Am I making room for tending my emotions? The Daily OM says I should. How do I feel today? For a philosopher of freedom, I feel like I have painted myself into a corner. I don’t have a job. Don’t have any money of my own. Completely dependent on someone else for my finances. Can’t make a move without having a reason for doing so. There is no way I feel like I could just walk out of the house without explaining where I am going, for how long, etc. My world has shrunk to basically this house and the gym. Think I will expand to the library. The only real excitement I have is exploring concepts.
I decided to explore the philosophers because I wanted to start from the beginning of written human thought. Probably should really study the Chinese because they probably had these thoughts first anyway…they are more evolved.
I am leading a vanilla existence. That might not be a fair statement but it is how I feel right now. Just writing my feelings. Not going to justify them. I feel like I am tied to everyone. While that is O.K. for most of my life, it is NOT O.K for my entire life. I don’t want to keep everyone’s plates spinning at the expense of not spinning my own.
I want to move freely about the cabin, not hurting anyone, not shirking my responsibilities but I want to feel APART from time to time. I want to step out of my world of obligations and responsibilities and just feel free. The way the world is constructed, it is hard for anyone to do this. It isn’t just me that feels this way. I acknowledge that. It is just me who is writing this so I need to keep it to that for therapeutic reasons.
I actually cannot believe I have been typing this for the past five minutes and no one has come by or lingered in the doorway wondering what I am writing about. O.K. I just got interrupted. I was wondering if I could actually finish this. Will write more later.
Thoughts: November 29, 2007
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Struggling
If I think of others and not only of me
Then what is “to thine ownself be true?”
Just what does it mean to be truly free?
If not a human “doing” but rather to “be”
Then why is there clearly so much to do?
Just what does it mean to be truly free?
What I’m desperately trying so hard to see,
Is how to lose the chains...how to stage a coup
Against random rules that shackle the free.
Perhaps the concept lives solely in thee
As daily life is not its best venue.
Where can I best learn the meaning of free?
Perhaps it just lives in a metaphysical sea…
A mysterious realm beyond my purview.
Yes, tap into that for the meaning of free.
Does one have to die to be truly free?
On this conundrum I forever will stew.
When will I know the meaning of free?
When will I be the meaning of free?
Oct. 2, 2007
Then what is “to thine ownself be true?”
Just what does it mean to be truly free?
If not a human “doing” but rather to “be”
Then why is there clearly so much to do?
Just what does it mean to be truly free?
What I’m desperately trying so hard to see,
Is how to lose the chains...how to stage a coup
Against random rules that shackle the free.
Perhaps the concept lives solely in thee
As daily life is not its best venue.
Where can I best learn the meaning of free?
Perhaps it just lives in a metaphysical sea…
A mysterious realm beyond my purview.
Yes, tap into that for the meaning of free.
Does one have to die to be truly free?
On this conundrum I forever will stew.
When will I know the meaning of free?
When will I be the meaning of free?
Oct. 2, 2007
A Joycean Thanksgiving
Early on Thursday, November 22, 2007, Nora Barnuckle awakes from a deep sleep and a disturbing dream. Her 11-year-old daughter had been kidnapped while walking along a quiet residential street to a friend’s home. Fooled by the vividness of the dream, gratitude floods within as her eyes flutter open to the reality of the newly rising sun. It is later than she thinks. Venus, Nora’s touchstone, has faded from view.
Quietly, tentatively Nora begins her day. Opening the sliding doors, the fresh air greets her with a promise she knows won’t be kept. The dogs amble past her, shaking off the sleep, and pad across the green-carpeted yard to relieve themselves. The house is still and she relishes the few moments of freedom. At this moment she doesn’t exist to anyone. She inhales the pleasure of just being and tip toes about in hopes of maintaining the illusion, not wishing to wake the giant. While Nora realizes she holds the keys to her castle, she is acutely aware that, to a large extent, she is really its prisoner.
As chambermaid to many masters, she attends to the “odd jobs” necessary to their day-to-day functioning. Today’s guests from the Commonwealth of Virginia promise to double the siege on her tower so she braces herself for the day ahead. More masters to serve. She knows, as she prepares the various dishes according to the demands and desires of each, that the day will end successfully but she alone will consider it a pyrrhic victory. The decades of wish fulfillment have exacted a toll that is palpable within.
Just as a warrior dons his shield for battle or a priest shaves/cleanses for the celebration of Mass, Nora prepares for her duties. Staring at the mirror, she pauses. Staring intently into the pupils that stare back, she longs to jump into the beckoning black hole. She wonders if she can find herself there if she stares long enough, hard enough. Now it seems the image in the looking glass is more real than the three-dimensional android on the other side.
Her tools are ready: fine brushes, colored powders, and rosy creams lined up neatly in her vanity drawer evocative of how her life is laid out. She will use them to mask the drabness she feels within. The curlers are heating up. So is the day. People are stirring and, like the grumbles from an empty stomach, they begin to make their presence/needs known. “Do you know where….?” “ Have you seen my…..?” “What is for breakfast and can we have….?” “Did you take care of the…..?”
The mask is on. No serendipity today. Everything is set in stone in accordance with tradition. Maybe that is why the holidays seem so stultifying to her. No wiggle room. No freedom.
Yet, today, there is a usurper…an interloper. While Nora is sleep walking through the day, she is wide awake in her dreaming.
The smells of the pancetta-rubbed turkey and baking pumpkin pies fill the air. The skin is browning on the fowl and the crust is forming over the pie. She too forms a protective layer by focusing fully on the final preparations. It is 3:48 p.m. The rest of the guests will arrive at 5 p.m. Pans clank against the sides of the stainless steel sink as they are hurriedly washed. Sopping wet hand towels cry, “Enough! Find another one for the job!,” but she sees no reason to give them a reprieve. Where is hers?, she reasons.
The countdown is beginning and she senses she will soon be plunged into a whirlwind of final details in this memory-making moment. No luxury of thinking/dreaming for now. That will have to wait until the house is quiet again. Her memory of this day will be different, she presumes, than the others. Who can know for sure? Is everyone, she muses, just playing their prescribed roles? Does anyone really want to be here today?
Quietly, tentatively Nora begins her day. Opening the sliding doors, the fresh air greets her with a promise she knows won’t be kept. The dogs amble past her, shaking off the sleep, and pad across the green-carpeted yard to relieve themselves. The house is still and she relishes the few moments of freedom. At this moment she doesn’t exist to anyone. She inhales the pleasure of just being and tip toes about in hopes of maintaining the illusion, not wishing to wake the giant. While Nora realizes she holds the keys to her castle, she is acutely aware that, to a large extent, she is really its prisoner.
As chambermaid to many masters, she attends to the “odd jobs” necessary to their day-to-day functioning. Today’s guests from the Commonwealth of Virginia promise to double the siege on her tower so she braces herself for the day ahead. More masters to serve. She knows, as she prepares the various dishes according to the demands and desires of each, that the day will end successfully but she alone will consider it a pyrrhic victory. The decades of wish fulfillment have exacted a toll that is palpable within.
Just as a warrior dons his shield for battle or a priest shaves/cleanses for the celebration of Mass, Nora prepares for her duties. Staring at the mirror, she pauses. Staring intently into the pupils that stare back, she longs to jump into the beckoning black hole. She wonders if she can find herself there if she stares long enough, hard enough. Now it seems the image in the looking glass is more real than the three-dimensional android on the other side.
Her tools are ready: fine brushes, colored powders, and rosy creams lined up neatly in her vanity drawer evocative of how her life is laid out. She will use them to mask the drabness she feels within. The curlers are heating up. So is the day. People are stirring and, like the grumbles from an empty stomach, they begin to make their presence/needs known. “Do you know where….?” “ Have you seen my…..?” “What is for breakfast and can we have….?” “Did you take care of the…..?”
The mask is on. No serendipity today. Everything is set in stone in accordance with tradition. Maybe that is why the holidays seem so stultifying to her. No wiggle room. No freedom.
Yet, today, there is a usurper…an interloper. While Nora is sleep walking through the day, she is wide awake in her dreaming.
The smells of the pancetta-rubbed turkey and baking pumpkin pies fill the air. The skin is browning on the fowl and the crust is forming over the pie. She too forms a protective layer by focusing fully on the final preparations. It is 3:48 p.m. The rest of the guests will arrive at 5 p.m. Pans clank against the sides of the stainless steel sink as they are hurriedly washed. Sopping wet hand towels cry, “Enough! Find another one for the job!,” but she sees no reason to give them a reprieve. Where is hers?, she reasons.
The countdown is beginning and she senses she will soon be plunged into a whirlwind of final details in this memory-making moment. No luxury of thinking/dreaming for now. That will have to wait until the house is quiet again. Her memory of this day will be different, she presumes, than the others. Who can know for sure? Is everyone, she muses, just playing their prescribed roles? Does anyone really want to be here today?
Appearance versus Reality
When we look up at the night sky, we see light from thousands of stars that no longer exist. Yet we see them as real. Can we truly ever trust our senses? How can we know which ones remain and which ones have perished? Space telescopes give us answers but raise other questions about reality.
As I move through this world, a decidedly non-technical, non-computerized entity, I cannot adequately ferret out what is real and what is not. All I can see is the side I am standing on. If I am lucky, I can shift my “position” to see more angles. Instead of the flat face of a quadrilateral, I may advance, through an appreciation/recognition of other’s experiences/understandings, and see more sides/angles.
I could conceivably progress from seeing the world as tetrahedron to an icosahedron. This would bring me closer to grasping reality but could I ever be sure?
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