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TW
by Guest Wed May 16, 2018 1:55 pm
I registered my ID day before thinking I had nothing philosophical to say and today I have something philosophical to say. I thus registered my ID subconsciously in anticipation of the future.
The same sentence means something different at different times. Could life get any simpler?
I had remarked to you, here, that Godel theorems taught me that multiplication in arithmetic and self-reference in logic were illegal operations because nothing can look back at itself. I had not known this about the universe then.
Today I was rummaging through my diaries again because I am frustrated with myself. It isn't that I never tried meditating (yet kept on whining). I did try for ten days. But the Art of Living meditation, based on sounds, did not suit me. I need Vipassana. But Vipassana course is tough. I'm still wondering if I am prepared for ten days of no chat and 6 hours of sleep in a residency (the spartan quarters reminded me of Nalanda -- stone bed, not khaat). I know I will join them but I don't know when -- I think soon. (But I do know I won't start another thread here or register again after deleting this ID.)
Today I was rummaging through my diaries.
I read that I had said, 20 years ago, that looking back at oneself was an illegal operation in logic. Yet I found this same thing new knowledge, new wisdom, when I read it in mathematics six months ago (and I told you as much here). The same proposition can mean different things if the context and age of the one perceiving changes. Every old thing can keep appearing new without one's realizing what is going on. Or if one does realizes it, one cannot escape the seductive web of illusion. How come it takes man 53 years of experience to learn that what he rejected as an adolescent was not false? The Vedas and Buddha? I am not dissing science. I cannot diss science because it would amount to dissing myself.
In 'one hundred years of solitude' by gabriel garcia marquez, there is a scene, or a dream, or an incident, call what you will. Since my copy is missing, I shall recreate from memory:
A mother, the novel's pivotal character, learns that one of her sons has run away into the forests with bandits. She is perturbed to learn this. Perturbed by the fact that a baby spider has crawled out of her web. Perturbed by the fact that she must now spin farther and longer and run behind him, to ensnare him, to bring him back, all while hoping, wishing, that the web she leaves behind temporarily does not wither away, that the spiders she leaves behind remain with her web. She cannot be but herself. Abandoning everything, she starts walking towards the forest, then into the forest. She walks deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Day becomes night becomes day becomes night. She walks. Her son is nowhere to be found. But she refuses to give up - her will is too strong and her web is infinitely stretchable. And she walks further and further (away) and deeper and deeper into the forest. Then she stops. And she feels she has walked very far. So far, that she needn't go back. She doesn't. She disappears from the novel. Marquez discards her right then.
And I stopped to think. Why was this scene obsessing me (release me, tell her, write me down, put it on paper - I had been hearing these cries for the last few days). Was there any meaning to this scene? I refused to believe there was. After all, words come out first. Then meanings arrive. And these are all concocted meanings you know. Hocus pocus stuff. Academic discourse stuff. Political science. Theories of justice. Finnegans wake. Fucking-with-mind shit. So I choked the voice.
And then you said, 'we haven't run long enough, far enough.' So I thought I'll write to Manail today the following, 'Manail, run. Start running. Right now. I have already started to run. You run in the opposite direction. Don't turn. I shall honour my commitments. You shall honour yours. Run. Bye.' I was in the car then. I had just finished a meeting with my lawyer. Later in the journey, another thought came to my mind. God forbid, I had told myself once, God Forbid Sailendra, if you two ever fight. By the time I reached home, I was in a quieter mood. And then I wrote this scene above. I was relieved. Meaning or no meaning, I had wanted to say it. And another thought comes to my mind, which I shall write now.
But Manail, I have already started running. I have been running since that day when I fell over the precipice. I didn't want to fall you know. But I did. And as I fell, there was a jolt. There has been only one jolt, only one devastation - no more. And after that jolt, I ceased to feel I fell you know. I was jolted that day when you slapped me. I will digress to describe that jolt. O I don't want to meet you prince you had said. Who knows, you might be a toad. I felt humiliated that day. Crushed, vanquished, defeated. You can use all the anglo-saxon hocus pocus words to describe that feeling here. They all fit. Shit, I cried, she doesn't even wish to know what I actually look like - she's so absorbed with herself. But at the same time I saw you dance and sing and I felt an unbearable tenderness for you. You were a princess no doubt. I was learning about how princesses thought, I felt. I had never met a princess, now I had, and this was an educational experience. I was such an adolescent - all I wished for was to get into her pants. And when you wished me to call you, I felt that the sensitive princess was pitying me - O no, I cried, I don't want pity my princess, I want to remain where I am and watch you, if you allowed me the liberty. I cannot possess you, you won't let me, I thought. Sad. But I will become your chaperone, your servant then. Yes, that's right. Something is better than nothing. And after that I ceased to feel I fell. I became absorbed in the parallelism of the parallel universe. But then really I didn't. I could not stop being me. But the anguish was not to be repeated despite the fact that circumstances were to repeat themselves. And, strangely, of late, I have been getting the feeling that now you suffer from a similar anguish - you feel that I am a prince (and I mentioned somewhere that I 'am' one - I'm such an idiot, such a liar), and that you are just a Sushila really, and not my Manail, and you bring up crow-love again (I never sent it to you again - you are seeing things, but by seeing things you make them real). But none of this is actually true. Let us brush all this aside. For we change, we evolve each day and none of us can really catch each other by the hair and pull the other down into his or her underwear. The trouble is we refuse to be labeled, refuse to be categorized. We flee from our selves (I really hate to use these words, really hate. But I have used them. They reek of your silly continental, your silly Parisian existentialist thought. The self can never look at itself as it has to discard itself to look at itself. And the Parisians wish to surprise us with this hogwash). But you are different. Different from me - that too I know. Perhaps that's why I like you. The truth is that we enjoy each other's company. Period. Anyway. I digressed. Where was I. Yes, I have been running away from day one. I have jaan, my baby, my baba, my pretty polly, my sweetie pie, my rani, I have. From the day I fell over the precipice. What exactly did I mean by 'falling over the precipice'? I know you know what exactly I had meant (for I did see you use it in the right context at least once). I had meant that I will now wish to write. And I have been writing (well not actually writing, but procrastinating writing, but something which is of equal merit, of equal absorption) since. So it comes to my mind, now, that if you stood in front of me, my Manail, my Sushila, my Sushail, my Manila, would I stop writing? Would I rather sit on the couch and chat with you about the day's happening or sit before my computer?
Answer!
The same sentence means something different at different times. Could life get any simpler?
I had remarked to you, here, that Godel theorems taught me that multiplication in arithmetic and self-reference in logic were illegal operations because nothing can look back at itself. I had not known this about the universe then.
Today I was rummaging through my diaries again because I am frustrated with myself. It isn't that I never tried meditating (yet kept on whining). I did try for ten days. But the Art of Living meditation, based on sounds, did not suit me. I need Vipassana. But Vipassana course is tough. I'm still wondering if I am prepared for ten days of no chat and 6 hours of sleep in a residency (the spartan quarters reminded me of Nalanda -- stone bed, not khaat). I know I will join them but I don't know when -- I think soon. (But I do know I won't start another thread here or register again after deleting this ID.)
Today I was rummaging through my diaries.
I read that I had said, 20 years ago, that looking back at oneself was an illegal operation in logic. Yet I found this same thing new knowledge, new wisdom, when I read it in mathematics six months ago (and I told you as much here). The same proposition can mean different things if the context and age of the one perceiving changes. Every old thing can keep appearing new without one's realizing what is going on. Or if one does realizes it, one cannot escape the seductive web of illusion. How come it takes man 53 years of experience to learn that what he rejected as an adolescent was not false? The Vedas and Buddha? I am not dissing science. I cannot diss science because it would amount to dissing myself.
In 'one hundred years of solitude' by gabriel garcia marquez, there is a scene, or a dream, or an incident, call what you will. Since my copy is missing, I shall recreate from memory:
A mother, the novel's pivotal character, learns that one of her sons has run away into the forests with bandits. She is perturbed to learn this. Perturbed by the fact that a baby spider has crawled out of her web. Perturbed by the fact that she must now spin farther and longer and run behind him, to ensnare him, to bring him back, all while hoping, wishing, that the web she leaves behind temporarily does not wither away, that the spiders she leaves behind remain with her web. She cannot be but herself. Abandoning everything, she starts walking towards the forest, then into the forest. She walks deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Day becomes night becomes day becomes night. She walks. Her son is nowhere to be found. But she refuses to give up - her will is too strong and her web is infinitely stretchable. And she walks further and further (away) and deeper and deeper into the forest. Then she stops. And she feels she has walked very far. So far, that she needn't go back. She doesn't. She disappears from the novel. Marquez discards her right then.
And I stopped to think. Why was this scene obsessing me (release me, tell her, write me down, put it on paper - I had been hearing these cries for the last few days). Was there any meaning to this scene? I refused to believe there was. After all, words come out first. Then meanings arrive. And these are all concocted meanings you know. Hocus pocus stuff. Academic discourse stuff. Political science. Theories of justice. Finnegans wake. Fucking-with-mind shit. So I choked the voice.
And then you said, 'we haven't run long enough, far enough.' So I thought I'll write to Manail today the following, 'Manail, run. Start running. Right now. I have already started to run. You run in the opposite direction. Don't turn. I shall honour my commitments. You shall honour yours. Run. Bye.' I was in the car then. I had just finished a meeting with my lawyer. Later in the journey, another thought came to my mind. God forbid, I had told myself once, God Forbid Sailendra, if you two ever fight. By the time I reached home, I was in a quieter mood. And then I wrote this scene above. I was relieved. Meaning or no meaning, I had wanted to say it. And another thought comes to my mind, which I shall write now.
But Manail, I have already started running. I have been running since that day when I fell over the precipice. I didn't want to fall you know. But I did. And as I fell, there was a jolt. There has been only one jolt, only one devastation - no more. And after that jolt, I ceased to feel I fell you know. I was jolted that day when you slapped me. I will digress to describe that jolt. O I don't want to meet you prince you had said. Who knows, you might be a toad. I felt humiliated that day. Crushed, vanquished, defeated. You can use all the anglo-saxon hocus pocus words to describe that feeling here. They all fit. Shit, I cried, she doesn't even wish to know what I actually look like - she's so absorbed with herself. But at the same time I saw you dance and sing and I felt an unbearable tenderness for you. You were a princess no doubt. I was learning about how princesses thought, I felt. I had never met a princess, now I had, and this was an educational experience. I was such an adolescent - all I wished for was to get into her pants. And when you wished me to call you, I felt that the sensitive princess was pitying me - O no, I cried, I don't want pity my princess, I want to remain where I am and watch you, if you allowed me the liberty. I cannot possess you, you won't let me, I thought. Sad. But I will become your chaperone, your servant then. Yes, that's right. Something is better than nothing. And after that I ceased to feel I fell. I became absorbed in the parallelism of the parallel universe. But then really I didn't. I could not stop being me. But the anguish was not to be repeated despite the fact that circumstances were to repeat themselves. And, strangely, of late, I have been getting the feeling that now you suffer from a similar anguish - you feel that I am a prince (and I mentioned somewhere that I 'am' one - I'm such an idiot, such a liar), and that you are just a Sushila really, and not my Manail, and you bring up crow-love again (I never sent it to you again - you are seeing things, but by seeing things you make them real). But none of this is actually true. Let us brush all this aside. For we change, we evolve each day and none of us can really catch each other by the hair and pull the other down into his or her underwear. The trouble is we refuse to be labeled, refuse to be categorized. We flee from our selves (I really hate to use these words, really hate. But I have used them. They reek of your silly continental, your silly Parisian existentialist thought. The self can never look at itself as it has to discard itself to look at itself. And the Parisians wish to surprise us with this hogwash). But you are different. Different from me - that too I know. Perhaps that's why I like you. The truth is that we enjoy each other's company. Period. Anyway. I digressed. Where was I. Yes, I have been running away from day one. I have jaan, my baby, my baba, my pretty polly, my sweetie pie, my rani, I have. From the day I fell over the precipice. What exactly did I mean by 'falling over the precipice'? I know you know what exactly I had meant (for I did see you use it in the right context at least once). I had meant that I will now wish to write. And I have been writing (well not actually writing, but procrastinating writing, but something which is of equal merit, of equal absorption) since. So it comes to my mind, now, that if you stood in front of me, my Manail, my Sushila, my Sushail, my Manila, would I stop writing? Would I rather sit on the couch and chat with you about the day's happening or sit before my computer?
Answer!
Guest- Guest
Re: TW
by Seva Lamberdar Wed May 16, 2018 5:43 pm
Watch the old movie "Navrang" by V. Shantaram -- the hero fantasizes and creates his own 'reality' whenever the situation is not to his liking.
Seva Lamberdar- Posts : 6594
Join date : 2012-11-29 -
Re: TW
by Guest Wed May 16, 2018 6:29 pm
"And she walks further and further (away) and deeper and deeper into the forest. Then she stops. And she feels she has walked very far. So far, that she needn't go back."
that sounds like me, many times...
"I cannot possess you, you won't let me, I thought. Sad. But I will become your chaperone, your servant then. Yes, that's right. Something is better than nothing. And after that I ceased to feel I fell. I became absorbed in the parallelism of the parallel universe. But then really I didn't. I could not stop being me. But the anguish was not to be repeated despite the fact that circumstances were to repeat themselves."
Yep! This too!
"So it comes to my mind, now, that if you stood in front of me, my Manail, my Sushila, my Sushail, my Manila, would I stop writing? Would I rather sit on the couch and chat with you about the day's happening or sit before my computer?
Answer! "
what if she loves you for your writing! Hmm.
that sounds like me, many times...
"I cannot possess you, you won't let me, I thought. Sad. But I will become your chaperone, your servant then. Yes, that's right. Something is better than nothing. And after that I ceased to feel I fell. I became absorbed in the parallelism of the parallel universe. But then really I didn't. I could not stop being me. But the anguish was not to be repeated despite the fact that circumstances were to repeat themselves."
Yep! This too!
"So it comes to my mind, now, that if you stood in front of me, my Manail, my Sushila, my Sushail, my Manila, would I stop writing? Would I rather sit on the couch and chat with you about the day's happening or sit before my computer?
Answer! "
what if she loves you for your writing! Hmm.
Guest- Guest
Re: TW
by Guest Wed May 16, 2018 11:31 pm
LOL. paradoxes = life.rasāsvāda wrote:
Answer! "
what if she loves you for your writing! Hmm.
Guest- Guest
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