An Incurable Romantic

I suppose there must be an inclination for the thoughtful mind to balance opposites. During the 18th century the scientistic logic of the Enlightenment generated the philosophical counterpoint of Romanticism, a view of nature as transcendent ‘beauty as truth, truth beauty’. The thinking was, I guess, that Nature was the source of all knowledge, the way to deep understanding, so communing with nature, engaging in contemplation of the natural world was the way one might proceed to fully find the secrets our world holds.

I wonder if the adolescent ideas of ‘romance’ get in the way sometimes of an understanding of the significance of this early philosophy. Certainly the aspects of the romantic displayed in media dramatics: maudlin emotionalism, heroic fantasy and the like are a far cry from the philosophical significance of 18th century Romanticism.

I think that the attention to our nurturing natural world that the Romantics found so significant mustn’t be forgotten. The contemplative mind will embrace those ideas and work to philosophically assimilate them. Hopefully the true’ Romantic spirit’ won’t be lost amidst the superficiality of our popular culture.

The Downside of the Examined Life

I’ve been reading lately the musings of a young philosopher who has spent considerable time trying to make sense of his life (worth living, he wonders) through investigation of the profound offerings of the great thinkers of the past. He tells us of a less than ideal childhood, of searching for answers in his readings as a student, of a confused sense of need for someone to share his life with while at the same time desiring solitary un-interrupted contemplation, finally settling on the belief that the ultimate motivation of all men is self-interest.

Caught up as he was in the existentialist thinkers (who, given the history of the times had good reason for their pessimistic assessments of humanity, I suppose) our hero (and how can we think of him otherwise pursuing truth as he was) descended into the dark realm from which no man escapes unscathed, placing upon himself the burden of humanities failings and facing the inevitable disaster which will inevitably follow. Kind of like living under a dark cloud, I guess.

Anyway, in the end our young philosopher does appear to re-enter life to some degree, remarrying and having a child, decisions which carry along with them sufficient anxieties to over shadow the thoughts of the existentialists. One would think.

The Ancients

I’ve been wondering, lately, if anyone thinks about the ancients anymore. I’ve been reading about the polarizing political intrigues that engulfed Plato in the later years of his life. He found his integrity compromised despite his best intentions to teach the young ruler Dionysius philosophy, geometry and the path to a deeper understanding of the ultimate realities.

I guess the idea that absolute power, which is what these early Greek tyrants had, corrupts absolutely holds most of the time. Diogenes the Cynic certainly understood this. In protest to the perverse values of the time he cast off all social conventions (along with most of his clothes) and wandered the streets of Athens seeking an honest man while living hand to mouth, without material possessions of any sort, in a castoff wine barrel.

Some things never change I guess. It’s pretty evident today that the inclination to wield power trumps thoughtful contemplation, reasoned pursuit of the good and the just and true pretty much every time.

The Beauty of the Mysterious

I’ve been reading that sometimes everyday events can trigger subliminal memories lying deep within the unconscious mind that have nothing to do with lived experience. Psychologists suggest the indeterminate source of these ‘memories’ may be a collective accumulation of insights we share with all who have come before us. How exactly we acquire these insights I find to be pretty mysterious.
The idea, though, seemed somewhat reasonable to me but then I read that inanimate objects may cooperate with these subliminal messages in the arrangement of symbolic patterns; a prime example of which is the grandfather clock that suddenly stops ticking upon the death of its ancient owner. Apparently there are numerous documented incidents of similar occurrences, which suggest we may have mental capacities beyond the physical neurological operations of the mind.

Well, it all appeared to me kind of questionably new-agie, but then, when I considered the idea that over evolutionary time survival has dictated the acquisition of certain intuitive knowledge associated with the natural environment that took on super-natural significance as our ancestors dreamt of the dead, come alive, and witnessed powerful life-forces within nature. The thought made the man and his clock a bit more palatable. And the whole idea of a collective unconscious fits in pretty nicely with the psychic inclinations our primitive, eons-old brains have yet to evolve beyond.

As reasoned and logical as I might wish reality to be, I’ve got to accept, and revel really, in the beauty of the mysterious.

Dissociation

I’ve been reading that Karl Jung, back in the day, suggested, in his investigations of the human psyche, that we are all on the verge, only a step away from, dissociation which means, I guess, that we are liable in times of stress to revert to our earlier primitive natures and become aggressive, confrontational and hostile. A being, so unlike our modern selves re- emerges from deep within our unconscious and we find ourselves fighting for survival in a tribal sort of reality: you get the picture; we take on the persona of a club-bearing, animal-hide clad, primordial screamer.

I kind of get this as I think of my own change of personality as competitive engagements become heated. A sort of insidious aggression, a tooth and nail fight, a winner take all thirst for blood of the vanquished. It’s us versus them, good against evil, long-live the righteous.

But then, later, energy sapped, returned to my safe, nurturing reality, the sensitive, new-age guy I truly am, attuned to my feminine nature, resurfaces, bobs back up and the whole idea of a crazed, primitive me reduces to but a bad dream.

I do have to wonder, sometimes which identity is truly the real me.

How to Solve the World’s Problems Part One

I’ve been reading a very interesting assessment of the religious conflicts that have been fomenting around the world these days (well, actually, religious conflicts may be the lone absolute all civilizations have realized ad infinitum).

The problem, that has developed into terroristic behaviors according to my very credible source, is disenfranchisement: a lack of opportunity to voice grievances by participating in a political dialogue. Giving marginalized peoples the opportunity to be part of the legitimate social/political structure has been shown to reduce extremist behaviors and even groups with fairly hostile inclinations, people who view non-believers as apostate or heretical, will, given the opportunity, most likely work within a legitimate structure.

So, perhaps, rather than preparing for a cosmic war, opening dialogue, developing mutual trust, bringing the outliers into the fold is a superior philosophical stance. Besides, who can really know which side God is on?

 

 

The Story of Civilization, Part One

I’ve been reading that after the Big Bang, as life emerged, along with the amoebic beginnings of plants and animals, viruses began their evolutionary development. Then, much later on, as animals became domesticated by the first farmers, cows, pigs and such became hosts to booming viral colonies which had realized living animal cells were a great promoter of the viral life-style. (The animals, of course, being less than discriminating consumers of water, were readily available for viral habitation). Soon, these early viruses found their way to human hosts. The early farmers being unwary, often invited their domesticated animals into their abodes, which, it’s pretty obvious, wasn’t so good for mankind.

In fact, early epidemics of measles, plague, small pox, influenza and such wiped out large populations, the survivors having the genetic wherewithal to  pass on immunity to their progeny. So, to jump ahead a few millennia, the early farmers became explorers, sailing the globe seeking peoples to conquer and exploit, a task made considerably easier as they passed on the aforementioned deadly diseases to folks without immunity.

This whole scenario rather points out the geographic advantages (animals to domesticate and such) of the earliest farmers, who, on the positive side passed on their immunities to most of us. Still, it would seem to be sensible to keep a reasonable distance from the family dog: he/she may not kill you but knowing what the animal is inclined to eat and drink, disease is in the offing.  And, I don’t know about you but I’m getting a flu shot.

Pragmatism

I’ve been reading about certain 19th Century philosophers, William James and John Dewey among them, who developed a philosophic procedure, pragmatism, to deal with the disconnect between the growing validity of scientific discoveries and long held religious conceptions many folks embraced at the time.

Pragmatism was, and still is I guess, about practicality. Acting on an idea, empirical or religious, will produce either a result that proves to be personally useful, one of practical applicability, or will prove itself useless and disposable. The ‘truthfulness’ of the idea is thus established.

I guess it’s pretty clear that being practical, you know, for the most part, is important in decision making regarding social functioning and earning a living. It seems to me important, though, to hang on to idealisms sometimes no matter how trivial or fantastical they may be. Imaginings need to be limitless and be free to reach beyond any notion of functionality.

James and Dewey realized we live in a steadily evolving, transformational world. We need to spend time seeking the unknown in all its potential absurdness. Who knows, such investigations may lead to useful insights that will counter unwanted future evils.

Born to Angst

Studying, as I have been, the genetic bases for human behavior have me thinking about my own countenance and foibles. The probability I was, at least in part, born to be who I am is worth contemplating even as I recognize familial and cultural nurturing might have something to do with it. I think about my parents and grandparents, assess their personalities and find that some of us have anxious natures: even (or perhaps especially) when things are going smoothly there is a tendency to worry, to think of worst case scenarios, to dread what might happen next, even though, historically, the family has lived in amazingly good fortune.

So, if I assume, as I must, that I’ve inherited the Angst Gene there appears to be little I can do about it. And, since I haven’t suffered any health issues to this point like ulcers or need for psychological counseling, I guess I’ll just sit back, minimize my worrying as best I can in the realization this is simply who I am.

The Limitations of Language and Memory

I’ve been thinking lately that language is a limiting and essentially inadequate means of describing experience. (As I think about this it occurs to me I’ve probably thought this very thing before; in fact, I doubt I’ve had a truly original thought anytime recently).

Anyway, language may be the only way of describing experience, but the descriptions rendered no matter the mastery one may have of the written word will fall well short of sufficiently describing the color and complexities of sensual experience.

Roland Barthes, The late French literary theorist, apparently said that man does not exist prior to language. If I might be so bold as to contradict such a noted scholar, my experience suggests to me such an idea is nonsense. Such a statement would have to mean my colorful and complex sensual experiences can only occur to my conscious self in the form of language; that until language supervenes upon my colorful and complex sensual experiences that my most wonderful remembrances don’t exist.

But, then, maybe my memory is going, I am aging after all; brain cells are being lost. Still, the visual imagery is there and doesn’t seem to require captions. I’m thinking language is over-rated. It simply is unable to account for the ineffable.