Category: Philosophy

It’s Not The Winning……

We are all liars.  Every single one of us.  There is not, nor has there ever been a person cursed with the gift of total honesty.  It is an impossibility.  It is an end result of the competitive nature of our society.  We are continually measuring ourselves against others.  So much so that in the end our intentions often blur into a philosophical wet patch which causes us great discomfort when we are forced to sleep in it.  Rather than continually reassess our beliefs and ideas it is often more comfortable to roll over and ignore the discharge of doubt as if it isn’t there.

The biggest problem for a race of liars is often the raising of ones children.  In an ideal world a parent should introduce a sense of values which they themselves have accumulated over the years.  The child should look upon their parent with awe, both inspired by their wisdom and dazzled by their brilliance.  However we are disregarding a few things here.  First of all we don’t all live in tents in the desert.  Which means that a parent has to compete with the television, with google and with popular culture for the child’s attention, love and respect.  The pressure the lying parent feels to compete against these things is immense.  They often try to distract the child for their own failings with meaningless clichés, meant to soften the blows to their own ego rather than to encourage or motivate their offspring.  None of these statements are more redundant than the following:

It’s not the winning it’s the taking part that counts.

First said by some arsehole somewhere.

The first thing I want to make clear is that there is no truth to it whatsoever.  It is always the winning which matters.  Nothing else does because from the very beginning of our lives to the very end, our lives are infinitely better if we are winners.

Pick a war, any war.  Ask a soldier.  Not winning in something as serious as war often equates with death.  Perhaps it’s an extreme example.  How about in your working life?  There are three people up for promotion.  You are the oldest, with the most experience.  You get interviewed but don’t get the job.  The bigger office, the extra 20 thousand a year, which would have meant you could have got a mortgage on a bigger house  and finally started a family are all gone in the blink of an eye.  However it doesn’t matter, because you took part.  How about love?  The most beautiful girl in your high school.  All the boys want her.  You ask her out.  She laughs in your face and tells everyone in school that you are an idiot.  Of course you don’t feel sad, because you took part.

The problem with propagating lies to children is that they do have an impact in unforeseen ways.  We are in grave danger of producing a society of kids who just don’t give a shit.  Why should they even try to win if it doesn’t matter?  We are sucking the motivation out of them by being overly reassuring.  What’s wrong with trying your best to win and not being good enough?  It’s going to happen often enough in their adult lives that one day they may even thank you for it.

Life is about winning, from the moment it begins until the moment it ends.  Denying it, is like claiming that the sky is green.  If you don’t believe me ask the other 179,999,999 sperm your father ejaculated when you were created.  That’s right you can’t.  Because they didn’t win the greatest lottery of them all.  I am sure if you did ask them they would say ‘It’s not the winning it’s the taking part that counts’.

The Timeless Timekeeping And Timing Of Timepieces

I haven’t lost my mind.  By outward appearances I can understand why some people would draw that conclusion, however it is unquestionably without foundation.  The reason for my redesign of the calendar year was simply motivated by a desire to demonstrate just how silly time actually is.  I suppose I better explain myself.

The fact is that our method of measuring time is somewhat fallible.  Twice a year we gain and lose hours whilst every four years we gain an extra day.  Time is an imperfect measurement, which means that attaching any proper meaning to time is as senseless as time itself.

My first novel is about a country where time is suddenly altered, albeit temporarily.  In the background of the story I attempt to answer a number of questions about the nature of time, and how many of us would have great difficulty functioning without it.  I can already hear a number of you scoffing at the very suggestion.  The fact remains that most of you are quite probably convinced that the vast majority of what we presume to be civilisation follows the same calendar and the same ‘mean’ time, and that my friends is where the problem begins.

From the 196 countries which divide this planet only 70 utilise Daylight Saving Time which works out to roughly 36% of the Earth.  Which means it’s an idiosyncrasy on our part.  What was initially a perfectly valiant idea is now nothing more than the legacy of a time which lacked imagination.  I am all for having as much sunshine as possible, but what is the point when the vast majority of society is working during those hours.  It doesn’t matter if a person goes home when it is dark or slightly less dark.  The point is that there are plenty of alternatives.  A simple solution is for businesses and schools to open earlier.  Rather than running from 9 to 5 why not from 7 to 3?  After all we are the masters of time.

Of course just because hours are silly it doesn’t mean that days months and years are, after all we all follow the same calendar don’t we?  We follow the Gregorian calendar.  However a great number of Islamic nations follow the Hijri Calendar which counts the year as 354 days long.  Aside from having a shorter year it’s also worth bearing in mind that its 1433 and not 2012.  Then there are the hindu calendars includine Vikram Samvat, the calendar of Nepal which is already into 2068(and still no flying cars), the Shaka Samvat of India is in 1934 and the Kali Yuga which is in 5113.  Of course we must not forget when Julius Caesar got bored and did the same as me which worked out for about 1500 years until scholars realised it was 11 minutes too long.  Many Hebrews is Israel believe that they are living in the year 5772.  Not because they are barking made but because there calendar tells them so.  In China its 4649,  in Iran and some parts of Afghanistan they follow the Persian Calendar and are currently enjoying the year 1390, in Ethiopia they enjoy a 13th month and are having a merry 2004, in Thailand they are partying like its 2555 and finally we have the Bahai’s who are the furthest back in the year 168.

Time is not a solid substance, it is not real, it is an invention of man.  It is nothing more than a measurement, most commonly used to measure how quickly we die.  It is imaginary.  A man-made phenomenon.  Nobody should live a life dictated by time because there is no such thing.  It is all in our minds.  Only those of you who learn to forget about times very existence will ever be able to have the time of their lives.

To assist those of you willing to relinquish the shackles of time I have composed a short phrasebook with appropriate translations.

I didn’t have time – Your request was not sufficiently interesting enough for me to break my everyday routine.

In my free time I like to – The things I actually enjoying doing are…..

It was a waste of time – It was as much fun as being mounted by a wild bull elephant.

There is no time like the present – I suppose I/We should do it now despite the fact it gives me as much pleasure as sitting a top a porcupine.

Time is money – If you wish for me to continue listening to your pathetic ramblings you better pay me.

Time flies when you are having fun – Please don’t continue with your story, although your anecdotes are occasionally witty, if you continue with this one I shall be forced to set fire to your face.

Finding Invictus

Last night I discovered a poem via twitter.  Yes, you read that last sentence correctly.  It immediately caught the eye for that reason alone. Upon further inspection I realised that there was a certain something about the words which captivated me from the outset.  Words which standing alone, make for powerful reading, when taken in context with the story behind them become something of a literary atom bomb.

I have always had a passion for words.  My music collection mainly comprises of songwriters who write from their guts, or lyricists which make me laugh.  It’s been a long time since I was able to stomach the  generic sterile music which is omnipresent on the tv or the internet at any given hour.  For me music sits on the throne which poetry has long since abdicated.  The very best songs grab you by the balls and bring a tear to your eye.  From time to time you can discover a song which the songwriter has lived.  The authenticity it lends  is immeasurable.

William Ernest Henley was born in 1849.  When he was 12 he was diagnosed with tuberculosis.  When he was 17 he lost a leg to T.B in a time when medical care was comparatively primitive.   Incredibly he lived until he was 53.  In 1875 he wrote the following poem which was later named Invictus.  I shan’t ponder over the meaning of Invictus, as I would rather let Invictus speak for itself.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be,

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance,

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears,

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years,

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

N.B – Thanks to @ibbydassantos for introducing me to Henley.

Why Did The Oryctolagus Cuniculas Cross The Road?

Last Sunday I received the fright of my life.  Having spent the night before partying heartily I was hardly a picture of good health.  I soldiered through the day verging between sleep and whining like a girl.  By the time it got to late evening I was beginning to feel better.  For example I could stand up without feeling a blistering white pain behind my eyes.  My flat no longer seemed to be on a boat.  I was doing my level best impression of a cucumber(the reason being that I had never seen a cucumber with a hangover) on my couch when I realised that our house rabbit looked like she was having a stroke.  She was laying flat on the ground, her legs painfully contorted, breathing heavier than the winner of the Nobel Prize For Perverted Phone Calls.  It was hard to tell whether she was shaking or it was her breathing, all in all she looked like she was on the way to check out.  We decided that the best we could do was to observe her closely as it wasn’t totally unexpected, after all, she will be 7 in December.  After about half an hour we decided to take her to the night vets, and that is when it began

My mind was racing.  In my head I was saying goodbye to my evil little fur ball.  I was already planning the funeral, deciding upon the vol au vents and the hymns.  I knew the day would come, death is inevitable to us all.  I felt like my eyes were watery.  My heart had sunk.  Just the idea of having to call our families and inform them made my voice wobble.  As we sat in the car, I peeked into her travel cot and looked at her.  The strangest thought struck me.  I don’t know whether she was just putting on a brave face(I am not really sure what her brave face looks like.) or she really didn’t give a fuck, either way her courage was a lesson to me.

To some degree it’s possible that I was projecting.  I will be thirty-one next month.  Since I turned thirty I find myself more and more often thinking about mortality.  Not just mine either.  The horrifying fact is that death is terrifying.  The fact that the human mind was built with the knowledge of it’s own mortality is a horrifying design flaw which in itself takes a massive crap on the intelligent design theory.  It’s been around 800,000 years since the human race became masters of fire, yet we still haven’t become masters of our own destiny.

I am scared of dying, therefore I assumed that my rabbit would be to.  I have no idea of her position on religion.  Rabbits in the afterlife are sadly not mentioned by any of the mainstream religions.  I tried to imagine what heaven would look like for a rabbit?  It would probably be a place where you are safe, and warm, and the food is good and there are plenty of craps tables.  Perhaps I am exaggerating a little.  Perhaps she is a buddhist and will be reincarnated as a wombat.  It’s impossible to be sure.

What I do know is the rabbit does not display any outward signs of pain, as they fear showing weakness to a predator.  I once gave her a nipple cripple and she didn’t even flinch(that last anecdote isn’t true.  She would bite my arm off if I tried.).  However she did once cut the inside of her mouth up and proceed to sit by her water bowl drinking and cleaning herself.  Despite the fact she was hurting she refused to show it, and I admire that.  The fact that she is so horribly independent that she is a terrible pet.  I admire that.  The fact that she lives her life instinctively, that she is a punk rock rabbit, and she lives her life in her way which most people would be afraid to.  If something so small can be so fearless why can’t I?

When we arrived at the vets it took approximately 4 minutes before the vet identified the problem.  She was constipated.  All she needed was a good shit.  They gave her some paraffin to get things moving.  Now she seems much better.  There is a life lesson here, one which we should all take heed of.  It might be that life goes on all whilst you still have shit to do,  it may be that death doesn’t take any shit or it could even be that you should live your life without giving a shit.  Whichever it is, never forget it, in case it comes in useful one day.

The Queue Of Life

I am nearly 31.  I take the bus everywhere.  I don’t have a house, a company car, a white picket fence, a pension, 2.5 children or a good job.  All I have is an imagination, a good woman, a sense of righteous indignation and a belly full of anger.

The striking fact is that as I get closer and closer to the half-way point of my life it has become crystal clear that I will never realise what little potential I have.  I will remain just me.  Neither an achiever nor a failure.  Just another idiot waiting in line to die.  And that infuriates me even more.

The problem with fulfilling these expectations is that they are not things I aspire too.  I don’t want to merely shuffle along the line until I drop dead.  I want to be happy.  I want to feel alive.  I don’t want to be an accountant.  I don’t want to be stuck in a classroom.  If the sum total of a mans worth is his CV and his pension fund then I am mere amoeba.

Unless man is the total of his actions.  Then I am still fucked.  I remain a dreamer, at odds with himself, desperately awaiting the 60 seconds of inspiration it takes to change someones life.  And there’s the problem.  I have spent my life avoiding the possibility of waiting in line until I drop dead, and instead wasted far too much time waiting for a miracle.  It’s only now I am coming to terms with it.

I need to get out of this queue.  The only way to do it is to take action.  And that is the hard bit.  At least I am half way there.