Equanimity

Expectations are a funny thing. We all have them, but nobody ever seems to find any real use for them. To have expectations for something is to create an idea, an image of what that thing will be before actually experiencing it. Now, the obvious flaw in that process is that without the experience, to simply guess at what something will be is to invite failure. And failure is a fellow who isn't shy about accepting invitation, or even crashing the party once in a while.

Ok, so the argument would be that most rational people don't make wild guesses to formulate their expectations, but base them on previous experiences of similar things. Seems reasonable, and really, it's a fairly effective method. Most expectations aren't all that much off the mark.

If that's the case, what's my point?

My problem is that I cannot seem to formulate reasonable expectations for myself. I know certain things about myself, and I sometimes like to fancy that I spend more brainpower obsessing over my internal world than most people possess in their lifetimes. The tricky bit is that I find my life to become more complicated when I start to introduce more of what I think I know about myself into the picture. I cannot claim to know very much about other people, only what they choose to expose to me. Plenty of extrapolation is possible, and is carried out, but that is nothing more than guesswork. So I can only apply my knowledge of myself to the situations about me, even if that knowledge includes what I think about other people.

When I was younger, life was much simpler. I did not worry so much about stuff. My interests were fairly simple, to accomplish what I may within my limitations. Think of it in terms of a maximisation problem. Given such and such restrictions, find the maximum of a function. So I scurried about trying to satisfy visceral urges, doing whatever I felt like, really. The path of least resistance, to a large degree, for to simply do whatever you feel like within the confines of what you're expected to do, is really the easiest thing in the world.

For some reason, I had to make things more difficult. I began to question the variables in my problem. So by examining those variables, I started to introduce more variables to compensate for the inadequacies of my previous problem sets. Slowly, the problem became gargantuan, impossible to solve. I hardly knew how the function behaved, no clue as to how to read it. I didn't know what I wanted. It seemed I would simply flutter about inside the function, never knowing whether I had reached the maximum or not.

Bleak as that may sound, things have gotten more depressing.

Today, I have come to the conclusion that there is no point at all in trying to stay within the problem. It doesn't matter what happens in that function. I cannot honestly say I care.

I was asked last night about what I wanted to do before I died. As I tossed out things such as private jets and ice-breakers through the North Pole and other such nonsense, I realised there was nothing I really wanted to do in life. One way of looking at it is that I can die today and be as content with my life as I would if I were to die 60 years later. After all, if there is nothing I really want to accomplish, then there is no urge to accomplish anything. As I put it, since I absolutely believe that I can be immensely successful if I wanted it, there is no need to actually go out and succeed. I don't need the validation of achieving a successful career. I would be happier if I simply won the lottery instead of having to work for my millions. Why can't I just get what I want in life? Some people want to achieve things, to make their fellow man admire their accomplishments. I just want money to make my life as pleasant as possible before I die. Even so, if my life turns out to be poor and squalid, I think I would handle it with equanimity. I would probably accept it and plough on. No burning resentment of those with more, no steely determination to better myself, no self-hatred for failing. I would pretty much shrug and get on with it, I think. That's a large part of why I don't think I'll ever get married. Too much apathy to share with someone. It would be horrendously unfair. I suppose it is possible that I just fall madly in love one day and completely forget that I don't care, to make the object of my passion the reason for my existence, to blind myself to what I would be subjecting her to. Then again, I suppose not.

Nothing too involved today. I don't feel like it.

Lies

There are some things that, once broken, can be fixed. There are some things that should be fixed. There are some things that you want to be fixed. Of course, it follows that there are some things that can't, some that shouldn't, and some that you don't. It only gets complicated when the two sets of circumstances get mixed up. No no, there really is a very specific situation in which the entire affair becomes messy. When you want to fix it, but you can and shouldn't. After all, if you don't want to fix the thing, then you don't care. If you want to, but can't, then there is really is no issue either. What if you can fix it, and you want to fix it, but know you shouldn't? So which do you acquiesce to, the desire or the logic?

I'm pretty sure I've done this before, but I don't particularly care right now. A lot of Jack's tends to do that to you. The tension between desire and logic isn't really a tension at all. After all, logic is nothing more than an extension of desire. You have to want something before you can think about whether you should want it or not. Without the base desire, there is no logical issue at all. How much time do you spend puzzling over a thing you care nothing for? Every logical sequence begins at some point. There is always an initial assumption. In fact, there are always multiple assumptions. If there is only a single assumption, then you cannot proceed from there. You have to also assume a logical structure, a language in which you can deal with the initial assumption within the structure. After all, if a language contains only words, then it is no language at all, but only a collection of disparate things, with no way of assembling them into any coherent ideas.

Given that every logical sequence must start from assumptions, then we must consider what those assumptions are. Of course, the specific assumption is not of interest here, for we can hardly name every possible premise every logical sequence that has ever existed has been based on. So issue here is how these assumptions are formed. Without logic behind them, they can only be made based on some emotional response that cannot be explained by the subject's mind.

For example, let us consider the thought and act of taking a drink of water. I shall necessarily have to simplify it, but here is a brief description. First, I am thirsty, which prompts me to decide that my throat is dry due to a lack of moisture. This is an issue because I know that I will become more thirsty if I do not rehydrate my throat, and it will be extremely uncomfortable and potentially life-threatening. So I resolve to find a solution to the problem of a dry throat. Of the possible solutions, drinking something seems to be the easiest, as opposed to, say, injecting myself with fluid. Of the common fluids available to me, I filter out those I know to be poisonous and unpleasant. Eventually, I decide on water, since it is generally free, and I know that it is refreshing.

Considering the example above, ignoring the obvious discrepancies between individual decisions to drink water, it is clear that a great deal of prior knowledge is assumed. We can take these as premises upon which we create a language. The one assumption which is not part of the language is the first notion being thirsty. It is a feeling, a sensation that a normal person is unable to replicate simply by thinking about it. It is involuntary and requires no prior experience to be generated. In many ways, it is similar to an emotional response. There is no logical build-up to it, and it is impossible to really describe it other than as a sensation. Actually, I suppose you could boil it down a bit further to more basic sensations, such as pain. How would you describe pain to someone who has never experienced it before? I certainly wouldn't know how to.

Ok, so logical thought is based on emotional response, for lack of a better term. In that case, what if desire and logic clash? Since logic is based on desire, the conflict would be between two different desires. The resolution would then seem to be simple enough. The stronger of the two desires will win out. Unfortunately, the entire problem still resides with logic. As an expression of desire, logic is remarkably eloquent. It acts as an amplifier for its basic assumption. By generating such a huge complex of knowledge and structure about the initial assumption, the conclusion becomes very compelling. It is as if the mind is so impressed by its own efforts that it becomes confused.

Not quite, for the mind is not confused at all. There is simply a new input to the equation balancing off desires. There is a desire to use logic to articulate desire. Muddled as that may seem, it does appear to work. The mind wants to be logical. The logical language that the mind has built up is an effective, or at least appealing, way to order everything. After all, if we were to act on pure instinct, then why go to all the effort of building up knowledge and arranging them in such complicated ways? It is offensive to the mind that expends all its resources and time to creating and enhancing its language that a simple, uncomplicated desire can be more compelling than one spoken in the tongue of reason.

It is like a court in the older days. There is an established hierarchy and rules. Outsiders are regarded with suspicion, but usually tolerated if they adhere to the rules set by the existing courtiers. As time goes by, outsiders become part of the scene, assimilated into the fold and made to fit perfectly into the puzzle. Imagine one day, a barbarian stomped into the audience room, ignoring all protocol and demanding to have his way. Naturally, we must have a courtier who steps up and opposes the action demanded by the barbarian. Given a choice between heeding the barbarian, or the courtier, assuming both arguments are equally sound, it seems only reasonable that the decision-maker would choose the courtier. Being an insider obviously helps in influencing the decisions made.

So the mind finds comfort in its own counsel. Hardly ridiculous. There is an affinity for the processes of logic, which is why we are able to define what we should do, as opposed to what we want to do. Generally, the want to do only wins out if there is some way to rationalise it. In a sense, the only way the barbarian can persuade the ruler is by going through the proper procedures and protocol. Barging in and yelling a demand, no matter how loudly, is only liable to get you kicked out. Does it make sense? Well, yes, of course it must.

On another note, I absolutely hate it when I am lied to. It infuriates me, though it may not show. Worse it is when I am assumed to be unable to piece things together. I remember the things that are important to me. These may not be important to anyone else, but I remember them. And it tears at me to assemble these memories and current evidence to find a picture of deceit. I am honest with those whom I care anything for. It hardly seems unreasonable to ask the same. The truth, harsh as it may be, will always be more welcome than a lie from someone you are honest with.

Tired

How did I get so tired? Step by step, each moment wearing me down a little bit more.

I realise that I have a tendency to think I've been exhausted forever when the truth is that I was fine earlier today.

Yesterday, I looked out my window, and saw the moon hanging low in the sky over the lake. A full, round moon, casting its light on the calm lake, opening up a path of glittering water before me. So gorgeous. I had to go down to the shores of the lake, experience it close up.

A mistake.

After I had slogged through the icy snow to the lake, I stood there and looked out on the water. At that moment, I thought I should experience some sort of epiphany, some revelation that would explode in my head, ignited by the calm vision of the moonlight on the lake.

Well, the truth is that nothing of the sort happened. I looked at the view, thinking that it looked much better from behind the windows in my apartment. I stared at the moon, noticing that it was not quite a perfect circle, but had the slightest of corners to it. The lake was not placid, but had the tiniest wrinkles on the surface, like a sheet of paper ineptly smoothed out. I saw some fragments of ice floating near the edge of the water, and remarked to myself that it appeared as scum on the water.

The sordid truth is that I did not see beauty in that moment, but only imperfection. Perhaps it is my nature, to see the flaws in everything I examine. So many times I had watched the moon over the lake from within my room, always thinking I should walk down to the lake to enjoy it more fully. When I finally did, there was no beauty left to me after I drew out every ugliness I could find. It is as if I idealised the experience, then destroyed it when in its midst.

Perhaps I should leave all the experiences I have idealised as just that, a fantasy. For I have rarely, nay, never been satisfied with what I have found on the other side of the imagination. My mind's eye chooses to see beauty, perfection. My eyes of experience behold nothing but hideousness and flaws. It is the saddest indictment of a man I can think of. A person who finds only ugliness where he imagines beauty. An idealist who refuses to allow his ideals to be fulfilled, not for fear of a loss of purpose, but because of an inability to let reality satisfy him.

I cannot see how I will survive the rest of my life without insanity intervening to preserve my mind.

Windows

I love the view from the windows in my room. I really do. I do make the occasional complaint about the sun in the mornings, and the habit it has of slanting just so, such that it's always in my eyes as I burrow into my covers, but even that has it's own charm, like my personal alarm clock, except a healthy, warm awakening instead of an electronic scream.

Last night, before I went to bed, I turned off my lights, and was surprised that the light levels hardly changed at all. My room was lit by an orange glow. I looked out my windows and saw that everything before me was awash in that same glow. The snow was falling thick and fast, to use a cliche, and somehow the light from the streetlamps was carrying on the solidity of the air. For you see, when the air is filled with snowflakes, it is almost solid when you behold it. It is as if you look through immense sheets of glass frosted with specks of ice. And the lamps shed their light, uncaring, unknowing that this light was illuminating far more than the street. So I sat in bed, watching the glow, not much else, for my glasses were on the table. For the longest time, I sat there, grasping a pillow, thinking of another pillow, and how the smallest things, unthoughtful, could be of such import to me, could raise my ire so completely that blood oozed from my clenched fist, could discomfit enough to cause my withdrawal. And how inconsequential it was, cast in that eerie orange light.

I woke up this morning, no harsh glare of sunlight today, and looked out the windows to a panorama of pure white. It had been snowing like mad last night, and now, everything has been thoroughly covered up. Even the fountain thing I use to measure the snowfall, by how much of the edge has been covered up, has disappeared under the fluffy ice. As I look out towards the lake, it has vanished. In its place is a plain. A plain covered with snow. It stretches out to the horizon, but no. That would be a misrepresentation. For I cannot see the horizon. The mist, the falling snow, have caused the horizon to be only a memory. I let my eyes drift, starting from the shore of the lake, where trees and streetlamps provide some measure of reference, then slipping up, noticing the strange patterns upon the snow on the lake, as if some intrepid party of explorers has left its tracks. Such Jules Verne fantasies should be far behind me, I know, but they are not. As I venture further up, into the distance, the pure white begins to dominate, overwhelming the tracks, the ice, my vision. I cannot stare for long, for fear of the glare, but I find that I do anyway. And so the sheer whiteness of the scene becomes so dominant, so overwhelming that it seems diminishing to have a horizon break it. And so one does not. I look for it, but find that my focus slides past where it should be, seeing nothing but that all-consuming white, up into the sky, where finally there is some break in the white. I see the gentle patterns of clouds, just barely visible. Even then, I can only see them so nearly directly above me. A little further out, and the monotony returns. It is as if the entire scene before me is melded with a cloud, enormous enough to envelop the world I see. Hyde Park has been torn from the earth and wrapped in a cloud, and what I perceive to be the lake is nothing more than water vapour.

And now, a line of birds wing across the scene, late in their migration. Or perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps I have mistaken snowflakes for birds. I only saw them for the briefest of moments, after all. And the snow continues to fall. I see flakes fly outside the glass. I do not see the dreamy drifting so often described by writers, but a mad whirling, a wild dash across the air, more often climbing rather than falling, their movement more horizontal than vertical. Yet the proof of their downward motion lies everywhere before me.

I think I shall venture out into the cold for a walk.

Have I mentioned that I love my windows?

Words to live by

I think I have finally come up with a good New Year's resolution.

Take not what is not willingly given.

Give not what is not desired.

So much is captured there that I will not even attempt to express it in words.

Scramble

Hmmm, 9 days into the new year, 2005 of all things. Fair enough it seems to toss in an inane update on the halfway point of the 2000's. Or maybe just the last few days.

School, boring as hell. Really. Famous professors are all fine and good, but why can't they get famous before becoming really old? Oh well, he's not that bad, really. Ran screaming from the comparative fairy tales class after finally attending my first discussion. As you may have surmised, it did not go well. Ended up picking a sociology class that sounds very econ as well. Acceptable, I guess.

Oh, I've got the cutest thing you've ever seen. Hang on and let me take a picture of it.

Ok, cannot be bothered to figure out how to post pictures, so whatever. In any case, things have been kind of lazy about these parts, no drama, no excitement, no nothing. I've been lazing and sleeping and watching loads of trashy television. Caught an entire season of the surreal life yesterday afternoon. Tells you a great deal about how occupied I am.

I really hate it when people you're having lunch or dinner or whatever with decide not to eat. Then I feel compelled to avoid food as well. Maybe I'm too polite, since she did insist that it was ok, but I just thought it very odd to eat while the other party sat there sipping coffee. Ugh, that turned out to be a hungry night.

My alcohol tolerance has fallen dramatically. I find myself experiencing a buzz after just a few drinks. I suppose that saves me a little cash, but could be a sign of a failing liver. Now, that would be sad, wouldn't it? Did muster up a good melancholy drunk last night though. Discovered that I could type almost effectively with my forehead leaning on the table. Quite remarkable, really, considering there is no system to my typing, using only two fingers on each hand to tap out words. If I were asked to tell you where a particular key is on the standard QWERTY keyboard, I would fail. Yet as I warm up, I can type. Curious the way the mind works, isn't it?

I hate it when I get drunk and start talking. Sometimes, when I am told what I said, or read what I type, I must wonder if alcohol breaks down some deep-rooted barriers in my psyche, or does it just fire up my imagination. I can honestly say I do not really recognise the fellow who is babbling about all sorts of strange things.

Alright, utterly pointless, just a scramble of random things, events, notes. Trying to avoid thinking these days. Completely failing, but no need to publicise that, eh?