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November 22, 2006
Everybody Loves a Fool
People’s theories, about pretty much everything, are pretty much always wrong. But the question is not really why are people such incompetent theory-makers. The question is why do they make them at all? What is remarkable is not the poor record, but the fact that people insist on keeping it, in spite of its lack of resemblance to reality. But if you listen to people, read their books, you can notice a tone of indifference, actually, to the truth-value of their theories, built right into their presentation, almost defiantly. This tone does not mean they are aware, exactly, of the foolish nature of their ideas, but it is like a badge, a physical requirement; it is a personality attached, charming in some cases, infuriating in others (largely due to where their listener stands on the very same delusions).
The bottom line seems to be that certain people are self-motivated, somehow required. to talk. They seem to have to say something. And that is reason they must have these ideas--not because the truth has come to them. It is what sounds good, what is possible to say, that is what gets said, like an exercise in grammar; and the fact that it is phrased in the context of a presentation on a subject, with opinions gained, and research accomplished, personal stories attached, etc, that it is proposed as an explanation and a theory about something, that is purely a ceremonial requirement of the occasion. All one has to do is sound like they know what they are talking about, and they are going to get attention. Audiences for the large part are ready to applaud. And one might say: this is by and large, for pretty much everybody, a suitable arrangement.
So, even though a speaker will rather obviously display a caviliar, even downright casual, attitude towards his subject matter, he may still continue to make the assumption that he is required, covertly, to claim his ideas are true. Almost to the degree that he is public he may fall increasingly under this requirement, that he must also sideways defend himself against a charge of spurious theory-making. Even fiction writers feel required to defend fictional tenets holding together their craft, as somehow divinely inspired. Even though it is obvious that they are winging it, everyone is reluctant to admit themselves ever a fool in any part of what they have done. It is as if they believe a third party, neither they nor their obviously complicit audience, is watching, and that might lead to an investigation. Or maybe the root of their insecurity might be they are worried an investigation might reveal unglamorous behavior on their part, like that they stepped on someone else to get where they are. Proving not just that they are making things up, but that they aren’t even the original inventor, which makes them twice the fool. So that even though it might seem the authors and the public have a tacit agreement, to not put the truth-value of anything to the test, still the authors become entangled with an assumption that they must appear serious.
But why does one think they have to pretend they are absolutely, more than anyone else, embracing the ideas they are presenting? It is obvious that if and when any theory is actually expressed, the person doing it is very liable to be the first to recognise its flaws. For much as it is satisfying to be grammatical, and make sentences that sound plausible, it is more thrilling to be dialectical, and challenge your own thinking with opposite ideas. At least I think so. But if some talking fool is not permitted, by some societal sanction, or some belief or fear of their own, that to doubt your own thoughts evinces weakness, then perhaps indeed they are blocked from further reflection.
So, alas!, one never gets to learn what it would be like to speculate without having to think of one’s speculations as true. One never knows what the imagination is. And to never find out what the real source and explanation is, that this is a function of a person’s consciousness, the split awareness that creates a sense of importance to the self, and the idea of a story in life. Any story being better than none. A person who can talk without regard for the truth-value of a theory, knowing it is the exercise itself that is yielding other territory, maybe--that person, well, will be laughed at, scorned for his ambition, and remembered for all time. Everybody loves a fool, really.
Posted by mortimer at 04:03 PM | Comments (5802)
November 14, 2006
Skyway
I am always wondering why people don’t just flip out, or start staring into empty space and then erupt in long screams, over the existential situation they are in. You wonder what people are doing with themselves during the gaps, when they have nothing scheduled, and how they can possibly stand their thoughts, when alone. But then if you hang around with anyone you see how they do it; you see that actually their life is cluttered with chores they are always just getting accomplished, in order to clear space for entertainments they don’t even have the time to fully enjoy, before they are tired or hungry. If you see people in their regular lives you witness their situation is virtually crowded out with running around, and they have no time for contemplating the drastic existential situation they are in. They are constantly busy, and much of the time they are busy doing something that is making up for something they did before, or getting ready for something they are going to do. They not only have no time for thinking about the mystery of life itself, they have virtually no life, since they are always making up for the occasion, or recovering from the occasion. They don’t seem to have any headlong experience with events and occasions themselves, and no ability to deal with each other, either, so much of the time they are clearing up misunderstandings, or outright being stunned, or humbled by the behavior of others. They hardly ever do what you, or even they themselves, would call living, plain and simple. It is always preparation, and then maybe a little wondering. Therefore the scene that I constantly worry about them in, where their is a clear space, that can’t be accounted for, and the dread question of their own existence descends upon them like it were really time to address the truth, or the lack of truth--well that . . . never happens! It's never skyway in our thoughts, who are so earthbound. Is it?
Posted by mortimer at 01:08 AM | Comments (0)