Wednesday 28 May 2014
Does real mean worthwhile?
Should things matter to me? Assuming there is no reality, and that everything around me is artificial, does that mean I should disregard it? Write it all off as meaningless, worthless and pointless? Or because I created it, should I cherish it and embrace it as a part of me, and take 'life' seriously, like most others seem to?
Rhetorical. Please ignore.
Thursday 12 April 2012
Nothing Ever Happens
Existential nihilism and metaphysical solipsism make for a bad combination. In fact they may even be mutually exclusive - I haven't quite made up my mind on that.
It's all well and good believing that my reality is the only true reality, and that other beings are merely representations of myself. That at least leaves one with a feeling of immense power and untouchability. But combine that with the belief that existence is pointless, without meaning, and you're (I'm) left with a rather redundant outlook. Further; the futility of searching for or assigning meaning being fully acknowledged, leaves one with little alternative but to sit and thumb-twiddle.
This is a brilliant quote from Donald A. Crosby (he's merely another representation of me, but it would be wrong not to let you (also me) know which (other) me came up with it): "There is no justification for life, but also no reason not to live. Those who claim to find meaning in their lives are either dishonest or deluded. In either case, they fail to face up to the harsh reality of the human situation".
Poor Dr Crosby is labouring under the misapprehension that he and others that are not me are real, separate beings, but apart from that he makes a good point: I exist and I may as well embrace that fact, because no other facts can be verified. I do celebrate the fact of my existence purely for that reason. It's all I can be sure of, so there's really nothing else to celebrate, ever. And I can only celebrate the knowledge, as opposed to making use of it or acting on it in some way, because it has no inherent worth or usefulness; it just is.
This is a philosophy of ever-decreasing circles, and I can begin to see why Descartes' (my) famous soundbite is perhaps the most well-known philosophical phrase there is. It's a deliberately pithy summation which just about perfectly describes the simplicity and brutality of existence.
It all sounds rather bleak, but actually it's just neutral, benign. Not that that's any better than bleak. It may even be worse.
It's all well and good believing that my reality is the only true reality, and that other beings are merely representations of myself. That at least leaves one with a feeling of immense power and untouchability. But combine that with the belief that existence is pointless, without meaning, and you're (I'm) left with a rather redundant outlook. Further; the futility of searching for or assigning meaning being fully acknowledged, leaves one with little alternative but to sit and thumb-twiddle.
This is a brilliant quote from Donald A. Crosby (he's merely another representation of me, but it would be wrong not to let you (also me) know which (other) me came up with it): "There is no justification for life, but also no reason not to live. Those who claim to find meaning in their lives are either dishonest or deluded. In either case, they fail to face up to the harsh reality of the human situation".
Poor Dr Crosby is labouring under the misapprehension that he and others that are not me are real, separate beings, but apart from that he makes a good point: I exist and I may as well embrace that fact, because no other facts can be verified. I do celebrate the fact of my existence purely for that reason. It's all I can be sure of, so there's really nothing else to celebrate, ever. And I can only celebrate the knowledge, as opposed to making use of it or acting on it in some way, because it has no inherent worth or usefulness; it just is.
This is a philosophy of ever-decreasing circles, and I can begin to see why Descartes' (my) famous soundbite is perhaps the most well-known philosophical phrase there is. It's a deliberately pithy summation which just about perfectly describes the simplicity and brutality of existence.
It all sounds rather bleak, but actually it's just neutral, benign. Not that that's any better than bleak. It may even be worse.
Friday 6 January 2012
Christmas
It's been and gone, again. Some of the events are modified from year to year. The locations aren't always the same ones. Even the individuals taking part have varied. Yet Christmas is to me a reassuring constant. There is a pleasingly jolting change of pace, of focus, and of expectation.
For want of a better word, Christmas is a good time. I have time to concentrate on my partner and my family, and I feel closer to them as a result. Ritualised generosity breeds spontaneous generosity, material and otherwise. The quality of rest, and of play, is increased. There is no clutter, no obstruction or interference, no background noise to distract from individual and collective enrichment.
At least, that's the theory. But in the solipsist world, the whole thing is of course invented, unreal, and potentially even worthless.
The simple view of why my unconscious mind might have created Christmas is I suppose as a rest and/or recuperation period. A periodic immersement in positivity undoubtedly refreshes and recharges, and by giving myself a Christmas from time to time, I both reward the progress I have made since the last one, and provide emotional nourishment to sustain me until the next one. In this way, we might think of Christmas as a pleasant commercial break in the TV mini series of life.
On the other hand, assuming only I exist, and everything I experience is devised, designed and delivered by me, to me, for me, then wouldn't an event like Christmas be at the very centre of any reason there might be for my existence? Surely if there are no other beings but me, there's no reason why I shouldn't be enjoying myself all the time? Why should I have any reason to feel guilty, or lazy, or shallow, if there is no-one else to offend, to be judged by, or to care about?
From this perspective, an event like Christmas must be at the very zenith of my singular existence. It is when my powers of imagination and creativity reach their peak, providing me the opportunity for a short space of time to feel heightened emotions and an enhanced connection with the imagined beings I have created to keep me company. The more prolonged periods of time, during which it is not Christmas, might then be about building up these creative reserves in order to facilitate another peak, another blast of the festive after burners to propel me onwards towards... well, I haven't quite worked that bit out yet.
Creative peak, or recuperating trough, I'm glad I have Christmas.
For want of a better word, Christmas is a good time. I have time to concentrate on my partner and my family, and I feel closer to them as a result. Ritualised generosity breeds spontaneous generosity, material and otherwise. The quality of rest, and of play, is increased. There is no clutter, no obstruction or interference, no background noise to distract from individual and collective enrichment.
At least, that's the theory. But in the solipsist world, the whole thing is of course invented, unreal, and potentially even worthless.
The simple view of why my unconscious mind might have created Christmas is I suppose as a rest and/or recuperation period. A periodic immersement in positivity undoubtedly refreshes and recharges, and by giving myself a Christmas from time to time, I both reward the progress I have made since the last one, and provide emotional nourishment to sustain me until the next one. In this way, we might think of Christmas as a pleasant commercial break in the TV mini series of life.
On the other hand, assuming only I exist, and everything I experience is devised, designed and delivered by me, to me, for me, then wouldn't an event like Christmas be at the very centre of any reason there might be for my existence? Surely if there are no other beings but me, there's no reason why I shouldn't be enjoying myself all the time? Why should I have any reason to feel guilty, or lazy, or shallow, if there is no-one else to offend, to be judged by, or to care about?
From this perspective, an event like Christmas must be at the very zenith of my singular existence. It is when my powers of imagination and creativity reach their peak, providing me the opportunity for a short space of time to feel heightened emotions and an enhanced connection with the imagined beings I have created to keep me company. The more prolonged periods of time, during which it is not Christmas, might then be about building up these creative reserves in order to facilitate another peak, another blast of the festive after burners to propel me onwards towards... well, I haven't quite worked that bit out yet.
Creative peak, or recuperating trough, I'm glad I have Christmas.
Thursday 20 October 2011
Driving to Work
The whole concept of different locations is of course a mere fabrication of my unconscious mind. I exist in some form, but possibly not in familiar form. Places themselves, let alone travel between, may not be required in order to host my existence.
I assume that work, like other activities in my imagined life, fulfils some purpose that I can only guess at. It may be that grind, repetition and boredom experienced routinely over a period of time builds an ability to withstand, hold firm and persevere. A preparation for something beyond this consciousness? An ironic reflection of my true isolation and pointlessness? Given the enjoyment that other people appear to derive from their professions, perhaps even a gesture of defiance and refusal to make things easy for myself?
It follows that the journey to work is likely some kind of ground-laying exercise for the goals my unconscious has set. A flicking of a switch to allow some kind of learning, development or even degradation to resume. Obstacles which must be overcome on the way to work allow me to reach a state in which this unknowable transformation can take place.
The journey has become longer, more arduous of late. This could signify a new stage in my growth. A new 'location' might correspond to a new or altered goal. Or it could simply be a jolt to keep my experiences fresh and my ability to osmose keen.
(Roughly translated: Awful drive to work today.)
I assume that work, like other activities in my imagined life, fulfils some purpose that I can only guess at. It may be that grind, repetition and boredom experienced routinely over a period of time builds an ability to withstand, hold firm and persevere. A preparation for something beyond this consciousness? An ironic reflection of my true isolation and pointlessness? Given the enjoyment that other people appear to derive from their professions, perhaps even a gesture of defiance and refusal to make things easy for myself?
It follows that the journey to work is likely some kind of ground-laying exercise for the goals my unconscious has set. A flicking of a switch to allow some kind of learning, development or even degradation to resume. Obstacles which must be overcome on the way to work allow me to reach a state in which this unknowable transformation can take place.
The journey has become longer, more arduous of late. This could signify a new stage in my growth. A new 'location' might correspond to a new or altered goal. Or it could simply be a jolt to keep my experiences fresh and my ability to osmose keen.
(Roughly translated: Awful drive to work today.)
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Hello Me
It's as distressing as it is awe-inspiring. On the one hand, the world my subconscious mind has created is undeniably magnificent, full of the most lavish collection of beautiful places, incredible things, and wonderful creatures. My inventiveness is neverending, my imagination bewildering, my sheer creative energy immense. I am a genius. A god. Perhaps THE God.
On the other hand, despite the luxurious fixtures and fittings in the virtual home of my imagination, I am alone. Despite the fantastic and limitless distractions at my disposal, only I am real. Only I have the potential to be of some worth, and yet I am imprisoned, perhaps perpetually, in a fantasy of my own creation.
It's pointless expressing this idea, particularly in a 'public forum' such as this. But then it does pass the time. And perhaps that's the only point there is.
On the other hand, despite the luxurious fixtures and fittings in the virtual home of my imagination, I am alone. Despite the fantastic and limitless distractions at my disposal, only I am real. Only I have the potential to be of some worth, and yet I am imprisoned, perhaps perpetually, in a fantasy of my own creation.
It's pointless expressing this idea, particularly in a 'public forum' such as this. But then it does pass the time. And perhaps that's the only point there is.
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