Deliberately considered, The Law of Karma appears far more elaborate and complex than our conventional snapshots of her outermost gestures manage to describe. In identifying outward effects with inward causes, we habitually neglect to observe certain nuances which, ultimately, carry the burden of meaning.
For instance, a small and singular act, for good or ill, can be the eventual result of a massive and unsuspected tangle of intentions. A moral loss can still signify a victory; for there are some soul battles which it is an honor even to have fought at all. And how many more curious vicissitudes like these may be brought to mind?
A pure action, we know, can later, -- and many times over, -- be put to impure use. In fact, there are few, if any, temptations which compare to the temptation of having, at one time or another, exhibited exceptionally virtuous or masterful behavior; to remember our past goodness at a time when our intentions may not be quite so good. "The chains that bind us most closely are the ones we have broken." (~Antonio Porchia)
Every action arises, and divests itself, from a virtually unconscious tangle of contradictory and complimentary impulses, and every action contains within itself the seeds of all relevant possibilities. But we like to think that there are simple good and bad actions, and that once an action which is entirely, essentially, or predominantly good or bad has been committed, it can never be raised or lowered from its place. Keats wrote: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," and this is true. Yet, even the most eternally enchanting objects, actions, and ideas may be viewed through a dirty or distorted lens.
While we may speak of cancelling out or transcending our karma, or the karma of others, it seems more likely that this occurs, if it occurs at all, on a level utterly removed from ourselves. The Grace of God, or that which apparently dissolves rigid karmic patterns, does not seem to wait on our command, or even our invitation. Rather, it enters into our lives, thoughts, and actions, much to our surprise. It is always a reminder. Not something called to mind, but something which interrupts the normal, or usual, continuity of thought. A gentle nudge that partly rouses one from the deepest, most insensible slumber.
There appears to be no impulse within us capable of remembering God, or willing ourselves into wakefulness. On the contrary, it seems as though it is precisely this self-conscious will of ours which inhibits and prevents our full consciousness of the presence and will of God. Nothing we know, and no impressions we have kept, however cherished, however consecrated by rites or holy names, -- nothing at all that we have seen or been seems capable of putting us in mind of God; for the breath and life of God appears to be something quicker than the eye, more dynamic than the mind, and expressing infinitely more dimensions than the flesh. Doesn't it come over us, and startle our spirit, so that we can only remark, "What?! -- What was that?!!" And isn't it only in the aftermath that we reflect to ourselves, "What else could it have been, but the hand of God,"?
Only when the memory of that divine touch has been thoroughly killed and catalogued and sapped of the last of whatever spiritual juice it contained, do we think, "That was me. My free will is responsible for that. Let me proclaim it as a testament to my goodness." (Though hardly any of us would articulate it in this way.) The truth, it seems, is that we have never been so far from The Grace of God as when we endeavored to take credit for His works.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Idealism
"Philosophy can bake no bread; but she can procure for us God, Freedom, Immortality.
Which, then, is more practical, Philosophy or Economy?" ~ Novalis
What did Plato really mean when he said "ideas are things"?
We say "an apple", but what we mean to indicate is really "the form of an apple". Conversely, we will indicate the form, and believe that we have identified the thing. We hold that the idea of an apple is not the thing, but an abstraction from it, while the form is the apple proper. But, what if the reverse were true: what if that which we now call "an apple" were understood to be, not an apple, but, merely "the form of an apple"? What if, rather than saying "the idea of an apple", we were to say only "an apple", and take the idea to be the thing; just as we now take the form to be the thing? What would this reversal suggest for ourselves? Also, for our culture, and the values it promotes?
If we considered ideas as things a priori would they perhaps command the respect we now reserve for hard currency? If we held that forms are not real things, but abstractions, would we then be forced to look upon them as mere appearances? How rich would this make the poor man, and how poor would seem the rich man's riches?
Granted, the idea of an apple cannot be eaten. But it can be utilized in a thousand inventive ways to illustrate a thousand beautiful, natural truths. The form of an apple, on the other hand, is good only for eating. It is here one minute, devoured the next, and if we wish to recall it, we find that it may only be recalled in a more ghastly, more vomitous form.
How is it that forms have come to occupy such a high position in our thoughts? Is it only because they are rare, -- at least, relative to ideas, which "materialize" (if I may be permitted to stretch the word so far) at the speed of will, and the ease of intention? Is it because they are difficult to procure and maintain? Is it because they must be guarded against theft and decay?
If we were to consider ideas as things, and forms as abstractions, it is conceivable that the things which ought to matter most in life -- the intangible things, like honesty, hope, loyalty, compassion, friendship, and so on, -- would actually begin to matter most in our lives; and not just in our personal lives, but in our culture, our politics, our businesses and economies, as well.
It may be that the prejudices we hold about what constitutes reality keep us from appreciating what is most precious, and most present to us. Perhaps even our language, in the most fundamental ways, undermines our appreciation for what is, by constantly suggesting to us that what exists in the mind does not really exist, and that what is wrought in matter possesses eternal "weight".
How shall we best prepare ourselves for the world to come; the world of spirits? By endeavoring to see matter as the only real thing? By accumulating possessions? By seeking, rather than finding what the Lord has set before us?
Or, -- as was believed by Plato, Novalis, and the greatest mystics of all faiths, -- by endeavoring to imbue the life of the soul with greater meaning and immediacy than we have done thus far, and by recognizing as real and valuable the objects of the mind, which the soul has called before it? Let every person judge.
For my part, I believe the most needful thing is not a "thing" in the ordinary sense.
As a culture, as a people, what we need to remember is that, ultimately, the ideas do not come out of a book. Ultimately, the books come out of an idea.
While this may seem to convey a fairly minor point, and may even seem to be saying nothing of any actual substance, but merely presenting a clever peek at an out-of-the-way, and inapplicable-to-anything-earthly, perspective on the world, the reality is that nothing could be more fundamental to the hygienic orientation of human consciousness in our time.
We have become thorough materialists, and while our great religious and philosophical traditions proclaim the primacy of the immaterial, the mysterious and the subtle, our most common words and actions reveal the deep-rooted prejudices we harbor in favor of what is solid, unchanging and manifest.
Our economies are working us to the bone, robbing Nature of her resources, and us of our inheritances, at an alarming and unprecedented rate, all for the sake of humanity's intensifying compulsion to see itself, and its ideas, reflected in matter.
We reverence the idea only as the germ of the form. The form, which once seemed necessary to legitimize, and bring reverence to, the idea, and, ultimately, to the dynamic life of the spirit which underlies it, has become an idol. An end in itself. In many ways, an end.
These forms which were meant to serve the greater glory of the unmanifest, mutable, unsayable, active life of the spirit, are now only the "whited sepulchres" concealing our unenviable necromancy.
What is needful, above all things, is that we see matter as an emanation of spirit; as spirit a posteriori. Conversely, that we see spirit as both the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, of manifestations; as matter a priori.
We must discover, or return to, the place where ultimate truth is held in reverence, while the forms, and efforts to obtain them, which surround us in the visible world, are recognized as secondary, and positively worhless if, when, and to the extent that, they cannot put us in mind of the invisible, but only of themselves.
The life of what is good is more abundant. "Truth springs eternal", for those with eyes aturned to it. Spoken words, and even words unspoken, can have a greater value than the most priceless, and certainly the most covetous objects; for covetousness is an evil if it is not covetousness of the spirit; "the desire to be everywhere at home", or what Novalis calls "philosophy".
To covet philosophy is not to seek power over your fellows, but, to give yourself over to what is most directly at hand. Philosophy is the fruit that hangs on your every word, and waits to be plucked, or else, to fall, unsuspected, back into the fertile earth of the unconscious.
Nothing is so ready to your hand, nay, to your mind, than philosophy. She offers her breast out of every window. She motions to you from just around every corner. She procures for you infinite pleasures without effort or cost, and has always something more to promise, always something more to say. She is unobtainable in her entirety, and, yet, she is everywhere to be enjoyed.
What, I ask you, -- what -- could be more needful than this: that we disdain the dead offerings of the world, and pursue the only mistress worthy of our favor; the mistress whose favors only we, as true children of heaven, are worthy of?
Which, then, is more practical, Philosophy or Economy?" ~ Novalis
What did Plato really mean when he said "ideas are things"?
We say "an apple", but what we mean to indicate is really "the form of an apple". Conversely, we will indicate the form, and believe that we have identified the thing. We hold that the idea of an apple is not the thing, but an abstraction from it, while the form is the apple proper. But, what if the reverse were true: what if that which we now call "an apple" were understood to be, not an apple, but, merely "the form of an apple"? What if, rather than saying "the idea of an apple", we were to say only "an apple", and take the idea to be the thing; just as we now take the form to be the thing? What would this reversal suggest for ourselves? Also, for our culture, and the values it promotes?
If we considered ideas as things a priori would they perhaps command the respect we now reserve for hard currency? If we held that forms are not real things, but abstractions, would we then be forced to look upon them as mere appearances? How rich would this make the poor man, and how poor would seem the rich man's riches?
Granted, the idea of an apple cannot be eaten. But it can be utilized in a thousand inventive ways to illustrate a thousand beautiful, natural truths. The form of an apple, on the other hand, is good only for eating. It is here one minute, devoured the next, and if we wish to recall it, we find that it may only be recalled in a more ghastly, more vomitous form.
How is it that forms have come to occupy such a high position in our thoughts? Is it only because they are rare, -- at least, relative to ideas, which "materialize" (if I may be permitted to stretch the word so far) at the speed of will, and the ease of intention? Is it because they are difficult to procure and maintain? Is it because they must be guarded against theft and decay?
If we were to consider ideas as things, and forms as abstractions, it is conceivable that the things which ought to matter most in life -- the intangible things, like honesty, hope, loyalty, compassion, friendship, and so on, -- would actually begin to matter most in our lives; and not just in our personal lives, but in our culture, our politics, our businesses and economies, as well.
It may be that the prejudices we hold about what constitutes reality keep us from appreciating what is most precious, and most present to us. Perhaps even our language, in the most fundamental ways, undermines our appreciation for what is, by constantly suggesting to us that what exists in the mind does not really exist, and that what is wrought in matter possesses eternal "weight".
How shall we best prepare ourselves for the world to come; the world of spirits? By endeavoring to see matter as the only real thing? By accumulating possessions? By seeking, rather than finding what the Lord has set before us?
Or, -- as was believed by Plato, Novalis, and the greatest mystics of all faiths, -- by endeavoring to imbue the life of the soul with greater meaning and immediacy than we have done thus far, and by recognizing as real and valuable the objects of the mind, which the soul has called before it? Let every person judge.
For my part, I believe the most needful thing is not a "thing" in the ordinary sense.
As a culture, as a people, what we need to remember is that, ultimately, the ideas do not come out of a book. Ultimately, the books come out of an idea.
While this may seem to convey a fairly minor point, and may even seem to be saying nothing of any actual substance, but merely presenting a clever peek at an out-of-the-way, and inapplicable-to-anything-earthly, perspective on the world, the reality is that nothing could be more fundamental to the hygienic orientation of human consciousness in our time.
We have become thorough materialists, and while our great religious and philosophical traditions proclaim the primacy of the immaterial, the mysterious and the subtle, our most common words and actions reveal the deep-rooted prejudices we harbor in favor of what is solid, unchanging and manifest.
Our economies are working us to the bone, robbing Nature of her resources, and us of our inheritances, at an alarming and unprecedented rate, all for the sake of humanity's intensifying compulsion to see itself, and its ideas, reflected in matter.
We reverence the idea only as the germ of the form. The form, which once seemed necessary to legitimize, and bring reverence to, the idea, and, ultimately, to the dynamic life of the spirit which underlies it, has become an idol. An end in itself. In many ways, an end.
These forms which were meant to serve the greater glory of the unmanifest, mutable, unsayable, active life of the spirit, are now only the "whited sepulchres" concealing our unenviable necromancy.
What is needful, above all things, is that we see matter as an emanation of spirit; as spirit a posteriori. Conversely, that we see spirit as both the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, of manifestations; as matter a priori.
We must discover, or return to, the place where ultimate truth is held in reverence, while the forms, and efforts to obtain them, which surround us in the visible world, are recognized as secondary, and positively worhless if, when, and to the extent that, they cannot put us in mind of the invisible, but only of themselves.
The life of what is good is more abundant. "Truth springs eternal", for those with eyes aturned to it. Spoken words, and even words unspoken, can have a greater value than the most priceless, and certainly the most covetous objects; for covetousness is an evil if it is not covetousness of the spirit; "the desire to be everywhere at home", or what Novalis calls "philosophy".
To covet philosophy is not to seek power over your fellows, but, to give yourself over to what is most directly at hand. Philosophy is the fruit that hangs on your every word, and waits to be plucked, or else, to fall, unsuspected, back into the fertile earth of the unconscious.
Nothing is so ready to your hand, nay, to your mind, than philosophy. She offers her breast out of every window. She motions to you from just around every corner. She procures for you infinite pleasures without effort or cost, and has always something more to promise, always something more to say. She is unobtainable in her entirety, and, yet, she is everywhere to be enjoyed.
What, I ask you, -- what -- could be more needful than this: that we disdain the dead offerings of the world, and pursue the only mistress worthy of our favor; the mistress whose favors only we, as true children of heaven, are worthy of?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Mote In The Eye Of The Beholder
I am sensible of the arguments which say that taste is not "in the eye of the beholder", but that it can be objectively discerned. Something in my guts instinctively revolts at the thought of putting Britney Spears on a level with Beethoven.
Still, even the ones whom history deems “great” often disagreed amongst themselves, and not only in minor regards. Moreover, it is sometimes the nature of genius to take even the most refined taste by surprise. Andre Gide kicked himself his whole life for having refused the publication of Proust’s “In Search Of Lost Time”, now considered perhaps the most formidable prose work of the 20th Century. Schopenhauer found Hegel’s philosophy morally and aesthetically repugnant. Nietzsche called Plato “boring”. Tolstoy prefered Harriet Beecher-Stowe to William Shakespeare. The list goes on.
Ultimately, isn't this just one of those eternal questions? A mystery which was never meant to be solved -- and which, anyway, has no solution? But, precisely because it is an insolvable paradox, doesn't it provide for endless hours of musing, speculating, and conjecturing upon the most abstract, noble, and abiding elements of our human condition? Excepting only charity and higher love-making, what could be a more fitting occupation for man?
If I had to articulate my present view, I would say only that beauty is, in equal parts, both objective and individually tailored to the eye of the beholder. Beauty is always harmonious, -- but what is harmonious to one is not necessarily harmonious to another. The harmony is not in the piece, but in between the piece and the one who appreciates it. Because these two are in sympathy, there is no discord. To put it somewhat obscurely, If a man is not receptive to your wisdom, it is not wisdom. In any case, it is not wisdom intended for him. Not yet, anyway.
We may imagine that our conception of beauty is more enlightened than another’s, but there is, so far as I know, no purely objective way of determining the truth of this. Every man’s concept of beauty is his own — and even that may be in flux. It is not altogether curious that we each, secretly or openly, believe ourselves to be in possession of an impecable sense of taste. Though we may discern a million flaws in the tastes of others, we are, each and every one of us, blind to the flaws in our own discernment -- otherwise, they would not be "the flaws in our own discernment".
Still, even the ones whom history deems “great” often disagreed amongst themselves, and not only in minor regards. Moreover, it is sometimes the nature of genius to take even the most refined taste by surprise. Andre Gide kicked himself his whole life for having refused the publication of Proust’s “In Search Of Lost Time”, now considered perhaps the most formidable prose work of the 20th Century. Schopenhauer found Hegel’s philosophy morally and aesthetically repugnant. Nietzsche called Plato “boring”. Tolstoy prefered Harriet Beecher-Stowe to William Shakespeare. The list goes on.
Ultimately, isn't this just one of those eternal questions? A mystery which was never meant to be solved -- and which, anyway, has no solution? But, precisely because it is an insolvable paradox, doesn't it provide for endless hours of musing, speculating, and conjecturing upon the most abstract, noble, and abiding elements of our human condition? Excepting only charity and higher love-making, what could be a more fitting occupation for man?
If I had to articulate my present view, I would say only that beauty is, in equal parts, both objective and individually tailored to the eye of the beholder. Beauty is always harmonious, -- but what is harmonious to one is not necessarily harmonious to another. The harmony is not in the piece, but in between the piece and the one who appreciates it. Because these two are in sympathy, there is no discord. To put it somewhat obscurely, If a man is not receptive to your wisdom, it is not wisdom. In any case, it is not wisdom intended for him. Not yet, anyway.
We may imagine that our conception of beauty is more enlightened than another’s, but there is, so far as I know, no purely objective way of determining the truth of this. Every man’s concept of beauty is his own — and even that may be in flux. It is not altogether curious that we each, secretly or openly, believe ourselves to be in possession of an impecable sense of taste. Though we may discern a million flaws in the tastes of others, we are, each and every one of us, blind to the flaws in our own discernment -- otherwise, they would not be "the flaws in our own discernment".
Monday, February 15, 2010
Beauty
Beauty is moral.
I don't care what anyone says.
Beauty softens, eases, comforts, sweetens,
lightens, graces, amazes, entices...
Beauty is at your bedside,
singing something so tender.
Beauty is goodness we almost run from.
We crumble. We conform at once to her will.
Because she is gracious, abundant,
We become peaceful in order to listen.
Like children, like lambs, we are innocent.
Only touched to be in her presence.
I don't care what anyone says.
Beauty softens, eases, comforts, sweetens,
lightens, graces, amazes, entices...
Beauty is at your bedside,
singing something so tender.
Beauty is goodness we almost run from.
We crumble. We conform at once to her will.
Because she is gracious, abundant,
We become peaceful in order to listen.
Like children, like lambs, we are innocent.
Only touched to be in her presence.
Patrick Suskind and David Mamet
Patrick Suskind's "On Love And Death"
Suskind is cynical and presumptuous enough to reduce Jesus to a politician. He scoffs at the notion of dying for love, passes judgement on Goethe, and never quite gets around to stating -- or having? -- a point. One wonders if he really believes what he writes, or if he is just waxing controversial. The reflections on Orpheus, for whom the author appears to have an uncharacteristic soft spot, are all that saves it. The general tone of the book is arrogant, distantiating, and thoroughly depressing. Why is this guy so famous?
David Mamet's "True and False: Heresy and Common Sense for the Actor"
Oh my God, is this guy a dick! I'll never be able to admire his work again -- not without a painful consideration of the man, and his near complete lack of humanity -- not now that I've seen what bullish, lead-handed direction sufficed to produce the films that made me smile. They lose their lustre. Again, one has to wonder at the sincerity or disingenuousness of the author. Is this what he really thinks, or just some calculated experiment in vicious hyperbole? One could see how the "advice" given in the book might be useful for certain, firey, impatient and intuitive temperaments, and might provide a much needed counter-measure to the abuse of more digressive and intellectual acting approaches. But the all-or-nothing, categorical nature of the author's position, pompous and hot-headed in its conception, is, ultimately, short-sighted and irresponsible. The result is a bitterly narrow, one-size-fits-all manual on how to act, which is more interesting for the self-portrait it paints of a writer/director who has no patience for the creative process of the performer (which he claims to think is a load of crap; a mere excuse to avoid the confrontation with the scene), -- and who demands unconscious, unpremeditated performances from his actors. I think he would be very happy if the actors could be done away with entirely and replaced by robots; provided only that the robots know their lines and speak them clearly. What a jerk.
Suskind is cynical and presumptuous enough to reduce Jesus to a politician. He scoffs at the notion of dying for love, passes judgement on Goethe, and never quite gets around to stating -- or having? -- a point. One wonders if he really believes what he writes, or if he is just waxing controversial. The reflections on Orpheus, for whom the author appears to have an uncharacteristic soft spot, are all that saves it. The general tone of the book is arrogant, distantiating, and thoroughly depressing. Why is this guy so famous?
David Mamet's "True and False: Heresy and Common Sense for the Actor"
Oh my God, is this guy a dick! I'll never be able to admire his work again -- not without a painful consideration of the man, and his near complete lack of humanity -- not now that I've seen what bullish, lead-handed direction sufficed to produce the films that made me smile. They lose their lustre. Again, one has to wonder at the sincerity or disingenuousness of the author. Is this what he really thinks, or just some calculated experiment in vicious hyperbole? One could see how the "advice" given in the book might be useful for certain, firey, impatient and intuitive temperaments, and might provide a much needed counter-measure to the abuse of more digressive and intellectual acting approaches. But the all-or-nothing, categorical nature of the author's position, pompous and hot-headed in its conception, is, ultimately, short-sighted and irresponsible. The result is a bitterly narrow, one-size-fits-all manual on how to act, which is more interesting for the self-portrait it paints of a writer/director who has no patience for the creative process of the performer (which he claims to think is a load of crap; a mere excuse to avoid the confrontation with the scene), -- and who demands unconscious, unpremeditated performances from his actors. I think he would be very happy if the actors could be done away with entirely and replaced by robots; provided only that the robots know their lines and speak them clearly. What a jerk.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Shakespeare, Nietzsche, Jesus, and "The Genius of Fools"
There is nothing so unbecoming a fool as genius, and it is a terrible misfortune to meet with so many fools possessed of -- or, rather, possessed by -- genius, each unconscious of how to interpret, or tame, their daemon.
Shakespeare, for instance, was on a level with his genius, but Nietzsche "happened" to Nietzsche, like some fantastic, psychedelic trip. Granted, the latter is, -- at least, to my mind,-- far more interesting, and very far from a fool (though he was fooled). His genius surpassed Shakespeare's, but, to his own astonishment, to the perdition of his philosophy, and, ultimately, to madness, it also surpassed himself.
So vast, so rich, and so abyssmal was Nietzsche's daemon, that he lived in danger and in fear of dissolving into God. If he aggressively asserted some of the most aggressive assertions, it was only in a desperate attempt to maintain his ego, and his sanity. Gifted and cursed with tremendous empathy and sensitivity to the perspectives of others, he wanted only an identity -- but the most solid and secure identity he could envision.
Nietzsche was more of a mystic than the mystics, and his roots gripped the earth as they do when the plant is pulled. Nietzsche refused to die, in the mystical sense. He would not be reaped, and the only fruit he determined to give would be his own. This is why his "rich gifts wax poor". Had he surrendered, -- had he surrendered -- he might have been a greater Christ than Christ.
Shakespeare, for instance, was on a level with his genius, but Nietzsche "happened" to Nietzsche, like some fantastic, psychedelic trip. Granted, the latter is, -- at least, to my mind,-- far more interesting, and very far from a fool (though he was fooled). His genius surpassed Shakespeare's, but, to his own astonishment, to the perdition of his philosophy, and, ultimately, to madness, it also surpassed himself.
So vast, so rich, and so abyssmal was Nietzsche's daemon, that he lived in danger and in fear of dissolving into God. If he aggressively asserted some of the most aggressive assertions, it was only in a desperate attempt to maintain his ego, and his sanity. Gifted and cursed with tremendous empathy and sensitivity to the perspectives of others, he wanted only an identity -- but the most solid and secure identity he could envision.
Nietzsche was more of a mystic than the mystics, and his roots gripped the earth as they do when the plant is pulled. Nietzsche refused to die, in the mystical sense. He would not be reaped, and the only fruit he determined to give would be his own. This is why his "rich gifts wax poor". Had he surrendered, -- had he surrendered -- he might have been a greater Christ than Christ.
The Light Of Consciousness
Every statement is an object of consciousness casting a shadow of unconsciousness, wherein secret questions abound. It is the job of the philosopher to play psychologist, as it were, with her own assertions, and to deconstruct the statements she feels compelled to make into a plethora of questions. Honesty is always a question. Nonetheless, every statement has its season, for the subtle is contained in the straight, and the one who knows it may say whatsoever she dares -- with a wink.
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