thoughts of mine.
I always turn to philosophy and reflection for comfort. This is a constant, recurring fact of myself.
I think of many things and I try to make my attempts at understanding systematically so as to leave nothing out; to highlight the fundamentals and to seek out the origins and ground of things.
It is the confusedness of life without philosophy (that is the most accurate word for it.) that makes me return. It is the unanswerableness of things, and the unfullfilled (seemingly forever so) potentialities of man and self that leads me back to this- the garden of my thoughts.
I am an idealist and reality confronts me harshly. I can not bring myself to believe that I inhabit the best of all possible worlds. While I do maintain that this world, in the least, the world of my experiance, could be better.
I am a reader because I enjoy thoughts themselves. I mostly enjoy agreeable thoughts but I even enjoy disagreeable ones. Because that which is bad to me in a thought highlights be principle of their controversy the way to a better thought by contrast. In this way , all philosophy is to some end.
I enjoy conversations of belief because of this; yet there is an attitude it seems that imbitters people against the personal. The personal as merely personal (postmodernism?) or the exposure that occurs when expressing ones deepest self composing values that make this so.
That which is most basic seems so rare to me, but all this can be had in books...what what books reside in people that are unwritten, that are even unread, sometimes by their own authers?!
It is the immediacy of the world(and I should also look at myself here.) that occupies the thoughts so much as to engross us (as a people) away from such thourough reflection. In some ways the knowledge and eventuality of death cures this. Death distracts our thoughts back to the principles fo life.(-the ...whats the point? and the what am I while I am here?)
I see this higher mindedness of people in a lot of things. Art, Liturature, social movements, and music. The creativeness and birth-giving of meaningful expression is inspirational to me. Though it has its counterpart, the immediate.... the day to day constant formulizations of the consumerable. That has its own art, that is made for'now' and is made over and over in immitation of the timeless. Sometimes not even.
True but even so, must everything signify something?
Ragardlessd. THe point is made, the latter is much more parishable then the former. It is born for the momentary -immediate satisfaction of the most. Thus the art, and music of life are exploited and so possibly robbed of their credentials.
I do not say what these over-recycled 'creativities' are. (for I fear my own bias) Sufficiant to say they exist, sometimes explicitly and admittedly created for mass consumtion- compossed and managed by the non-artist for the sole purpose of cashing in on what has become popular by genuine means. Art in immitation of art. Because 'real' art is so inconsistant charecter it is 'unreliable' for the purposes of exploitation.
I make these comments on art because right now I meditate on life. Art is the unforced flowers of life. It seems like it is the perogative of the prevailing culture to make en-masse so many plastic flowers- but here I flow overly into criticism.
In the end the absence of philosophy makes art mundane.
Counterthoughts to this are that perhaps I do not know how to simply have fun., or I may possibly remove life from its biological underpinnings in this entry.
After all reason itself has its origen in unreason.
I think of many things and I try to make my attempts at understanding systematically so as to leave nothing out; to highlight the fundamentals and to seek out the origins and ground of things.
It is the confusedness of life without philosophy (that is the most accurate word for it.) that makes me return. It is the unanswerableness of things, and the unfullfilled (seemingly forever so) potentialities of man and self that leads me back to this- the garden of my thoughts.
I am an idealist and reality confronts me harshly. I can not bring myself to believe that I inhabit the best of all possible worlds. While I do maintain that this world, in the least, the world of my experiance, could be better.
I am a reader because I enjoy thoughts themselves. I mostly enjoy agreeable thoughts but I even enjoy disagreeable ones. Because that which is bad to me in a thought highlights be principle of their controversy the way to a better thought by contrast. In this way , all philosophy is to some end.
I enjoy conversations of belief because of this; yet there is an attitude it seems that imbitters people against the personal. The personal as merely personal (postmodernism?) or the exposure that occurs when expressing ones deepest self composing values that make this so.
That which is most basic seems so rare to me, but all this can be had in books...what what books reside in people that are unwritten, that are even unread, sometimes by their own authers?!
It is the immediacy of the world(and I should also look at myself here.) that occupies the thoughts so much as to engross us (as a people) away from such thourough reflection. In some ways the knowledge and eventuality of death cures this. Death distracts our thoughts back to the principles fo life.(-the ...whats the point? and the what am I while I am here?)
I see this higher mindedness of people in a lot of things. Art, Liturature, social movements, and music. The creativeness and birth-giving of meaningful expression is inspirational to me. Though it has its counterpart, the immediate.... the day to day constant formulizations of the consumerable. That has its own art, that is made for'now' and is made over and over in immitation of the timeless. Sometimes not even.
True but even so, must everything signify something?
Ragardlessd. THe point is made, the latter is much more parishable then the former. It is born for the momentary -immediate satisfaction of the most. Thus the art, and music of life are exploited and so possibly robbed of their credentials.
I do not say what these over-recycled 'creativities' are. (for I fear my own bias) Sufficiant to say they exist, sometimes explicitly and admittedly created for mass consumtion- compossed and managed by the non-artist for the sole purpose of cashing in on what has become popular by genuine means. Art in immitation of art. Because 'real' art is so inconsistant charecter it is 'unreliable' for the purposes of exploitation.
I make these comments on art because right now I meditate on life. Art is the unforced flowers of life. It seems like it is the perogative of the prevailing culture to make en-masse so many plastic flowers- but here I flow overly into criticism.
In the end the absence of philosophy makes art mundane.
Counterthoughts to this are that perhaps I do not know how to simply have fun., or I may possibly remove life from its biological underpinnings in this entry.
After all reason itself has its origen in unreason.