Disquisition on Morality - Introduction

This is my first attempt at a systematic analysis of a particular subject instead of my usual fragmented and logically non linear approach which results in odd posts on aspects of the same topic that run contrary to any natural growth in understanding typically signified by chronology.

Generally, I find myself starting off with the seed of an idea but then letting my inherent verbosity run with it in tangential fashion, often leading to confusing essays or unclear prose that, while serving the purpose of expression, inversely affects the intended communication.

So this time, keeping in mind my natural inclination to get distracted from the original idea, I intend to classify and write with a kind of 'table of content', if you will. This disquisition will, therefore, come in parts which will be written with all the clarity of thought I can muster (fingers crossed :) and will be subject to further modification as and when my analysis reveals flaws that threaten its validity within the original framework.

I have chosen the subject of morality as it is something that has always fascinated me and my analysis of it will be my own, though it may present arguments and conclusions that resemble the ideas of some established and accepted thinkers/ philosophers - Nietzsche, for example.

I, of course, recognize that there are no original ideas and that many times I may, in order to provide a steady mode of discourse or narrative, have to start off from existing definitions and observations in this work itself.

I would also like to stress that I have no academic credentials of reasonable merit in this area of study and my knowledge of philosophical theories on the topic are superficial at best; hence, the narrative and approach that I present here would be of a non academic format and may include personal experiences, though I would most certainly try to avoid them if possible in the interest of a clear and rational presentation.

Please forgive any and all mistakes in the way I use the language and do attribute it to my passion for the subject matter and/ or my general ignorance. :)

Part two of the disquisition or my amateurish attempt at a treatise is here...  Part II

My Midnight Paintings

courtesy - Ken Mitchell

Another night, another post/ stream of consciousness babble. This seems to be becoming a 'thing' with me, and I think my fundamental dislike of sleep maybe held accountable in this regard.

Sleep, defined by my father as perhaps the best thing in the world, is something I never could get very fond of. I mean, I do sleep when I have to - but given the option, I would opt for being awake. I figure it's because sleep takes me away from the one thing that I value the most - my world of thoughts. Not just meandering pathways of abstract explorations in to stuff most people couldn't care less about; but even mundane, frivolous ideas or maybe just colorful, shamefully duplicitous fantasies that plague my idle and indulgent mind. Although to be fair to my father, I do get his love of that restful state after a long day of... you know, actually working and being tense etc. (okay.. sounding more and more obtuse by the minute- focus..)

In fact, I can say with some sense of deep seated honesty and tested clarity that I am addicted to thoughts and their fluid, flimsy existence, which in turn forces my obsessive faculties to give them form through words. This is a quality that I yet do not know if I should be proud of or perhaps, more justifiably, be concerned about.

I paint with words... I have to.

I resist the urge to rephrase that by further clarifying that rather worthy and respectable sounding claim.

It's not that I create beautiful depictions born of arousing perceptions or that I can channel my instinctual analytic prowess in to articulate works of intellectual merit. It's more like I capture and collect photographs of my mind at times... freeze frames of zealous cognitive pursuits and I have this compulsion to manifest them in a perceptible form. And much to my chagrin, and often to the 'not so surprising' disinterested boredom of those around me, these wordy compilations of opinions or assortments of fragmented notions are not all that impressive.

But I do believe that they are expressive of something within me and that it becomes necessary from a survival point of view to pen them down in whatever fashion so as not to be overrun by them.

Maintaining sanity, it seems, sometimes requires odd measures. And yes, the verbal projection of muddled images to an unsuspecting mind is what it takes to clear the thick cobwebs in the corners of my brain that distract my senses and strays me from the more 'productive' endeavors that have more of a chance of being quantified and weighed on the accepted scales of material worth (tangible and otherwise).

This is an observation I have given voice to or perhaps hinted at with hesitant, but not unfounded, annoyance in previous posts; though never quite so clearly and in a logically sound manner.

And hence birthed in this unconventional necessity are my 'midnight paintings' sketched with insolent and self serving narrative templates and colored in layers of glorious delusions, dense goals on lofty conceptual branches and failed attempts at light humorous banter - all caked with the invigorating smoke of poisonous self loathing masquerading as tasteful introspection and of course, partly fueled by the actual swirling puffs of nicotine and tobacco that caress the steady lifeless brightness of the LCD screen in the still darkness of the night.

Unwanted, bastard children of tepid sentiment and capricious thoughts - off-springs of that unsightly alliance that proclaims itself my mind.

So there... I have painted on yet another digital canvas - a painting about why I paint. (rolls eyes)

A pointless explanation, if you will, detailing the specifics of unwavering fortitude in the face of a disposition resistant to suggestion or threat and decidedly redundant behavior that attracts nothing of substance.

However, in spite of all that, I must also sheepishly admit to drawing careless amusement from the prelude to the moment of inspiration. The prelude to the moment when I pick up that brush dipped in letters, poised to ink the page in curiously mechanical fashion.

Yes, I confess to sometimes enjoying the recurring search... the fervent scaling of the slippery slopes of arduous labor, to get to that place - that place of stillness and quiet that exists deep beneath the world we see.. untouched by perilous influences of over abundant stimuli; that haven of 'knowing' that can only be reached through this taxing journey characterized by internal solitude.

Mind you though, those times are rare... growing rarer by the day still. Sigh!

I sign off now to pursue other more wanton visual delights streaming at broadband capacity in to my life, birthed by some other more balanced minds, to lay to rest these nagging doubts that I just became aware of, that seem to be pointing with conviction towards this... this nagging feeling of narcissistic content. :)

To Make a Ghost

Booo...

Disclaimer: What follows is a train of thought that was born in me during my usual middle of the night, or very early morning wakeful hours of lively insomnia and any inconsistencies in the narrative should be attributed to stream of consciousness writing that evolved with each thought. :)

From the urban legends that begin with "someone my neighbor's uncle's friend knew once, was travelling at night.." to the more 'in your face' white faced, creepy looking beings in the horror movies that breathe life in to those genre defining jump scare moments, ghosts seem to fascinate and scare us.

While I always associated our fascination with them and those enduring tales of their spooky proclivities to that threatening 'unknown' in death that has always stumped us, I never much gave real thought to why ghosts or rather the idea of ghosts creates such dread in us or how the idea originated in the first place. It's like they live in this blind spot in our rational perspective of the world, as if to remind us of the inevitable curtain call.

Then I theorized maybe it's nature designing our brain to have underlying contingencies in case that while relishing of those precious moments that we call life, in all its flavors and shades, we forget that we come with an expiration date - a singular moment when everything we call the world and by extension ourselves -  every thought, memory, dream, desire, sentiment - will dissolve in to nothingness; a void that will consume everything until there exists nothing.

Is it the fear of just this impending moment that made us create ghosts? I think not. 

I think what makes us dread the idea of beings who survived that all consuming moment is our fear of what comes after. What are we if we are not this?

I also think it's the fear of loss of control; if someone stops existing, they should stop existing. If they become something else, something incomprehensible to us because we simply do not know, we are no longer in control. Death becomes the ultimate check to our powers. We are erased and the 'I' in us is threatened.

But you see, the 'I' always has to stay in control of this waking life. And so, there were born, right in the infancy of man kind, tales that gave shapes and forms and details to that great unknown. And once manifested in our version of reality, they had to have weaknesses, and predictable behavior and of course, they had to benevolent or evil. No shade of grey - beings who while scary, were in essence, inferior to us because of their one dimensional functioning and limited scope of existing. 

And with that masterful stroke of poetic creation and connivance, we found a way to combat our fear of the unknown by giving it form and then made a fantastic reality out of nothing, in which we were once again the masters.

Ghosts became the portraits of the best in us and the worst in us, but stronger and not bound by our laws -physical and societal. They became the poignant depiction of mortality, the reassuring promise of continued existence.. of holding on, and they became the pictures of amoral, personal justice. How many colors have they been painted with over the centuries?

Simply put, they showcase before us our desperate need to quantify, classify and then take charge of our own mortality, in some fashion possible.

Their thriving, evolving 'lives' in popular culture, mythology and even urban legends is proof that they are reminders indeed - but not of death; but of our fear of what comes after death...of a darkness resistant to the light we bear that follows existence.. of that truth that we are born blind to.. that we are not in control, we never were.

Top 5 Silliest Indian Movie Scenes

Well, let me begin by saying HA HA HA! Oh boy, I remember seeing some of these scenes and literally going through all the colors of emotion I can muster, most of them while doubling over and rolling on the floor.

In any case, these are not meant to offend anyone or hardcore 'fans' of any kind - I love Indian movies - these are just the extreme examples of some of our quirks and silliness. They are not in any particular order of silliness and I'm sure many of you have already seen some or all of these.. but still, I just had to put them up cos.. I'm Indian too.. :)

So, without further ado here's my top 5 -

1. Unknown B-grade Movie Dance - 

That's just.. wow! Guess he's bringing sexy back in his own unique.. ahem, 'style'.

2. Captain Vijayakanth Kicks Newton's Ass!

Take that science bitches!

3. Santhosh Pandit teaches us the meaning of friendship and love..

What was the meaning again? Oh ofcourse, it's 'kaaring'..

4. Chiru's horse and bike hybrid stunt..

5. Unknown movie dance/fight- there's a combo!

WHY isn't this guy in the Indian Olympic team?? He could win.. well, everything!!

Now, I know there are lots more.. Rajni cliches and Vijayakanth machismo.. why, Santhosh Pandit himself could fill all the pages of the complete set of Encyclopaedia Moronica, but Blogger is only so big, so.. :D

How Tired Are We.. Really?

Leave me alone..

Let me preface the rather conceptual and maybe even notional argument I am about to put forward by stating my primary hypothesis, born of rigorous reflection and observation - I am neither special nor 'extra' intelligent. I am perhaps even part of the problem. Maybe I am the problem that's birthing this frustrated rant.

The first part of that preface, by the way, is something I seldom admit to those close to me. :) One does need one's shield of pseudo narcissistic fury in a life full of excited debates and tiring fights. ;)

Now - the problem. Here's the essence of a common response I have heard over and over again in years past from people of different ages, genders, intelligence (perceived ;) and social standing:

"Why do you have to think that way? Too much thinking is not always a good thing. Come now, we can't all be philosophers. Life gets in the way. You'll see as you grow older. You have to be practical."

I will not be making the mistake of generalizing for the masses from the statement above. Maybe it's cultural, maybe it's just the people I surround myself with and I happen to meet along the way. Maybe it's chance.

But I do know that many of these people are in a position to actually influence others, and let's face it 'people' by and large are just waiting to be influenced by something or someone - which leads me back to my original problem.

Why won't people think? Just think. Not about life in a macroscopic manner or about the larger picture hidden behind the cosmos, but just about simple things... things that would actually affect the quality of their own lives.

For example, when people say we can't all be philosophers  - I have two questions that pop up in my mind, that now, having grown wiser with age, I take care not to say out loud:

1. Why not? Especially given that 'philosophy' just means 'love of wisdom'. Are you telling me that you can never find it in you to love wisdom?

2. Why can't you think about the problem at hand, which we were discussing, instead of making a blanket statement that doesn't make sense to begin with? Or are you against 'thinking' in general?

As you can see, there's a good reason why I have decided to choose silence over what might be misconstrued as just plain 'rude'. This is something I have accepted not because I agree with it, but because it saves time and effort. I personally find arguments based on stubborn ignorance and an unflinching refusal to see the value in a bright idea when you hear it, more 'rude'.

I have concluded that I myself am not a complete hypocrite, for example, by remembering all the times in the past and now in the present, that I have recognized and appreciated a point of view different from mine as soon as the person in question has beaten the logic behind my own analysis or pointed out a flaw in my perspective on the subject matter. It has also surprised me how often people refuse to reciprocate this sentiment or civility in an intellectual discourse. People seem to want 'talk at' people rather than 'talk to' them - much less listen to someone..

I am also a strong believer in separation of thought and emotion, but only after recognizing how interdependent they are in the given situation. Whenever I have, in the past, let my emotion guide me, I have felt unsure of myself and have then made efforts to rectify the situation later (once the hindsight puts down the colored glasses). Apologies have often served as a good platform in this regard.

But I fear I'm digressing from the crux of the issue. The title of the post signifies what I believe to be the problem.

People, I believe, are capable of insight and analysis of every situation  - large or small - and I do not believe it rides completely upon their inherent intelligence or even acquired knowledge. I believe it rides on the effort you have to put in to actually 'think' upon anything.

There is a quote I like to remind myself of sometimes - "Most people would rather die than think. In fact they do so."

This sharp and astute observation seems to be the motivating factor driving many of the aforementioned individuals I have encountered. Let me repeat - they are not stupid or ignorant, they chose to be ignorant to anything deeper than the shallow depths they are used to wading in.

I have even heard it put into words, literally - "I don't want to think now. It's too much.. Leave me alone!"

The reasons given are many - fatigue, stupidity (oh yeah.. there are those who proudly proclaim that as a reason as well), lack of necessity and my favorite - life.

When did a species named "Man wise, wise" become too tired to 'think'.. to be or at least strive to be 'wise'? 

Or has it always been this way, only now communication has increased exponentially enough to see this trend more clearly? There is of course, thinking for pleasure and thinking for everything else. I'm pointing to the latter here.

Words like 'faith' and 'practicality' have become the backbone of an entirely new race of thoughtless, cattle like humanoid beings who though endowed with the beauty of complex thought refuse to wield it as an instrument of joy or even bare amusement in the face of an increasingly complex world.

I recognize the difficulty in questioning fundamental concepts that have existed for ages but people, about the other stuff - didn't someone once say "A mind is a terrible thing to waste."

I'm sure I read it somewhere in a book you forced me to read..

A Descent to Twilight (Fiction)

Note: This is a fictional story based on the character in my earlier post - "A Vignette of Silent Darkness". My skills at tackling fiction, even a monologue such as this, being very limited, this one will be published in parts. Bear with me.. 

When the mask slips..

Today was the day. There would be no more beating around the bush and half-hearted refusals to give in. Today, there would be a decision. He smiled at his own decisiveness but stopped when he realized his mind had wandered again. Stop it! Focus.. we need focus here! Focus on the inside. Focus on the smiling..for now. The excitement would follow. It should follow. Not the pale kind - the real one - the one that makes your palms tingle and your breath go harder, heavier. Sometimes it would bring with it a rush so wild, so.. so.. blinding that he could actually feel the blood rushing, gurgling almost, through his veins and arteries. It would rush and rush until he was full of blood. He could imagine, almost feel, his heart and his head about to explode. He would explode into a million, scattering, bright red lights. The real, clever trick there was to hold it in and let it bleed out slowly until he was drained of every thought and every prickly memory. Every faded dream and every sharp desire. Until he was empty.. bare.. clean. Like the bright, bare noon sky over a desert in winter.

The elevator was climbing slowly to his floor. The dim red light in the display blinked slowly to each number. Somehow it seemed slower when in the bright light of the day. Like the rusty metal box disguised in painted plastic knew the stupid numbers were harder to see.

The noises were lesser now. From out there. They had been for a while.. a week or so at least. Why was tha.. Oh fuck! He hadn't seen it. Why hadn't he thought of that? It was after he saw.. Fuck! Fuck! He felt as surge of anger well up from the pit of his stomach. Disgusting.. fucking disgusting. He felt cold suddenly. Like his clothes had been stripped away and the sun was bathing him in cold sweat. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and made him feel.. what? What was he feeling? He didn't know. He hated not knowing. What was happening to him? That's it! This stops now! There would be a fucking decision today. No turning back like one of.. them. He shuddered at the thought of that possibility. At being.. that.

Yet somehow the thought of impending freedom from this castrating self doubt wasn't being the soothing albeit temporary solution he was hoping for. No.. there was something missing..

The thought just wasn't doing it. There wasn't the usual confidence he felt when he knew he was all set for the situation. The content of knowing he was in charge. No – it was oddly unsettling this time. His mind was racing almost. Without the rush or the excitement. It was.. it was like he was.. vulnerable (?)

This was stupid and pitiable. That’s what it was. Pitiable. Then why couldn't he let go of it? Why couldn't he take control of these.. these..feelings and choke them out of their purposeless life? Because in spite of all the turmoil and baseless, unfounded confusion, there was something else. Another dimension to the scenario. Something he couldn’t ignore. It was new. And therefore, he had to figure out what it was, why it was.. what she was..

Oh yeah. There was going to be a reckoning today. He would finally be himself again. Free, powerful, unshakable and magnificent. Not this weakling... reminiscent of sappy, snot nosed, awkward, puberty stricken children, bastards born off filthy cravings, that she had turned him into. And that too without knowing him or talking to him or even acknowledging him. Him!

How dare she? The fucking nerve on the bitch.. The whore.. If only the decision would be made soon and if it were the one he needed,  the one he wanted to make right now.. His teeth clenched and his muscles tensed in primal relish at the thought. If only she knew him..the real him.. and maybe she would. She would cower like the bitch she is and tremble before him in awe... in fear.

But.. no. Not yet. He had to be sure. He had to make sense of it.. of her. He had to understand why -  be rational. If he started going with his emotions, what made him different from the maggots and the worms that walked and breathed and spewed their filthy thoughts in to the air? No. Their very existence was an insult to him. He would never betray his true form like that. He would never be… like them.

She had twisted his sense of purpose, distorted his clear vision and.. and.. taken something from him - just by existing.. just by showing herself before him, without so much as a care in the fucking world as to what she was doing.. Her.. She..with her shining eyes..almost like a wild feline.. her graceful.. Fuck!

He realized his mind was wandering again. Stick to the chosen path here..

The numbers still kept blinking. Had it stopped? He hadn't noticed. Oh fuck! Was there going to be someone in there? His nose crinkled as he imagined the possible stink. Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe she stank too. Stank of flesh and sweat and mediocrity. Like all of them. She had too. He let out a chuckle. Oh she would.. she would.. He tried to imagine her stench.. He couldn't. Should he be worried?

No. It’s because she was .. new. She had to stink. It’s natural law. She can’t be against nature. Only he was. A good stench would make the decision a lot easier. A real smile briefly flashed across his face.

The elevator door creaked open to a pleasant beeping sound..

(part 2 in progress :)

A Message of Gratitude

Mom and Dad, March 2014

So.. today is my birthday. Yours truly has spent 27 rather eventful years on this earth. To be frank, I had actually forgotten that it was my birthday (not actually much of a 'celebrator' of prefixed dates of ritualistic jubilance). But thanks to the wonder that is social media and the miracle that is a caring family, I was reminded in time.

I usually don't get much excited about 'birth' days, because I never actually got the point. I associate celebration with achievements or relief, and being born as a helpless bundle of flesh, on a day that you don't actually remember, never really counted as either to me. 

But as the 'wishes' keep rolling in (thank you Zuckerberg - rolls eyes), I had to take a step back and consider the situation from other possible and fashionably ignored angles. What is one supposed to feel? Gratitude? Joy? Hope? 

After the necessary amount of pondering one is allowed on Sundays, I focused on gratitude as the other two just didn't make sense. Then, of course, the question became twofold - what am I thankful for and who am I thankful to?

The introspection and reflection that followed led me to a single, unfortunately unbeaten path that swerved and meandered to the two singular individuals that I have the good fortune to call 'my own'. Funny isn't it? To call someone your own - indebted slavery born of love. In their misfortune lies my fortune, I guess.

I am, by the way, referring to my parents - M. N. Jayakumar and Sudha Jayakumar.

In every identifiable element of happiness I can muster on this day, the 13th of April, their names are ingrained in ways that are impervious to fickle and self serving rationale.

I am from them, I am of them, I am by them, I am with them and therefore, logically, I should find it in me to be for them in some capacity permitted by the variables in my conditional existence. And if not - if the strength of the narcissistic motivations that drive my very human existence prove too much (as they have over the years), I could and should, at the very least thank them.

For what? For a plethora of tangled acts of kindness and love that has made sure I survived and thrived as 'me' - or this version of me, that I love and am comfortable with.

And that is the only thing I can think of worth celebrating on this historically uneventful, pleasant summer day - the existence of two people who showed me, and to the best of their capabilities held my hand through years of unanticipated loss and fragility, manifested out of innocence, naivety and humanity.

My family, 1991

Two people who set before me countless unswerving, irrefutable examples and pragmatic definitions of what it is to be 'human' and by chance or will, what it is to be 'good'. To be more clear - this wasn't done by these two very 'human' people on the strength of childish fables and malleable principles passed down from 'their own people'. No. They managed to explain and demonstrate through simplistically courageous living and elegantly bold choices, unheard of by many and unapproved by most, that the best things in life are free and the world scares only those who fear themselves.

And believe me when I say - the sheer generosity of spirit and thought that drove them, through trouble and toil (to which I have been a callous contributor over the years), was fundamentally life altering to a child plagued with curiosity and accepting of doubt.

What possible courses might my life have taken had it not been for two caring souls who declared without hesitation at every twist and turn of the path to the present- "Fear not my child, we are right by your side."

This overdue expression of heartfelt sentiment would indeed be tediously wordy, for even my tastes, if I dove in to intelligent descriptions of their respective characters and combined identity. But just to lay waste to any questions of fulfilling and stable picturesque childhoods which shaped their minds, melted their hearts and blinded their eyes to the visions of the dreary world out 'there' - my parents grew up knowing what is 'real', to put it mildly and taking care not to dwell in the past.

So, again I state, with unbridled acceptance and unforgiving understanding which strike me ever so seldom -

"For being here and being able to feel joy and remorse and sorrow and hope and anger and every shade in between and beyond.. for being susceptible to ambition and desire and every mental construct defined.. for being able to think and articulate and express.. for memories and wishes and dreams.. for birthing me and then showing me the way to being 'me' and staying 'me', even if it meant hurting themselves.. for everything till now and many things yet to come - 

I thank you, Mom and Dad.. "

The Bad Joke of Civility

Hmmm..

It's been a while since I've returned to rekindle that fascination which developed in me for the astute observations or hysterical rants (your call :) of my favorite character, the Joker - which I have to admit has been reduced to just a guilty pleasure these days.

The Joker in the interrogation scene states with conviction that the morals and the codes of these 'civilized' people are a bad joke that would be dropped at the first sign of trouble. Now, the highly optimistic end proved him wrong in the movie when a boat full of hysterical civilians refused to kill criminals in cold blood to save themselves (unlikely) and in surreal Hollywood reciprocity a boat full of hardened criminals refused to kill the civilians (whilst the unicorns danced in delight as the tooth fairy gave the boogeyman a lap dance to Bieber's heavy metal tunes).

Now, in the name of all that's rational and desperately trying to keeping in mind the amount of money my parents spent on my half hearted attempts at 'achievement' in a flawed education system, I will try not to question the absence of fundamental psychological principles at play in a movie about a guy in a tight bat costume who fights crime by spreading fear of himself among violent criminals without killing them.. (wh..wh..why? howw.. sigh, never mind).
Please.. don't bother with a rational explanation Bat fans or Batmen or whatever..

Joker's magnificent psychopathy aside, the idea of nurture vs. nature, especially in human conduct always intrigued me. Do I believe that all people can be violent and animalistic of their own volition if the right situation presented itself? No. That would be over simplifying a complicated situation. A proportional response maybe, but not all out break down of socially imbibed morality.

But one has to accept the fact that morality is a social construct. This is especially visible in its ever changing peripheral agendas and rules. Civility too falls square within the boundaries of this axiom.

People have been taught through simple and complex interactions with the rest of humanity as to what is 'good' and 'bad'. The kid who was brought up by animals comes to mind right now and so does Edgar Rice Burroughs' idea of a 'good' Tarzan because of his genetically inherent 'white moral superiority' (read the incident with cannibalism in one of his novels). Polar opposites in terms of fact and fiction, yeah?

While I'm not sure about the genetics involved in moral behavior, I can recall events throughout history when the rules of civil conduct changed suddenly. Even, the psychology behind 'mob mentality' when the most violent and deviant acts can occur at the hands of otherwise (more or less) civil people due to a diffusion or lack of responsibility is worth looking into.

Post apocalyptic scenarios in sci-fi movies are of course another good reference for this debate (wink, wink). Either way, I believe (for now) that human beings are deeply moved and motivated by their nature  and it is society and the collective framework of minds and actions of our race itself that forces and  controls that which is primitive in us from an early age. And since in a case of complete anarchy, I would die in a matter of seconds (minutes if Batman shows up) - Long live civilization with all its inconsiderate stupidity and considerate grandeur!