Location Alteration

Changed my account and address. This is now located at scudderkm.wordpress.com

Resonance

The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished.

Data

“And that understanding, that experience, brings you one step closer to understanding humanity.” How amazing, how intriguingly odd and how beautifully comic is the fact that we, while being human beings, are ourselves always in the process of learning what it means to be human. We are always ourselves, as ourselves, in the process of relating ourselves to who it is we are as ourselves––a peculiar process of learning who it is that I am, via the relating of me to myself.

Kierkegaard, Picard, how I love you.

Striving for the concept of Recollection

Immediacy and reflection in such a way that is conducive to inwardness:

Imagine the state of simeone when they have just lost a loved one.  They have experienced their death, but it is not necessarily (and I say this as one who has not lost someone greatly personal to them, such that it is only in reflection, or rather, by reflection, that I have grieved) by having experienced the death, whatever the sort was, that the have grieved deeply inwardly.  It is only in the state of reflection of the past experiencing, in the “musings of the day”, that one gains the state of actual grief.  But in this state they are not experiencing something present; they are experiencing something in recollection.  It is this sort of experience that is conducieve to inwardness––indeed, that is inwardness. 

A thought that occured while at the sink

I was standing at the sink, a moment ago sometime in the past––which is ironic because this moment was but a moment ago––when it occurred to me in reflection the meaning of all of which I have thought. I was standing washing dishes, reflecting on my conversation with another about what it means to and how we ought to live, when it dawned on me the difference between reflecting and living. Precisely, I was thinking about the importance of being and living in the process of becoming when in the state of a particular point in the process of becoming; wherein, regardless of what the end goal is of this process, if one is not completely and wholly owning oneself at a particular point in the process, they will never progress in that process. Example: if one does not let oneself be a teenager, in all of what teenagehood might entail––regardless of whether or not it might be “immature” (whatever that means in teenage years)-–then one will never progress to post-teenage years; “tween-hood”, wherein one realizes what it is one lived for in teenage years is really not worth living for now. In the same way, if in my reflection I realize that my present point in immediacy is but a point in a process that will eventually lead to a result other than that which I have now, it will all be of no consequence unless I let myself be in the point I am at now. It might even be immoral, if not at least comical, if I don’t! Is there not something peculiar, if not peevishly wrong, about a parent trying to force their toddler to act like a grown up when they’re only a child? Or in expecting them to have the responsibility of a “teen” when they are only a “tween”? Our authenticity is only existent in relation to our own personal immediate context––and this particularly so when in regard to the religious. If we are not allowed our own state in a certain particular point on the path of becoming than we will never become that which is our final result on the path of becoming. Is this not so?

Limited Time

A man I know is fated to die an early death. He has been given a death warrant that will validate itself before he reaches the age of thirty. By matter of consequence, he is the most existential person I know. Due to this realization that his time is limited, his time is short, every single particular moment in his life as gained incalculable meaning. And while he is still a human being, he is not nearly as flippant with his time, he is not as distracted, he’s focused, not nearly as quick to run to the wayside of the slightest hint of some new shiny thing. Every instance is a moment of choice for deviation or consistency, wherein he can lose his resolve or maintain himself on the path of his task. The nature of the task is the most fascinating part: the task to live wholly and to live deeply as a human being––to live well. And due to the ever-present knowledge of his impending demise, there is no reason to postpone the need to move in haste; there is no reason to put off striving toward the end line.

To which, now, the thought strikes me: we are all marked men. We all have a moment, coming quick and coming fast, wherein we all will meet our demise. Shadows and dust. We’re food for worms, lads.

The leap into infinity is on the next horizon. What is it that I am waiting for?

A musing

I think that our understanding of human thought is oft rather premature. Right now, I am watching a show staring a character who’s a “telepath”; he is able to repeat people’s thoughts to them as they are speaking them––in total synchronicity. But this concept is falacious. It presumes an idea of thinking that says that we form our own thought before we beging to speak––but this is not so! Often it is the case that the thought does not continue the process of completing itself until we being to speak it.

A musing to muse about. I’m not concerned about the show––though its a fantastic one for instigating thought––but the conceptual understanding of how we think. I don’t believe we begin to think until we are on the path of thinking. I don’t think we can being to conclude until our conclusions are in process. And to conclude?––ha! what is that!––perhaps not even until we being the question of what a conclusion even means.

My tip of the glass to Fyodor Karamazov

Fyodor Karamazov: an atrocious man, a sensationalist drunakrd, a particularly belliegrent father…a particularly belligerent man in general. To this man, I now tip my glass. Why, one may ask––indeed, I might even ask myself. The answer: because he proved an existential awareness of himself within the framework of a personal ethic. “No more, no more,” he said to himself, while pouring another half-glass of top-shelf cognac. This act––however limited, however remote, however despicable considering the circumstances––proves an awareness of self in relation to an external ethic, which is to say, an awareness in relation to a consideration of how one ought to be in light of objective reality. This awareness, when in consideration of the the delectabe delight of the self-deception of the majority––myself included––is all to rare of a commodity.

My tip of the glass; indeed, my tip of the hat––cheers.

Where does this get us then––what is the result at the end of this process? The end product is the general conviction of unqualification on the part of each individual person when it comes to answering questions of consequence about life and reality. ––How do I best make sense of the world? What values should I have? What is life about? What does it mean to be human? What is worth living for? Life? Values? But these questions are much too big for me! I’m not possibly competent enough to answer such weighty questions––I might get them wrong! No, better to leave such things to the professionals, to the experts, to the scientists: they’ll know best. –– And so one continues on, content to cop out on the difficult matters of life, content to remain in personal oblivion, content to echo without ever speaking, and all to willing to play the marrionate so long as it means that one doesn’t ever have to lift one’s own limbs.

The unattainable art of multi-tasking

I have once again lighted upon the truth that multitasking is not a skill that is easily seen in my nature – especially so when the tasks in question are writing and cooking. Attempting to write on Silas Marner while making chocolate chip cookies, I positvely over-cooked the first batch and, having thoroughly forgotten them in a frenzy of excited writing, completely roasted the second.