Sing and Drink and Make Merry

Ah, a marvellous steak followed up by three hours of karaoke at chinatown. This is what my life should be about. Not so much the perpetual drunken parties and binges we Singaporeans seem to be known for in the U of C. It's quite unpleasant, really, to be known for such things. Not that it's not an accurate representation though. The Singaporean guys are 21 or 22, and have been partying for a while. Still, not the best thing to be known for, the 'crazy Singaporeans'.

I sometimes wonder why people, especially myself, drink. Is it merely for the high? A need to numb the senses? Perhaps merely an attempt to blend in socially, then the attempts to blend in become assimilated into the person's own consciousness. The truth is that, at least for me, none of the above are true. I drink for no reason other than to drink. The alcohol itself has become an end in itself. I don't particularly enjoy the taste of vodka or rum, nor do I enjoy the initial high, nor do I think becoming inebriated endears myself to anyone. I drink because I drink. It may not do too much for me, but it is simply a thing I do, similar to grinding my teeth, or cracking my knuckles. There is no reason for my actions. If analysis and agency were to be attributed to everything I do, it would be spectacularly irrational. Ridiculous.

Ah, people complain I digress too much, so I will not. I really am a bit strung out from a bad week, so I will simply end with a note that karaoke seriously rocks. Seriously, seriously rocks. Morton's of Chicago does as well. The Porterhouse is ridiculously good, especially the steak carved for two. Desserts are a bit lacking though.

"Education is when you read the fine print. Experience is what you get if you don't."

- Pete Seeger

The Reality of Me

Some people have been complaining that what I write has little to do with anything in the real world, so in accession to popular request, I shall now write a little about people I know. Let's start with myself, always a favourite topic.

When I am first encountered, the initial impression seems to be of a painfully shy fellow, who is quiet, withdrawn and most certainly a bit of a nerd. Anti-social, as I mentioned in an earlier post. That is what much of my family thinks of me. At least that's what they think I'm like with other people. What they fail to realise is my actual disinterest in most people. People generally sort of bore me. To excite my interest requires more than a physical presence, there must be something I actually like or dislike about the person in question. As the majority of people do not mark first meetings with comprehensive lists of interesting things about themselves so there can be an objective comparison and matching of interests, it becomes difficult for me to warm to people immediately. I have standards, y'know. It's possible, of course, that I'm missing out on a lot of absolutely fascinating people to whom I simply do not give a chance. I will never know, will I?

If you actually get to know me a little better, the impression seems to change quite completely. I'm often told that I'm arrogant, overbearing and condescending to others. I suppose it might be due to my readiness to express my opinions honestly and without any deceit whatsoever. I truly think that I am very smart, and that I can pretty much accomplish anything I put my mind to if I were motivated to do so. The problem mostly is in the motivation. If you've read the earlier stuff, you will know about my slight apathy for life in general. I really want very little out of life other than a good time. Money makes this much easier, so I intend to make a ton of moolah, but there's no real motivation for a career in and of itself. As for the condescending bit, I am honest about others as well. I am of the opinion that if you do not want to know what I really think about something, don't ask me. If you ask me what I think of you or something you did, I will give a candid assessment, which tends to be more critical than approving, as I seem to possess a talent for seeing the flaws in everything. What this means, however, that what praise I do hand out is sincere.

Do note, however, that I am a very sarcastic fellow, and a great deal of what I say is a twist on what others say. For example, if somebody uses a particular expression a great deal, I will pick up on this and start incorporating some of the speech patterns of the person when I'm addressing him or her. A tongue-in-cheek take on the banalities of everyday life.

Considering the preposterous hour, I shall stop here and return to 'The Tempest', at least more interesting than French sociologists, fascinating as they may be.

Falling ...

Hmmm, my room mate said something today that I find to be very interesting.

"The faster you fall, the harder you land."

Absolutely fascinating, I think, and applicable to nearly everything in life. The faster you fall, the harder you will land. A feather dropped from ten stories up will fall slowly and land softly. A person, on the other hand, will fall much faster and land quite a far bit harder. Obviously, it is then more logical to try to manage one's fall to be controlled, not freefall.

Of course, the surface one lands on is also of crucial importance. Is it soft? Hard? Thorny? A soft surface receiving you will negate some of the harmful effects of an overly fast fall. If one hits a hard surface, the impact is likely to be significant, even with a controlled fall. The worst case is a thorny surface, one that rejects the faller actively. If you see thorns at the end of your ride, no matter how well you can control your speed, I would suggest holding off on leaping forward.

Take from this what you will.

I spent the past Friday evening in Chinatown, eating decent enough Singaporean/Malaysian food, then hitting a karaoke lounge to belt out my first tunes in America. Karaoke is a wonderful thing, a chance for one to just sing in the worst voice imaginable in front of other people, and simply not care that it's causing physical harm to others.

The question then is why people feel the need to mangle the songs they hear performed well in other contexts. Karaoke is clearly a case of collective effervescence, a term very popular amongst the Social Sciences students at the U of C currently, where a group of people gather and become so excited by the group socialising that they do things they would not otherwise. I'm not going to go into the details, I've been doing that enough recently. If you're interested, go read 'The Elementary Forms of Religious Life' by Emile Durkheim. Fascinating stuff, really. Read it in the original French if you like, 'Formes elementaires de la vie religeuse'. I imagine it's better. In fact, all the interesting stuff I've read this quarter for my classes would probably have been better in French. And the stuff last quarter would have been better in German. Or at least it would have sounded cooler. What does that mean, really? Why does almost every other language sound more interesting than English? Is it merely that English has become so commonplace that it is now considered vulgar? After all, if it is the de facto language of the world, and every person you are likely to meet is able to speak it, it has little value beyond the practical.

A fetish for the exotic has always permeated the social consciousness in every culture that has ever existed in history. Everyone is interested in what is not familiar, even if there is not always a desire for initimacy with the unfamiliar. The ancient chinese were famously disdainful of all that was not within the boundaries of the central plains of China, but they were curious enough that they sent out expeditions even in the Tang Dynasty that ranged as far as Africa, bringing back strange animals and the like that made the fellow a celebrity. Clearly not celebrity enough, as I seem to have forgotten his name. A eunuch named Zheng He, or something like that. The origin of the curiosity, something that is exotic and unfamiliar, something outside the experience of ordinary society, lies far beyond this, of course. The desire for knowledge of the new runs even through animals, just look at cats as an extreme example. Claude Levi-Strauss addresses this famously in Tristes Tropiques, where he wrote of the European colonialist mentality that simultaneously condemns exoticism and monoculture, as he refers to it. Again, go read the book, it's pretty good. Again, probably better in French, though Claude himself is Belgian. Considering Belgians speak English perfectly well, why didn't Claude write everything in English instead of French? Casting aside the obvious (and probably true) argument that his education was in French, could it not have been the desire to avoid the crassness that is associated with English in the twentieth century? After all, Americans are widely regarded as the lowest common denominators of culture, and English today is associated far more with America than England. The French seem to have some mystical quality about them that confers them with the status of high culture. Maybe it's the wine. Which is good. Or the food, which is also good.

So there is an odd placement of culture and exoticism here. The new, America and English, is considered to be the ultimate in crassness and commonality. The old, European or Asian culture, is considered exotic and unique. Who colonised whom, one wonders? The pre-existing, established languages and cultures are being forced into marginality to the point where they are considered exotic, and their practitioners, so to speak, have to go out of their way to continue their practice, whereas the new language and culture has become predominant to the point where its omnipresence is oppressive, leading to a reaction against it.

Once again, I have managed to completely go off-tangent with my digression. A digression from a digression, if you will. A result of too much reading, insufficient sleep and a touch of alcohol, I imagine. I will try to pick something up from the previous posts, though I doubt I will ever actually manage it.

This particular late night dueling with Durkheim and Levi-Strauss has left me a touch numb in the brain, and my fingertips. The fingertips can wait for another day, I want to talk about my brain for a bit today. Not all of it, just the power switch.

I have been accused of rarely being able to enjoy something without overanalysing it. Even when choosing a mindless entertainment, it is an entirely conscious choice for me. I cannot simply sit down before a television and watch whatever is on. I am compelled to make a careful choice as to what I will allow my brain to experience, even as I endeavour to avoid straining it overmuch.

I sometimes envy those people who are able to simply apply their intelligence to their work or studies as needed, then switch off completely in the rest of their lives. It must be good to be able to do that. Like a power drill; use it when necessary, but don't play with it too much or it'll wear out. I occasionally wonder if mine will ever wear itself out. The bit does sometimes seem to become a bit blunted and the motor a touch slow. But things recover themselves neatly always and life goes on, power drill churning away.

I am utterly unable to stop thinking about things at any point in time. Which is the point of this weblog in the first place, I suppose. Perhaps it is the extravagant amount of time spent staring at my computer screen, but now it seems I am able to cordon off sections of my mind to think about various things even as I focus on particular objects. The problem is when these peripheral applications expand their functions and threaten to steal more than their fair share of memory. This results in me constantly being somewhat preoccupied. I do tend to lapse into brooding silence frequently, even in the midst of a conversation. To any who encounter that in me, fear not, I still hear what you are saying, it is just that my processor is being pushed to its capacity and may take a touch more time to respond to your keystrokes.

Ach! You know you're tired when you go off on a tangent and completely miss the point you were aiming for. Anyway, I was going to spend my time talking about my tastes in life, but that will have to wait, I suppose. French sociologists beckon.

Smile and the whole world smiles with you.
Cry and you cry alone.
Laugh alone, end up in a mental institution.

So, Valentine's Day is over, along with all the darling gestures, romantic dinners, amusing hot dates and sly intrigues. So I suppose it behooves me to make a customary rumination on the nature of love, affection or lust. But that's kind of stale, so I'll turn to my favourite subject instead, myself.

When I observe all the affection that seems to be flying around this time of year, I wonder why I don't feel any of it. Oh, it's not that I'm desperately in need of a girlfriend or moping around after a loss or anything like that, it is that I'm not. I do not feel the need for love, either way. I just don't. I have always wondered what precisely motivates people to constantly seek out partners for romantic exchange. I have no objections to it per se, but the need some people have of finding someone, anyone. Parents and nosey relatives are perpetually asking if anyone has caught your eye, and lamenting over the fact that you haven't landed anyone yet. Why should this be? Can't people get on in life without needing somebody else to lean on? Is that the only means of validating one's existence, by the esteem of another? I have always found the idea of actually needing someone to be quite ridiculous and lacking in self-respect.

Like I said, actually being in love, I have no problems with. I think it can be a wonderful thing. But I do not think it is necessary. Certainly it is not necessary for a person to live a life enjoyably. After all, what is it that motivates people to form romantic relationships? A liking for the other person? Can that not be satisfied with friendship? If a person you are interested in romantically does not reciprocate the feeling, is it then impossible to simply interact with the person without romantic entanglements? The other reasons for finding a romantic partner are banal and easily dismissed. Companionship can be found with friends and dogs. Children can be adopted. Sex can be bought. So romance is really not necessary in a strict sense.

If romance is not necessary, the question arises of how necessary all other social interactions are. It may be pleasurable to spend time with friends or engage in other social activities, but are they necessary? Note that I say necessary in the sense of needing them for one's personal gratification rather than the physically necessary interactions inherent in work and such. To simply declare that 'Man is a social animal' and assume that is sufficient rationale for justifying the need to engage in socialising is arrogant and demeaning. Demeaning in the sense that it assumes that humans have no choice but to go along with the natural urges to be found in the species, the animal part of a human being. If I were a dog, I might accept that life must be subordinated to my animal instincts, but one of the greatest luxuries of being human is the ability to think beyond such base instincts. And after thinking through one's own animal urges, may one not choose whether to follow them or not? May not one choose to prefer other actions to those dictated by the demands of the body?

Which brings me back to me. I always get to my point eventually. Anyway, here's my self-assessment. I'm anti-social. In the sense that I don't really like people. Or rather the reality of people. They always disappoint me eventually. Far better to depend on fictional images that you know inside out. That's why I spend so much time alone. I hole up in my room on campus when my room mate isn't around, not simply because I'm meek and shy, which most people who have known me for the slightest amount of time will tell you I am most definitely not, but because I need to be away from people. That is the thing that has troubled me the most about moving away for college, the fact that there are now always people around. There is no place where I can simply sit for a couple of hours and be alone. Even in my own room, there is my room mate, or certainly his presence. I have nothing against my friends or most people I know, but sometimes I simply do not want to interact with others. Back home, I prefer watching movies alone, or taking walks or drives late at night by myself. There really is nothing quite like sitting facing the sea at four in the morning. Of course, now that I'm in Chicago, that's probably just begging to be robbed. Now, there is no escape from the personal presence of other people. Whether in the library or in the dining halls, you can always feel other people as individuals, not impersonal presences such as those you feel when sitting on park bench, which is itself a product of other humans, but not in a personal sense. I sometimes wonder if I might not eventually become one of those crazy recluses. When friends call, most of the time, I smile and humour them, for I do derive some measure of pleasure from the company of others, but I sorely need personal space.

Following in the theme of Valentine's Day, I'll relate a personal anecdote here to end things off on a bright note. Once, when I was but 19 years of age, I fell for a girl. Pretty hard. One of those situations where every waking moment is spent obsessing over her. But there were problems. This girl was the girlfriend of a good friend of mine. She was poorly educated, which did not affect me overly much, for I have long learnt that education is far from an accurate indicator of intellgence or character, but worse than the education, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed, and showed no interest in sharpening herself. Flighty and flirty. In every respect, not the kind of person I would be interested in. I thought about it, decided she was not at all suitable or worth the trouble and eventual fallout, and killed the thoughts and desires. Swallowed them and put them behind me.

I did not need to give in. There was no need to, there was no logical reason to, so I did not. Does that make me a dysfunctional person? Perhaps, but no more than those who cling to others to survive life.

Ok, so I'm awake at a horrendous hour again, so here we go again.

I was gonna rant about turning off the brain, but a friend of mine brought up something interesting. She said, or actually typed, a quote from somebody going along these lines:
"I'm running out of time to become the person I always thought I would become."

Now, this sounds scary to many people, especially as they become older. Time is running out, and things aren't working out as they imagined. I can only imagine that it is a terrible feeling to be unfulfilled and dissatisfied on one's deathbed. Certainly depressing.

Setting aside the issue of ambition in life, which I rambled a bit on last time, the question arises of whether a schism between fantasy and reality is all that bad. I think the really scary thing in life is not to fail in reaching for the sky, but in actually reaching it. People are constantly striving for something in life, whether it be money, family, career, whatever. The point is that there is something to aspire towards. From a certain viewpoint, mine at least, that can be the only reason to prolong one's existence, in anticipation of something. The possibility that there is something better ahead is the sole motivation to move ahead in life. After all, if life has reached a peak, and everything's downhill from there on out, one might as well commit suicide at that perfect moment.

It just occurred to me that I read a short story about something like this in a Dragonlance Tales collection somewhere. A knight was offered the chance to choose a moment in life which he would be allowed to relive forever. He kept deferring the offer, in anticipation of vanquishing some greater foe, until he was at last defeated and his eternity of glory was lost to him. Some may call him silly, but he is certainly a sympathetic fellow. How can one possibly accept that the pinnacle of one's life has been reached without succumbing to despair? To achieve all that is possible and to accept the truth of that is utter defeatism.

The existence of a divide between what is fantasised and what is real is necessary to stave off complete despair. There should always be unfulfilled dreams for one to cling to as a reference for the future, otherwise the future will hold no appeal. The zenith of one's life should never be reached, for there is only downhill to go from there.

More thoughts from a brain that has no business being awake at this time.

Where was I last time? Oh yeah, the issue about the afterlife. Ok, this is gonna be bad, so hang on.

If an afterlife were to exist, it would have serious implications on what life as we currently experience it would mean. If this life we know is only a part of some eternal existence, what then does it matter what we do in this little bit of it? Placed in the context of this life, what does it matter over over the next twenty years if I spend the next 5 minutes on this blog or not? Similarly, if there is some form of eternal existence for the soul, then whatever we do in this part of it can hardly be significant in the face of such a concept of eternity. If so, then whatever meaning can be conjectured for our existence on this plane, or earth or whatever you may like to call it, becomes minute and insignificant, of practically no relevance in the long run.

On the other hand, if there were no afterlife, if this is all there is, if our existence is limited to the time spent in these poorly designed bags of flesh, there can be no meaning whatsoever in living. Sweeping statement, time to back it up. If life ends at the moment of death, then there can be no meaning in attempting to extend the influence of the actions in our lives beyond their span. After all, what can it matter if others are affected by ourselves if we no longer exist for it to mean anything to us? If there is no such thing as a continued awareness, there is no point in saying memories allow people to live on, as memories will fade or terminate with the end of others' lives. Again, at that point, it will hardly matter, as the dead person will not exist to care. Extending this further, in the longer run, nobody will remember anything anyway, as the human race will eventually cease to exist altogether. In the context of the time of the universe, our conceptions are tiny. Plato may have had his ideas propagated for 2000 or however many years, but considering the planet is billions of years old, and the universe is a touch beyond that, Plato is not really a very important figure at all. Noting the cheers of the multitudes of oppressed u of c students here.

This all leads to my general approach to life. You see, I get to my point eventually, even over multiple posts. Anyway, since there is no meaning in life, and any attempt to imbue it with meaning is a pointless exercise, why take it seriously at all? I plan to make a great deal of money and spend it in an extremely enjoyable fashion. Meaningless? Yup. Who cares? Problem with this cavalier attitude towards the conduct of life is that it raises questions of interest. As in what truly interests me. At any particular point in time, you wonder what there is to do. If life has no real direction, things get old fast. Getting absolutely smashed was fun as an eighteen year old allowed to enter zouk for the first time, but it gets old. When the pleasures available to you become uninteresting and bland, what then is there to direct your energies towards? It is possible to revisit old pleasures, so there is something of a rotational cycle of diversions, but eventually one gets tired of doing the same things over and over. Even as one becomes older and richer, the enjoyments essentially remain the same in structure if not in form. Drinking a $10000 bottle of wine as a rich forty year old is no different in essence to an eighteen year old knocking back his first whisky.

This is what I mean when I say Life is boring. Note the capital L in Life. Of course, if you avoid using your brain at all in such matters and simply allow yourself to become immersed in physical pleasures, things would be much simpler. Unfortunately, I can't turn my brain off. Something for next time though. Gotta get back to assaulting Sahlins as part of my quest to become really rich.

Life is boring. I mean that. Not 'My life is Boring' but 'Life is boring'. Distinction. Capital L.

Sure, there are parts that are interesting when you're in them, but when you step back, look around and think about things for a moment, you realise that nothing can possibly catch the fancy of people. I don't mean, of course, that people don't become interested in things. They do. But it's transitory. Constants don't exist in that context. Nothing can hold a person's interest permanently. For every item that may hold a person's attention and interest for any period of time, there will be a point when the passion will flare out. In some cases, it may reignite, but the very fact that there can be a waning in the first place is indicative of the utter impossibility of this item being something permanent. So long as there is a single moment when it is not constant, it is not constant.

It's kind of like a function in math. f may be constant in [a,b]. But if there is a point c in (a,b) where f is not continuous, the first statement is no longer true.

There simply isn't anything in human experience that does not flag in intensity of sentiment inspired. Nothing. Love is a very transient thing, I'm sorry. Nothing suggests that it's permanent. People get together, people break up, people remarry. Parents have kids, lose their tempers, all that jazz. There are breaks in the continuity. And since there are breaks, how can there be any permanent continuity?

So when I sit back and think about everything around me, there is simply nothing that I can see exciting me for anything more than a fleeting moment. If one accepts the existence of an afterlife, why should one expend the effort to chase these fleeting moments? What is an instant of pleasure or excitement to the eternity of existence? If one does not accept that there is such a thing as the afterlife, what then is the point of pushing through our brief lives with such ardour if there is simply nothing after all of this?

Now, I'm a Christian, and I do believe in an afterlife. Don't ask why, it's a matter of faith, illogical and complete. No argument will ever shake my belief, until, of course, the moment of truth when I die and find out. But despite the faith, there is a part of me that wonders if it would not be so bad if there simply wasn't anything after death. Birth, life, death, period. It would resolve a lot of the issues floating around my head. No problems like wondering about any sort of legacy, meaning of life, all that.

No point, I'll pick this up again later.

Just a place to direct my thoughts when I'm severely sleep deprived and depressed over everything and nothing in general.