is better than living in Communist Russia. At least the chance exists to create a good life for myself. So then, what does opportunity really mean?
I suppose I'm starting to form "opportunity" into two types: Soft Opportunity and Hard Opportunity.
Soft Opportunity can come from the mere existence of an object or goal - The Mona Lisa exists, therefore I could go see it.
Hard Opportunity speaks to the mechanics of actually being able to do something - The Mona Lisa exists, I have the funds for air travel, the museum where its housed will be open, I can withstand the lines, I have eyesight, therefore I could go see it.
The reason I feel compelled to delineate between the two is because opportunity on its own means very little. Or, at least, there is a difference between real opportunity and perceived opportunity. I would argue, quite liberally, that the American Dream doesn't actually exist for many citizens. The fact that they live in the United States does nothing to make that "opportunity to make life good" exist in any real form in their lives. Because there are other factors that go into whether an opportunity can be utilized beyond the opportunities existence.
Therefore, since I (at the current moment and at no perceivable time in the future) have the funds to travel to France - it matters very little to me whether the Mona Lisa exists or has been sprayed with acid.
I'm getting back into how things affect us in the micro and macro, and this seems like an extreme view to take, but I still have to question what role a painting I will never see plays in my life. Still thinking, is the key phrase.
01 May 2008
Red Sky in the Morning
The reason that there's a calm before a storm is because the way in which a storm draws energy from the air. When I was younger, the best surfing always happened during hurricane season in the gulf. The sky would be lit, the waves would be clean and monstrous, and there wouldn't be a raindrop in sight.
That's because all the rain was being called elsewhere. A swirling mass of energy (mostly electricity) was pulling all the moisture out of the air from miles and miles away. The magnetic attraction of the electron molecules was strong enough to force surrounding energy to leave its current state and head for where the collective was. That's also why the eye of a hurricane is so calm - all the energy moves so quickly in a circular motion that a focal point, a pivot point is created so that the motion throws all matter and energy outward from the center, leaving the center completely still.
I haven't had a thought in weeks. Not a real one anyway. Everything I write seems to be just a little forced, and that's because I haven't really been thinking. When I am, the flow takes over and everything fits together (even if it's all one big run-on sentence). Lately, everything is just rehashed versions of previous thoughts.
So I'm wondering if my brain is on a little vacation. A spring slump. Maybe it's needed elsewhere or maybe I haven't really had anything to think about. Maybe it's because I've been paying too much attention to the Presidential race, and there hasn't been any real substantive news in a while.
There's two feelings that come with this sort of thing, and I think we've all experienced them:
1) Boredom - it seems like we should be thinking and learning and growing and doing, but something internal just isn't working right. So we sit. And sitting around seems to be all we're up for.
2) Listlessness - the feeling, an itch, that we're wasting time and need to get moving because there's a world out there to save.
Is there a way to combat these feelings? Or do we have to wait for some natural changeover to happen inside us so we can get on with progression?
So far I haven't found a cure for not thinking. It bothers me though. I'm so used to analyzing and delving deeper into everything - I'm even analyzing the fact that I haven't been analyzing everything.
I take it as a natural flow of events - there has to be some down time for everything. So maybe I should just embrace the lack of mental stimulation and watch more television, sit around doing nothing for a while, find some zen in the whole situation.
But I only get this way, usually, for one reason. And it's a major one.
It means something big is on the horizon. I can't quite make it out, but I know it's there.
That's because all the rain was being called elsewhere. A swirling mass of energy (mostly electricity) was pulling all the moisture out of the air from miles and miles away. The magnetic attraction of the electron molecules was strong enough to force surrounding energy to leave its current state and head for where the collective was. That's also why the eye of a hurricane is so calm - all the energy moves so quickly in a circular motion that a focal point, a pivot point is created so that the motion throws all matter and energy outward from the center, leaving the center completely still.
I haven't had a thought in weeks. Not a real one anyway. Everything I write seems to be just a little forced, and that's because I haven't really been thinking. When I am, the flow takes over and everything fits together (even if it's all one big run-on sentence). Lately, everything is just rehashed versions of previous thoughts.
So I'm wondering if my brain is on a little vacation. A spring slump. Maybe it's needed elsewhere or maybe I haven't really had anything to think about. Maybe it's because I've been paying too much attention to the Presidential race, and there hasn't been any real substantive news in a while.
There's two feelings that come with this sort of thing, and I think we've all experienced them:
1) Boredom - it seems like we should be thinking and learning and growing and doing, but something internal just isn't working right. So we sit. And sitting around seems to be all we're up for.
2) Listlessness - the feeling, an itch, that we're wasting time and need to get moving because there's a world out there to save.
Is there a way to combat these feelings? Or do we have to wait for some natural changeover to happen inside us so we can get on with progression?
So far I haven't found a cure for not thinking. It bothers me though. I'm so used to analyzing and delving deeper into everything - I'm even analyzing the fact that I haven't been analyzing everything.
I take it as a natural flow of events - there has to be some down time for everything. So maybe I should just embrace the lack of mental stimulation and watch more television, sit around doing nothing for a while, find some zen in the whole situation.
But I only get this way, usually, for one reason. And it's a major one.
It means something big is on the horizon. I can't quite make it out, but I know it's there.
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