hopelesshappiness.com

Leo Tolstoy said:

"I divide men into two lots. They are freethinkers, or they are not-freethinkers. ...Freethinkers are those who are willing to use their minds without prejudice and without fearing to understand things that clash with their own customs, privileges, or beliefs. This state of mind is not common, but it is essential for right thinking; where it is absent, discussion is apt to become worse than useless. A man may be a Catholic, a Frenchman, or a capitalist, and yet be a freethinker; but if he puts his Catholicism, his patriotism, or his interest, above his reason, and will not give the latter free play where those subjects are touched, he is not a freethinker, His mind is in bondage."

Bravo!

But then Tolstoy also says this:

"To understand any book one must choose out the parts that are quite clear, dividing them from what is obscure or confused. And from what is clear we must form our idea of the drift and the spirit of the whole work. Then, on the basis of what we have understood, we may proceed to make out what is confused or not quite intelligible."

Yes, in this second quote Tolstoy is referring to a book that may be hard to read, but we can infer this process onto one's interpretation of another individual as well. Of course when we do so, we have the additional aid of examining not only that individual's words, but also their deeds. And this is tied back to Tolstoy's specific reference to words on a page, as each individual's words and deeds are in some manner and to some degree influenced by book learning; book learning that may or may not have been properly understood. The point being that while Tolstoy's second quote above does not exactly contradict the first one, it does appear to allow for a lazy and/or complacent interpretation on more than one level.

Or perhaps Tolstoy is simply pointing out the impossibility of Perfect understanding, and the (occasional or frequent) necessity of filling gaps with some conjecture based on today's knowledge and interpretation. What this process cannot be is a reason or excuse to stop asking questions and searching for answers that will lead to greater knowledge tomorrow - or even later today.

There will always be gaps and it is in our nature to see them filled. When we are unable to fill them objectively, it is in our nature to fill them subjectively. A freethinker will continue to question subjective truth and search for an objective truth, whereas a not-freethinker will frequently stop searching once they have settled on a subjective truth. A freethinker recognizes subjective fill as rational temporary interpretation, whereas a not-freethinker often sees (and/or admits to) no difference between subjective fill and objective fill. And when a not-freethinker does acknowledge a difference between his or her subjectivity and a verifiable objectivity, if the fact is not consistent with their own beliefs, it is typically a passing thought quickly shunted aside with rote reminders of the concreteness of their own personal subjective truth.

To extend this interpretation:
Imagine twin brothers married to twin sisters. The more confident and outgoing of each set of twins (Joe and Mae) are married and their respective twins (Jeff and Meg) are married. After dating for a year Joe and Mae introduced Jeff and Meg certain that they would hit it off because they were similar in their individual tendencies toward a thoughtfully, equivocal introversion. They were accurate in their assessment and ultimately achieved the result they had planned for. The only aspect that did not go according to plan was Joe and Mae's hope for a double wedding. Jeff and Meg married exactly one year after Joe and Mae, succumbing to their sibling's pressure for 'at least' a shared anniversary date.

Joe and Mae thought it was 'so cool' that twins married twins, and that everyone was best of friends, and that they shared their anniversary, and that everyone was and always would be so happy. It was as if Joe and Mae had frozen the moment that encapsulated their ideal of wedded bliss and they assumed that Jeff and Meg had done the same. All four were college graduates, but as Joe and Mae rose steadily in their respective careers (insurance and banking) Jeff and Meg both bounced around a little, sometimes taking positions that Joe and Mae frowned upon. Meg spent a couple of years working at a florist because she enjoyed learning flower arrangement. Jeff spent some time driving a taxi in the city because he enjoyed the autonomy and the interesting stories. After a few years and some extended education, Jeff and Meg ultimately settled into teaching positions; Jeff at a local elementary school and Meg at the high school. In hindsight Jeff and Meg both admitted that these career choices were partially due to the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) pressures of their siblings.

Joe and Mae were active in the community and very social; and early on they worked hard at roping Jeff and Meg into their circle. At the beginning Jeff and Meg did join in on a somewhat regular basis, but both couples soon realized that it was not the greatest of fits, so invitations came less and less frequently; which was just fine with everyone. Jeff and Meg's idea of a pleasant evening was a good book, or the occasional film, or (if they were particularly reckless) a quiet dinner out and a visit to a coffee shop.

As the years went by Joe and Mae continued on their busy / professional / social / affected trajectory and were referred to by some in town as the perfect couple. No one ever heard a cross word between them or a criticism from or about either one. And the fly-on-the-wall reality at home was very similar, though as the years went by their displays of public affection (though they changed very little in public), eventually also became the norm in private.

As the same years went by Jeff and Meg remained restless, equivocal, thoughtful, and passionate, often having heated discussion that most times was academic and impersonal, but on occasion ignited a small fire that in one circumstance grew into a conflagration creating a divide with talk of a more permanent separation. In this small town there are no secrets. Joe and Mae were mortified. Once again with coaching from their siblings, Jeff and Meg came together and in some ways strengthened their bond. Their public displays of impassioned discussion were curbed almost to extinction, but the fly-on-the-wall reality at home was that fires always burned; some flames were united fronts against status quo and/or for agreed-upon change, some flames were adversarial, and some flames were... ...well... ...Some flames were simply flames.

As more years went by Joe and Mae remained steadfast and true to their plan as laid out years before, while Jeff and Meg continued to work hard (individually, with each other, and with those students wanting to learn) toward a greater depth of individual thought. To the present day Joe and Mae do not understand (nor do they approve of) this contrariness in their respective siblings that (as Joe and Mae see it) only serves to create discomfort and unnecessary confrontation. Joe and Mae are so fixed in their certainty that they see Jeff and Meg as unloving toward each other as well as toward others. This is a superficial interpretation. The reality is that as Jeff and Meg constantly question Love, and learn to live the pain of truthfulness in that Love, they have created a deeper, stronger bond (both subjectively and objectively) than Joe and Mae who do not question their Love and maintain (and insist upon) a fast and certain Love. Thus the commonly held presumption (as held by Joe and Mae) that uncertainty in Love is cold and detached, has been turned on its head by Jeff and Meg; suddenly the unloving are loving at a higher level than those who most loudly proclaim their certainty.

To complete the interpretation:
In the two quotations that began this post, Tolstoy differentiated between Joe and Mae's superficial, subjective minds in bondage, and Jeff and Meg's skeptical, unafraid, rational minds free to think.

To complete this Tale of Twin Brothers and Twin Sisters who Marry:
They all (as far as each could tell) lived happily ever after...

The Cargo:
We are chained to our filth; and to each other. Intimate ...In the ugliest imaginable sense of the word. Fettered by the ankle to two companions, and crammed in rows upon rows of other like-binded captives, we are all sitting, legs straddling legs, groin to buttocks, and shoulder to shoulder. I have about 2 inches from the top of my head to the heavy metal grates above; I do not envy those taller than I. I have lost track of the number of days, but as long as they remember to give us our daily water and crusts of bread - (we are, after all, an investment), and occasionally bless us with buckets of sea water poured from above to wash away some of the ever-present, warm, moist stains of humanity, I can almost find a dull comfort in the proximate, heated stench of my fellow passengers.

The most difficult thing for me to reconcile is that we far outnumber the crew, yet here we are. How did we ever allow ourselves to be lulled into this circumstance? Squeezed by their scorn and sadistic glee, I see no opening to freedom. We are told that we are only one compartment of many, on one ship of many, in one armada of many, within a global Navy charged with delivering broken spirits to a better life.

The Slave:
My ankles are loosely chained, perhaps to keep me from kicking out in anger or simply to remind me of my place, because God knows there is no escape from this ship. I am standing on the grates pouring sea water into the cargo hold immediately below deck, trying to wash away some of the fresh foulness before it dries into another layer. As I pour, one of the lost souls below stares pleadingly as if I could do something to help. At night they chain us to these metal grates and we must sleep in the noxious waves of their stench. I am only doing my best to ease my own discomfort. As if I would help them anyway... When one of them dies in that hold, it is one of us sent down to fetch the body. Last week, my only friend was sent down there and they set upon him like a pack of rabid dogs. Some of the soldiers fired their guns into that mass of inhumanity, killing four of them and finishing off my friend. I was one of the ones they sent down to retrieve those bodies. I was afraid; but apparently they were more afraid.

Once a week or so the soldiers bring up 12 to 15 of them at a time to stretch and wash. During this time nearly all of us are chained to railings on the opposite side of the ship with just a few soldiers watching us. I guess the soldiers can add up the numbers and don't want any kind of insurrection. One time when the cargo was being brought up top, they were careless and neglected to secure my chain. I considered jumping overboard, but that was early in the journey. For the most part it has not been overwhelmingly unbearable, except for the nights. During the day they watch us close and of course we labor very hard, but they are more generous to us with the bread and water, and since we are the ones feeding the cargo, we don't go hungry. I am not young. As the crossing continues, I am slowing down. I have heard the soldiers commenting on this to their superiors. Next time I will jump.

The Worker:
I am in the galley practically chained to my kneading bowl. From sunup to sundown, I work very hard making bread. I signed on to this excursion, pittance though the wages are, to cross the waters and start again. The galley boss is a hard man, and though I eat plenty it is usually very plain food; either what is left over after all those with privilege have eaten, or flavorless food made extra on the side by the galley boss. When I sought passage and pay in exchange for labor they asked if I could cook. I made the mistake of telling them I had apprenticed for a baker. If I'd have simply said "Yes" perhaps I'd be cooking the beans instead of this. But now, the galley boss has grown very fond of his cook's talent. I am where I am.

Working as I do, I seldom get topside. I think I've only been on deck one time that wasn't night. It was alright up there during the day, but I don't like it at night. It's some kind of eerie with all that cargo moanin' and carryin' on like they do. Others say it's worse at night than in the day because there are fewer soldiers up there at night, and I guess they're either asleep or don't care. And then to see the slaves all bouncin' around and cryin' out in their sleep on top of those creakin' metal grates - it's all a g-damn fright show. I can't wait to get across to where my uncle's waitin'. He's got work for me; in fact he owns his own shop. The only bad thing - it's a bakery.

The Boss:
I am the galley boss and I might as well be chained to my charges as incompetent as they sometimes are. The baker's not too bad, but the two assistants are stupid though if you stay on them they follow direction pretty good. And then there's the cook... if I believed in trolls I'd say he was the love child of a troll and a granite boulder - about as mean and dumb as they come. But somehow he has the instincts to work a little magic with beans and a piece of salt pork; or with a little ham and a lot of potatoes. And when they get a fresh catch from the water of just about anything, I've seen fights break out over the last of it. Of course I take all the credit, and he don't know any different, so of all the bosses on board, I tend to be treated a little better than the others. Just last week the soldiers near beat to death one of the slave bosses because he let one of his charges get killed by the cargo. As long as my boulder don't poison anybody, I believe I'll stay in very good graces. But that's one of the reasons why I have to keep a sharp eye, because he's just mean enough to do something like that out of spite; though I think he's too lazy and dumb to hunt down poison, much less actually go to the trouble of calculating how not to get caught.

I've been on five crossings there and back, but this is my first time with this ship and this Captain. Me and my guys have a pretty good routine going and I'm trying to keep us together for more crossings. The Boulder has agreed to stay on, as well as one of the assistants. I'm working on the other assistant, and though the baker thinks he's got a job waiting for him, I have wired ahead and am currently in negotiation with his uncle. I don't mind that they are high maintenance; with this magic cook I have been able to scrimp on some supplies and I've arranged for a nice bonus for myself selling the excess when we get to port. The only one smart enough to figure my scheme is maybe the baker, but that's why I keep the assistants busy elsewhere so he stays practically chained to that kneading bowl from sunup to sundown. I'm confident he hasn't seen a thing.

The Soldier:
I am a bully, chained to my conscription and free to terrorize and abuse pretty much at will. Of course the officers and Captain are off limits, but the officers usually turn a blind eye to the necessary discipline of bosses and 'soft' soldiers. We mostly focus on converting heathen scum. If they cannot be a God-fearing man of unquestioning faith, then they will feel the wrath of my righteous indignation. And even those who profess belief must be frequently reminded. The crack of the whip and the satisfying thunk of my club often send shivers of delight that originate in my scrotum and radiate outward I believe through every nerve in my body finally settling in my brain and my fingers as a climax of transcendent fire. I am also learning of the joys of instilling fear with no physical abuse. To see another living being want to crawl inside their own skin at the mere sound of my voice is a more subtle and prolonged pleasure, and a type of abuse that I am finding very effective.

There are some soldiers like me who are very hardcore and passionate. There are a few who are very hardcore but administer punishment methodically, with dead eyes and with no apparent emotion. The majority of the soldiers are proficient but seem to have no higher purpose than to do what is necessary. And then as I have described there are some who are soft and actually believe that all category of man deserve equitable thought. I have had some success converting the proficient, the soft, the workers, and the bosses, and I can say with certainty that they all understand how to behave in my presence. There is no doubt that the cargo and slaves are humbled and pious most all the time now because they never know when I am watching. They will still need reminders not only to keep them on their own road to righteousness, but also to keep them in their place. Though many will forever be unworthy to walk alongside me on the one true path, any who do not work hard to appropriately and adequately reflect my devotion will indeed feel the wrath of my righteous indignation. I am a bully.

The Officer:
I am an Officer, loyal to the Crown, attached to a seafaring cargo ship, and thereby chained to an incompetent fool of a Captain. This is my first voyage in his charge so not yet knowing with certainty where all loyalties lie, I have not felt free to speak my mind to the other officers. I have however, respectfully spoken one-on-one with the Captain himself, expressing my concerns. At varying times and with specific examples, I have brought to his attention that we have a small but growing core of overzealous soldiers, an inefficient means of distributing food that lacks accountability, a thieving galley boss, a careless indifference toward the cargo and the ship's slaves (and for that matter toward everyone on board), and abominable conditions of hygiene. This conglomeration of circumstance has so far resulted in a loss of more than 15 percent of our cargo; not even accounting for humanitarian considerations - (which on this ship is a subject I would not dare to broach) - our attrition rate is most unacceptable. I am sure that I am not aware of all the politics involved here, but regardless someone will have to answer, and as an experienced Officer I know that these results will follow me.

I too have political connections and though I hate to use them after only one crossing with this vessel, I am beginning to believe I may have no choice. I will not risk my honor and reputation for the sake of camaraderie. Yet if possible I would also prefer to avoid the effrontery of being looked upon (or even rumored) as a snitch and a scallywag. Upon arriving in port I will dispatch a carefully worded missive to my cousin in the King's Senate and perhaps he can arrange for improvement without an inordinate hullabaloo. Perhaps I will be able to do some good and still escape unscathed.

The Captain:
I sit atop this ship's chain of command. I am the final appeal and the last word. My Officers respect me, the soldiers carry out my orders as relayed through the chain, and everyone together, at my bidding, contributes to the efficiency of this well-oiled machine. Why I have actually had live cargo thank me for the ease of their transport as they were transferred off the ship; perhaps not in words, but then I don't believe most of them know how to speak a language. I could simply tell what they were thinking by their looks of awe and adoration as they shuffled by in their chains. Sure, sure... there are the usual groans and moans here and there, even in the Officer's ranks; and yes, in the last two crossings the attrition rate was a little high. But all that is easily explained by the quality of merchandise we have been getting. Why on this journey alone, we have been to sea for 78 days and when I examined the cargo for the first time just last week, I could easily tell from my perch atop the metal grates that they were not of the same quality as for instance the cargo last delivered by that inferior Captain of the ship 'The Tiger's Bark'; when I saw his cargo disembarking they were obviously from better stock than the dregs I have been charged with. I must remember to speak to the Admiral about this obvious favoritism toward some of the other Captains.

Nonetheless, I have been blessed with comfortable quarters, a sound ship, superb officers, good soldiers, and a station in life that is not too far beneath my just rewards. I am confident that with my upbringing, experience, and capabilities, when the Admiral retires, (which should be soon), I will again be moving up the chain of command.

The Admiral:
If I have learned anything in my decades in this Life, it is that I am but one minutely tiny link in an infinite, pulsating, soft-tissue chain of possibility that not only circumnavigates the globe many times over but also weaves and wraps itself within and around all of time and space eliminating borders and definitions, while expanding individual and universal consciousness. Yet as I close in on retirement within a year or two, I must continue to manage the everyday myriad of picayune detail that comes across the desk of one who on paper is responsible for the largest fleet in his King's Navy. I tend to see this responsibility not as 'for' the fleet - (I do not own it, nor can I ever be hands-on in control) - but 'to' the fleet - (I can give it my daily energy and attention, utilizing experience and capability to increase efficiency and productivity). Enough philoso-babble...

My dear old friend Gustavius, (who always thought a bit much of himself, but typically delivered on his promises), is asking me to consider recommending his boy for my seat upon my retirement. When it comes to that boy, Gustavius is blind. His boy is a fool and currently a Captain on one of my ships. His boy has risen at least two steps above his level of competence. I was a fool for approving the last promotion. Not only can I not honor my friend's wishes, based on a cumulation of incompetencies, I just signed papers to demote this halfwit. Due to his advanced age and poor health, this may very well kill my friend Gustavius. I am sorry.

The Statesman:
Like it or not, we are all chained to family. I respect my cousin who is an Officer in the King's Navy. He has a good head on his shoulders, but the timing of his circumstance could not be worse. I am grateful that he wants  it handled quietly, and I will do so; just not now. I know he will be patient.

As one of the newer and younger members of the King's Senate, and as a member who (at least for now) has the King's ear, I am tested daily by the more 'esteemed and established' Senators who look down on me as an upstart pup with way too much energy. At the moment I am involved in ticklish negotiations to head the official Senate committee that I believe will lead to a dismantling and restructuring of the overly (and overtly) complex bureaucracy of the agency charged with internal compliance and oversight. This umbrella agency, officially known as The Department of Management, Administration, Surveillance, and Tutelage (or MAST) was originally created to look over the shoulders of other agencies in order to discourage widespread wrongdoing, and if/when they did stray, to steer them back on course. A good idea at the time? Perhaps. But it has evolved into a multi-headed-tentacled monstrosity that now pumps out an average of 20 pages of new rules and restrictions per day. No one can keep up. And what's more, in our unofficial investigation, we are finding probable high-level (and definitely mid and low-level) corruption within MAST. Who watches the watchdog? This is not a new story. In fact, it is simply a larger version of the examples of corruption and inefficiencies my cousin has brought to my attention from aboard his ship. Hmm. Perhaps with a parallel comparison of the two... perhaps by linking them I would have a more compelling case for deconstruction.

The King:
I can see the connections in my young Senator's expansive chain of thought. He equates the Cargo on his fictional ship with the rules and restrictions so numerous that they have lost individual meaning and identity; and the slaves with the scribes who follow orders to feed the existing rules (often with empty, meaningless addendum) in an effort to keep them healthy and viable; and the workers and bosses with the equivalent structure in the agency offices; and the soldiers with the often overzealous agency enforcers; and the Officers with the agency Board of Directors and even to an extent, the Senators; and the attrition rate with the rules that die because they are (for whatever reason) unenforcable and/or they were written for a single example or circumstance; and finally the incompetencies of the Captain with those of our agency Chief.

My young Senator was kind in that he did not also equate the fool of a Captain with his King. Perhaps he sees me more as the Admiral overseeing a fleet of agencies. Regardless, there is a connection and I must distance myself from the coming disaster. Based on private conversation I know this is not his intent, but I believe my vocal young Senator who likes to stir the pot, will make an excellent lamb stew for MAST as their new Agency Chief.

The Seer:
If we do not chain our spirit to today, tomorrow we will see healthier cargo, fewer slaves, fewer secrets, softer soldiers, more trusting officers, more competent captains, younger admirals, energetic senators, and an admiral-king. The day after tomorrow, we will have advanced further. Next week we will notice the lines as blurry. In a year, we will all be admirals.

I will not chain myself to today.

Am I a traitor?

...I am working very hard to be.

Friedrich Nietzsche (in "Beyond Good and Evil") made the observations quoted below speaking specifically of a philosopher. Today I believe that all individuals are capable of thoughtful, passionate searching, and I issue it here as a challenge that each of us work toward these ideals as put forth by Nietzsche more than 125 years ago. I see signs every day that we (as the whole of humanity) are moving in this direction:

"...[The philosopher] must perhaps have been critic and skeptic and dogmatist and historian and, in addition, poet and collector and traveler and reader of riddles and moralist and seer and 'free spirit' and practically everything, so as to traverse the whole range of human values and value-feelings and be able to gaze from the heights into every distance, from the depths into every height, from the nook-and-corner into every broad expanse with manifold eyes and a manifold conscience...

...The philosopher, being of necessity a man of tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, has always found himself, and had to find himself, in contradiction to today: his enemy was ever the ideal of today. So far all these extraordinary furtherers of man whom one calls philosophers, though they themselves have rarely felt like friends of wisdom but rather disagreeable fools and dangerous question marks, have found their task, their hard, unwanted, inescapable task, but eventually also the greatness of their task, in being the bad conscience of their time."

I must work hard to betray 'today'. It is my responsibility, to myself and to others, to sow discomfort, and water and nourish dissatisfaction, in order to reap meaningful progress. How do I go about this task?

First I must remove myself from the consensus. I must find a suitable position opposite (or in opposition to) the consensus, stake my claim, get to know my like-minded neighbors already in this place, and work to convert other thoughtful, passionate explorers to visit and perhaps put down stakes of their own.

Once I have established myself in this place, I must pack a knapsack with my thoughts and other necessities and begin circling the original consensus, searching for other perspectives to which I may want to claim in part or in whole as additions to my first domicile of opposition.

If I am thorough I will completely circle the original consensus likely finding a variety of both suitable and unsuitable encampments and/or additions. It is important for me to examine this circular spectrum of opposition to work at understanding as many varying possibilities as I am able to locate and reach.

It is possible that before I have completed my 360 degree journey, the original consensus will shift. If it shifts into my neighborhood I must pull up stakes and find a new neighborhood in opposition to this new consensus. If it shifts in a different direction I must pull up stakes, visit and explore the new consensus, then find a new encampment (which could possibly be my old encampment) suitable for once again establishing a domicile. I must then again shoulder my thoughts and necessities and begin a new journey circling this new consensus.

A vagabond is often judged to be a disreputable troublemaker. Today, the general consensus is that one should be settled and certain in both thought and deed. And many of us choose to settle in another's certainty. But even that individual who puts forth more effort by choosing to face uncertainty, see possibilities, create meaning and purpose, and secure some degree of agreement and consensus, has not completed the challenge put forth unless they choose to then pull up stakes and start again with uncertainty. The only way to reap meaningful progress is to embark upon this never-ending, ever-evolving quest again, and again, and again, and again, and again...

Upon reviewing this week's written thought, I see that some may argue the compatibility of thoughtful passion. How can one reason with a burning desire? For me it is not a question that offers an option, but rather a question that demands a response. Utilizing uncertainty, I must sow discomfort, creating (at least in me) a burning desire to scratch the itch. Many simply soothe the itch with the balm of another's certainty; but when I have tried to mask the pain with these snake-oil potions, I cannot breathe.

I have found no cure for the burning and itching. Any relief I have acquired has been sporadic and temporary. 'Reason' is the only non-drowsy analgesic I have found. Therefore I am thoughtfully passionate.

The possibility of truthful meaning and purpose requires uncertainty, discomfort, dissatisfaction, and thoughtful passion. As Nietzsche said, "We must get there, that way, where you today are least at home."

Am I Random and Expendable? Or am I Useful and Essential?

Do we create our purpose and essentiality? Or is it there by design?

If we create individual purpose completely free from design, then we are random and expendable.

If we are somehow endowed with a predetermined, superior essentiality then from an all-encompassing perspective, individual purpose is relatively meaningless.

If we are somehow endowed with an unassuming potential to create an individual purpose, then we are not superior, we are responsible.

In this last case, it should not matter if this endowment is purposeful or accidental. It should only matter that we are responsible.

And in this case, if we act responsibly, individual purpose will be nourished and strengthened, and superiority will hide in shame.

To argue over the origin of capability is wasteful and divisive.

Our focus should be on transforming the capability into minimum harm and maximum good.

Divisiveness often carries us toward maximum harm and minimum good.

Divisiveness is an abomination; more so to purposeful design than to happy accident.

Some choices I make lead to harm. Some choices I make lead to good. Many choices I make lead to a fusion of harm and good. I work hard to minimize harm and maximize good - I am not always successful.

In art, negative space is the open area around an object that allows us to identify that object. Without negative space, chaos and anarchy would prevail. This week I have been contemplating my negative space: Is it the harm I do that defines my goodness? Or is it my goodness that pushes any harm I may do to the forefront?

It is not difficult to acknowledge the existence of negative space, but it is quite difficult to focus on and definitively interpret negative space. I believe friends and family to see any extraneous harm that I may do, (that does not directly impact them), as negative space, allowing for a generously focused interpretation of my goodness. I believe critics to see my goodness as negative space, allowing for heavy-handed disapproval and judgement. I believe that based on circumstance (when I examine myself) I tend to play both the part of friend and the part of critic. The reality is that when I vacillate between friend and critic, I am one big unidentifiable blob of goodness and harm. But blobs are not pretty. We like definition; therefore we need negative space to create a positive space that is consistent with our definition of that object. So some days I define myself as good; and some days I define myself by my failings.

When I play critic and subvert my goodness into the generic oblivion of negative space, I am not just. When I play friend and interpret weaknesses as bland inconsequentialities and banish these personal imperfections to be forever lost in negative space, I am not just. But when I play fair and work at truthfulness, I often see a giant, ugly, bubbling, molten mass of blobbyness with no negative space; and I am confused.

It appears that I need to definitively choose my primary negative space and from there work very hard on focus and interpretation, as well as on an awareness of where the boundary lies between it and my positive space.

If I were to rely on my current instincts I would choose my goodness as my primary negative space, because if I chose the opposite it would be a lie. I am an imperfect human and (these days) in more circumstance than not, I am a critic acutely aware of my flaws and defects and the dangers of delusional comfort at the expense of adversity and growth.

I need to give in to the blob and work at reshaping it: first as positive space in the form of my imperfections and the harm that results from actions that I choose; and then spread outward to the negative space of my personal goodness that does have its own form and shape, though one must squint just so, from a certain angle, in a certain light, to make it out.

It is quite difficult to focus on and definitively interpret negative space. Blobs are ugly. Negative space is not nothing. Negative space has form and shape and definition. Based on my choice above, if I want to understand my goodness, I must learn to read negative space. For circumstance when my instinct (or a friend or a family member) leads me into the role of friend, I must also learn to read that negative space in order to consistently retain an understanding of my imperfections. To add further depth and complexity, I must also learn to interpret figure-ground reversal - (where 'figure' is 'object' and 'ground' is 'negative space') - as it relates to a specific object. An example would be to misinterpret complacent comfort as goodness and/or to misinterpret the pain of adversity as harmful when in reality the former leads to stagnation and the latter to growth. As we become more adept at recognizing boundaries and reading negative space, we will become less likely to be fooled by the shape-shifting blob.

We need contrast and definition.

... ... ... ... ...

As I begin to write these words it is the first wee morning hour of a new day. In the very first minutes after midnight I was wrenched from sleep by a horrible nightmare; perhaps the worst (so far) I have ever had. I will never share with anyone the content or context of this darkest of imaginings. With considerable trepidation I am feeling my way around the edges of the negative space that define my falling-down frailty as shown to me by this dream. As a crushing weight, in the blackest relief, this dream has relevance to who I am; or at least to who I currently interpret myself to be. I am afraid to sleep again for fear that my unfettered proddings and pokings may again wake this creature. I will sit up until I work my way all the way around this dangerous, definitive, razor-sharp edge and until I am able to move safely outward into a recognizable negative space of personal goodness. I know it is there. Negative space is not nothing.

... ... ... ... ...

Even in sleep, it seems I am a critic. In the dawn of this same day, with a little distance between me and the dream, I believe it is the most horrifying nightmare I have ever had... ...So far.

... ... ... ... ...

I have applied this week's thinking to an actual nightmare that brought to the forefront a sharply focused image of my malignant humanity. By blindly feeling my way around the negative space of my goodness, instead of only being horrified by my (imagined) willingness to cause suffering, I better understand that because of my goodness I am able to be horrified. I have acknowledged and recognized my goodness and (I believe) I have strengthened that goodness with truthfulness. Make no mistake, I am still horrified at last night's hint of potential; but by consciously insisting that my flaws, fears, and failings fill the positive space, I have forced a candid personal accounting based on the greater effort required to balance my obvious imperfections and the concealed truths of furtive personal goodness.

It is nice to think that I am a good person. It is a more accurate reflection of reality to understand my human potential for harm, and demand exponentially greater effort toward goodness. I am first and foremost an imperfect individual. When seeking a deeper truth, and suddenly faced with the disorientation of shifting shapes, it is too easy to pull forth and sculpt personal goodness as positive space, and then look past the unnoticeable negative space of imperfection. Greater effort toward goodness demands that it be relegated to the negative space enabling me to also remain consistently aware of my failings which in turn will encourage an evolving lessening of harm.

I will remain a critic.