Passing bliss

A beautiful song played on the radio while we drove out to a Christmas dinner. It began with two alternating bass notes which were soon doubled on a nylon guitar. The distance between the two notes was jubilant. A few bars in a young girl began to narrate in French, her words indecipherable yet sweet. As the song progressed, more layers emanated eventually cumulating  in a wonderful ambiance against the wind through my hair and backdrop of skyscrapers and rivers.

I never found out what the song was. The radio host did mention the name but it was too strange to understand. But somehow I did not care. I was comfortable with the moments transience. I simply did not mind that I may never hear that song again nor recreate that specific experience.

There is a strive for control of knowledge we have developed in this technological age. No fact shall elude us. With information at our finger tips we can call upon the most esoteric, useless fact to appease our curiosity.

Such a feat is of course extraordinarily helpful at times. It is a marvel of thousands of years of human innovation. Minutes after that experience our little smart phone helped us contact a new restaurant and map out a route after giving up on our intended one barricaded by ridiculous Christmas time road closures.

But whether or not such power is always the best way to enhance the human experience is dubious. There is an element of mystery that we lose. With the absence of control and over analysis, we blissfully give ourselves to the haphazard winds of fate. I long for a time when people traveled not with phones, cameras and iPods but rather their eyes and ears.

There is a certain joy in not knowing if I will ever hear that song again. Moreover, when I do hear it again the pleasure will be doubled at the appreciation of my luck.

There is a certain joy in learning every detail about your airplane companions wildly different life and then departing the plane, not having exchanged contact details, seeing them slip into a sea of people never to be seen again.

There is a certain joy in watching a sunset in a faraway place which you will not visit again, forced to capture the moment with all your senses, not a lens, forced to look back upon it with your memory and imagination, not a piece of paper.

Maybe we could compromise. How great it would be to travel and create your memories as sketches in grey, having to notice every detail possible. We could get lost in streets, never minding if we knew the right way to our destination. And then sending hand written letters, ferried across the skies, patiently and personally, to our loved ones back home.

I do not mean to chastise materialism. Sometimes technology can enhance our experiences, letting us log detailed images and words to our travels and connect in ways we never dreamed about. We can of course now fit more into our lives than ever before. But some times efficiency does appear to have its cost by making each moment a little less special.

And so finally, consider that there may be a certain joy in the mystery of not knowing how if all began. Because if we did, what would we wonder about while staring out at the night sky?

How to live or do anything else

About a year back, I got into a great guitar practicing groove. Everyday I would spend up to four hours diligently practicing scales, exercises, chords and improvisation, more studiously than school work. Now I had been playing the guitar for years before this but only now did I dedicate proper time to proper, not half assed, practice. While I was still miles out from being a Petrucci, or even a Frusciante, it was a rewarding experience.

I would pick up my guitar, tune it, get the levels right and then dig into a series of patterns on the fret board. My focus would be on each pick only, trying to get it right and making sure the next followed neatly. It never occurred to me to practice for a set amount of time. Instead, by the end of the session, it would turn out that the concatenation of hundreds of picking strokes and dozens of exercises happened to result in hours of time.

The point is that I managed to complete what was relatively long endeavor. I did so by focusing on each step at time, forgetting about the goal, just leaving the end result as a product of these individual moments. Moreover, I can say the same for most of my smoother accomplishments.

Every story I have written came one word at a time. Every meal I ever made came one chop, grind or peel at a time. Every successful meditation I managed simply came one breath at a time. At no point did I try to digest the entirety of the process in one go. That is far too intimidating and distracting. Rather I just did what I had to at that given second, with no expectations, calmly enjoying the process.

I woke up today and lived one step at a time.

I did not think about the future nor the past. I gave no thought to what I have or will accomplish today. I let nothing exist but the present. Because our story is written not as an abstract, but just one word, step and breath at a time.

As I lay in bed, in the wake of insomnic frustrations, I chose not to dwell on the irritation. Instead, I just let the specks of sunshine warm my early morning eyes. Without thought, I pulled out my laptop, and let the ambient sounds of Harold Budd soundtrack my morning, bringing me into the day at peace. Walking outside, I then lay in the seven am sun, sipping on a glass of herbal tea, blankly gazing across the distant tree line.

As I looked around my parents garden, I was lured across by the almost fluorescent flowers, pulling each one close to my nose, waking up my senses with their sweet jasmine fragrance. Then walking back inside, I mingled around the kitchen, conversing proudly in Marathi, my mother tongue, as my mum prepared a traditional Indian breakfast to welcome me home.

 

 

Unconcerning Insanity

Insanity is simply abberance.

A few months ago I visited a dietitian, another avenue which I hoped may shed some light on my current health issues. To be frank, the depth of her advice was disappointing, although not surprising. As a health nut who regularly scours journal articles, online lectures and enjoys discussing the current state of nutritional research I found her advice to be little better than that of a Womens Day magazine.

With all due respect of course, she was friendly, concerned and did help me organise my diet in a practical sense. However what I found curious was a letter she had written to my GP following our visit. I only came across it some time later when requesting documents from my GP. Interestingly, she suggested that I may have an eating disorder.

How funny it is to consider that this grown version of a nutritionally thoughtless, chubby high school student could grow into a nutritionally obsessed masochist. While I did make considerable dietary changes  after moving out of home, eschewing the delicacies of the golden arches in place of the rustic charms of simple vegetables, I am not so sure such actions deserve to be labelled as ‘extreme’.

In particular, my abstention from sugar, oil and all things processed made me fit for the term ‘orthorexic’, which is the obsession over type of food ingested rather than quantity. In a world of artificial gustatory extravagance, is that so crazy? In a world in which heart attacks, diabetes and cancer are the norm is the strive for optimal health really madness?

Now I admit that I do get a bit edgy about eating unhealthy foods at times. And sure, maybe she saw my conclusions as simply wrong and grown out of paranoia. But resentfully, instead of countering my dietary choices with an informative discourse, she took the easy route and labeled me as unable to make my own choices at all.

How easily she wrote of a potentially genuine view on life as negative mental trait.

Every now and then it hits you that those of us who live wildly different lives simply hold different values. Whether you are a man child, a health nut, an obsessive achiever or a self centered pyschopath, that is simply what brings you satisfaction. Of course if it gets to the point where your tendencies become self destructive, where you begin acting out of irrational fears then a mental diagnosis may be warranted.

But in my case, I think not.

For now I am content with looking forward to a life free from common western ailments. I will happily seek culinary pleasure from creative whole food ingredients, diligently gaining satisfaction from my purity.

I am content with any hour wasted in mindless activities, as I know that I will be productive in whatever way I feel need, be it creative writing, a bit of programming or reading in due time.

I am content with treating others how I hope they would treat me, and a little more as that tickles my altruistic spirit. I will give my time, ears and hands to those whom I can have a lasting relationship with and then become ashamedly selfish when I feel the need.

That is my balance and I am sure you all truly have yours, you perfect and beautiful, non-pyscopathic different person. That doesn’t mean I have to like you or agree with you though…

Stories

Religion is an attempt to create a story about the world around us. These stories help guide us through our lives. They give us understanding, enjoyment and most importantly comfort.

The sun is Apollo riding his mighty chariot to light our skies. Maui once tore a great stingray from the Pacific ocean to create what is now the North Island of Aotearoa. A great man once walked this earth, the universe personified, to the pave path for us. There is a force known as Karma, pervading and connecting us all as a collective consciousness of action.

Such stories, however, are rejected by science and atheist lines of thought. Science values truth. It values that which is verifiable through impartial observation. Stories of course are not truth and so have no place in the mind of the most adamant rationalist.

The rationalist sees stories as a veil to truth. They believe that the truth will set us free as soon as we understand how every atom, cell and force in the universe works. But this truth is naught but a story itself, albeit one more consistent with reality. In the end, however, we must consider what is more important, consistency or meaningfulness.

Another way to say it is that rationality cannot be an end in itself. It is a useful tool for aiding our more complicated decisions. But if the attainment of happiness and satisfaction are taken to be our axioms, and irrationality is a path which may effectively lead us there, then maybe we should embrace our natural inclination for the sillyness of stories.

Some stories may work for some but not others. Of course, some may be dangerous when they encroach into social territory. But I don’t simply speak of the stories of the major religions. I speak of any sense of wonder, intuition and slight insanity, beyond the empirical, that one may conjure up.

There may be great joy in believing in the existence of fairies at the bottom of the garden. There may be great wisdom in seeing the sun, sky and sea as divine powers to be revered. And there may be great comfort in belief in the spirit, or at least in a beautiful truth that is just unknowable.

Our stories are the manifestation of our natural propensities.

From your spirit let emerge a story of the world around you. Let flowers and trees begin to talk to you. It is not your mind going mad, it’s simply the expression of your connection with nature. Let a guardian voice guide you. It is not insanity, it is just your inner strength lifting your spirits. And forever churn understanding into an experience. Because in the end it’s what you feel that matters, not what you know.

All in all, maybe irrationality is sometimes the most rational path.

Us and them

After dinner I walked into my room and closed the door behind me. It’s a small room, and in the corner sits my keyboard, hunched by a makeshift microphone-stand clothes rack, with just enough room for a cheap chair to sit amongst the scramble of cables. I sit. I reach to pick up a jumble of papers, sheet music I printed off yesterday, and lay the first page on my lap, as I don’t have a music stand.

The air of fading daylight is with me, the winding clock and spinning earth migrates the sun away, allowing the darkness to creep in earlier. The air of the cold is with me, no longer with company of the warm summer, suddenely aware of how easily the revered seasons are taken from us. And also with me, is the solemn air of this strange disease the has left me stranded in limbo, far more aware of the thoughts that dwell inside than I am comfortable with.

I flick on the keyboard and amp, listening to the buzz of the speaker for a moment. It’s suddenely a little less cold.

Fumbling through the first verse, I make it to the chorus, the part I specifically wanted to learn. It begins with a Bm, a sort of crashing sound after a mellow start. Two bars in, my right hand moves down to A, but it’s only a tease, as it moves back to the Bm while my left drops down a note. A heart tearing dissonance, the low end builds emotion, while the proud right stands as it is, creating irresolvable tension. Then swiftly yet gently, it resolves to a C, as if giving up hope, letting it’s last breath go just to find peace, in harmony and spirit.

I run through it again and again.

Just like the chords, the man was born out of the silence. The life he lived was subdued and idyllic, as was his youth. But as it neared the end, a truth of his existence came before him, that harsh honest Bm. Fighting for his life, upon the strength of his past, he tries to hold steadfast as the chords below his feet slip lower. But alas, he can fight no more and hence accepts his fate at the middle C, the note we all came from.

So strange it is that such a sorrowful piece of music can be so beautiful. Even more strange it is that one would willingly listen through this pain. Madness.

I run through it again.

It feels so wrong that musicians may die. Even after death, their songs still belong to them and we are just keeping them warm until they get back. But they won’t come back. They said goodbye to this earth and forgot to take something with them, their memories encapsulated in a melody. I guess nothing in this life really belonged to us in the first place.

I play it one last time.

“For want of the price or tea and a slice
The old man died”

Sympathy for the right

Lately I’ve been brushing up on my politics and economics. No, I still haven’t gotten around to reading a whole book or journal articles on the topic, but I’ve been making my way through a fair share of opinion articles, wikipedia pages and online lectures. I think this recent spur of interest could be attributed to our recent elections, occupy wall street or more likely, Reddit. Either way, it’s been enjoyable and enlightening.

Interestingly during this time I’ve changed my mind on a lot of issues. While not too long ago I would have considered myself a so called “liberal”, taking any opportunity to make remarks that stick it to the man, I’ve realised how uneducated I was regarding how things actually work in the real world.  That is to say, I haven’t changed what I value in society, but rather think differently on how we are to achieve them.

The terms capitalism and free market are, for me,  no longer synonymous with “greed” and “exploitation”. I no longer believe that the best way to solve our problems is via socialist regulations. In fact, I’ve realised that government interference sometimes poses a greater threat to the well being of a nation than corporations do. But more importantly, I’ve realised that people on the right are not evil scum.

There is a knee jerk reaction from the blue collar or liberal section towards right wing policies. One that assumes a self interest, elitism or even heartlessness within the maker. As if there is always some grand New World Order scheme churning below their million dollar mansions. Or could it be that they are simply trying to achieve the same goal as us but via a method they perceive as more effective?

Maybe foreign investment in New Zealand land will actually benefit all of us. Maybe discarding the minimum wage will produce more jobs. The sustainable extraction of our natural resources may just be a perfectly safe way to increase our exports. Suppose privatization does sometimes lead to better public services.  And maybe John Bank’s  depiction of the average Polynesian male has a valid basis (only kidding).

I’m not saying I support any of these claims. I just think that we could all try to understand the other side properly before we jump on the angry protest wagon and release the ad hominem remarks. Who knows, maybe we could even read a book on economics…

Soma

Let me present to you the man (or woman) of the future…

No longer burdened with the efforts of cooking, exercising, thinking or slugging away to find happiness, the man of the future is free to experience all the pleasures of reality from within the confines of their own home. He may seek the greatest highs, most exhilarating adventures and sensual pleasures at his whim. Gone will be the days of effort. Gone will be the days of consequences. The man of the future is finally liberated from the struggles of reality and thrust into the sensory heavens.

The man of the future will have the latest extra-sensory head apparatus sending waves of stimulation directly into their brain. Through this break through device, the user can experience any sensation he wishes: sight, smell, taste, touch or sound. One minute, he may be sitting atop a Tibetan mountain top, blissfully relaxing against the trickle of water and breathing in the cool high altitude air. The next minute he may be sitting at a great banquet, indulging in the rarest treats from the corners of the world. And then finally finding themselves in the arms of a loved one experiencing a heartfelt euphoria.

Sex, food, beauty or simply pure blissful slumber will appear at the pulse of a neuron. Our team at the Uber Man Technology Works have produced sensations indistinguishable from the real thing. So why put yourself through the risks and trials of real life when you can achieve the same result with no effort?

This is more than just a virtual reality system, however, it is a complete sensory reality system. Through it you can manipulate the crux of your perception as if you held a customizable drug. Upon reaching a temporary boredom with your usual virtual escapades, you may choose to wipe your slate clean and relive these experiences as if they were your first, over and over again. And moreover, you may send direct waves of dopamine to your brain leaving you in a catatonic state of pleasure for as long as you wish.

The man of the future sits comfortably upon the softest sofas in the security of his own home. A drip feeds to him all his his nutritional requirements, relieving him of the onerous need to cook, clean and expend energy that could be used for enjoyment. Robot cleaners sanitise the room and keep pesky intruders out, allowing the resident to meditate in his manner of choosing. Your remaining physical body, our dear customer, friend and brother, will be well looked after.

Soon, we will have achieved the pinnacle of what all human technology has strived for. A life of pure convenience and and eternal pleasure until the day we die. This is the future, an utter perfect existence. We all may now live our lives as the bourgeois of our own reality. No, the GODS of our reality. What more could we ask for?