mental / musical /visual research
Sometimes I wish
I was really stupid
and ignorant
and dense
Life in this world
would be so much
easier
Thinking simple,
lame thoughts
one day after
another
Virtue (so they say)
is its own reward
and intelligence is
its own punishment
Do not imagine
that intelligence
makes you happy
It might make others happy
(indirectly)
but never YOU.
I am always looking for metaphors for Facebook. When I joined some years ago I was quite happy about the whole thing, fascinated with this system of contacting friend’s friend’s friends.
That was our honey-moon. Thing are less rosy now.
Here is a current metaphor for FB-discussions about sensitive subjects. Or maybe I should say discussing with sensitive, touchy subjects.
THE MINEFIELD
I haven’t been a soldier, haven’t been in a war. But I DO know what it’s like to walk on a minefield. Talk about gender, migrants, SD or homeopathy on Facebook and…boom. Boooomm! Booomm!!!
FACEBOMB!
Another Facebook metaphor points to the avant-gardist John Cage. In his classical book “Silence” he wrote “I have nothing to say and I am saying it.”
No comment.
Third metaphor: THE MOUSE TRAP
Imagine that you are mouse. No, not a computer mouse, I mean the small rodent that runs around in the attic at night.
Now imagine that people who don’t like mice have set a trap for you. With yummy Swiss CHEESE! You enjoy the cheese but pay for it dearly, with your life.
Discussions (especially “heated” discussions) on Facebook can be in a similar way traps, energy and time-traps. You come away angry and totally exhausted and ask yourself “Why, oh why did I nibble that cheese…?”
Maybe you “won” the discussion, but you totally lost the fight energy-wise.
Which reminds me of the robust old proverb from former, less politically correct and more courageous times: “If you wrestle with a turd you will be beshit whether you fall over or under.”
“Share” has become a strangely popular catchword these days. A word that catches our attention and minds.
No, it is not a question of sharing the wealth, or even the wisdom and insights. It is about sharing a photo of our newborn child or our dinner. Which often should or could be called showing. (Sometimes showing it down somebody’s throat.)
Sure, in a way you feel that I am sharing my life with you (a bit of it) if you can see pictures from my home or my birthday party. But it not sharing of bread, nor sharing a conversation at a café or a bar. Partly because it is so impersonal. There is nothing personal about a photo shared with two thousand Facebook friends. I would call that public or official.
Asking “What do we share?” is like asking “What am I putting in the drinking-water?” Because the so called feed in social media is like drinking-water. Small, short impressions that make up part of our total amount of impressions per day (TAIPD).
This can lead to the question: “How do I want to influence my circle of friends?” They are, in a direct and practical way, the “world” to me.
The world for me is my circle. THAT I can influence. I don’t know what happens beyond that circle, but something surely does happen.
It’s like chaos theory; the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world. That “flutter” can be my posting a link to a Duke Ellington song or a selfie from my visit to my mom, or any such “small thing”.
No, I cannot predict what the effects of my “fluttering” will or might be. But I CAN be clear about my intentions and motives. I have enough light to see myself, if not all of my ramifications.
So, why am I putting this specific drop in the mental drinking water of the world? That can be a question for social media, Facebook and such. Or for our everyday actions: my expression when I buy bread at the bakery, my choice of words when I meet my brother or a waiter in a restaurant. Or even, gosh, the thought I will think in ten minutes from now! Or am thinking right now.
My thoughts are also butterfly wings. What typhoon or sand storm or festivity and joy will they cause, somewhere on the planet, in the Universe?
Nobody knows that. But I CAN know my intentions and motives for my share, and thus carry my share in the forming of the world.
I practically never visit Starbucks, but the other day I did. At the counter the following fragment of a conversation takes place.
–Customer, C (foreign man around 30): Give me a smile. Can you smile, man?
–Starbucks guy, SG: (Continues with the customers credit card)
–C: Really, you need to learn to smile. What’s wrong with you? Give me a smile!
–SG: (Politely) Is all okay with you, sir?
–C: With me, terrific! With you, I am not so sure… Hey, forget it, cancel the buy.
–SG: (Cancels, and gives him back his card).
–C: (at the door) You really need to learn to smile, man.
There are so many interactions taking place in a big city every day, but this one I will remember. Why? I am not sure.
Of course my written words are not the very exact words, also they cannot capture the whole event. There was also tone of voice, body language, faces and the very bodies of the two persons involved.
The insistence of asking for a smile could have been rude or arrogant. It didn’t see it that way. It was more like a benign but stern and demanding teacher scolding a student. Almost like an oracle speaking.
I am sure the young man behind the counter will remember this episode, at least I hope he will.
The main thing I took with me from this was an energy of generosity: Somebody does not accept your second best, your 99 1/2 or 67 1/2. Somebody ask you to be your best. We didn’t ask him to coach us, but he does anyway. (And maybe our soul did ask for it, but we forgot that episode.)
Once, when I was a kid, Christmas was about presents. Of course. What’s in that package… and what’s that BIG one over there?
Then Christmas went through many phases: a family affair, the stress of shopping mania, giving rather than getting presents, lonely Christmas, etc.
Now I would say that Christmas, the spirit of Christmas, is a scent. The smell of a Christmas tree, the old classic type that hasn’t lost its aroma, is enough. Christmas is for the nose.
Talking about the nose, I notice something in the hall.
We know — though of course quickly forget since we quickly get used to it — that every apartment has it’s own smell. Probably the result of the sum total of walls, paint, curtains, bed clothes, furniture, electronics (TV, stereo, etc), so on. Did I mention the piano?
In some apartments something lovely happens when you open the windows wide. The walls (I suspect) gives off an pleasant, old-world aroma in contact with the air from the outside.
This is one of the so called small joys of life that we (our intellect) easily forget. But the nose knows this.
I have this recent habit of waking up around the “wolf hour”, four in the morning.
Insomnia and not sleeping well can be very frustrating, especially over time. But at least part of the problem is a thought: “I should be sleeping now”.
Well, I am awake so I rise and write instead. Might take a nap in the afternoon.
So let me use this time well. Let me gather my thoughts, once again as usual, at a less usual hour.
The thoughts on my mind these days (and nights) are very much our modern world: how we communicate, express ourselves, behave, love, what we say and don’t say — and who is listening.
“Talking to the wall” is a classic expression for being alone but still having thoughts on your mind that you want to formulate, express, whisper or shout.
Who would have thought that a blog is a kind of wall nowadays? A different wall, of course. The neighbors are different. Your physical neighbors are probably not hearing your “wall-talk”; on the other hand strangers from the other side of the planet might. Or nobody might, that is yet another soundproof possibility.
Strange changes, these.
However, loneliness remains, I think that hasn’t changed much. People still feel isolated, forgotten, unheard and worthless. Blogging, Facebooking or Twittering, I believe, are no real solutions to this, though if you are born into the SOC-MED-system (social media), and even if you aren’t, you might think that they are. I ascribe this belief to the different STROKE-phases that Eric Berne has written about in Games people play.
As far as I remember in my dozing state he says that infants get (we hope) hugs and stroking. This is essential for human life; children wilt if they are not held and hugged.
As we grow older we get less and less of this kind of warm physical contact. The need for stroking remains, but we need to find other channels for it. We start to sublimate, even though (I believe) nothing can beat a warm, fuzzy hug, preferably from someone who likes or loves you.
All our SOC-MED — well, not all but much of it, so it seems to me — is a surrogate for hugs. Some of us get real hugs real often, others less often, and then there are those who just aren’t hugged. For them SOC-MED can become a hugging machine.
Another thing has to do with writing. As I am a writer who writes more or less constantly (much more than I publish) it is important to understand the role and function of writing. And the relation of writer to reader.
Once upon a time, not long ago, the result of writing was presented in books (and of course in papers and magazines).
Now there is a very interesting time aspect to writing books. As a rule you need a publisher for books. You send them your manuscript, they accept it, then they print it. This process can take months or years. Contrast this with what happens now.
These words are going to be on the Net in maybe ten minutes. Years, months, minutes, that’s an enormous acceleration.
This also changes the question of audience. Who read a book formerly? Well, all kinds of people. But as a rule there was a basic motivation to read a specific book. You either borrowed it in the library or you bought it in a book store.
This is very different from surfing the Net. When you surf the Net and find something to read then that reading matter is surrounded by a lot of things, mainly digital clutter.
We have gotten used to multitasking, which is a way of being more or less present / absent. I think one example is enough to explain the difference between then and now:
Imagine that you have this new book in your lap. You just bought it and you look forward to reading it. You open it and it rings. What? A ringtone is heard. Where does that come from…?
You continue to turn the pages, and now it rings again. “You have mail” a voice says. You turn another page. “CLICK HERE to win a free iPhone!” is written all over the page. What the hell! I am trying to read a book.
You turn the page and the book finally begins. After four pages it starts again. “Adam liked your post” it says. What post? I am reading, damn it, not writing on Facebook. Oh but you ARE! This is not just a book, you see, this is your mailbox and Facebook and all the SOC-MED you are involved in.
Enough. I think you (whoever and wherever you are) get the picture. Besides, I am tired of this. I will watch “Vargtimmen” (The hour of the wolf) by Ingmar Bergman on YouTube and then try to get some sleep again. OAO.
Nu är jag rörd.
Titta på den här bilden. Titta på den gamle mannen som får hjälp att gå och stå.
Han är 101 år gammal. Så det är inte så konstigt att man behöver lite stöd då, varför inte av en vacker kvinna?
Mannen är Erik Ofvandahl, konditor och pekoralist (det förra kallade han sig själv, det senare kallade andra honom.) Många, inklusive mig, har gjort sig lustiga över honom, men när jag ser bilden här vill jag bara ge honom en kram.
Det är fint att skriva poesi, även om den hamnar på tvärs. Och vem är jag att prata? Jag, en peot.
Nå, jag har faktiskt i ett sammanhang skrivit några/två rader som var inspirerade av Ofvandahls diktkonst.
Ovan där i dalen / Hörs en trall av Fartein Valen.
(Valen var en norsk modern kompositör. Han skrev inte trallvänlig musik.)
What is generosity? We think it concerns gifts, inviting people and giving them love and friendliness (and food), not fearing expenses. What we actually think while we do these things, nobody asks.
But there is another sort, the generosity of truth and honesty. I will tell you how I feel about you, what you did, or didn’t. That might not look like kindness or love (or it might), but it is perhaps the finest kind of generosity there is. A case of silence being stingy and speech being golden.
One of the funniest persons I know is me. I have spent a couple of hours tonight reading old texts and articles of mine. If it is true that laughter lengthens life I will live several seconds longer now.
But I don’t only laugh. I also half-cry, observing how I was some 25 years ago. What a brave, lonely freethinker I was, not caring about the opinions of the world but still trapped in that strange cage called “Swedish life”. Much of what I read is a reaction and protest against it, a way of banging on the walls of the cell.
I am out of the cell now, even though I feel like I am trapped again, only in another way. That is probably not true. These days I am banging on the walls from the outside. Let me in, let me in! I can’t handle this freedom…!
I wonder what my 25 years younger version would say about me today. Probably: You came this far; you survived. You must have done something right.
(Text från Computer Sweden 2013)
Det är andra gången det händer mig.
En vän dör och jag får reda på det genom den tramsigaste av kanaler: Facebook. En kanal som knappast kan kallas sakral, en flod i vilken rinner allehanda tjafs och trivialiteter. Mitt i flödet av heta länkar infinner sig plötsligt döden.
Första gången var det en teatervän som gick bort. Jag visste ärligt talat inte ens att han var sjuk, hade skrivit många mail till honom och undrat varför han inte tog sig tid att svara. Så en dag postade hans kvinna på hans Facebookvägg en underbart vacker, sansad text om hans sista dag. Tungt.
Andra gången var härom veckan. Jag hade delat en länk på en musikerväns sida, varpå en främling skrev till mig att jag nog borde ta bort den. Varför undrade jag, gick in på hans sida, och fick lära mig att han nyligen gått bort.
Efter chocken sitter jag och scrollar på sidan — numera en minnessida — för att se vad han hade för sig, postade och sa före slutet. Makabert, särskilt att se ”12 people like this” under texten som förklarar att han inte längre lever.
Häromåret fick jag mail från en barndomsvän i mitt hemland om att hennes mamma gått bort. Tänd ett ljus skrev hon, och skickade länk till en sida där man tände virtuella ljus för sina bortgångna.
Nå, det kan jag leva med, även om jag inte direkt tänder (sic) på idén.
Men ljusen räknades också — vad ska man annars med statistik till? — och folk hade också tänt ljus för Jesus, Jungfru Maria och Michael Jackson (!).
Här kan man snacka om tävling in i döden. “36113 ljus har tänts för Annika, varav 1205 fortfarande brinner.” 36113 ljus! Hon ledde över självaste Jungfru Maria, som bara hade 25487 ljus.
Själv gick jag till den lokala kyrkan och gjorde på det gamla viset. Ett flämtande stearinljus är något annat än en JPG-bild. Att ta sig till kyrkan, placera ljuset i en ljusbärare, tända det och i tysthet sända tankar till den bortgångne är något annat än att sitta vid datorn och klicka fram en sista hälsning.
Det är många medmänskliga handlingar och gester som ersatts av ett klick. The Hungersite inspirerar oss sedan 1999 att skicka mat till fattiga genom att, just det, klicka. Fint och så, men när medmänsklighet blivit så till den grad strömlinjeformad att den bara handlar om att röra ett finger blir man bortskämd och stegrar sig inför krav på större medmänskliga handlingar. Som att resa sig ur stolen. Eller gå ut ur huset. Lyfta något tungt. Säga något som är svårt att framsäga.
Själv har jag två önskningar angående mitt eventuella frånfälle (det kan hända i morrn). Jag vill inte att mina vänner ska få nyheten genom Facebook. Och jag vill inte att någon ska tända virtuella ljus för mig.
{efter läsning av Esther Vilar}
Hur många fickor har du?
– Tio.
När hade du senast roligt?
– Det är en definitionsfråga.
När var du senast på fest?
– Det minns jag inte.
Jo, förresten, en vän
bjöd ut mig för några månader
sen, men det blev inställt.
När var du senast kreativ,
använde din intelligens?
– För fem minuter sedan,
alltid för fem minuter sedan.
Var god dröj, vi räknar nu ihop dina poäng.
RESULTAT: Du är en av tjänstefolket,
ett arbetsbi.
Själva den idé om det “sanna livet“
som du anammat bevisar att du är en tjänare.
Du lever för andra, osjälviskt, uppoffrande, idiotiskt.
Vi gratulerar din omvärld
till dig.
Just discovered a stunning parallel to the also stunning Esther Vilar quote in my text about SEO/MEO, the match coming from an old favorite now being re-read.
Here is the Vilar quote again.
“Take a man like Samuel Beckett. For twenty years he has produced a
series of Godot replicas – and surely not for pleasure. After all, he is an intelligent man. He avoids risk the way an alcoholic avoids a cure. Yet if only he could free himself from his conditioned behavior, he would probably do something quite different. Perhaps he might design planes – the reliable construction of his plays hints at a scientific talent – or grow rare plants. He might even, perhaps, just once, write a comedy. Surely so much success is bound to drive away the depths of despair. It might even turn out to he a success with the public. But no, the risk is too great for a carefully manipulated man. Better go on writing plays about the absurdity of the vital instinct – then, at least, he can be certain of praise.“
Actually it is two quotes.
“Once a particular field of work has brought a man success and financial security, it is rare for him to test his abilities in another sphere, attempting to satisfy his curiosity. His supply of praise may be dangerously reduced. Like Miro with his dots-and-lines technique, Johann Strauss with his waltzes, and Tennessee Williams with his plays about psychotic women, he will stick firmly to his successful technique. The risk of attempting to be the measure of his own success is too great for him to take.” (Both quotes from “The manipulated man”)
The parallel might be surprising. It comes form the fantastic “Manual” by KLF. A very very important book that I will return to.
The KLF quote is not about playwrights but musical artists / acts. The insight is basically the same, the tone possible even more acerbic than Vilar´s
“Once or twice a decade an act will burst through with a Number One that hits a national nerve and the public’s appetite for the sound and packaging will not be satisfied with the one record. The formula will be untampered with and the success will be repeated a second, a third and sometimes even a fourth time. The prison is then complete; either the artist will be destroyed in their attempt to prove to the world that there are other facets to their creativity or they succumb willingly and spend the rest of their lives as a traveling freak show, peddling a nostalgia for those now far off, carefree days. These are the lucky few. Most never have the chance of a repeat performance and slide ungracefully into years of unpaid tax, desperately delaying all attempts to come to terms with the only rational thing to do – get a nine to five job.”
“The prison is then complete…” Ah, great minds think alike sometimes. KLF, however, do not only write about men building their prisons, as Vilar does.
PS: I hate giving advice here but if you are a reader — not just a browser or spammer — I suggest that you read these quotes carefully. They are worth it.
[Ett kåseri som jag hittade i gömmorna. Skrivet 2008 för Uppsala Nya.]
Vetenskapligt korrekt ändalykt
I dag ska det handla om krig. Men först några nyanser. Det är populärt att tala om manligt och kvinnligt tänkande, men det finns också tjejigt tänkande (fokus på smink, kläder, utseende) och pojkigt tänkande (prylar, teknik, att slå rekord). Låt oss inte utestänga barnen ur tankefamiljen.
Kriget jag talar om är inte uppenbart blodigt. Det kallas Herre på täppan eller kampen om formuleringsmonopolet. Vad är viktigast – det är den yttersta frågan. Ekonomi och pengar? Tekniska framsteg? Konst och filosofi? Andlighet? Den vars fråga får flest röster vinner kriget.
Det är fint med mjuka, immateriella värden, får man ofta höra. Men det mjuka får ändå klä sig i marschkängor för att bli tagen på allvar. Titta bara på tjejmodet. Massor av smink, korsett, balettkjol, men det slutar ändå med Dr Martens-skor. Helt utan hårt det nu inte går (Mel: Csardasfurstinnan). Det skulle bli alltför kvinnligt.
Jag som musiker, filosof, och flummare vet precis vad det mjuka är. Det är inte binärt och det går inte att lägga på våg. Det går knappt att säga i ord, men ge mig en flygel så får ni en demonstration.
Jag sitter ibland i en grupp som diskuterar framtiden. Vi skärskådar sådant som utbildning, infrastruktur, juridik och etik. Det sistnämnda är en mjuk domän. Det är den som ingen riktigt förstår – utan att förstå det. Vi tror att etik är en legal fråga, ungefär som trafikregler. Är det grönt får du gå, är det rött får du stå.
Men etik är inte ordentlighet; ibland är det tvärtom etiskt att bryta mot lagen.
Många obegripliga ord sägs också om det mjuka. Det manliga tänkandet är till stora delar ett mjukt tänkande. Titta på poeterna, kompositörerna, filosoferna, målarna. De var experter på mjukt. Shelley, Chopin, Blake, Dali, Tati – se där delar av det mjuka gardet.
Fast ingen pratade om det mjuka då. Det är när det saknas som det kommer på tal.
“Godhet” och “sanning” kan låta som ett maka par, men de har tagit ut skilsmässa. När religionen och kyrkan hade makten gällde det framför allt att vara en god människa.
Nu när Vetenskapsmannen (vetenskapspojken?) blivit herre på täppan är det inte lika viktigt att älska sin nästa. Varken godhet, samvete eller själen kan läggas på våg, alltså finns de inte.
Viktig är däremot sanningen om smådelarna. Analys, sönderdelning och mikroskop är våra verktyg par excellence. Frågan om god och ond är numera ett fall för polis och rättsväsende, precis som fortkörningar.
Högst på den aktuella dagordningen står att låta schweiziska protoner krocka med varandra. Pang. BOOOM! Ungefär som en bilkrasch, fast MYCKET finare. De stora pojkarna dikterar att inga leksaker ska få förbli hela. Allt måste plockas sönder; det är vetenskapligt korrekt att slita vingarna av flugan.
Nå, om jorden skulle rämna kan vi trösta oss med att vi åtminstone följt den vetenskapliga metoden. Vår ursäkt är klar:
Vi skapade historiens första ISO-certifierade Armageddon!
What is it that sometimes bores me to death with people, makes me yawn my head off?
Typicality. Being true to type.
I enjoy meeting people a lot but my enjoyment is severely damped by recognition.
Let’s admit it: some of the things we do and say, some of our actions and behaviors, are truly our own. But many things are not; they are just mimicry and imitation, borrowed from our circle of friends, our social class, our sex (typically [fe]male!,) our nationality, our profession, from the city we live in, and even our neighborhood in that particular city.
As I said, I enjoy meeting people but I don’t much enjoy meeting Sweden or America or Hungary or Stockholm or Östermalmstorg.
But that is often what I do, meet behavior that I for the life of me cannot see as individual. I see a unique person in front of me but the clothes, the words, the style and the attitude are typically Swedish, or Hungarian, or Stockholm-ish.
Then I yawn, at least on the inside.
(But we can also narrow down the picture, from the country, city, neighborhood to the individual himself. Predictable individualism is not as bad as predictable national character, but can also turn stale. Our own predictability is unfortunately always easier to live with, in accordance with the Icelandic proverb Everybody likes the smell of his own fart.)
I guess I like surprises. In nature nothing is alike, not two snowflakes, not two flowers. In human nature much is alike, sometimes on the verge of being cloned.
Imitation, rather unintentional, unconscious imitation is the culprit. Of course I know that I cannot ask the world and the people in it to stimulate and entertain me. I mean, how many people find ME entertaining?
I am sure there is satisfaction in imitation, otherwise we wouldn’t do it so much. I just wish it wasn’t so easy to (correctly) guess what Swedes and Americans are going to say next.
Makes me feel like a Google algorithm.
Look at this picture.
Even when we humans seemingly criticize ourselves we flatter ourselves.
Sure, the information lava-river is clear to see, but far from all are “drowning”. Many are swimming, with seeming enjoyment. Especially the younger generation, born into the world clutching a multifunctional iPhone, might feel totally lost without the ocean of information, like fish on dry land.
As to starving and hungering for wisdom, well, in my life I’ve had more opportunities for meeting wisdom seekers than most. And I must search my memory real hard for people who hunger for wisdom. Wisdom, or rather philosophy (not the same thing) can be interesting and fun, to read about, think about and discuss, but hunger for wisdom is a rarity.
Implying that we hunger for it is a flattering untruth. One of many.
The biggest lie is of course our name. Homo sapiens, wise man! No kidding? It was Linneus who gave us this name, and if we want to really walk the talk we should renounce it, abdicate from the undeserved throne.
The good news is that such an act would INSTANTLY make us wiser (and more deserving of the name).
But when did man say “no” to flattery?
Hillary: “We [the USA] are great because we are good”. Who will scream “No, we ain’t! But we can become BETTER if we really try…” ?
And of course WE have not gone to the moon, invented penicillin, conquered space, or figured out the DNA code. Individuals, small groups and bunch of nerds did that kind of thing.
Lone wolfs toil, sweat, create, write poetry, seek wisdom — whereupon the rest of us, the pack, take credit for it — in the unholy name of WE.
I could have stopped here, in a mood of rather bitter criticism. But it behoves me to go on and be more than a critic; a pathfinder.
Is there a path with heart here? I believe so.
All the pretensions and the chauvinistic make-believe of WE (did this and that) could be counteracted with something both simple and radical. Honesty.
All the energy we put into our Truth Games could be re-channeled and diverted into the river of Honesty. We study for truth, think for truth, fight for truth, kill for truth, but we don’t fight and kill for honesty.
Why not?
Because there is no enemy in that war. We just have to come to terms with what we say and admit, and not.
When thinking of honesty — being able to say “I don’t really know what I am talking about, but it sure sounded great, didn’t it…? ” or “Of course I am not as perfect as it looks, hope you didn’t believe that?” or “Sorry for being so damned cock-sure and talking like I had all the answers… while actually I am TOTALLY confused!?!” — I see in front of me a wonderful garden protected by scary, fearful monsters. When you get closer you see that they are made of papier mâché, but you have to get real close for that.
If you keep your distance you will keep believing that the garden is a monstrous place, a nightmare palace filled with Freddies and Draculas and Werewolves.
Probably distance creates this optical illusion. The idea that we should or even could be honest, as a normal state, is so far from us, so foreign and strange that we don’t really let it come near us. Even less do we approach it ourselves.
I am not necessary talking of so called radical honesty. Honesty is enough, is good enough. After the first shock of confronting the monsters at the gate, and seeing that they are meant as tests of courage and mean no harm, we might start to enjoy this pretension-free place. We could put down our weapons, put aside our image management, our image laundering, and simply say:
I am what I am, no less, no more. It needs not defending. I didn’t go to the Moon and I didn’t split the atom. I’m not even interested in philosophy. Happily some people are.
Then we could leave our pretentious claims and our Truth Wars behind us and be on a peacepath.
We would come closer to being Homo Sapiens.
Again and again I return to the subject of peace. (Here’s another text.)
Peace is mysterious. I am not talking about “inner peace” now, but peace on earth. The two are very probably related.
The mystery about peace is that it is a mystery. We don’t what peace is. Small chance that we could find it, establish it and bring it about, without knowing what it is.
How can we have dreamed so much of peace, wished for it, desired it, without understanding what it is?
But wait, what it IS sounds like peace is something definite and delimited, like a piece of coal or a piece of pie or a piece of music. “Peace” is perhaps just a word and a container, and the question is what WE fill it with.
I see peace as a fancy package under a Christmas tree. I open it up and.. it is empty. No, sorry, there is something there. A note, saying “This is not war.”
Hm, I had hoped for more.
Another scenario: I open the fancy package, this time quite heavy. I am sure there is something in it. Yes, a note saying “Balance of power”. And a hand grenade.
