It occurred to me recently that I do not have a dream. Not literally speaking; I dream all the time. But I don't have a life's mission, or even a series of personal banner headlines I'd like to make happen.
When did this happen? Surely I had a mission earlier in life. As a child, or a teen, or a budding young budder. Now, it seems I'm a buddha.
Don't get me wrong. There are plenty of things I like, and love. I've even written about them before. And I recently revisited this. I'm content most of the time, happy most of the time. Sure I get a little down in the dumps occasionally, but I fall within plus or minus two standard deviations of the rest of the population on this front, I'm almost certain.
So what am I to do? Find a dream? Be content not to dream? Make not having a dream my dream? Or just take a nap?
All correspondence to Letters 4 U 4 Eva, PO Box 668 Strawberry Mound NSW
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Einstein: a man of many influencing
Albert Einstein once said "My father gave me some tobacco to take with me and I was supposed to hand it to you". And so we see that despite his genius, Einstein fell hook, line and sinker for the lies and deceit of the tobacco industry. To find out why, I asked my two year old daughter. She paused, then replied "Daddy no, I want to find my... my ribbon."
Who was I to argue? I fetched the ribbon and was at once reminded of some other famous words of Einstein: "We shall consider the following ideal state of equilibrium: Let us again have a cylindrical vessel."
Einstein had many fascinating things to say about the meaning of life. And as shown in the above quote, he was fond of considering man's ideal state - something he called equilibrium. But what was this cylindrical vessel of which he spoke? A submarine? Those weren't invented until 1962 so it couldn't have been that. Was it a glass - a humble tumbler, full of beer or apple cider? Could the sly old dog have been talking about prophylactics? We'll never know, sadly, but it only adds to the mystery and genius of the man.
I humbly confess I have aspired at times to be a genius - to be lauded by future generations and have my writings quoted, often with very little relevance to the passage at hand, and even more often taken out of context. I'll concede that I've done little as yet to warrant the moniker 'genius'. I fear that at my age it may not even be possible - what kernel of potential I had in my youth has now dried up, leaving behind just me, a useless husk, able only to mouth the word genius, but not to embody it.
This leads me to my next thought, which is that, sure, we all know about those freaks who people knew would become geniuses, because they could do long division at age 1. But what about those geniuses that arrived late in life? What of the 40 year old who broke on through? Or a 60 or even 100 year old? People who for most of their lives had shown no sign of latent brilliance, until, one day... bam! Could it be possible? Such a late onset of genius? I think it could.
And so, dear reader, I must bid you adieu. I'm not long for this evening, and slumber calls me. It calls me a bogan. What could that even mean, anyway? And what would it mean for the metaphor of reflectors to become commonplace: lights - guides, signposts - that exist only when light is shone onto them? So economical. Brought into existence by the search for meaning, extinguished again as soon as meaning is found. I can't think of anything this is a metaphor for.
And now dear reader we have come full circle, for I've awoken. Now slumber doesn't call me, I call it - I call it over, ceased, finis. Our question for the week: what does slumber call you, and when?
Who was I to argue? I fetched the ribbon and was at once reminded of some other famous words of Einstein: "We shall consider the following ideal state of equilibrium: Let us again have a cylindrical vessel."
Einstein had many fascinating things to say about the meaning of life. And as shown in the above quote, he was fond of considering man's ideal state - something he called equilibrium. But what was this cylindrical vessel of which he spoke? A submarine? Those weren't invented until 1962 so it couldn't have been that. Was it a glass - a humble tumbler, full of beer or apple cider? Could the sly old dog have been talking about prophylactics? We'll never know, sadly, but it only adds to the mystery and genius of the man.
I humbly confess I have aspired at times to be a genius - to be lauded by future generations and have my writings quoted, often with very little relevance to the passage at hand, and even more often taken out of context. I'll concede that I've done little as yet to warrant the moniker 'genius'. I fear that at my age it may not even be possible - what kernel of potential I had in my youth has now dried up, leaving behind just me, a useless husk, able only to mouth the word genius, but not to embody it.
This leads me to my next thought, which is that, sure, we all know about those freaks who people knew would become geniuses, because they could do long division at age 1. But what about those geniuses that arrived late in life? What of the 40 year old who broke on through? Or a 60 or even 100 year old? People who for most of their lives had shown no sign of latent brilliance, until, one day... bam! Could it be possible? Such a late onset of genius? I think it could.
And so, dear reader, I must bid you adieu. I'm not long for this evening, and slumber calls me. It calls me a bogan. What could that even mean, anyway? And what would it mean for the metaphor of reflectors to become commonplace: lights - guides, signposts - that exist only when light is shone onto them? So economical. Brought into existence by the search for meaning, extinguished again as soon as meaning is found. I can't think of anything this is a metaphor for.
And now dear reader we have come full circle, for I've awoken. Now slumber doesn't call me, I call it - I call it over, ceased, finis. Our question for the week: what does slumber call you, and when?
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
quesJane Eyre
what is your idea of perfect happiness?
sitting on an aeroplane for 12 hours
what is your greatest fear?
getting the hiccups and not ever losing them
which living person do you admire the most?
my wife, for finding - and keeping - the catch of the century i.e. me
what is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
my disregard for the downtrodden. screw 'em, and shame on me
what do you consider the most overrated virtue?
modesty? professionalism? loyalty, honesty? there's so many, all of them overrated.
what do you dislike most about your appearance?
my bad angles. no one should ever be allowed to gaze at me from any of my multiple bad angles.
what or who is the greatest love of your life?
easy - my wife. as for the who part, that would have to be my kids
when and where were you happiest?
when i opened the mail one day and found a cheque for $5000 just for getting good marks
which talent would you like to have?
i'd like to be a good lover
what is your current state of mind?
omnipotent
if you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
i'd swap my soul for jesus christ's, other than that i'd keep everything else the same
if you could change anything about your family, what would it be?
i wish they had, like, superpowers
what do you consider your greatest achievement?
i have never achieved anything
if you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?
planet earth
what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
self doubt. no, it's not that. self hatred. i'm so stupid!
what is the quality you most like in a man?
he catches the damn ball when i throw it to him
what is the quality you most like in a woman?
being genuine and liking me
what do you value most in your friends?
friends are the handrails of life, something to hold onto for support when you're drunk, sick or old. otherwise you don't need em, but some people try to skateboard down them
who are your favourite writers?
just the classics: peter hartcher, peter fitzsimons, greg sheridan. i'm a real news junkie, it's a debilitating addiction that completely severs my connection to reality, while providing a kind of numbing warmth at the same time
who is your favourite hero of fiction?
gandalf? i dunno, i need to read more fiction. tyrion lannister.
who are your heroes in real life?
the chief executive at my work
what is it that you most dislike?
manly. probably manly.
how would you like to die?
handcuffing myself to you and jumping into a cauldron of molten bronze
what is your motto?
don't look for the use, don't look for the meaning
sitting on an aeroplane for 12 hours
what is your greatest fear?
getting the hiccups and not ever losing them
which living person do you admire the most?
my wife, for finding - and keeping - the catch of the century i.e. me
what is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
my disregard for the downtrodden. screw 'em, and shame on me
what do you consider the most overrated virtue?
modesty? professionalism? loyalty, honesty? there's so many, all of them overrated.
what do you dislike most about your appearance?
my bad angles. no one should ever be allowed to gaze at me from any of my multiple bad angles.
what or who is the greatest love of your life?
easy - my wife. as for the who part, that would have to be my kids
when and where were you happiest?
when i opened the mail one day and found a cheque for $5000 just for getting good marks
which talent would you like to have?
i'd like to be a good lover
what is your current state of mind?
omnipotent
if you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
i'd swap my soul for jesus christ's, other than that i'd keep everything else the same
if you could change anything about your family, what would it be?
i wish they had, like, superpowers
what do you consider your greatest achievement?
i have never achieved anything
if you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?
planet earth
what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
self doubt. no, it's not that. self hatred. i'm so stupid!
what is the quality you most like in a man?
he catches the damn ball when i throw it to him
what is the quality you most like in a woman?
being genuine and liking me
what do you value most in your friends?
friends are the handrails of life, something to hold onto for support when you're drunk, sick or old. otherwise you don't need em, but some people try to skateboard down them
who are your favourite writers?
just the classics: peter hartcher, peter fitzsimons, greg sheridan. i'm a real news junkie, it's a debilitating addiction that completely severs my connection to reality, while providing a kind of numbing warmth at the same time
who is your favourite hero of fiction?
gandalf? i dunno, i need to read more fiction. tyrion lannister.
who are your heroes in real life?
the chief executive at my work
what is it that you most dislike?
manly. probably manly.
how would you like to die?
handcuffing myself to you and jumping into a cauldron of molten bronze
what is your motto?
don't look for the use, don't look for the meaning
You are not your thoughts
So say some: you are not your thoughts.
But if not you, then who? I can only speak for many people, and David Leisure is my thoughts.
So said one: you are not your emotions.
I can see the benefits in putting some space between your emotions - positive and negative and just observing them, kindly, with curiosity.
But I don't like the suggestion that there's a separate 'you' above and beyond emotions. Some call this 'you', or rather, 'them', constant and unchanging. I suppose it could conceivably be constant and changing, say if it were changing at a constant rate. It's always better to clarify these things, things like butter.
Life is butter dream.
Just what is the unchanging you? I just don't believe it exists. Nothing is unchanging. But nothing else is.
The you is a strange thing indeed, but it's so tied up with emotions and thoughts and everything else. Isolating and separating it seems to set up a lofty, kind, curious and venerable you, at ease with the torrents of reality below.
That doesn't feel right at all.
And what about cosmic consciousness? It's an old idea, but one of the most important I'm afraid. Terrified in fact.
But I learned recently that it's good to face your fears, except when they're too scary.
If we can just take 24 hours each day to be mindful of every possible thing, we may find our satisfaction with life to be at an all time high, among the many, many, many other things we would find, given how fucking mindful we've been.
Of course, if you lose sleep over any of this, I'd be happy to help you look for it. I can be contacted at all times.
But if not you, then who? I can only speak for many people, and David Leisure is my thoughts.
So said one: you are not your emotions.
I can see the benefits in putting some space between your emotions - positive and negative and just observing them, kindly, with curiosity.
But I don't like the suggestion that there's a separate 'you' above and beyond emotions. Some call this 'you', or rather, 'them', constant and unchanging. I suppose it could conceivably be constant and changing, say if it were changing at a constant rate. It's always better to clarify these things, things like butter.
Life is butter dream.
Just what is the unchanging you? I just don't believe it exists. Nothing is unchanging. But nothing else is.
The you is a strange thing indeed, but it's so tied up with emotions and thoughts and everything else. Isolating and separating it seems to set up a lofty, kind, curious and venerable you, at ease with the torrents of reality below.
That doesn't feel right at all.
And what about cosmic consciousness? It's an old idea, but one of the most important I'm afraid. Terrified in fact.
But I learned recently that it's good to face your fears, except when they're too scary.
If we can just take 24 hours each day to be mindful of every possible thing, we may find our satisfaction with life to be at an all time high, among the many, many, many other things we would find, given how fucking mindful we've been.
Of course, if you lose sleep over any of this, I'd be happy to help you look for it. I can be contacted at all times.
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
Raymond Smullyan and the Giant Mystic Boner
Those who know me well know that Raymond Smullyan gives me a giant mystic boner. Let me explain, lest anyone read this and not understand what I mean.
I love his writings. Not all of them, of course - there isn't a damn writer anywhere all of whose writings are loved by anyone. But some of them induce a certain mood, a certain state in me, that is just plain delightful.
It's unique, it's New York (Catskills), it's Tao.
Now many of you will be familiar with boners, if not through first hand experience then possibly secondhand or by word of mouth. I hold no truck with boners per se here. I am more interested, although that's not the right word, with using the term to express fondness for and a special reaction to something. Others have done a similar kind of thing with eargasm and foodgasm, or lamented that their soul had been kicked in the crotch.
I'm trying to put my finger on the kind of non-literal boner his writings give me. It's partly intellectual, because the mind cannot help but flicker with life upon reading them. But there's something ineffable about them, something beyond intellectual, at their best. They induce a certain stillness of mind, a certain lack of awareness, or direct perception of something, that... well, you see what I mean by ineffable. Anyway, I once would have run a mile in the opposite direction at the first mention of the word mystic. I probably still would in most cases. But not in this one.
I run to it. Well, I don't run. I stroll over, pick it up, try to find where I was up to, curl up on the couch, get interrupted by something and come back to it later.
So someone has been contracted to write a Big Raymond Smullyan Book. This is news to me, and to Google as well. My first thought was I'd like to read it when it comes out. My second thought - although it could have been equal first, really - was that I wouldn't mind contributing to it. Not only wouldn't I mind, I'd quite enjoy it. So here I am, writing something that is not written for the purposes of being included in the BRSB. But I am writing and it is kind of about Raymond Smullyan. If I do right something for submission to the author, it'll have to be a cut above the usual fan fare. In the spirit of the Tao is Silent, it should not be about Raymond Smullyan, but inspired by him. And it will be dedicated to my wife, my children, my family, friends, colleagues and everyone else.
~~~
A Logic Puzzle
In a town there are just two types of people. Those that, when told "doodle oodle oodle whee", reply "doodle oodle oodle whee". I will call these people DOOWers. And those that stop saying "doodle oodle oodle whee". I will call these people DON'Ters. If you need to get directions to the local steakhouse, to whom should you speak and what should you say?
Solution: There is no logical solution to this puzzle.
I love his writings. Not all of them, of course - there isn't a damn writer anywhere all of whose writings are loved by anyone. But some of them induce a certain mood, a certain state in me, that is just plain delightful.
It's unique, it's New York (Catskills), it's Tao.
Now many of you will be familiar with boners, if not through first hand experience then possibly secondhand or by word of mouth. I hold no truck with boners per se here. I am more interested, although that's not the right word, with using the term to express fondness for and a special reaction to something. Others have done a similar kind of thing with eargasm and foodgasm, or lamented that their soul had been kicked in the crotch.
I'm trying to put my finger on the kind of non-literal boner his writings give me. It's partly intellectual, because the mind cannot help but flicker with life upon reading them. But there's something ineffable about them, something beyond intellectual, at their best. They induce a certain stillness of mind, a certain lack of awareness, or direct perception of something, that... well, you see what I mean by ineffable. Anyway, I once would have run a mile in the opposite direction at the first mention of the word mystic. I probably still would in most cases. But not in this one.
I run to it. Well, I don't run. I stroll over, pick it up, try to find where I was up to, curl up on the couch, get interrupted by something and come back to it later.
So someone has been contracted to write a Big Raymond Smullyan Book. This is news to me, and to Google as well. My first thought was I'd like to read it when it comes out. My second thought - although it could have been equal first, really - was that I wouldn't mind contributing to it. Not only wouldn't I mind, I'd quite enjoy it. So here I am, writing something that is not written for the purposes of being included in the BRSB. But I am writing and it is kind of about Raymond Smullyan. If I do right something for submission to the author, it'll have to be a cut above the usual fan fare. In the spirit of the Tao is Silent, it should not be about Raymond Smullyan, but inspired by him. And it will be dedicated to my wife, my children, my family, friends, colleagues and everyone else.
~~~
A Logic Puzzle
In a town there are just two types of people. Those that, when told "doodle oodle oodle whee", reply "doodle oodle oodle whee". I will call these people DOOWers. And those that stop saying "doodle oodle oodle whee". I will call these people DON'Ters. If you need to get directions to the local steakhouse, to whom should you speak and what should you say?
Solution: There is no logical solution to this puzzle.
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