From riches to rags, raving mad, he sat, solitarily, in his bed. Time and time again a story, a tune, had emerged with a plot that felt it could thicken but just proved to be thick. And, so, he found himself, as ever, on the losing side. The side that did not get sympathy, being still associated to previous success. What he wanted to be was a challenger. He knew that there was no cause left.
His nose was all there. He did not grow sticky feet overnight. Not even that. He just sat, in not so eager anticipation of a plot twist. The story was all out of him. The music had died, and so did he in that very moment. Pufffff, when the air goes out of a wrinkly balloon it’s not even an event. Be specific, he thought. Do something, he shouted to himself, hearing it as the faintest whisper.
Get yourself the fuck back on track.
Posted in JoB
Studying is essentially still this: converting stuff in books to stuff in brains. In order to do well in school you have to have a large storage and excellent read/write access to it. Very much as if processor, programming and sensitivity to context do not matter. It is like our education system is stuck in not caring about anything but our memory capacity. And so it produces the new standard uniform class of power people who have muscled memory, and the disciplined balls that go with it. I’ll try to explain why this is as unnecessary as it is bad and why it’s nevertheless unlikely to change.
They tell me it’s difficult for all of us. The thing is that I know I’m not one of them. Pitch is black. Color is blue. I remember things about wanting to be a member of things. I wasn’t entirely bad at it. Some people were jealous. It seemed like I got it all. It didn’t seem at all like I didn’t get any of it. That’s how easy it is. Yet so difficult. So bloody difficult. Like you want to be run over by a truck.
My half of the car shred to pieces with me in it. Recognizable but maimed. Smiling ready for the thumbs up selfie. He finally made it. Pfew. Instagram it and dare people to like it. I would (dare people, not like it). What’s not to like about the life that once used to be mine to the detriment of everybody around me. Maimed they are and I was the truck. Things it is impossible to say nowadays.
Let’s be normal. Except I’m not. Div zero like thus:
Posted in JoB
Tagged personal, self
For famous people it’s refreshing to get out and about without being recognized. At least, so I’m told. Not being famous it’s a feeling I fear I must go without. I feel like an emperor without clothes who – if noticed at all – is noticed for feeling like one despite his clothes. I have no claim to fame nor is it fame that I claim. I do think I have something to say and, I wonder: is there a correlation between having something to say and being famous? It is certainly a matter of fact that many who are thought to have something to say have, first, said something which made them infamous.
The thing is, confused or not, if you wear the heavy garb of an emperor it has to feel light to be able to shed it. Maybe it even feels enlightening. The other thing though is that once enlightened you can go back to your uniform and feel positively sure you’ll impress. That is the way of your subjects, you can rest assured that they’ll bow for your garb. Or maybe hiss at it. Whichever way, your difference will never be met with indifference.
Let’s imagine I’m born an emperor who has never been crowned. Can I be incognito?
Posted in JoB
It’s such fun to see how people are ever so busy to make our problems go away. They are so busy to the point of being blind to the many marvels of our ways. How many stop and wonder at the world of wonder lying buried behind our wonkish eyes?
“Oh”, I hear you say, “but you have so many problems, and not only because you cause them too”. And that’s oh so true. We live with our problems from day to sleepless night, in which we wonder what problems – on top of our own – we are causing you.
The thing is though that in between all of our problems – and between all of the problems we cause you – we have a life that sometimes is worth living too. If you’ll just let us live it in the way we oddly do, you may wonder if it doesn’t even have something in it for you.
So if you have the time, stop and wonder at my merry autistic ways. Maybe you would at some time like to do some research on that some time too?
Posted in JoB
Tagged ASD, autism
This book should be written because it would clarify how thinking things through, in the way we autistics do for everyday survival, is both painstaking and necessary for all of us. That is also the reason why the title should not read “The History of Autistic Philosophy” – not because we cannot diagnose dead philosophers but because it would increase the rift between everyman’s everyday struggles and philosophy as thinking things through.
It is not the case that all philosophers are (somewhat) autistic. Still all original philosophy is, in a very practical sense, autistic as it takes mundane, unquestioned facts to be deeply problematical. When Aristotle talks about wonder the metaphor is that of a child picking a toy apart to see how it works. It is such wonder that fuels reaching for the unreachable. Reaching for the unreachable is at the same time exhausting as it makes one retreat into the safe confines of a predictable world where everything can be taken as self-evident: a world of unquestioned repetitive ritual, prejudice and superstition.
I believe that my (I call dibs!) Autistic History of Philosophy will improve understanding of one another as well as of our selves. Let me explain myself:
What’s the point of living forever, if living means your identity does not survive even the briefest of moments? People are trained to see their life and identity as something sacred (sacred enough to trample other people and shit all over their identities) and it is a bogus conditioning. In the West we have replaced God with Truth but our zeal to convert others has stayed essentially the same. The only thing which has changed is that we believe that our life – that we – have become sacred cows giving the divine milk of wisdom. All the life preserving bullshit we inhale constantly invariably leads to seeing life as a struggle – one in which we have to prevail by making our point.
Choosing life has become synonymous with becoming deaf to others. It is ludicrous as we find ourselves complaining nobody wants to listen to us. It makes us feel dead inside. The thing is – and this is why I write – that it’s not life that makes life worth living but longing: the longing for being longed for. If for whatever reason you cannot be longed for then it’s time to throw in the towel and just fade away. People will tend to hear this as negative, in denying the value of life but I consider it a fact that the value in living comes from trying to understand others. Life’s a positive thing, death can’t touch it.
A lot has been said about continental and analytic philosophy. Sometimes it seems like it has been invented just to shoot at each other. Still, good philosophy can’t but come to the same conclusion: that there are no facts except inter-personal ones. Facts are moral. First there was an ought, it is the is that will remain forever imperfect.
Below the fold there is an imperfect exercise in trying to argue just that. Continue reading
Posted in JoB, Kolakowski
Tagged Arendt, Davidson, Dilthey, Gadamer, Kant, Kolakowski, Neurath, Quine, scientism, Socrates