Vertigo

This unpleasant twisting sensation pulls my mind in every direction. My understanding is spiraled around itself and everything distorts into a liquid filled column of unsteadiness. I strain to look straight ahead but see only reflections and bent light coming from elsewhere. Brightness catches in my sides, only to be lost in the darkness of my unbalance. Flashes of perception invade my senses but I lose it all in the glassy disturbance of the light. The lensing effect of my warped form causes the world to exist strangely. Beauty and meaning are replaced with menacing discontent; a darker world exists on the other side of this sickening vertigo.

I blink.

I blink again.

I am no longer dizzy.

But linearity is gone and the world is still dark.

Pi

"To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

Oy. Yann Martel would be disappointed in me.

Music

A person with whom I've recently become friends invited me to a musical get-together with some of his friends. Knowing only a little of music from the piano lessons my parents made me take when I was younger, I voiced some concerns about my ability to contribute, but he told me not to worry -- I'd fit right in. Reassured, I readily accepted the invitation and he told me they liked to dress up and pretend it was an important occasion.

The day of the gathering, I showed up to my friend's house armed with my plastic recorder from elementary school and dressed nicely. But to my embarrassment, my friend was dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a very old and expensive looking violin. Again, he told me not to worry and that everyone would be happy to have me there, that my clothing was perfect and that they'd been needing a recorder player for a while.

So we got in his car and and went to a parking lot behind a large and vaguely familiar building. My friend looking at his watch and urged me to hurry -- we were, apparently, almost late -- so we walked quickly into the building through heavy double doors. After following a narrow and winding corridor, we entered what I saw was a giant concert hall. My friend led me to the second chair violin seat (he sat in the first place) and, noticing my hesitation, again assured me that I would be perfect for the part. I tried to explain that I had no musical talent past a little piano from long ago and when I played with recorder music when I was bored; I didn't even own a violin, how could I be in the second chair seat? My friend, seemingly surprised that I was worried about a violin when he'd said I could play recorder, produced one from somewhere and handed it carefully to me.

Just then the lights turned on with a loud series of clicks and the rest of the orchestra quickly came in and began tuning. After only a few minutes, the conductor came in and announced to the orchestra that today was the day of the most important performance they'd ever played -- it was for someone unfathomably eminent and powerful who I'd heard of but not realized exactly who they were.

All through this I was becoming more and more nervous but my friend wouldn't let me leave -- it would all turn out okay he said.

The conductor turned and addressed the only two people in the audience -- an old man and a younger man who looked like his son. After a scant few words, the conductor turned, and, without hesitation, the orchestra started to play.

The music was a confusing jumble of sounds -- now and then a single instrument would become audible above the rest -- there wasn't any discernible beat and, as I found when I looked around, no one had any music. Some musicians were smiling jubilantly and others had tears quietly running down their cheeks. I felt the urge to cover my ears, but refrained since I was already out of place. I couldn't bring myself to pick up either the violin or the recorder; all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't find a way to do so unobtrusively.

After an uncomfortable half hour, the conductor motioned for the end of the piece and the sound cut off abruptly except for an oboe and the tympani. Everyone waited patiently and silently for them to finish and then stood as one to bow. Then they remained standing and watched the two men eagerly as if waiting for praise at their playing. But the men's expressions never changed and they just stood and left.

The orchestra packed up and left silently. In the car on the way back, my friend said nothing and I felt awkward breaking the tense silence. I wasn't sure whether I was annoyed at my friend for taking me to the concert or if I was afraid he was mad at me for not playing.

When we reached my apartment, I climbed out of the car and turned to thank him for the ride. My friend remarked, "We've played and played and are never good enough. Maybe we haven't waited long enough. Maybe next time we'll be good enough."

I wondered if they ever practiced but I said nothing. Instead, I turned and walked quickly inside.

I never touched an instrument again.

Shut up.

Oh my God stop talking. Really. "Oh my God." "Oh my god." "Ohmagawd." "Omg." How stupid are you? Cut out your tongue if you can't keep it restrained. It'd look better than your pink tongue ring anyway. Stop putting so much gel in your hair that I could take a sledgehammer to it with no effect. Lose the heart shaped, gold painted, plastic earrings. The jeans with the holes, the fake nails, the make up. Stop. Just fucking stop. Even if you're not vain, stop talking. Everyone stop talking. You idiots need to stop talking. Superiority complex aside, you have nothing in your head that the rest of us don't have more of. So, silence.

Now. Listen. Take a deep breath and let it back out. Think some real thoughts, write a paper or two. Read some books and get back to me when you know more. Take some time out from your masquerading and be a real person.

You don't need to smoke or drink to be cool. You don't need to sleep around. You don't need to be atheist or condescendingly religious; just what makes you happy. You don't need to have your boobs hanging out and you don't need stiletto heels. I'll respect you more if you have on pajamas and a full bag of books. Read What is Enlightenment? by Kant or Faust by Goethe or A Mathematician's Apology by Hardy. Everyone will take you more seriously that way.

So don't be stupid. You don't have to be smart -- some people can't be smart -- but really, no one has any excuse for stupidity. No excuse to be vain or vapid or inane. You're better off dead if you really think that's what's best for you.

Job 10:18-22

Why then did you bring me forth from the womb?
I should have died and no eye have seen me.
I should be as though I had never lived;
I should have been taken from the womb to the grave.
Are not the days of my life few?
Let me alone, that I may recover a little
Before I go whence I shall not return,
to the land of darkness and of gloom,
The black disordered land
where darkness is the only light.

I was thinking about Nietzsche...

Somewhere in the dark of a Cave, a tiny awareness violently pierced the rock like the tip of a pickaxe. The intensity of being took the stone unaware and it cried out. It's voice echoed through itself, sending great wave-like shudders out of the Cave and through the mountain. Dislodged boulders crashed into trees and scraped down the slopes, pulling away the clawing roots and causing birds to flap away, screaming in fear. The snows shifted and slid, sending soothing whiteness to the new wound of sentiency.


For thousands of years, the mountain stood, blinded by feeling, unable to do anything but experience. The seasons cycled; the blissful numbness of winter and the contrasting warm itchiness of summer. The Cave became home to wolves and bats and other tiny scratching creatures; the mountain shivered in annoyance but the creatures didn't leave.

Finally the mountain shook until something inside cracked. Agony rippled through the stone as more and more convulsions passed through it. And suddenly molten blood poured through the mountain's veins. Fissures and chasms filled with it and the mountain's innards burned. Steam and smoke rushed out of cracks to the surface. The mountain's pain was tempered only by the satisfaction that the animals had run away howling.

The magma continued to flow outward and suddenly burst through the top and rushed down the sides of the mountain. The trees burned and when it cooled everything was calm. The mountain was at ease for the first time in it's existence.


Hundreds more years passed. The trees grew again and a hermit made his painstaking way up the slope. At the point of exhaustion he found the Cave and crawled inside. Warm air from cracks in the walls warmed him and the hermit found the Cave an ideal location for his meditations.

As the mountain's ponderous consciousness became aware of the man, it started trembling again, trying to work a poorly anchored boulder in the Cave to a point where it would roll. The boulder slowly shifted until it finally moved. The being in the Cave regarded the the boulder curiously and walked into the tunnel it had revealed.

The tunnel led to a deep hole in the ground. The philosopher looked into the abyss and the abyss looked back into the philosopher. The mountain's earthy monotone awareness saw the bright and flashing colors of the human thoughts. The vivid colors spiraled into the mountain's mind and it, he, understood thought.


The mountain retreated into himself and thought. He was so withdrawn in his contemplation that he forgot the trees and animals. After many years, the brightening colors of his ruminations woke him. The mountain remembered his petty annoyances and forgave the creatures that he gave a home to. He took joy in their quickness. As he observed them, though, he started to pity himself and wished for the creatures' mobility and brilliance.

And as he wondered at their ability to change, an idea came to him. He directed vibrations and slowly crafted a hollow in the chasm in the Cave. When it was done he filled it with magma. The magma cooled and he poured his awareness into the body.

The body was in the image of the man who had looked into him. The mountain lay in his hollow until he understood the mechanics of the body. Then he stood slowly and walked out of the Cave.


The mountain saw a town full of people and went towards it down his own side. His stone body became lighter and more limber as he walked and soon he was human.

When the mountain reached the town and people asked him where he'd come from he couldn't answer; he had no language. As he watched them he learned to speak. A family gave him a name and taught him the rules of society.

The mountain lived in the town for the span of a human life. He enjoyed the company of humans and their cleverness and intelligence. He ate delightful foods and loved and married a girl. The life slipped by quicker than he could comprehend but he made the most of it.

And then the girl -- the old woman -- died. The mountain's stone heart broke and he walked out onto himself in a daze. He walked and walked until he reached the Cave; all the while his now-old body became heavier and harder to move. He stumbled stiffly into the passage behind the boulder and curled up into the hollow.


His mind leaked out into the mountain again. The brightly colored human thoughts faded into earth tones again and the mountain became a mountain. He wondered why he had lived as a human when he could have lived for millions of years as a mountain. And then he realized that while he had lived a shorter life, he had not lived in the tormenting boredom he would have endured as a mountain. He had loved and experienced life. As this thought came to him, he was at peace. His dark thoughts became darker until he could no longer understand them. The slowing moving colors no longer seemed to be thoughts at all. The mountain lived no more.

Vyvolochnov, Nikolai Nikolaievich

The Tolstoyan, Vyvolochnov, visits Nikolai Nikolaievich about business. The conversation eventually turns to philosophy:

Nikolai Nikolaievich: "Up to a point I am with you, but Tolstoy says that the more a man devotes himself to beauty the further he moves from goodness."

Vyvolochnov: "And you think it's the other way around -- the world will be saved by beauty, is that it? Dostoievsky, Rozanov, mystery plays, and what not?"

Nikolai Nikolaievich: "Wait, let me tell you what I think. I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats -- any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death -- then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself. But don't you see, this is just the point -- what has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but an inward music: the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful attraction of its example. It has always been assumed that the most important things in the Gospels are the ethical maxims and commandments. But for me the most important thing is that Christ speaks in parables taken from life, that He explains the truth in terms of everyday reality. The idea that underlies this is that communion between mortals is immortal, and that the whole of life is symbolic because it is meaningful."