hopelesshappiness.com

I say I want to save the world and what I mean of course is I want to save Humanity. I am not doing a very good job. Besides being only one inconsequential voice, (duh), I think one (big) hump I’m having trouble getting over (being completely truthful) is that my heart is just not into saving ignorant people. Sometimes I look at Humanity and think that yes, we deserve to be a short-lived mammalian species; our extinction would do the world some good. And I suppose in that regard, perhaps together we are working to save the world. But it would be better if we could add one inconsequential voice plus one inconsequential voice plus one inconsequential voice and keep adding to a point of consequentiality. As a whole I believe that as each generation (and even as each decade) comes and goes we are less and less ignorant; but between some generations the incremental improvement is pretty small. To truly save Humanity, we need to step this up; more of us need to find our voice. I also believe, (perhaps merely due to proximity), that in recent decades we, as a whole, have become less ignorant but for whatever reason(s) we continue to allow the volume (i.e. loudness) to increase, making us appear more ignorant. As technology has advanced, what used to be pockets of mostly hidden or ignored ignorance have become reverberations rocking the world stage. And it is hard for me to see and hear this and feel all warm and fuzzy about saving Humanity. But perhaps saving Humanity should not be warm and fuzzy. But I also don’t believe it should be all clanging metal and sharp edges. Instead of having to choose one extreme or the other, there must be empathy and compassion alongside reasoned consideration, a degree of toughness, and consensus expert planning, for improvement.

This week I started the book “The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” by V. E. Schwab. The opening words attributed to the fictional character Estele Magritte were as follows:

“The old gods may be great, but they are neither kind nor merciful. They are fickle, unsteady as moonlight on water, or shadows in a storm. If you insist on calling them, take heed: be careful what you ask for, be willing to pay the price. And no matter how desperate or dire, never pray to the gods that answer after dark.”

We are still praying to the old gods and expecting them to save us. A mix of tradition and certainty and indolence and ignorance. And for those who call on “the gods that answer after dark” throw in disdain and partisanship and intolerance and oppression and clanging metal and sharp edges. Within this volatile fusion I am afraid we will soon pay the price.

So I need to work on leaning more toward nice and softening my truthfulness? Maybe; at least in my daily interactions. I do have some sharp edges and I am pretty sure that is not the way to encourage less ignorance. It is difficult though to stay energized looking up at the peak, enlightenment, layered on Beauty, Truth, Wisdom, Justice layered on reason layered on learning layered on urgency layered on quiescence layered on ignorance. It is a large mountain to climb and it is easy to fall back on apathy; especially when one's apathy is a lush flowering green meadow and most especially in one’s own Springtime.

Every day I walk to work and the route includes one long, steep, uphill curve where for a few minutes I look to my left at the towering rock bluff, to my right at trees, and behind me and up ahead at a seemingly endless curve. It is not difficult to imagine that I will be climbing forever. This is what, (as one inconsequential voice), working to save the world feels like. At least Sisyphus periodically got a change of scenery by starting over at the bottom of the hill; and he had to put his heart into it to avoid the interminable threat of the crushing weight that was his boulder. Unfortunately today many (Most? All?) of us are able to ignore the very real weight of the very real threat that is our ignorance.

I can feel that my time is measured. By whom? Perhaps at birth each one of us is assigned a personal timekeeper. A timeless, changeless individual on a tall work stool hunched over a chronometer on a bench strewn with cogs and wheels and spinners and tiny, intricate shafts and hinges and nuts and bolts and likewise the tools necessary for all manner of maintenance and upkeep, and their singular focus is on the timepiece before them in an effort to keep it reliably ticking away. I picture my timekeeper as a bent, gnarled, pinched, spry old man with a gleam in his eye and sparkling flecks of white in his long, gray hair and beard. Or perhaps that is too traditional. Perhaps my timekeeper is a beautiful, young woman with long flowing red and golden hair, green eyes and a determined look and manner that would keep the most intrepid of curiosity-seekers at a distance. I would like to approach. But I believe it to my benefit if she is allowed to work with no distraction. Does the timekeeper know when the timekeeping will stop? Is the timepiece before them counting down? Or counting up? If it is counting down, to what? A predetermined number of minutes? An ordained event? An eventual stifling quiescence? And does this imply mortality? Insignificance? Emptiness? Nothingness? If it is counting up, to what? A passing into a different possibility? A fulfilled potential? Punishment? Reward? Enlightenment? And does this imply a referee and/or a scorekeeper? Or is the time, counting up or down, truly random, dependent upon the skill of the timekeeper, the availability of parts and tools, and the intensity and number of distractions? Perhaps there is a combination of factors. If I fulfill my potential at 30, but it is my destiny to live to the age of 66, is my timekeeper out of work for 36 years? Game over? Or am I perhaps assigned an apprentice timekeeper, a personal Siri, learning their trade on my now easier-to-maintain countdown? And is this why one may prefer a count down to a counting up? Because it offers a greater possibility for longevity?

I believe a countdown to be easier to maintain and to offer a greater possibility for longevity due to momentum. I don't believe a temporary lapse in the workings of one's timepiece counting down will immediately stop one's time. In fact, I believe, because the countdown is for a determined moment ahead, if done reasonably quickly, a new stopwatch could be synchronized and assigned.

I believe power (merely perceived or otherwise) forces a counting up to turn around and become a count down. And I believe the greater the power the greater the momentum, and the less likely / the more difficult it becomes for one to again begin counting up. And as implied I believe a countdown eliminates the possibility / need of a referee and/or a scorekeeper. Sad.

Perhaps one’s lifetime holds the potential for multiple switchbacks. I would like to believe that one’s childhood is a counting up, but I can see how some of those on both ends of the privileged spectrum may more likely spend their childhood counting down. And I would like to believe that one can choose at any time throughout one’s life to again begin counting up, but I can see how some (perhaps many, most or all) of those on the lower end of the privileged spectrum may not have that option.

I began by saying I can feel that my time is measured. Perhaps beyond the innocence of childhood, this recognition is necessary to enable one’s timekeeper to count up. Once one reaches a majority balance of cynical certainty (vs active hope), coupled with a denial of one's possible mortality, and regardless of perceived or actual power, one is pretty much in a state of time-biding apathy in which the end is on its way. As a species, the more and more of us who settle for countdown, will not only not move us forward, it will also expand, intensify and steer that end toward us. As a species. Sad.

This week (in Alex Finlay’s “The Night Shift”) I read the following: “Sports. Ella never understood the fascination. A professor explained that it’s the human need to belong to something. A tribe. Ella’s never felt that need.” I’ve of course heard this before; it is a common platitude. But I disagree; or I at least partially disagree. The part about the fascination driven by a need to belong I believe is only part of it; a larger part for some, a lesser part for others. Identity is important, but as important (perhaps more important) is the human need for possibility; for hope. Competition within a framework of rules creates a winner and a loser, but the loser today is not absolutely destined to be the loser tomorrow. Though (as discussed here) the odds may be in favor of privilege, in sports there will always be possibility. And we need that.

To further this argument, competition is a reflection of the dichotomous nature of Humanity. I have said before that each one of us is “nuanced or laden with Goodness or Malevolence, Compassion or Cruelty, Empathy or Indifference, a desire for Justice or a self-serving greed.” In sports we can see these characteristics (both good and bad) in both the good guys (our team) and the bad guys, thus when the good guys win we are to a degree vindicated by association; victory becomes hope, a possibility, a promise of salvation. Ultimately, beyond fulfilling one's need to belong, sports fulfills our need to believe and flirts with our desire to transcend.

In this sense, victory is not about who has the most points, or money, or power, or shoes, or degrees, or titles, or answers, or votes. To transcend is to reach or move beyond one's mere mortality and its trappings. And from there it seems the most assured way for me to transcend my mortality is for me to work for future generations. Yes, the euphoric high that comes with an important victory (lived vicariously or otherwise) certainly feels like I have moved beyond mere self-actualization, but reality, in one form or another and usually in short order, reminds me that (I believe) true transcendence requires a lifetime of consistent effort toward balancing my personal dichotomy and (as much as is possible) sharing the experience. I could (should) do a better job. The alternative is to live vicariously and/or associatively through those who have more points, more shoes, more answers.

I have been accused of being somewhat obscure or esoteric in my writing. Yes, I am saying above that quiescent hope as found in doctrine, dogma, divisiveness, certainty (as found in politics, organized religion, sports, bureaucracy), will not lead to transcendence; and if one finds some slight semblance of self-actualization in any example of quiescent hope, it is personal, selfish and short-term (i.e. one lifetime). And yes, I did say above we need hope and possibility and can be inspired by sports, but it should serve as exactly that: inspiration; a jumping off point leading to active transcendence (i.e. working for future generations).

Einstein made many, many mistakes. Babe Ruth struck out 1,330 times. Transcendence is not a bolt of lightning. In his book “There Are Places in the World Where Rules are Less Important then Kindness” by Carlo Rovelli, he says,

“The Einstein who makes more errors than anyone else is precisely the same Einstein who succeeds in understanding more about nature than anyone else, and these are complementary and necessary aspects of the same profound intelligence: the audacity of thought, the courage to take risks, the lack of faith in received ideas—including, crucially, one’s own.” (Rovelli, pg. 80-81).

Again, Transcendence cannot happen vicariously, instantaneously, or quiescently. Again, Transcendence requires an active, effortful immersion into a lifetime of consistent effort toward balancing one’s personal dichotomy and (as much as is possible) sharing the experience.

“Being right is not the important thing—trying to understand is.” (Rovelli, pg. 81).

I would like to believe I have not given up. But for all the difference I am making, I am thinking I have. Is it that no one listens? Or is it that I am not making a strong enough effort? Or is it that I am wrong? Or maybe I am just not very popular. Or is it that on some level each one of us does understand the importance, the necessity, of Beauty, Truth, Wisdom, Justice, Love, but find it easier to filter thoughts through the momentary me and act and react accordingly? I am guilty. Every day I go to work and pretend. When not managing my public face, I frequently work to lose myself in walking, reading, cooking, music, Netflix. Recent forays into actual efforts toward working and/or arguing for consequential improvement have ended in cries and tears of frustration and anger and sadness and warnings from varying constituents about my heart and my health; i.e. all encouragement to filter through momentary me.

If no one around me hears me, if everyone around me refuses to act according to what they know, how do I help to move us forward? Is effort seemingly only for the sake of effort worthwhile? Though constantly looking, I've not found an answer. Perhaps it truly is simply that easy is popular. And my thoughts, my suggestions, my sense of urgency, my insistence, my frustration and anger and sadness, is all agonizingly difficult; about as far away from easy as you can get. Yet if we all on some level know that it is necessary to work hard beyond the momentary me…?

A large majority of us continue to vote for easy; whatever in the moment will get us most comfortably to the next moment. Perhaps some stray thoughts toward maintaining a comfortable status quo for a few moments beyond, but no serious effort toward true generational improvement.

I have said previously that it is “much easier to be told than to think. Much easier to belong than to be ostracized. Much easier to be defined than to define oneself. Much easier to accept a truth than to fall short of Truth. …It is much easier to pretend to be happy with division, certainty, convention, bureaucracy, [than to struggle toward] Beauty, Truth, Wisdom, Justice.”

I have also said, “In recent years I have become more afraid of the consequences of knowing than I am of the constancy of uncertainty. And perhaps it helps to understand that the constancy of uncertainty will lead us closer to Beauty, Truth, Wisdom, Justice. And perhaps it helps to understand that the constancy of uncertainty is critical to our survival; and ultimately to our salvation. And perhaps it helps to understand that the constancy of uncertainty is the Will of God.” Whoever your God may be. But the constancy of uncertainty is agonizingly difficult and a large majority of us continue to vote for easy.

So again, for all the difference I am making, it appears I have given up. I asked above, “Is effort seemingly only for the sake of effort worthwhile?” The word I hang onto here is ‘seemingly'. Perhaps my thoughts and my efforts are underground, lying in wait for their moment. Perhaps I am yet to contribute in some small way to future improvements. We can remember and honor those who came before us. We can glory in the nearly 8 billion moments here today. But species survival requires that we recognize, acknowledge and work for the generations to come. As a species choosing easy, we are doing a poor job.

This is a short, sad story of a village; and its children. Children born in filth to parents filled with angst pretending to be love. In the moment in which Life sparked, the filth was external. But in the very next moment, before acknowledgement was barely possible, the purity was sullied. Their parents could still see the hope around the edges, and deep within the parents held onto a dream that indeed this child would be the one. And some parents proclaimed as much to all who might listen. But alas, these same brash parents diluted possibility with expectations that were unavoidably attached to the filth of worldly desires. Yet those parents who were not overbearing, were as equally unsuccessful filtering the filth; despite their reason and their warnings, their children played in the mud. And then there were those parents who worked to (over)protect their children; to keep their children completely away from influences unbecoming, but regardless, the filth found a way to seep into these children as well.

As the children grew to ask more complex and difficult questions, their understanding of filth was refined, spreading and expanding to cover all and everything around them leaving a circle of righteousness like a cocoon keeping them snug and safe. Filth parted before them as they continued on their quest for their parent's hope. Some children it appeared were able to hover over the surface-filth and disguise their forays into filth as efforts to fulfill expectations. Some children wallowed in the surface-filth. And some children, in fact all children, learned how to fling filth making it stick to and slowly drip from some other children, marking them as derelict regardless of truth. It turned out that the hovering children were prolific filth flingers and also quite adept at dodging flung filth. And some of those surface children who were constantly barraged with flung filth soon found their cocoon in shreds and tatters.

Each grew up accordingly. The surface children who still held on to some semblance of a cocoon, began adulthood working for those who hovered. Those surface children entering adulthood in shredded, tattered cocoons felt filthy regardless of truth. The weight of the flung filth dragged many of these former sparks beneath the surface. Some of these outcasts spent a lifetime floundering. Some disappeared. Most of those who hovered as children, hovered as adults and came to believe that flung filth was truth and that everyone was deserving of their place.

A few of those working on the surface came to realize that those who hovered, though seemingly above the filth, were actually the purveyors of filth, sprinkling it down upon the masses cloaked as power, wealth, success, tradition, even kindness and generosity, and a (forever unfulfilled) promise that those who worked on the surface would ultimately learn to hover. Most of those working on the surface though were enamored, seeing these offerings as manna and learning to be happy in their place.

Anecdotally a former child would on occasion rise from their clinging filth and learn to hover. Anecdotally a former child would on occasion reach down and rescue a lost or floundering soul and help them to repair their cocoon just enough to find a place on the surface. For the most part though, those who hovered, hovered; those on the surface, worked; and those beneath the surface, drowned, over and over and over and over again.

This is a short, sad story of a village; and its children.

And this is a shorter, sadder story of other villages. Imagined villages. Hopes and dreams. Myths and legends. Villages in which sparks are reignited, purity is unsullied, and everyone is equally joyful and deserving of their reward. And villages in which justice is doled out, punishments are received, and everyone is equally filthy and deserving regardless of truth. In this story, everyone acknowledges that a day will come when each one of us will have to leave the village in which we sparked, grew and spent our adulthood.

According to the tradition of those who hover, all those who had hovered in the village from which all emerge will travel to a village inhabited largely by all those who had hovered. And those who had hovered will arrive with power, wealth, success and traditions intact. And according to those who hover, those who unappreciatively work on the surface and those floundering and beneath the surface will disappear, perhaps traveling to another unacknowledged, inconsequential village, (likely some horrible village filled with pain and suffering and angst). And according to those who hover, a select few of those who appreciatively work on the surface will join those who hover in their new village; after all those who hover will likely need workers in this new village as well.

And according to all those who appreciatively work on the surface of the village from which all emerge, they will be amongst the select few following those who hover to their new village.

And those who recognize the purveyors of filth, and those who are floundering and/or beneath the surface are largely silent on the topic of future travels because they are occupied, busy cleaning up the filth in this village from which all emerge and/or they are simply occupied, busy surviving.

And there are rumors of other villages. Villages that recycle visitors and put them on a train going back to the village from which all emerge. Villages in which visitors are copied, printed, bound and shelved in the stacks forever and ever amen. Villages in which visitors are liberated then merged into a single conscious goodness. Villages filled with orgiastic ecstasy. Villages in which each villager has attained a personal state of Nihilistic Perfection.

And this is a shorter, sadder story of other villages.

And this is the short, sad story of our village; and our children.