“When someone asks ‘what’s the use of philosophy?’ the reply must be aggressive, since the question tries to be ironic and caustic. Philosophy does not serve the State or the Church, who have other concerns. It serves no established power. The use of philosophy is to sadden. A philosophy that saddens no one, that annoys no one, is not philosophy. It is useful for harming stupidity, for turning stupidity into something shameful. Is there any discipline apart from philosophy that sets out to criticise all mystification, whatever their source and aim, to expose all the fictions without which reactive forces would not prevail?…Finally, turning thought into something aggressive, active and affirmative. Creating free men, that is to say men who do not confuse the aims of culture with the benefit of the State, morality or religion….Who has an interest in all this but philosophy? Philosophy is at its most positive as a critique, as an enterprise of demystification.”—
“If you are afraid of yourself, only then are you afraid of other people. If you love yourself, you love others. If you hate yourself, you hate others. Because in relationship with others, it is only you mirrored. The other is nothing but a mirror. So whatsoever happens in relationship, always know it must have happened before, within you — because the relationship can only magnify. It cannot create; it can only show and manifest.”—Osho (via labyrintho)
Whatever drove a man to take his own life perplexed me to the point of careful study. It was a warm winter day with an object of desire in the clouds up in ocean blue sky passing like sailing ships. The world was calm and the wind was blowing during the seventy-something degree weather, Orlando’s finest. Palm branches and oak leaves hustled in the wind, creating that sensation of movement all around through the windows, where I stared for a good hour thinking about the news. News came to me through the phone, a friend telling me they found him hanging from the roof of his porch, the wood paneling beginning to crack and sag from his weight. He tied the rope off the fan fixture, one with four blades for each direction on a compass, and it too was beginning to break away from where it was installed with thick gold screws. Maybe it didn’t take long for his trachea to collapse, the wind from outside of his body no longer circulating through him like the tides of time passing by. I imagined the clouds halting for a second to look down the sight, the sight of this boy (aged twenty-five) dangling, suffering for a few moments before it all collapsed and hung like a low hanging fruit, waiting to be picked off.
How much he suffered before he tied a telephone wire, really an Ethernet cable, around the fan to his neck, I wouldn’t know. There was something about the way he saw the world as a reflection of himself that never sat right. Perhaps that was the issue. On days where coffee steamed in little ceramic cups in front of us, he would tell me the world was growing dim. The sun going out and there is nothing we could do. It’s cloudy and we have a few options before the marker gets bombed by its designated marker. I told him he was wrong, the clouds were passing, the weather warming up. His reluctance to hear it, the way he slothfully fell back into his chair in silence and slumped over in a cowardice he claimed was due to fear, was overwhelming. It made me want to understand, to be in it and know it, to be in the same frame of reference.
I couldn’t though. I couldn’t hang from a fan and call it a day. It was impossible to step outside of my world which I had created. And I suppose he felt the same way. I suppose we all feel the same way when someone says we can’t sympathize. It’s the end of our lives when we realize meat is bone is flesh is human and the mind is something entirely of its own accord. To step into the mind of those who are perpetually falling or riding against the wind, seeing the clouds move in the way of the sun, it frightens us. It scares us and gives us a perpetual fear.
Maybe I’m speaking for myself here but seeing a man with socks and no shoes, floating above the wood of his porch, is enough to bring God to his knees.
“It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”—
Don’t use jokes twice, don’t think ahead, don’t let them see you crying for a purple sky. Don’t look needy, don’t look greedy, walk like an apathetic ghost. Stare like a fugitive, sit like a teenager, grow like an Elm tree. Catch no kites, don’t tell people about your dreams. Do not yell when you fall and bleed. Draw attention to your silence. Do not draw flowers in the margins of your notebooks. Return no basketballs, footballs, baseballs, or soccerballs. Do not ask questions. Do not volenteer information. Do not run to anyone. Keep compliments and insults to yourself. Do not try for respect. Do not give up. Do not give up. Blink less. Look into people’s eyes more. Wait until they need you.
Tumblr finally integrated with Spotify, so I can finally share this wonderful interpretation of Stella by Starlight with everyone. Eddie Gomez contributes a seductive fretless bass lines all throughout this and Tyner lends a distinctly Spanish flavor to his voicings, complemented by Jack DeJohnette’s slightly mid-eastern/arabic rhythms. This is just so great
This was essential for me when I first started learning this tune. It was like: BOOM, IDEAS.
I know I’ve read three?! books now and not posted about any of them (Earthly Powers, Dhalgren, Fifty Shades of Grey) and now I’m talking about David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. Because I’m reading it now and it’s ehhh well it’s DFW. DFW is a big deal. It’s just…
It’s strange to me that some of the reactions are that the human race is terrible. My reaction was that I am not alone in my sort of fucked-up-ness that has generated over the years. It’s also strange that the empathy he tried to portray in his writing is sometimes misconstrued with judgments.
“Why should women be paid equal to men? Men have been in the working world a lot longer and deserve to be paid at a higher rate. Heck, I’m a working mom and I’m not paid a dime. I depend on my husband to provide for me and my family, as should most women… and if a woman does work, she should be happy just to be out there in the working world and quit complaining that she’s not making as much as her male counterparts. I mean really, all this wanting to be equal nonsense is going to be detrimental to the future of women everywhere. Who’s going to want to hire a woman, or for that matter, even marry a woman who thinks she is the same, if not better than a man at any job. It’s almost laughable. C’mon now ladies, are you with me on this?”—
Ann Romney, wife of Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney
“Govinda had become a monk and thousands of monks were his brothers, wore the same gown, shared his beliefs and spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong? Whose life would he share? Whose language would he speak? At that moment, when the world around him melted away, when he stood alone like a star in the heavens, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of icy despair, but he was more firmly himself than ever. That was the last shudder of his awakening, the last pains of birth. Immediately he moved on again and began to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer homewards, no longer to his father, no longer looking backwards.”—Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse (via zephyrean)