I just lost Emerson’s Letters and Social Aims along with a 7-year old letter from a close friend and a picture of Everest.
The day can’t get any worse than this.
Edit: Farewell 😦 my book 😦 and letter. 😦 you have left me prematurely.
I just lost Emerson’s Letters and Social Aims along with a 7-year old letter from a close friend and a picture of Everest.
The day can’t get any worse than this.
Edit: Farewell 😦 my book 😦 and letter. 😦 you have left me prematurely.
I read the other day some verses written by an internet human which I found to be fairly entertaining – that motivation is both fleeting and unreliable and that discipline is unyielding. I suppose there is nothing unconventional about such statements, rather, I think what charmed me at that point of reading was the realization of the relevance it had to my life.
We have all experienced the serendipity of new perspectives arriving when we least expect it, especially so in words we have read one too many times. The joy in such revelations lies not in the way it is said or delivered but in the sentiment that it captures; the sentiment instilled may sometimes be of more value than the thought it may contain.
I came neck in neck with myself earlier today when I realised I still lacked the discipline, or rather the aptitude for discipline. I was in school and was, for a good deal of time, focused on studying, my drive to study coming from the need to succeed and self-discipline – or so I thought, until I ran into Alda, which was a nice surprise considering I haven’t seen her for over a week. It was a fleeting moment of joy – I was, for one, happy to see her, and two, contented as I thought I was past the desire to know her but it was moments after when I found my discipline slowly shrivelling to death. That was when I realised I haven’t made much progress in my discipline to control myself (from my attraction to beauty in the world) which led me to the most natural thing to do then, write it out.
I held in my mind the idea that even though I would never have the chance to get to know her, it was sufficient to know that she was nearby and that she was well. I started asking myself why it was so important that I knew her, and why I could not wrap my mind around the fact that she was probably not interested. These are hard questions to ask, considering that our minds are typically divided and that you don’t necessarily always get what you’re looking for; the distrust in our sentiment because our arithmetic has computed our means and strengths opposed to our purpose. Yet, our inmost in due time becomes our outmost – our latent thoughts will express itself despite our efforts to conceal it, and so if we cannot at once rise beyond ourselves to resist temptation, let us at least rid of it in the most harmless way. And so here I am pouring myself out.. at 3am.
Discontentment is the need for self-reliance; it represents an infirmity of the will. With that said, it is unbecoming to find myself in this state of discontent. It is with much deliberation that I am able to conclude that my attraction to Alda is sentimental in nature. I hold this to be true because I haven’t felt this way since 2013, back when I met my current partner, Nisha, for the first time, and before that, with Yiling, and they are two of the most important people in my life. I suppose you can say that I am sensitive to people who share the same sentiments I hold true to my heart, and perhaps it is such sentiments that draw me to her.
And so for all that has been said, I think I ought to give it a night’s rest for the dust to settle. To quote Emerson, if I remember correctly, nothing can bring you peace but yourself.
I haven’t written in ages, obviously, and I suppose recent events have roused a desire to write again, despite the fact that I haven’t been, at all, well read for the past year. (or two)
It’s 11:30pm in Jakarta right now – we had a family wedding to attend here but that aside, I haven’t done much other than study. I had attempted to begin writing sooner (just a day before) but I could not get the internet working on my laptop.
In any case, my main reason for this writing is to express a certain displacement that’s occurred in my life recently, one I would ascribe to an encounter with a certain young lady in school. I have no means of truly describing what she’s like – I suppose I could, but any attempts at it would be poor and limiting and I’d do justice to no one (not even myself). I guess, to put it simply – in a school of thousands of students, from all sorts of background and experiences (I say experience because your personal experience influences the way you look at the world and therefore, behaviour towards your surroundings) I’ve never met a single woman like her. Please note that by the previous sentence, I meant school and not life. I’ve had the single, greatest good fortune of meeting my incredible (and current) partner.
This girl stood out almost immediately, firstly, from her posture and the way she walked and carried herself, to the way she spoke and behaved from the few observations I’ve had from when we crossed paths. The fascination I developed for her, or rather, for the idea of her consumed me for 2 days. Whilst almost everybody has a supplicating eye turned on events and things and other persons, a few natures are central and forever untold, and these alone charm us. In an effort to control myself, I wrote out my thoughts on a letter, which I had planned to pass to a friend of mine, Jaime; the decision to pass on this letter being in Jaime’s hands. Life, however, has its own unique way of screwing with your plans – I saw the girl before I met Jaime, and Jaime never came to school. And so the letter made its way from between the pages of Emerson’s Letters & Social Aims, to her table. And I told myself there and then that this was it. I was finally a step closer towards controlling myself again.
I’d be blatantly lying to myself if I said I never cared for a reaction, or hoped for something to happen. I suppose I did, but I simply focused on the fact that I’ve expressed my truest thoughts in the letter, and for that I could take a step forward. And with all that’s been said and done, I’m glad I did what I did. You’d probably be wondering what her name is, or what she’s like – specifics, etc, and I suppose you might even end up trying to stalk her. But I think the presence of such details would spoil her right to present herself as a proper person, and not in the image of my impressions.
So, if I do have the greatest pleasure of being acquainted with her, perhaps then I’d share who she is. Perhaps.
Edit: It was made aware to me by both my girlfriend as well as some other close friends that I should make it clear that I am in no way sexually attracted to her. Rather, it is my attraction or interest in interesting people and things that’s put me in this position that would seem quite peculiar.
This will be quite an unpleasant entry, and so if you will have me, I will try to be brutally honest.
There is a certain shame or desire that I’ve not caught up with. I’ve not been neck and neck with my own thoughts and intentions of late, and I begin to wonder if there is something rooted deep that I should begin to unearth. I am not quite sure if I’ve ever been completely honest with myself at all lately, which is probably the reason for my inability to trust myself with my own intentions. There are days when we stumble, break things, fail. In those days I could tell myself I have lived slightly, that I’m growing. But those days have been fading, and right now it seems that most of my actions have been desperate attempts at self-preservation. There is something that I’m trying to preserve or protect and I can’t figure out what it is. Deception becomes necessary when we speak of self-preservation.
2 years ago I was consumed (probably still am) with an idea of being self-reliant that I built an ego so strong it helped me hold myself together as I tackled and questioned most of my perspectives and problems. The very desire that drove me through all of this is still carved in some little corner in my mind. But it might seem as if this drive is starting to become superfluous, and a certain cancer or desperation is starting to grow.
And so if I must be honest about something today (if it helps me sleep tonight), it is that I am very fascinated with the idea of deception. I am very dependent on it, and it scares me each day because I know there will be a point in time where I would be far beyond help. But today, right now – this is something else. I am feeling a certain amount of vulnerability, and for once, I am beside myself. And I am afraid.
See, deception is useful because it can get you what you want, or at least send you in the right direction. It is not as simple as just lying. Lying is part of a deception, but a deception is much larger than lying (they are essentially the same thing, but not exactly). When you deceive, yourself or others, you mislead yourself into a false appearance. To quote A. L Kennedy, Deception becomes unforgivable if it is incomplete. Leave any access for doubt, for exposure, bad revelations, and then you’re much more than failing – you’re committing a type of delayed assault. Be utter and undetected and then no forgiveness will ever be required.
If you believe yourself to be something else (essentially delusional; deception) you will live all possibilities of that self to the best of your abilities. The failure in this deception is if you allow yourself to doubt your own capacity, or if the lie or fantasy is followed by inaction (a.k.a wishes, wishful thinking), and the only person you end up harming is yourself and your relationships with the people you deceive. Most deceptions are essentially created from a fantasy or an idea, and we embody that fantasy by materialising our deception. Frankly, this is how I’ve been building myself, my perspectives and myself. I lie and I live the lie and it becomes material.
I need to admit to myself today that the desire is weakening, to an extent that lies might eventually be empty, self-destructive lies, the type of deception that is harmful.
When you lie, you live alone. You live within the boundaries of your own world and imagination, and you’re the only person that believes in it*. It is for this reason that we, or rather, I, keep things to myself – so that they remain incorruptible by the influence and opinions of others. Live by the things you do, not by the things you think. And trust essentially comes from not knowing, or by knowing everything, which is why I think that if I continue to keep everything to myself, I will break some day.
Anyway, I am suffering, and stuck between the idea of a particular deception, and the reality of my life and its principles. I also just realised that this has all been a deception of it’s own – instead of tackling the real thing that’s bothering me, I diverted my energy towards another growing concern of mine, and I even believed this was what’s bothering me.
Nonetheless, I hope this entertained someone.
I need coffee and a bit of space somewhere tomorrow.
*To mention some, I believe this was an underlying idea behind Kennedy’s Blue Book, behind the idea of Gatsby, behind the philosophy of Lord Henry, behind the war of 1984, and partly the nature of Emerson’s Self Reliance.
For those of you who read this, if any, please note that I hold no commitment to my words. These thoughts are in me, but not of me.
For reference – notes on SR.
Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” teaches us to trust ourselves. By ourselves, we have unique voices and opinions, which society shuts down as soon as we confront other people and the group. Society’s primary concern is creating wealth and status, while the individual’s concern is self-expression and fulfillment. We want to take life slow, savor every moment, express ourselves, and explore many talents and skills. Society wants us to be big shots, put all our education towards one career, weed out our competitors to become successful, and make more money than we could ever need. But since society’s goal’s are so engrained inside us, we must learn to trust our own instincts as to what society tells us.
Emerson states that in solitude, individuals have voices, “which grow faint and inaudible as we enter the world.” Some of these thoughts and opinions that people come up with in solitude might cause fear when presented to society. Since society is such a delicate structure based on fear of chaos, any novel voice will make the person who spoke it become “the other.” Fear of alienation prevents voices from leaving solitude into the realm of society.
Emerson states that individuals who work hard and pursue fulfillment should not be proud of the possessions they acquired. He says, “a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, ashamed of what he has, out of respect for his own being,” meaning that acquiring property is just an accident. If you trust yourself and work towards the proper development of yourself by discovery of your innermost talents, then you should not accept society’s false reward of property. An ordinary person doing his best work is just as valuable as the “great” lives of kings and royalty. The greatest reward is knowing that you have found your own unique self, and fully trust it.
Fulfillment verses success, self expression verses conformity, and solitude verses the group are important factors to distinguish. Emerson in “Self-Reliance” is not advocating staying in solitude, because humans are social beings. Rather he wants us to discover ourselves away from society, and then confront society as our fulfilled and cultivated selfs. In reality, the wealth power structure of society is just a response to fear of our chaotic world, and if we just embrace this chaos, we might be more fulfilled, happy people. Trust yourself. Learn to let go.
Simplicity is more than a mode of life for Thoreau; it is a philosophical ideal as well. In his “Economy” chapter, Thoreau asserts that a feeling of dissatisfaction with one’s possessions can be resolved in two ways: one may acquire more, or reduce one’s desires. Thoreau looks around at his fellow Concord residents and finds them taking the first path, devoting their energies to making mortgage payments and buying the latest fashions. He prefers to take the second path of radically minimizing his consumer activity. Thoreau patches his clothes instead of buying new ones and dispenses with all accessories he finds unnecessary. For Thoreau, anything more than what is useful is not just an extravagance, but a real impediment and disadvantage. He builds his own shack instead of getting a bank loan to buy one, and enjoys the leisure time that he can afford by renouncing larger expenditures. Ironically, he points out, those who pursue more impressive possessions actually have fewer possessions than he does, since he owns his house outright, while theirs are technically held by mortgage companies. He argues that the simplification of one’s lifestyle does not hinder such pleasures as owning one’s residence, but on the contrary, facilitates them.
Another irony of Thoreau’s simplification campaign is that his literary style, while concise, is far from simple. It contains witticisms, double meanings, and puns that are not at all the kind of New England deadpan literalism that might pass for literary simplicity. Despite its minimalist message, Walden is an elevated text that would have been much more accessible to educated city-dwellers than to the predominantly uneducated country-dwellers.
Living in a culture fascinated by the idea of progress represented by technological, economic, and territorial advances, Thoreau is stubbornly skeptical of the idea that any outward improvement of life can bring the inner peace and contentment he craves. In an era of enormous capitalist expansion, Thoreau is doggedly anti-consumption, and in a time of pioneer migrations he lauds the pleasures of staying put. In a century notorious for its smugness toward all that preceded it, Thoreau points out the stifling conventionality and constraining labor conditions that made nineteenth-century progress possible.
One clear illustration of Thoreau’s resistance to progress is his criticism of the train, which throughout Europe and America was a symbol of the wonders and advantages of technological progress. Although he enjoys imagining the local Fitchburg train as a mythical roaring beast in the chapter entitled “Sounds,” he generally seems peeved by the encroachment of the railway upon the rustic calm of Walden Pond. Like Tolstoy in Russia, Thoreau in the United States dissents from his society’s enthusiasm for this innovation in transportation, seeing it rather as a false idol of social progress. It moves people from one point to another faster, but Thoreau has little use for travel anyway, asking the reason for going off “to count the cats in Zanzibar.” It is far better for him to go vegetate in a little corner of the woods for two years than to commute from place to place unreflectively.
Thoreau is skeptical, as well, of the change in popular mindset brought by train travel. “Have not men improved somewhat in punctuality since the railroad was invented?” he asks with scarcely concealed irony, as if punctuality were the greatest virtue progress can offer. People “talk and think faster in the depot” than they did earlier in stagecoach offices, but here again, speedy talk and quick thinking are hardly preferable to thoughtful speech and deep thinking. Trains, like all technological “improvements” give people an illusion of heightened freedom, but in fact represent a new servitude, since one must always be subservient to fixed train schedules and routes. For Thoreau, the train has given us a new illusion of a controlling destiny: “We have constructed a fate, a new Atropos, that never turns aside.” As the Greek goddess Atropos worked—she determined the length of human lives and could never be swayed (her name means “unswerving”)—so too does the train chug along on its fixed path and make us believe that our lives must too.
The moral directness and hardheaded practical bookkeeping matters with which Thoreau inaugurates Walden do not prepare us for the lyrical outbursts that occur quite frequently and regularly in the work. Factual and detail-minded, Thoreau is capable of some extraordinary imaginary visions, which he intersperses within economic matters in a highly unexpected way. In his chapter “The Bean-Field,” for example, Thoreau tells us that he spent fifty-four cents on a hoe, and then soon after quotes a verse about wings spreading and closing in preparation for flight. The down-to-earth hoe and the winged flight of fancy are closely juxtaposed in a way typical of the whole work.
Occasionally the lyricism is a quotation of other people’s poems, as when Thoreau quotes a Homeric epic in introducing the noble figure of Alex Therien. At other times, as in the beautiful “Ponds” chapter, Thoreau allows his prose to become lyrical, as when he describes the mystical blue ice of Walden Pond. The intermittent lyricism of Walden is more than just a pleasant decorative addition or stylistic curiosity. It delivers the powerful philosophical message that there is higher meaning and transcendent value in even the most humble stay in a simple hut by a pond. Hoeing beans, which some might consider the antithesis of poetry, is actually a deeply lyrical and meaningful experience when seen in the right way.
Thoreau mentions several actual people in Walden, but curiously, he also devotes considerable attention to describing nonexistent or imaginary people. At the beginning of the chapter “Former Inhabitants,” Thoreau frankly acknowledges that in his winter isolation he was forced to invent imaginary company for himself. This conjuring is the work of his imagination, but it is also historically accurate, since the people he conjures are based on memories of old-timers who remember earlier neighbors now long gone. Thoreau’s imaginary companions are thus somewhere between fact and fiction, reality and fantasy. When Thoreau describes these former inhabitants in vivid detail, we can easily forget that they are now dead: they seem too real.
Thoreau also manages to make actual people seem imaginary. He never uses proper names when referring to friends and associates in Walden, rendering them mythical. After Thoreau describes Alex Therien as a Homeric hero, we cannot help seeing him in a somewhat poetic and unreal way, despite all the realism of Thoreau’s introduction. He doesn’t name even his great spiritual teacher, Emerson, but obliquely calls him the “Old Immortal.” The culmination of this continual transformation of people into myths or ideas is Thoreau’s expectation of “the Visitor who never comes,” which he borrows from the Vedas, a Hindu sacred text. This remark lets us see how spiritual all of Thoreau’s imaginary people are. The real person, for him, is not the villager with a name, but rather the transcendent soul behind that external social persona.
Testing, testing, to see if this comes out right via mobile.
And a bit of space.
Pigeons are like flying rats.
I am under the influence to write again, and given that there has not been much permanent influences of late, I see no harm in expressing my opinion right now. – written on borrowed sleep time.
I’ve been staring at this page for a while now. I feel that I should begin to write again but I also think that this might represent another struggling attempt at starting something else. I can’t seem to think of an opinion that might be my own, and of my own nature. I would normally carry on and write about influences in my life in the past months since it’s been bothering me, but then again – what might be new? I’d say – there can never be a single opinion in mind that has never been thought of before, or expressed, and surely it would have been delivered more fluently, and of it’s time – but even this is an influenced opinion. What then, is there to write?
Perhaps I seek control over the birth of my opinions so that I might help myself retain it’s influences and it’s roots. Yet I know with undying certainty that this is quite a futile attempt at my helplessness in dealing with my inability to create anything I’d deem valuable.
But write nothing of yourself. The more personal something becomes, the more common, and the less valuable it becomes. This should probably be made clear to me, dear writer, that you should exclude everything that might reveal anything about your silly hopes and wishes and those feelings thing.
It is terribly noisy where I am right now, and the brain’s quite fuzzed from a bit of run (heavily influenced by Lone Survivor, but nothing shaming about this) But it’s got me thinking about whether or not we’ve been living on borrowed influence.
The idea of studying for example, not necessarily studying a specific subject, but just studying, formal education – is it really just consistent external influence? You would look at a person who wants nothing in his life and does nothing but does what he desires daily – eat, sleep, and we would normally judge (as I would judge) and think nothing of him. Lowly. But is he really?
While I must accept that most of us allow a certain influence to structure the way of our lives, and no one can judge us as harshly as ourselves when we allow this, people get to places with influence. What would you do if you couldn’t find the right influence, though? Or if you cannot sustain and preserve a certain influence throughout your life?
I’d think there is an enormous amount of influence that governs and shells us from other influences that try to penetrate into our lives. It is pitiful to see influences that could change our lives, for better or worse, erode away as a result of a routine of thoughts and actions we think fits us best. It fades away with our incapacity to aggressively change and lose our comfort and ourselves with it, or our fear of losing a lifetime of principles and thoughts and experiences that have fed and clothed and satisfied us. Not at the cost of comfort, never.
(I just ate a brownie and it’s terribly sweet and it’s 12:22am)
My fascination with all of this, as is my struggle, is what it would take to overcome the lifetime of principles that’s meant to help me survive. What would it really take to rip apart a lifetime of culture and traditions we claim sacred, and principles we claim necessary for our survival?
Is it all right if a person wants nothing for himself? It probably isn’t, considering that there will always be people that he would grow to love and care for, and he accepts their influences because he must, and would perhaps struggle with it because it isn’t of his nature.
This satisfies me for the night. I hope that I have no commitment to this and that it will not haunt my some day. Night, friend. You’ve entertained me yet again.