Haiti - the pall of ignorance lies heavy

We know what caused the catastrophe in Haiti. It was the bumping and grinding of the Caribbean Continental Plate rubbing up against the North American Continental Plate: a force of nature, sin-free and indifferent to sin, un-premeditated, unmotivated, supremely unconcerned with human affairs or human misery.

The religious mind, however, restlessly seeks human meaning in the blind happenings of nature. As with the Indonesian tsunami, which was blamed on loose sexual morals in tourist bars; as with Hurricane Katrina, which was attributed to divine revenge on the entire city of New Orleans for harboring a lesbian comedian, and as with other disasters going back to the famous Lisbon earthquake and beyond, so Haiti's tragedy must be payback for human sin. The Rev. Pat Robertson sees the hand of God in the earthquake, wreaking terrible retribution for a pact that the long-dead ancestors of today's Haitians made with the devil, to help rid them of their French masters.

Ladies and gentlemen, witness the poverty of the theological mind.

A little child was pulled out from under the rubble after 7 days. 'Oh my God it's a miracle!' screamed the daily newspapers. Survivors have turned to god. One said: 'I have turned to God. He saved me. There is a god after all'. Presumably God was too busy to save the lives of the other 150,000 souls who we're not too fortunate? Maybe he could have saved us all a lot of trouble and not bothered with the earthquake in the first place? Saying that 'the ways of God are unknown to us' is a slap in the face to those who lie rotting on the streets. Say it to the 4 year old whose corpse still lies putrefying under the roof of her classroom.

Where was God in Noah's flood? He was systematically drowning the entire world, animal as well as human, as punishment for 'sin'. Where was God when Sodom and Gomorrah were consumed with fire and brimstone? He was deliberately barbecuing the citizenry, lock stock and barrel, as punishment for 'sin'. Dear modern, enlightened, theologically sophisticated religious person, your entire religion is founded on an obsession with 'sin', with punishment and with atonement. To quote the President of one theological seminary:

'The earthquake in Haiti, like every other earthly disaster, reminds us that creation groans under the weight of sin and the judgment of God. This is true for every cell in our bodies, even as it is for the crust of the earth at every point on the globe.'

It makes me sick to the core. Ladies and gentlemen, natural disasters are not man-made. Nor do they concern themselves with human affairs. They are the result of physical forces that we now understand. They don't happen because of sins, or misdemeanours in a past life, or because of some other inexplicable reason. These explanations that earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, lightning strikes are caused by conscious divine agents such as gods and spirits and dead ancestors belong to the childhood of humanity. They were an explanation then because then man was still a child and didn't understand the working's of the world. We have now grown up. Science has lifted the veil from our eyes. But I still feel the presence of the pall. It still lies heavy over Haiti like a plague of locusts.

________

Money - how to make it less abstract!

Money is a wonderful invention. But have you, for a second, stopped and asked yourself what exactly is money? When you purchase a coffee from say Starbucks you hand over £1.95 and in return you get a nice (alright decent) tasting coffee. But what is the real cost of this coffee? Is it £1.95? Answer: No. That is not the real cost. The real cost of buying a coffee is the 'opportunity cost' and the opportunity cost is different for everybody.

What is opportunity cost?

Opportunity cost is the item/service/thing you could have bought for £1.95 that would have given you more pleasure than the Starbucks coffee. But you didn't buy it because you bought the coffee instead. And another reason why you didn't buy it is because you probably didn't know about it. Similarly when you go to the cinema you pay, say £10 for a ticket. The real cost of the cinema ticket is not £10, it is something else you could have purchased that would have given you more enjoyment than the cinema ticket. This 'item' could be a book, or a CD, or a meal in a restaurant, or a bottle of wine. The problem is we never really find out what this other thing is. When we buy something we just buy it. We never ask ourselves: can I spend this money on something else that will give me more enjoyment? This is because most things we get are impulse purchases determined by emotional factors and the whims of our lives.

The wise man (or woman) uses the concept of 'opportunity costs' to make more 'effective' money purchase decisions. How do you measure 'effectiveness' of use of money? Well the simplest and crudest way is to consider how much happiness you get from spending money one way rather than another. For example you could say: I will not spend £80 on this shirt from AllSaints. Instead, I will use the money to buy 2 books for £19, 2 DVD's for £20, a loaf of fresh bread and cheese, a bottle of wine, one cinema ticket, and a packet of cheesy Pringles' and a bubblegum. The opportunity cost is the item(s) you forgo by going down a particular spending route. You could buy a camera, or, you could go on holiday, or you could sleep with a prostitute. Which is it to be? It all depends on what gives you more pleasure or happiness. Measuring happiness is not as easy as it sounds. Most human beings mistake happiness for instant gratification. Happiness is a chronic state of the mind that it less prone to the pendulum like up's and down's of the human condition. Happiness is the microwave background radiation of our lives and those starburst moments of exploding nebulae (job promotion, becoming a parent or the first time, marriage, social acceptance etc) are spikes of brilliance in a static crackling background leftover from the birth of time.

Money is a gift. But it can also be a curse. Too often it becomes the reason for life rather than its lubricant.

poor is he who spends a fortune on a car that gives him measly pleasure

wealthy is he who spends a fraction of that on a trip to Outer Mongolia.

Lesson: fuck the car. Go to Outer Mongolia!

_______

The BigThink with Stephen Fry

This is the one guy

I want to meet

Before I die

He's utterly charming

and brilliant too

packed full of brain cells

and Phil O Sophie too

He wanders through the Mystery

of everything there is

and with a magical wave of a hand

he say's (in low tones and confident cadences):

"live for today - this is all there is!"

Fairy Meadow in Pictures

Kodak moments

I remember it quite clearly. It was high up in the mountains. In the clouds as they say. It had taken me the good half of a day by donkey and mule transport to get up there. The donkey had shitted all the way up and my bowels were not doing too well either. The path was too narrow for motorised transport. The place was so high and remote that it had its own micro-climate and alpine flora/fauna. The air was fresh and as you went higher you could feel it cleansing you of those toxic free radicals. 'Fairy Meadow' they called it - on account of the fairies that lived there. The modern world had barely touched it. It was unsoiled. A virginal valley amidst splendour I can barely do justice in description. So I won't bother. The day cycle was dictated by the movement of the sun. So you got up at first light when the sun winked at the window and you retired to sleep at the end of the day when it got too dark to see or do anything. There was no electricity. Some of the other folk had generators, but the guest house I was staying in, had to make do without. So no television (not a bad thing). Reading would have been impossible at night had it not been for my ingenious solution. At night it would get freezing cold and you had no option but to bury yourself under the blankets. So there I'd be under layers of blanket, with the sheets wrapped around me like a tent, making sure all holes where a cold draft might get in were plugged. I had one of those Magna-lites with the handle clenched in my teeth, with the beam end illuminating my book. This continued for a few nights until the battery ran out. So time to find some batteries.

Luckily there was a shop. Just one shop and what a well stocked shop too! (see above). It stocked everything from Paracetamol to balloons. From Nestle's baby milk to nasal balms and horrid pakistani branded chocolates - that claimed to be chocolaty but tasted like mud. Luckily they had batteries. A Chinese brand called 'Hero'. This is a very popular brand name for Chinese products. Most things made in China are called 'Hero'. I have no idea why. It puzzled me then and it puzzles me still. I did ask the shopkeeper why this was so but he was rather spare in his reply. Perhaps in his tiny shopworld with its extensive range of merchandise - my question was a little stupid!

The shopkeeper was a very friendly fellow though. He offered me a bottle of Coca-Cola (I did ask for Coke Zero but he didn't have any) and we chatted for what seemed like hours. We discussed his business plan. Yes he had one! He said he was thinking of branching out - literally. His shop you see was made of wood er branches and he was thinking of cutting some branches down and extending the length! He asked me (me being a savvy western educated finance professional) what the latest craze was that he could sell in his shop. I replied in the manner of someone who has been asked a question that they clearly know the answer to: "MP3 players". He looked at me rather doubtfully. He said the 'elders' would not approve as music is frowned upon in these wee parts. Eventually we settled on Colgate toothpaste - a less risque option I thought. The local children kept coming in and sitting in the corners watching us in conversation. Or watching me converse. I think they thought me a little odd. Like a new toy or a new cat that you play with like crazy for the first few days only to get bored of it and discard it later. I was, at that moment, their new toy and they had every intention of winding me up and watching me go.

I was doing pretty well in the communications department. I was speaking in a broken Urdu tongue - but I could make myself understood (I have this gift you see). Even when we got mired knee deep in metaphysical territory, I would use my hands and draw shapes in the air to express my point. To my surprise and shame the shopkeeper turned out to be more learned than I gave him credit for. Initially I'd taken him for a country bumpkin conservative philistine type but he turned out to be rather radical in his political and socialist hues. Basically he was a thinker (though he might not look it in the image above. Initially I thought he looked like a thief!). He had a lot of free time on his hand you see; as the shop was not very busy (not even during rush hour - which was at 3pm when school finished) and he spent it wisely - thinking. The children found the whole thing most amusing and after that I was a bit of a celebrity with a fan-club that would follow me all over Fairy Meadow.

I still have fond memories and I hope to go back one day. During my stay I also went into the local school (there was only one with two classes - a boys and girls only class) and sat at the back during English lessons. The teacher was great and had achieved much under difficult circumstances (like lack of teaching material). He was proud to have me there and it was great! I even went to the front and gave a five minute lesson on a subject I don't quite recall! Certainly a Kodak memory. One day I will go back again but this time with books and materials for the school. And also, I'll be sure to take some Duracell batteries...and some decent chocolates, for some serious night-time adventures, under the sheets, when the night is old, and the sheets are cold!

_______

Cold Winter Nights (Part deux)...

...and the river in question is called...philosophy. And the great thing about philosopheee...is that it is freee! for everybodyyy....

Ok, enough of the larking about. But it is true. My words speak the truth in abundance and are pregnant with the bastard child of wisdom. Any idiot can be a philosopher you know. It doesn't require a qualification. Nor does it require any specialist training. Or a brain the size of a planet (though it may help). You don't have to be the owner of an enormous IQ, nor be a Noble Prize winner, or a graduate of Imperial College (though it may and will certainly help). The truth is, that we can all be philosophers. Yes every single dumb-stupid-fat-skinny-ugly-pretty-freakshow one of us. Even the fat man working in McDonalds and the part-time accountant who thinks he's rather cool. All it takes is a healthy skepticism. An enquiring mind. A wry sense of humour. A sense of the absurd, an appreciation of the profound (like a good relationship with God and Queen) and finally...a nice bottle of red wine, preferably a vintage Rioja, to zzap those brain cells into profound oblivion.

Philosophy though, I admit, has a bad reputation. It is oft considered stuffy, and anachronistic, and a dusty old profession that nobody really takes seriously anymore. This view is not helped by the philosophy books you find in the library. They seem to be written in a foreign idioma and in a style that is deliberately obscurantist and designed to put you off your stride before you've even begun! Forget the books. Forget them. Leave them in the dusty old library vaults. You don't need them. Why should you? As I said all you need is to be alive (which you are as you're reading this. If you were dead you would not be reading this, right?) and you also need to be in possession of your senses (assuming of course you have not drunk the entire bottle of Rioja). We can all be philosophers. Let's think of a problem, a topic, a subject matter, and let's analyse it, and study it, and crack it open, and peer inside, and see what lies within, or what lies without.

Now the first thing to do is pick a topic. Any ideas? Anyone? I would like you to pick a topic, doesn't matter what (as long as it's not sexually explicit or obscenely gross in nature - or maybe it can be sexual? I don't mind). I will let you decide. It's your class. It's your life. Once you have picked a topic, I will show you how, without delving into a book, or an academic course, you can use the tools at your disposal (your brain and your senses), to scrutinise - analyse - decipherise - and finally, to reach a conclusion so startling, so original, that it will leave you speechless, and change your life from here onwards till the day you join the angels. Oh yes, I mean it. The thing is we all too often forget what fun it is just to be alive. To be able to think - it's such a joy! I know you think I'm crazy don't you? - there are times, many times, when I am walking along the pavement, often whistling, often mumbling, usually jaywalking, and I am struck by a thought (sometimes I am struck by bird-shit but that is an altogether different matter), or I am on the bus or the train, or in a cafe, or on a plane to someplace in the mountains, and I'm philosophising, and it hits me (no not the bus - though that can happen too), and it hits me, some thought of such (and I'm going to use a BIG word here) profundity, that I am left gasping in sheer exhilaration. It's almost as if I am breathing in pure oxygen from the top of Everest, or some gas that regular humans don't breathe, and it's such a wonderful feeling. I want you to feel that. I want you to feel how I feel and see how wonderful it is!

Well maybe I am mad? So what? I'm the better for it, and you my dear friends, the luckier for having a crazy fool like me as a teacher. The best teachers are the mad one's. I used to have a chemistry teacher at Secondary school and he was pretty radio ga-ga/radio blah-blah - and I learnt much from him - about carbon atoms and the Periodic Table and a shaggy haired Russian chemist called Mendeleev. But anyway, what I was saying was that you need to pick a topic so we can pick a pocket and pick a fight with. I want to show you the good stuff in-between the gaps in your lives, and show you how it resembles, when you look a little closely, the infinite space between the galaxies...

[to be continued]

Cold Winter Nights - Warm Winter Thoughts

Modern times are a puzzle. Most people in Western countries are richer and healthier than they have ever been. Their lives are made easier by gadgets which cook their food, chill their drinks, wash their clothes, warm their homes in winter, allow them to remain connected to family and friends. Their lives are made pleasant by gadgets that entertain them on bright viewable screens, or in storage devices that fit in the pocket. There are transport devices that take people where they want to go in warmth and padded comfort.

Yet, according to many observers, people are less happy and fulfilled than their forebears. They feel discontented, not satisfied, and anxious. There is a vacuum in the centre of their lives and into this hole they throw many things to fill it: relationships, family, friends, DVD's, electronic gadgets, self-help books, religion, pets, holidays and the so called 'career'. But the frustration; though it may abate somewhat as a result of these remedies, still persists and the people cannot identify its source. All they know is that the more gadgets and more money they have, the more they feel the need to supply their lives with meaning or at least solace.

Some turn to recreational drugs such as alcohol or skunk weed and some to medicines like Prozac to relieve the tedium of existence. Others turn to religion. Both drugs and religion erect a safety barrier against the discontent, although by different means - drugs work by obliterating the conscious awareness of the vacuum itself, and religion by providing a ready made filling. Others hope to find the solution in love and family life, but find matters made worse by the failure of their expectations. Some turn to the occult, others seek relief in psychoanalysis, behavioural therapy, astrology, feng-shui, crystals, aromatherapy, the teachings of 'the east' and tarot readings.

All these efforts have something in common. They are all based on the assumption (rather apt in our capitalist society) that the problem's of life can be made to go away and can be solved by handing over money to some sort of 'expert'. Another thing all these efforts have in common is how often they fail. They might seem to work for a time, but eventually, they become frayed and worn and the emptiness begins to show through again.

You see, there is a universal defect in the human being that has created a widespread delusion: that only 'I' am discontented with life, and that everybody else I see around me, is not. Not true! Take a look around. Take a look at one of the richest nations in the world: Dubai. Do you honestly think that Dubai really would; if it did indeed gain spiritual solace from Islam or had ample self-esteem, go to the trouble of building the Burj Khalifa (the tallest building in the world)? - The economics are well known. Buildings grow upwards when floor-space costs are uneconomical. The only reason they built the worlds tallest building in the middle of a desert (where floor space is plentiful) was as a show of ostentatious wealth. "Look at me! Love me! I want to be loved and liked and talked about by the whole world". But how long will this feeling last? The novelty will wear off and somebody else in their folly will build something higher. The only reason why people build or own such garish things is because they have a hole the size of a little moon in their hearts.

Yet the best resource for dealing with the inexplicable void in the heart of rich, well-fed, healthy, well entertained Westerners lies very close to hand. Oh yes! We Westerners are like thirsty people drinking from a muddy puddle that lies not far from the banks of a great crystal-clear perspicacious river. The river has a name. It is called...

[to be continued]

Coming soon...The Best Travel Camera In the Whole Wide World (A review)

Thaw

Snowed Under / Stumbling

We've been having a wintery spell here in England. So I thought I'd take my camera obscura out of its protective shell, and stumble about a little, in the snow and ice. [All images taken with my new Panasonic GF-1 (20mm 1.7 pancake lens)]

_______

Stumbling through life

that's us.

Do you remember

when you we're sixteen

Now that you look back

were you not stumbling then?

What about at twenty-two

when you fell in love

did you not stumble through that too?

What about now -

do you think you are in charge?

Why should today be any different

from yesterday

For tomorrow

you will look back at today

and see that you were stumbling

all along

_________

Nightmare in Mesquito (fiction)

The old town of Mesquito sits perched high up in the Andes where the angry God's dwell. Surrounded on all sides by impenetrable Andean passes and jagged mountain peaks it has always attracted those seeking adventure, fame, fortune and death. The route that leads up to Mesquito (a skinny path fit for one) begins at the valley floor and snakes to the left as you cross the river, and then with a sudden hair-pin, rises sheer to the sky. Albatross's swoop overhead, their gigantic wing flaps casting a wide berth below. As you move higher up, inching your way to the gods and certain death, the river slowly dims to a silky stream that plays with light whose shards wink diamond like. The sun beats heavy and like a gong it rings in the ears. The air is brisk but starved and the lungs struggle to get the oxygen they desperately crave.

Today, Mesquito is a dot barely on the map that hardly raises a flutter in the tourist salons of the big city of lights. However, if you trawl through the history books, if you take a little breather and do a little research in the State library, you will find that it was not always thus. In fact Mesquito was, once upon a long time ago, the sight of a most extraordinary series of events, that quite literally, changed the world. The past in Mesquito, for those who care to look, is buried under layers of topsoil. But you only have to dig a little to uncover the unmistakable lurid signs of the secret that it wishes to conceal. Conceal from whom? Itself or the world? Infamy is best forgotten lest it torment the living who must live with its weighty burdens. But secrets! No matter how hard one tries, they cannot really be erased. The slate of history is singed with the hot breath of the human condition This history passes through the conduits of the universal human consciousness - via the mediums of whispered oral tales, written words, the incantations of the priesthood, the nursery rhymes of childhood and the lay, lie and breadth of the land.

We now begin our story and we it begin many years back. Seven hundred to be kind of precise. A Spanish Galleon vessel; its hull rotting and eaten through and through by worms, is about to burst its seams upon an alien shore. You can almost hear the screams of the carrion birds as they encircle above. Their shrill cries bouncing on the beats of cannibal drums.

Coming soon...London New Year Celebration Pics!

I am,

merely a Were-

Wolf.

Of light on shadow

Immaterial

Inconstant

Immature.

Maybe.

Wandering the wayfare

cos waylaid

wherefore,

whereart

my wherewithal

A black&white sepia fixed,

in time. Like the hands in my pocket.

And the thoughts in my head

that smell

of madness.

Maybe I should...

Whereto?

Where-but!

Waythere

Way

Over

There.

_________

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time in a land far away, whilst on my travels, beyond the wide blue sea, I was accosted by a couple of bad fellows, who proceeded to deprive me of my wallet. They were an ill mannered navvy sort though they allowed me to keep the clothes on my back; but they took everything else nonetheless. It was a difficult time and I wish to relate my story here. Luckily I had paid my landlady's rent in advance; so for now at least, I was safe from the streets. It is curious. I had always wondered what it would feel like to be destitute and starving. And now here I was. Literally starving. Starving is not so bad if you have drink coursing through your veins to keep the mind from concentrating on the stomach. In a way it's a kind of release. Here you are. Penniless. Starving. Filthy. No girl will look at you on the street cos you reek. You're no longer a man in their eyes. More like a mangy cat. Yet, there's a morbid pleasure in knowing that you can take it and that you don't care.

Do you know, mon p'tit, do you know what it's like to go without eating eh? Forcement, otherwise you wouldn't be scrubbing dishes. Well, i'm not a lowly plongeur; and I went five whole days without eating. Five whole days without even a crust of bread - Jesus Christ!

I tell you, those five days were the devil. Luckily I had my rent paid in advance. I was living in a dirty cheap little hotel in the old quarter. It was called the hotel - , after some famous prostitute who was born in that quarter. I was starving. Do you know what it is to starve mon ami? It is a curious lowly feeling. Too weak to do anything even find work. Can't even go to the cafes cos I hadn't the price of a drink. You can't even walk down the street without fearing you might bump into a friend and have to pay for their drink. It's a intolerable life. Life? It's not even an existence. All I could do was lie in bed and get weaker and weaker and watch the bugs crawl like soldiers in zig-zags across the ceiling. After the fifth day without food I went half mad I tell you. I was staring at the wall. There was an old faded print of a bearded man's head hanging on the wall of my room, and in my delirium I took to wondering who the devil it could be. After an hour or so of serious cogitation I realised it must be some Muslim Saint. I had never taken any notice of such things before. Saints and the like were never tangible things to me. But here, now, as I lay withering and etiolated on these sweat infused dirty bed-sheets with my cheeks sunken in like hollows, an extraordinary thought occurred to me. 'I shall pray!' I said to myself. 'By god I shall pray to this Saint and see whether he helps me!'

So I got down on my knees and clasped my hands together in the form of an open book and read a 'duaa' (prayer).

At first I didn't know what to say to the man. How do you begin? So I thought maybe the best thing to do at first was to ask for forgiveness for not praying as often as he would like me to. I asked him how he was. Asked if he was OK. And then I told him at length of my sorrows. I related my story of the hole in my heart (left ventricle to be precise) and I told told him at length of the emptiness in my stomach. I told the old Saint of my love for chicken drumsticks deep-fried in bread batter...

[to be continued]

Tonight we're watching...Fantastic Mr Fox!

I'm taking my nieces to watch this tonight at the Odeon Mezzanine. Though my nieces are only an excuse really. Been meaning to watch this since it was first announced. Like many I loved reading Roald Dahls' indefatigable Mr Fox when I was young. This fresh and new incarnation Directed by Wes Anderson promises to be a quirky and somewhat philosophically inclined existential affair. I'm expecting great animation. Quirky plot. And plenty of food for thought. Will post a foxy and fantastic review afterwards.

Last night I read...Batavia's Graveyard

Undercover Lonely Planet

The planet is swarming with the faithful. Like iron filings in a magnetic field they gravitate towards places of worship. Prostrating themselves before the steps of white-washed temples, encircling the ancient ruins of old, visiting the divine caves of the Lady of Fatima for a quick fix, dragging themselves on all fours; heels and elbows, bloodied and bruised, across the high Tibetan plains, and here; in the muddies and eddies of the river Ganges - that floweth from Heaven.

Why? What all this activity? There is much we humans don't understand about the world. Why am I poor and he wealthy? Why did she die? Why the struggle for a bowl of rice? So these rituals; when you look at the pained expressions on the peoples faces, are a grasp in the dark for, what I like to call 'The Grand Mystery', or the infinite unknowable. A grasp in the hope that something of this Grand Mystery will be revealed. But ultimately, though these are journeys to physical places of rock and stone and water, the real destination lies within us - in our hearts and soul. For that's where the mystery lies and where it will be uncovered.

______

and now for something a little different...

Favourite part: 0.57 secs

Undercover World

Francisco de Goya's 'Los Caprichos'

In the twilight of the 18th century Francisco de Goya made a series of etchings which he called Los Caprichos (The Follies). One of the etchings; my favourite and perhaps the most famous, features a man slumped over his desk in deep sleep. Around him in the dark his unconsciousness is awake in the form of a swarm of threatening night creatures that emerge from the shadows. On the side of the desk facing the viewer is an explanatory inscription that reads: 'El sueno de la razon produce monstruos.' - 'The sleep of reason gives birth to monsters.'

It is almost a cliche that the world is ruled by unreason. It is easy to see the monsters that stalk us, created and fuelled by emotion, especially those of anger, resentment, intolerance, greed and fear. But reason has been with us throughout history too. Just marvel at the archaeologist's trove of flint axes from the dawn before memory. Admire the street planning of the ancient Pakistani city of Mohenjodaro, the irrigation canals, husbandry, the jewellery of dynastic Egypt. Look at modern life and wonder: consider our cities with their clean and safe water supply, sewage system, telephones, electricity, schools, roads, supermarkets - these are the forethought's of reason and planning. The fruits of applied science. Or, as it say's on my Zanussi washing machine: The Appliance, Of Science.

But reason has not always been benign either. It was reason that converted the spear into the guided missile. It was reason that gave us the gas chambers of Auschwitz, and the torture chambers in the fortress of Spilberk in Brno. It was reason that heralded the extermination of the Amazonian Indians. But from dentistry and central heating to human rights and the rule of law, for every backward step caused by malign use of reason, we take two steps forward. It is because of reason that the average life of today is better than the life of our ancestor's. But beware. Two thirds of the world still live under the pall of unreason - of superstition, ignorance and the associated malaise of negative emotions that fuel conflicts.

Goya's etchings teach us to be wary. We mustn't fall asleep - we mustn't. For the darkness still harbours demons. And our dominion is anything but assured.

______

London Unchromatic

The Grand Inquisitor (and what he tells us)

Probably the most celebrated chapter in Fyodor Dostoevsky's masterpiece The Brothers Karamazov, is the one in which we are introduced to the Grand Inquisitor in the poem composed by Ivan Karamazov to his brother Aloysha. In the poem Jesus returns to the world during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. Though he comes down 'softly' and 'unobserved', it is not long before he is recognised by the people, and taken prisoner by the Grand Inquisitor. Jesus is locked up in the ancient palace of the Holy Inquisition, he is questioned, but refuses to answer, only to say that he has come down to give mankind back his freedom.

The Grand Inquisitor laughs in Jesus's face and tells him that humanity is too weak to bear and appreciate the gift of freedom. He say's that man does not seek freedom but bread. People will worship whoever gives them bread - for the cravings of the stomach are staunchest of all. And that humanity needs its rulers to be gods, or if not gods, then at least, to be put there by the blessings of gods. The Grand Inquisitor tells Jesus that his teachings have been amended to deal with the reality of man's true nature: 'We have corrected Thy work and have founded it on miracle, mystery and authority. And men rejoiced that they were again led like sheep, and that the terrible gift of freedom that brought them such suffering was, at last, lifted from their hearts.'

The Grand Inquisitors assertion that men want bread not freedom is closer to the truth than you might want to believe. Man will always demand miracle, mystery and authority. Look at the world we live in today. Today, man gets his sense of the miraculous from science and technology: television, mobiles, the Internet, jumbo jets, artificial fabrics, non-stick pans. These things nourish man's sense of the miraculous as magic did in the past...Dostoevsky's diagnosis of human nature rings true and is unanswerably correct: man will always submit to tyranny and authority. Man does not want to be free. But to be led, because...man is too weak and stupid to make up his own mind about the things that matter. Just look at the film at the top of the charts this week, Paranormal Activity, about...yes, ghosts - look at the Iraq War Inquiry - look at Afghanistan - look at the quagmire in Pakistan - just look at Burma - just look, and you will see, that man prefers to be led by politicians, than the fruits of his own reasoning's.

For some, science is the know-all and answer-all of our problems. But here too we must be careful. Science promises that our most ancient needs will be met. That sickness and ageing and poverty and disease will be eradicated; that the human species will become immortal. But to believe that science alone can and will transform our lot into universal happiness is a myth of gigantic proportions. Science cannot help with ultimate meanings because, their are none. That is not a criticism of science. That is a fact of reality.

The truth that Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor teaches us is that humankind has never sought freedom, and never will. We are told by secular religions today that humans yearn to be free; and it is true they find restraint of any sort irksome. Yet, it is rare that individuals value their freedom more than the comfort and repose and non-thinking numbness that comes with servility. It is much easier and more comfortable to be servile and have guaranteed bread than to be critical and worry about whether there will be any bread.

To think that, just because a few people sometimes seek freedom, that all human beings want it, is like thinking that, just because there are flying fish, it is in the nature of all fish to fly.

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A little tittle tattle

St. Valentines day is not about love or sex. It is about romance. Romance is that something from which one hopes, one will be led, to love and sex. Romance is the route one must take to love and sex. Romance is not the destination. It is love and sex that are the destination. And therein lies the problem! - for too many people, especially women, confuse the route with the destination. And when they reach the destination (love and/or sex), they are not satisfied, for they ask themselves: 'but where is the romance gone?'

Romance is not love. It is the dream of love. Romance is not sex. It is the foreplay of foreplay. Romance is the spring of loves year. It is the rosy dawn of an effulgent passion-full bright day. When romancing one gives one's desired one flowers and chocolates. These gifts are more apt than you think. A flower seduces a bee with pollen to do its service of fertilization. Chocolate contains phenethylamine (something I learnt in biochemistry class), a chemical produced internally in the brain by people undergoing sexual infatuation. Presented together, both flowers and chocolate, are the ultimate seducer of the seductee. This is also the reason why on Valentine's day sales of lingerie outstrip sales of kitchen cutlery by 10:1, for whereas cutlery is an adjunct of blissful domestic arrangements associated with long-term affections, lingerie however is part of the invitation process as in - come hither sorceress of my loins!

In the austere days of republican Rome, Cato the Censor expelled Lucius Manilius from the Senate for kissing his wife in public. And then since then we have the explosion of chastity that gripped the Middle Ages, Christianity and Islam from AD 400 onwards. Recognising that female beauty is the most powerful drug in the world, theologians have since then, sought to nip the bud of romance, by requiring women to disguise, what biology hath given them; namely their flowing hair and curvaceous hips, under veils and shapeless robes.

In the Middle Ages the fact that birds began to sing and pair and mate in mid-February gave rise to the association between St Valentine's Day and courtship. Chaucer said: '...for this was on seynt Valentyne's day, when every foul cometh there to chase his mate'. Oscar Wilde once said that romance is deception. Deception it may be, but who can deny that romantic illusions; be they delusions, add colour to reality's monochrome, and enliven hope, and are thus a good and welcome illusion therefore!

Oh, the pleasures of love

the deeds of St Valentine's

The silly thoughts that sail

right through my lovestruck mind!

__________

ADoseofPhilosophy - reading & the good life

Reading is one of the essentials of the good life. It is not just the familiar pleasures that come from responsive reading that matter (like fear, excitement, a swashbuckling plot), but rather the effects of these on how we live our lives and see the world. The truth is, that in our society, reading is no longer accorded the respect it deserves. Let me tell you a secret: reading is much more than you think it is.

Reading, compared to alternative forms of media, is a particular focused form of activity. By reading I am of course referring to books (and not magazines and newspapers and comics and billboards and breakfast cartons). Reading books is a peculiarly focused activity that takes place in private-time and makes a fundamental difference in the way, say, a movie cannot. A play cannot be stopped and reprised in the way pages can be re-read, whether to relish something extraordinarily good or to understand something better. How many times have you re-read a sentence to saviour its meaning or prose? Exactly. A novel is present all at once, and can be gone over and back, re-entered, skimmed, sampled, devoured, and written all over in the margin, at your leisure. This adds a certain value to its contents. And it is the contents that matter most.

What is the difference between watching a movie and reading the book of the same movie? It is only thorough a book that you can see what someone is thinking and really feeling. Think about it for a second. You can enter some one's mind much better in words than on the big screen. The big screen shows you what the character is doing. Only the written word can tell you what they are thinking. Books allows us to consider our own experiences, seeing in the mirror of the story reflections of our own world and life, and the universal aspect of oneself, at the revealing angles that result from seeing them refracted into other guises. It's like stepping into another's shoes for awhile.

Another is the opportunity that books give us to peer into experiences we ourselves have not had, and might never have, in other lives and 'exotic' ways of life. This gift of books is in my opinion priceless. Being restricted to personal experience and observation of only what lies in one's immediate circles is no guarantor of becoming wise and perceptive. But, to be a fly on the wall in a foreign land, or a far away place in time, observing different lives, watching peoples do things differently, understanding their world view and how they see the world through their eyes; the chance to sympathise with people you will never meet, to partake in choices and desires that have never occurred to one, to feel the fear of a long sea voyage, to understand what it means to be a slave, to trek on a long desert voyage with the Danakil - that is the gift that comes from thoughtful reading. The better the novel, the richer the possibilities it offers in this and all its other dimensions.

Most importantly, good reading promises an enlargement of our sympathies. And sympathy is the basis of the fair moral community. To sympathise and empathise with others is to understand their interests, needs, choices and motives. Because reading promotes insights into oneself and others, it thereby helps promote the good life in the good society.

Please read more. It's good for you! - A dose a day - keeps the devils at bay.

Thevoraciouscaterpillar.com

Readingislikevitaminpills.com

Readingexersisesthebrainmusclestoliftcontinents.com

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The cult of free will

I have begun to understand something profound about my life...and, for that matter, about your life, and your life, and your life, and I believe all life in general. This something is the cult of freewill. I would like to expose this pernicious cult of freewill for what it is. A big fat lie. This cult is all pervasive in our Western society and this is what I wish to discuss here tonight. It is an idea that is taught us in schools and on TV and everywhere we care to look. We are subconsciously imbibing this cult via subliminal messages every time we act as consumers or view a billboard or watch a movie in the theatre.

We live our lives as if we had a choice in our decisions. As if we have freewill. We are taught this fallacy in schools though it is not a mainstay of Eastern teachings. President Bush defended the invasion of Iraq on the grounds that we have to protect our freedoms. What did he mean by 'freedoms'? What freedoms was he referring to? I am not talking about freedom as a political idea, but rather, as a philosophical one. What I want to know is this: do I really have a choice in what I do? Do I have a choice in what I read and what I watch and how I think and how I spend my time? And I don't mean choice as in a big brother 1984 style Orwellian State, but rather in the sense that: can I be anyone I want to be? Or am I limited to be who I am already? - To be rid of myself and be someone else Is what I am talking about. Can I do that? And if not, why not?

We are not unified free to do as we please

But buffeted constantly

by the currents of the world

the winds of chance & caprice

We think our actions express our decisions. But do they?

Throughout our lives willing decides nothing. We cannot wake up or fall asleep, remember or forget our dreams, summon or banish our thoughts, fall in love with this person or that, by deciding to do so. Deciding counts for little. How do I know this? I know this because we are creatures of habit. And there is little choice or freewill when it comes to habit:

90% of us order the same dish in restaurants

90% of us read the same newspaper everyday

90% of us do the same activity on weekends

90% of us watch the same types of movies

90% of us hold the same beliefs we had as children

90% of us abide by the same moral principles held by our parents

90% of us live and die within 7 miles of the place we were born

90% of us fall in love and marry someone within that same 7 mile radius

These are not statistics of choice. These are the statistics of the cult of freewill. In a world so big and vast and so full of choices - how can we be so insular and predictable?

When we greet someone on the street we just act and there is no actor standing behind what we do. Our acts are end points in long sequences of unconscious responses. They arise from a structure of habits and skills infinitely complicated. By the time you are 13 years old, the chances are, you will have already formed the characteristics and belief systems that will define your life. That is why the Jesuits boast: give me a child of eleven and I shall give you the man. Most of our lives are acted and lived without conscious awareness. Below the radar of self awareness. Much of the greater part of everyone's life goes on without thinking.

We think we are in control but we are not. My environment, upbringing, and genes, and predispositions, and circumstances, all connive; in a cosmic conspiracy, in making me do what I do. I was always going to do what I did. I will always do what I will do. I should not be thanked or berated nor harangued for it. If I write a brilliant book - should I be celebrated? What choice did I have over its contents? Did I really write it? Or was it merely the product of unfathomable forces; inexplicable connections and circumstances strung together like beads, or like knots in a tapestry.

Did I plan what I am writing now? Did I consciously 'will' every word and thought into existence before committing it to this entry? Has it taken on the shape I wanted it to, or has it, like most of my writings, taken on a life and form very different to the one I envisaged?

The most beautiful moments in life happen when we discover something we were not looking for. When through grappling in the darkness we find hidden depths or shades we never knew we had. You'll never find these thing if you only swim near the beach you know. You have to wade out into darker colder waters. And that is what differentiates us from the lower animals does it not? The ability to project ourselves into the future and wonder.

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