I’ve been thinking lately about how satisfying one’s desires ought to be thought about as one ages. The delayed gratification test given to young children involving one marshmallow now or two awhile later is meant, I guess, to determine a child’s sense of discipline, discernment and desires.
The idea of having it now or saving for later should, I think, be nuanced later in life as we age and our tastes and health are factored into what waiting means. At some point, when all possibilities are considered, it seems reasonable to consume and enjoy immediately.
I’ve been thinking lately about the idea of one’s ‘first nature’, that time of youthfulness when the ‘new’ occurs daily, a time of pure experience, deeply felt, uplifting and thrilling in one instance disheartening and dispiriting the next, a time when one’s true self is revealed.
A time lost when only a few years later a ‘chain of events’ defines who one becomes: imposed responsibilities, social demands and the realization of a personal identity restrict imagination and limit possibilities. The infinite is made finite.
An existential loss unrealized until years later when, if fortunate, one is exposed to insightful youth who rekindle the fire, the magic of one’s ‘first nature’. A reason, I suppose, to interact with the young; a way to remember who one truly was.
In the late 1940’s and early ’50’s artists painting in a non-representational manner had no language or means of conveying what they were doing. The intention was to create paintings of substance while eliminating pictorial space and figure/ground relationships. The problem being that not much could be said about what one was doing and what sort of meaning such work might have.
The result of these concerns was a move toward extreme minimalism, appreciation lying, I guess, in a Zen-like meditation on an essentially monochrome canvas. The artist Robert Irwin contemplated this orange painting for weeks moving one or the other horizontal lines up or down fractions of an inch.
Curious to consider how to interpret such a personal activity. No wonder, I suppose, why such concerns confound the viewing public and remain an esoteric interest at best.
I’ve been thinking lately about the technology I, like most everyone else, carry around with me in my pocket every day, wondering whether the use of this incredibly useful device might impose opioid-like addiction that some of us may not be able to control. As the small machine, through algorithmic manipulations learns who each of us is it selfishly feeds our needs and desires modifying our realities through sensationalized clickbait and presenting us with the news it knows we want. Demanding more and more of our time and attention the small device controls our ability to function on a daily basis: access to bank accounts, keeping appointments, staying in touch with others and performing necessary tasks depend on its benevolence.
The scifi notion of a controlling artificial intelligence may already be here residing in our pockets and purses.
Summers, I spend a lot of time on my back porch from where I have a clear view of my neighbor’s yard. I am able to view the comings and goings of a couple with whom, I in fact, have never exchanged more than a few words in passing. Nevertheless, observation and imagination have provided me insights into these people’s lives.
He, it is clear, is a serious fisherman in possession, as he is, of a state-of-the-art fishing boat with all the electronic gadgets necessary, I suspect, to ensure fishing success. I observe him with his wife whom he embraces as he is about to go off on one of his multi-day fishing trips. He has built his wife heart shaped flower gardens in their front yard that he dutifully tends, weeds and prunes.
In the last few months, though, I haven’t seen the wife, a fact that has me, as I sit here in my lounger, conjuring different scenarios that might explain her absence. Maybe she’s experienced a debilitating illness that has her bedridden or perhaps she’s been institutionalized for mental issues (she’s always appeared a bit unusual) or maybe the neighbor’s attentions toward her were feigned, were means of establishing a potential alibi for her disappearance, that in fact murder had occurred and she was buried in the basement; the adult sons who came by to see mom told she had gone off to live with her sister in Florida.
It’s becoming clear to me I need to find other ways of occupying my mind.
I’ve been traveling lately through large unfamiliar cities. Hampered, as I am, by short-term memory loss and an inability to follow directions, the visual glut and auditory din I encounter has me exhausted. I find myself lost almost immediately upon arrival at the train station (or airport or bus terminal) as I try to decipher the abstract metro maps or follow the fine lines of the tram or bus routes on the city directory the friendly information folks handout with a smile. By the time I stumble upon my lodgings and rest up a bit I have to remind myself of the danger of going off without sufficient attention to place and getting lost all over again. The upside of it all being the realization that people the world over are open, friendly and ready to help a disoriented stranger and are, I think, appreciative that someone would be interested in visiting the place they call home.
I’ve been thinking lately about the nature of beauty: about how much determination of the beautiful relies on its fleeting existence.
Some might argue that art captures beauty in permanence, but I would suggest captured beauty relies on context: Michaelangelo’s virgin in his Pieta is beautiful in relation to her youthfulness and suffering. Generally, the beauty of young women relies on the ephemeral nature of their youthfulness. Similarly, determining beauty in the natural world relies on a subconscious realization of changing seasons.
Realizing beauty is an uplifting experience that might not be possible without an awareness of one’s mortality: our ephemeral existence.
Forgive me, if you will, for dwelling on the morbid but I can’t help thinking about the ultimate aftermath, what might be awaiting us after our final demise.
The fear most of us feel when such thoughts occur, I suspect, may be about facing the unfamiliar, leaving behind the faces, placers, environment, social connections that is one’s world. if we set aside the science of biological existence which seems reasonable from a spiritual perspective most any scenario is in play. Imagination would suggest intriguing possibilities for what might come next.
I’ve been getting quite a few ‘voice messages from God’ notifications on my phone lately. So far, I’ve resisted opening any of them. I can only assume such messages are ‘click bait’, attempts to draw me into something I’ll find irresistible, some super low-price offer on something I’ll be unable to pass up.
But what if it is a message from God: A warning of some sort that he (she) in his (her) benevolence wants me to be aware of for my own good, knowledge to ensure my well-being or provide safety to family or friends?
Still, I have to assume an omni-powerful deity would have a better means of communicating that through a 42 second message on my phone.
Having just had to go to the dentist for an issue with one of the few remaining teeth I have left has me thinking about my dental history.
At the age of twelve I lost my top four front teeth to a car dashboard (a time before seat belts). The partial dental replacement I got after that was held in place by wires around the molars, that, over the years, ate away at those supporting teeth eventually resulting in the need for an upper denture. Throughout my life I’ve become quite familiar with the dreaded root canal procedure that did preserve some of the lower molars for a while, but eventually the caps broke down and the teeth cracked.
I should, I suppose, appreciate the richness of my dental experiences; experiences that those with sound teeth never realize.
deideismusings 