Inspired by the Dave, of the House, I hope to start a discussion on the topic above.
To begin with, this how I answered the question some 2 years ago.
Feel free to tell me how wrong I am... just tell me why...
"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”
Hamlet (II, ii, 115-117)
What makes Humans Human?
To understand the idea of humans it is important to explore their origins. Within Christian societies before Darwin, it was ‘common knowledge’ that humans were created as higher beings in God’s image. When On the Origin of species by means of natural selection was published in 1859, it provided a clear lineage between apes and what we know as humans today. It was only when this genetic heritage was discovered that the question of our distinction came to light.
Leakey and Lewin (1992) have also searched for the moment of human evolutionary birth: in their book Origins: Reconsidered, they stated that homo erectus was truly the “harbinger of humanity” (1992:46). The discovery of the first fossilised remains of homo erectus dated back 2.5 million years, at a geological time when man first began to fashion the environment around him in the form of stone axes and tools. Leaky and Lewin have argued that, whilst developing a notion of discovery (to choose food by thought rather than instinct) and also of record (cave paintings), that we can see this time as being part of history that coincided with the beginning of the human ‘brain expansion’, when the total capacity of human brains, and hence human minds, increased dramatically. It was at this time when humans started to become aware of their environment and to understand the idea of time. Further, with this new idea of time, came the concept of mortality. Through observing other animals and plants, humans began to conceptualise life and death, creating a conflict within the blossoming mind of homo erectus: the instinctual urge to survive was strong, although the new concept of death was unrelenting; they must survive, yet they will die. Man needed to resolve this problem, humans began to search and to reason.
Plato once said that the true essence of man was reason; he believed that only through reason can humans approach the true forms. We might surmise that Plato is referring to the human ability to think, to analyse and to remember the results of such analytical studies. The human ability to reason and run simulations of thought through the mind, and further, to compare these thoughts against each other, certainly appears to be a unique feature of humans as we know them (today). It has been argued however, that this level of purposeful thought is not enough to define us as human. Dawkins (1976) refers to this idea in his work The Selfish Gene. Here Dawkins asserts that, not only the human ability to simulate, but also the memory to compare simulations, has been a major evolutionary success; it can be expressed therefore as a successful survival tactic within evolution. Further, Dawkins argues that such a purposeful system could have evolved into what we now call consciousness.
“Each one of us knows, from the evidence of our own introspection, that, at least in one modern survival machine, this purposefulness has evolved a property we call consciousness.” (Dawkins, (1989) : 50)
This tells us two important things whilst considering the problem of what makes humans human; that Dawkins was open to the idea that humans are possibly not the only life form with this ability (see Midgely 1979) but also that it has taken the ability itself to understand the existence of it. Further we can see that Dawkins considers consciousness to be a development of evolution, and so it could be said that we think/reason/simulate, because it makes us better survivors. Therefore, like the eye or the muscle, the human ability to think and to reason is another genetic tool to increase our chances of survival and therefore it is part of the biological and physical definition of humans that we are looking for.
So, in the search for the resounding explanation of what makes us humans human, one should exclude the biological references such as brain size, bone structure and larynx, for all these things fall under what has been called the ‘blind’ control of our genes. To accept only these empirical values as defining properties, we are saying that humans are simply the sum of our biological parts and nothing more. Philosophically, it could be argued that this particular question also holds the definition it seeks: Castoriadis (2003) said that “…man is, of all the beings we know, the sole one that seeks knowledge in general and knowledge in particular.” (2003:235). We are human from the days when we began to search rather than to accept instinctively. One might consider then that this single development removes (although not elevates) humans from every other being on the planet. However, when Gray (2004) addresses humanity’s place on this planet in his book Heresies, he simply states that the “chief difference between humans and other animals is simply that humans have acquired enormous power” (2004:76). Although humans may have gained a dominant place in the ecology of the planet, this has been to the detriment of our environment, rather than the understanding of it.
As humans we have amassed great power within the world; we have created knowledge, meaning and we have developed a culture that could appear to transcend that of any other known life form. Our ability to reason and to use that reason to understand and therefore to learn, has allowed our thoughts and innovations to manipulate the environment around us. It has been argued that these attributes are not what distinguishes us, but instead the first instance of a questioning thought that led us to search and hopefully, discover knowledge and meaning of the world. As Buddhist philosophy teaches, the single difference between man and the rest of life on earth is that we walk through the garden and marvel at nature, we prune and we protect, always forgetting that we are simply part of the garden ourselves.
Bibliography:
Castoriadis, C. (Internet Publication date 2003)
The rising tide of insignificancy (The Big Sleep) Retrieved: 7th February 2005
http://www.costis.org/x/castoriadis/Castoriadis-rising_tide.pdf
Darwin, C. (1859/1861), On the origin of species by means of natural selection,(3rdEd.) London, Murray
Dawkins, R. (1974/1989), The Selfish Gene, London, Oxford Press
Eriksen, T.H, (1995,2001), Small Places and Large Issues: An introduction to Social and Cultural Anthropology (2nd Ed). USA, Pluto Press
Gray, J. (2004), Heresies: Against progress and other illusions, London, Granta
Leaky, R.E. & Lewin, R. (1992) Origins: Reconsidered, London, Brown
Midgely, M. (1979/2002), Beast and Man, London, Routledge
Plato (1954/1969), The last days of Socrates, London, Penguin Classics
Plato (1998), The Republic, London, Oxford World Classics
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Monday, 8 October 2007
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
Friday, 7 September 2007
Waiting for Death.
He is sleeping again. Drifting in and out of consciousness as one walks between rooms. Around him discarded tissues lay unnoticed as his grey hand reaches for another to whip the spittle from his face that isn't there. The magazines, books phone and paper sit, unread, unwanted and unused, yet still the glasses rest on his face as if soon he will once again take up reading the pages he flicks through rather than flick through the pages he looks at.
This man of strength, this man of power no longer moves at my coming. No longer does a hand reach out to grasp mine in companionship. That vice like grip that so hounded me when young. Now, his breathing laboured, his heart slow, he rests. Waiting for the sun to go down.
This ward where he lays, this ‘green mile’ for the un-judged; No trail is waited for here, no appeal to be worked on and here only one sentence is expected. Here, though the lights are bright and the floors sparkle with a fresh clean everyday; that no keys are used to pass through the open doors to each room; here no bars cross the windows which look out over well kept gardens. Yet here, like the mile, we wait for death.
Coughing, he picks up the magazine to read, his moment of sleep forgotten, my presence also. But soon he lays it down, the words and pictures offering him no comfort. Instead he reaches for the button that calls the nurse. Nothing is wrong, his needs are small and well met; he is comfortable and well looked after. Yet the button means comfort and security and for the lonely and scared the button is a line to life.
As I leave he blindly watches me go. I no longer know how much his mind remains or his body entraps him. But I know he is scared and I know he is alone, as we all will be, at the end. I walk from the hospice and sign my name on exit. Here we can see a record of all those and the time they have spent in waiting with those soon lost. It’s a record I want to fill out; bureaucracy that seems to prove my love and my time spent… in waiting. Walking back to the station I marvel at how in this western world, where no structure aids the support of the ailing at home, we find placing them in homes of care the next choice.
I want to take my father home with me… I want to hold him in my arms and fulfil a long ago promise. I want to say goodbye in my own way: respectfully, with honour and with love.
This man of strength, this man of power no longer moves at my coming. No longer does a hand reach out to grasp mine in companionship. That vice like grip that so hounded me when young. Now, his breathing laboured, his heart slow, he rests. Waiting for the sun to go down.
This ward where he lays, this ‘green mile’ for the un-judged; No trail is waited for here, no appeal to be worked on and here only one sentence is expected. Here, though the lights are bright and the floors sparkle with a fresh clean everyday; that no keys are used to pass through the open doors to each room; here no bars cross the windows which look out over well kept gardens. Yet here, like the mile, we wait for death.
Coughing, he picks up the magazine to read, his moment of sleep forgotten, my presence also. But soon he lays it down, the words and pictures offering him no comfort. Instead he reaches for the button that calls the nurse. Nothing is wrong, his needs are small and well met; he is comfortable and well looked after. Yet the button means comfort and security and for the lonely and scared the button is a line to life.
As I leave he blindly watches me go. I no longer know how much his mind remains or his body entraps him. But I know he is scared and I know he is alone, as we all will be, at the end. I walk from the hospice and sign my name on exit. Here we can see a record of all those and the time they have spent in waiting with those soon lost. It’s a record I want to fill out; bureaucracy that seems to prove my love and my time spent… in waiting. Walking back to the station I marvel at how in this western world, where no structure aids the support of the ailing at home, we find placing them in homes of care the next choice.
I want to take my father home with me… I want to hold him in my arms and fulfil a long ago promise. I want to say goodbye in my own way: respectfully, with honour and with love.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Text Message from a friend.
I got a text message from an old friend yesterday, it reads:
"Back from ice land did
the can can. Now buying
a tank as a space
hijackes. Yea.Moved
into house boat. How
z u"
One day I will write a book about this girl's exploits accross the world. For now I can only sit and wonder what she is going to do with a tank? (Oh god!)
"Back from ice land did
the can can. Now buying
a tank as a space
hijackes. Yea.Moved
into house boat. How
z u"
One day I will write a book about this girl's exploits accross the world. For now I can only sit and wonder what she is going to do with a tank? (Oh god!)
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Wheres your head at?
Where is your head at?
It's 3am and you are up and thinking. Not exactly straight, but thinking. You pass through your favorite sites and generally have a gentle surf around the web. Before long you find yourself on a community web site (of your choice). You update your profile whilst taking a voyeur glance at friends and loved ones. Maybe you download a new tune, chat with friends, review a book you just finished or just change your mood: your tired, drunk, or just amused. Whatever you do, its there... not be looked back upon by you, like a diary written as a child, but as a constantly changing picture which holds the passage of your moods and thoughts.
A musical discovery, a wedding or just a momentary flirt. Your life becomes facilitated by an ether of pull down options and locally spawned applications to create a feeling of uniqueness. But you pause... This is almost not enough.
The blogs that you write and the sites frequent; they help to build an on growing picture of the nature of thought. The more this becomes reflexive, the further it becomes adaptable, manipulatable at a local scale, the more its becomes representative of the consciousness directing it.
Where is your head at? A new online community web site that lets you keep in touch with yourself.
Pattern your life and thoughts. Monitor your emotions and watch the statistics of your journey.
Hmmm... but where you would store the data?
It's 3am and you are up and thinking. Not exactly straight, but thinking. You pass through your favorite sites and generally have a gentle surf around the web. Before long you find yourself on a community web site (of your choice). You update your profile whilst taking a voyeur glance at friends and loved ones. Maybe you download a new tune, chat with friends, review a book you just finished or just change your mood: your tired, drunk, or just amused. Whatever you do, its there... not be looked back upon by you, like a diary written as a child, but as a constantly changing picture which holds the passage of your moods and thoughts.
A musical discovery, a wedding or just a momentary flirt. Your life becomes facilitated by an ether of pull down options and locally spawned applications to create a feeling of uniqueness. But you pause... This is almost not enough.
The blogs that you write and the sites frequent; they help to build an on growing picture of the nature of thought. The more this becomes reflexive, the further it becomes adaptable, manipulatable at a local scale, the more its becomes representative of the consciousness directing it.
Where is your head at? A new online community web site that lets you keep in touch with yourself.
Pattern your life and thoughts. Monitor your emotions and watch the statistics of your journey.
Hmmm... but where you would store the data?
Friday, 20 July 2007
Trust
Trust. It must be one of the greatest socially cohesive concepts of out time. Don't you think?
Some might say love. That, being rather a modern western concept, seems rather to small to be considered a top runner. And lets face it, without trust, can there be love?
We learn to trust, and even to trust so much, to expect, our mothers to feed us when we are young. We might trust out families to be there when things go wrong, and to help us celebrate when they go right. Trust binds us to our friends, and a lack of it shows us our enemies.
We use trust to secure places of power by misleading people into believing that they can trust you. And you take words on trust when you have no alternative.
"You can trust me.." is a statement of communicative intent. It is open and friendly, yet the barriers that it attempts to break down could leave one more vulnerable than we would like.
In the end, I trust people who trust me... I hope that people understand that I do what I say I will do, and generally I tell the truth. Sometimes I bend the truth, even to my friends and loved ones. But I do so with the hop that they trust me, and know that if I am doing so, I have good reason.
But how then can I expect them to trust me? How can you trust someone who lies to you?
Some might say love. That, being rather a modern western concept, seems rather to small to be considered a top runner. And lets face it, without trust, can there be love?
We learn to trust, and even to trust so much, to expect, our mothers to feed us when we are young. We might trust out families to be there when things go wrong, and to help us celebrate when they go right. Trust binds us to our friends, and a lack of it shows us our enemies.
We use trust to secure places of power by misleading people into believing that they can trust you. And you take words on trust when you have no alternative.
"You can trust me.." is a statement of communicative intent. It is open and friendly, yet the barriers that it attempts to break down could leave one more vulnerable than we would like.
In the end, I trust people who trust me... I hope that people understand that I do what I say I will do, and generally I tell the truth. Sometimes I bend the truth, even to my friends and loved ones. But I do so with the hop that they trust me, and know that if I am doing so, I have good reason.
But how then can I expect them to trust me? How can you trust someone who lies to you?
Thursday, 28 June 2007
Nephew's Birthday...
Its my nephew Mathew's birthday on Saturday. He will be 6 (Bless his Cotton socks!) and I am actually looking forward to seeing him run around with his friends and family that day, having water fights, getting over excited and high on the E numbers for lunch and generally being the centre of attention for the day as the adults sit around getting gently toasted in the (hopefully) sun.
What I am not looking forward to is the presents. Most of you reading this know about my hatred of gift giving. Long before I started to learn about the anthropological need in society to exchange inalienable items as they help to form bonds and structure relationships, I hated the apparent falsity of the xmas day morning. It can be nice to receive gifts, and I have always held that a gift given with heart is great in itself, even if it may be something completely out of taste. This said, Mathew will no doubt be getting a mountain of gifts for his birthday with PS2s and DVDs a plenty. I am left with the nasty task of finding something that I feel would be appropriate, whilst being fun and not something that will mean he will spend more time in front of the TV.
Anyway, that said I have had a small team of people helping me find the perfect gift that still sits within my modest (student) budget. There were some interesting suggestions, and I did come across some articles that I liked such as a badge maker and bubble machine... both of which I hope will make him giggle in the adorable way that he does when he is just showing pure delight in life, the way only children and the enlightened few can. Whilst searching through the pages of London's biggest toy store (maybe not biggest but probably most famous) Hamleys, I came across this small item which comes in at a modest £24 THOUSAND POUNDS!
Sorry Mathew... I don't think it will fit in the garden...
What I am not looking forward to is the presents. Most of you reading this know about my hatred of gift giving. Long before I started to learn about the anthropological need in society to exchange inalienable items as they help to form bonds and structure relationships, I hated the apparent falsity of the xmas day morning. It can be nice to receive gifts, and I have always held that a gift given with heart is great in itself, even if it may be something completely out of taste. This said, Mathew will no doubt be getting a mountain of gifts for his birthday with PS2s and DVDs a plenty. I am left with the nasty task of finding something that I feel would be appropriate, whilst being fun and not something that will mean he will spend more time in front of the TV.
Anyway, that said I have had a small team of people helping me find the perfect gift that still sits within my modest (student) budget. There were some interesting suggestions, and I did come across some articles that I liked such as a badge maker and bubble machine... both of which I hope will make him giggle in the adorable way that he does when he is just showing pure delight in life, the way only children and the enlightened few can. Whilst searching through the pages of London's biggest toy store (maybe not biggest but probably most famous) Hamleys, I came across this small item which comes in at a modest £24 THOUSAND POUNDS!
Sorry Mathew... I don't think it will fit in the garden...
Sunday, 3 June 2007
My Father
My Father is dying...
He has been doing so for 16 years, but this week he was given a date, as it were, to work by.
Last night, as I sat around the table with my sister Kate and my Mum we remembered, over a celebratory cocktail for my Mum's birthday, the day that Kate took up smoking. She was 18. She stood outside a hospital for seven hours as my father's first cancer was removed from his neck. My mother was understandably chain smoking, and my sister asked if it helped; "No.. not really" she replied, "But go on, give it a go". That was some 16 years ago and my sister as recently given up (Well done!). Now, after three other bouts of cancer, being knocked over and dying on the road side to be recovered in the ambulance; then falling over recently and breaking his femur in several places, he is going back into hospital today for another biopsy. They are looking again at the area around his neck... they think the cancer is back, they think its malignant. And If they are right, he will be given two choices:
One. Have a massive operation which will probably entail loosing half of his jaw. If his frail 9 stone body survives that, he will be put on a course of radiotherapy which last time destroyed part of his ear and made eating a constant agony. That is option 1.
Option two... 3 - 6 months.
3-6 months. What do you do with information like that? Where do you file it? How do you make sense of what it means?
I stood in the kitchen with him last night. As we talked he held the side of his head, holding a source of the pain the radiotherapy caused: a diseased bone in his ear. He needed some pain killers so he pointed me to the cabinet. I opened it up to find 10 boxes of liquid morphine. He was to take 7.5ml four times a day. As I measured it out and handed it to him he told me how last night he took double the dose by mistake and ended up staring at the TV for 3 hours: It wasn't on. We sat back down, an action that takes some time, and chatted. Over the next few minutes I saw how the drug took the pain from his ear and the light from his eye. It was like watching a friend get high; although here there was no choice, no delight in the experience, there was only the pain subsiding and the mind melting into the back ground. Inside, my father was completely aware of this and he was ashamed. "At least" he mumbled "It stops me wanting to go for a pee every 2 mins" A slight smile flashes across his face, and I fight back the tears that he doesn't want to see.
My father was always a strong man. he had a large appetite and loved to drink and smoke (he still smokes!), now he is such a small man and his only worry about leaving this world is that he will be leaving my mother alone. 42 years together... she's terrified.
He has been doing so for 16 years, but this week he was given a date, as it were, to work by.
Last night, as I sat around the table with my sister Kate and my Mum we remembered, over a celebratory cocktail for my Mum's birthday, the day that Kate took up smoking. She was 18. She stood outside a hospital for seven hours as my father's first cancer was removed from his neck. My mother was understandably chain smoking, and my sister asked if it helped; "No.. not really" she replied, "But go on, give it a go". That was some 16 years ago and my sister as recently given up (Well done!). Now, after three other bouts of cancer, being knocked over and dying on the road side to be recovered in the ambulance; then falling over recently and breaking his femur in several places, he is going back into hospital today for another biopsy. They are looking again at the area around his neck... they think the cancer is back, they think its malignant. And If they are right, he will be given two choices:
One. Have a massive operation which will probably entail loosing half of his jaw. If his frail 9 stone body survives that, he will be put on a course of radiotherapy which last time destroyed part of his ear and made eating a constant agony. That is option 1.
Option two... 3 - 6 months.
3-6 months. What do you do with information like that? Where do you file it? How do you make sense of what it means?
I stood in the kitchen with him last night. As we talked he held the side of his head, holding a source of the pain the radiotherapy caused: a diseased bone in his ear. He needed some pain killers so he pointed me to the cabinet. I opened it up to find 10 boxes of liquid morphine. He was to take 7.5ml four times a day. As I measured it out and handed it to him he told me how last night he took double the dose by mistake and ended up staring at the TV for 3 hours: It wasn't on. We sat back down, an action that takes some time, and chatted. Over the next few minutes I saw how the drug took the pain from his ear and the light from his eye. It was like watching a friend get high; although here there was no choice, no delight in the experience, there was only the pain subsiding and the mind melting into the back ground. Inside, my father was completely aware of this and he was ashamed. "At least" he mumbled "It stops me wanting to go for a pee every 2 mins" A slight smile flashes across his face, and I fight back the tears that he doesn't want to see.
My father was always a strong man. he had a large appetite and loved to drink and smoke (he still smokes!), now he is such a small man and his only worry about leaving this world is that he will be leaving my mother alone. 42 years together... she's terrified.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
"This Is England"
So, I went to see the new film in Greenwich the other night.
I thought the film was supurbly made. It left me shocked at an image of England that I hoped was gone and forgotten. That in my bubble of Guardian reading friends, no longer existed. My mind tells me that England is not like, or at least not all of it. As if my mind wanted to know that in some way what it means to be English did not contain the racism of the past.
It strange how little thoughts can fool you. I was fooled all the way to the DLR home. Two, shaven hair guys, late teens/early twenties, drank 'wife beater' and shouted nasty thrown compliments at lone female passengers. Maybe they meant no harm, maybe they were nice but drunk.
As I got off the DLR at my stop, my company turned and said the first words we had spoken since climbing aboad; "Like being back in the film" she said.
All I could do was nod.
I thought the film was supurbly made. It left me shocked at an image of England that I hoped was gone and forgotten. That in my bubble of Guardian reading friends, no longer existed. My mind tells me that England is not like, or at least not all of it. As if my mind wanted to know that in some way what it means to be English did not contain the racism of the past.
It strange how little thoughts can fool you. I was fooled all the way to the DLR home. Two, shaven hair guys, late teens/early twenties, drank 'wife beater' and shouted nasty thrown compliments at lone female passengers. Maybe they meant no harm, maybe they were nice but drunk.
As I got off the DLR at my stop, my company turned and said the first words we had spoken since climbing aboad; "Like being back in the film" she said.
All I could do was nod.
Do you know?
A friend of mine emailed me this quote the other day in a discussion regarding maths...
"There are known knowns and known unknowns, there also unknown knowns and even unknown unknowns." (Some deep thinker!)
Any thoughts?
"There are known knowns and known unknowns, there also unknown knowns and even unknown unknowns." (Some deep thinker!)
Any thoughts?
Friday, 4 May 2007
Trash TV
No, that's not bad TV, or Euro Trash TV. It's "Trash Tv". Let me explain.
I have a brother... he is a TV connoisseur you might say. He watches Trash Tv and has a particular taste in Sci-Fi trash. He has huge booklets of 'Buffy' and 'BattleStar Galactica' he has downloaded (all paid for!) from the net. These are examples of Trash Tv. Now, as you might guess, he also loves Star Trek, but even I am loathed to call that Trash in any sense. The same goes for Doctor Who (the last time we watched that together we acted like two school boys who have stolen out of class for the day and eaten too many e-numbers), we both love that program and it brings us many a happy early Saturday nights viewing.
But I am digressing. Trash Tv is like these programs in the sense that it holds some form of fantasy for the viewer. It might be a standard of living, such as 'The OC' in California, or being held in another world or time or place. But in each the viewer finds some fantastic world to dive into. I have recently dived into one... Heroes... It's trash... It TV and I LOVE IT.
I am quietly ashamed though. I hide from my loved ones like a dirty habit that Alan Carr needs to write a self help book about. I sit alone in my world... I hide from the reality and difficulties of my life... and the best thing about it? It is so easy to follow, so simple a story and easy on the script, that you can follow the story just by listening to the soundtrack, just skip over the screen from the internet browser you are flicking through, when the action starts...
And yes, I am listening now. I am 'watching' Trash Tv and writing about Trash Tv. The wonders of cheap, virtually mindless television.
I have a brother... he is a TV connoisseur you might say. He watches Trash Tv and has a particular taste in Sci-Fi trash. He has huge booklets of 'Buffy' and 'BattleStar Galactica' he has downloaded (all paid for!) from the net. These are examples of Trash Tv. Now, as you might guess, he also loves Star Trek, but even I am loathed to call that Trash in any sense. The same goes for Doctor Who (the last time we watched that together we acted like two school boys who have stolen out of class for the day and eaten too many e-numbers), we both love that program and it brings us many a happy early Saturday nights viewing.
But I am digressing. Trash Tv is like these programs in the sense that it holds some form of fantasy for the viewer. It might be a standard of living, such as 'The OC' in California, or being held in another world or time or place. But in each the viewer finds some fantastic world to dive into. I have recently dived into one... Heroes... It's trash... It TV and I LOVE IT.
I am quietly ashamed though. I hide from my loved ones like a dirty habit that Alan Carr needs to write a self help book about. I sit alone in my world... I hide from the reality and difficulties of my life... and the best thing about it? It is so easy to follow, so simple a story and easy on the script, that you can follow the story just by listening to the soundtrack, just skip over the screen from the internet browser you are flicking through, when the action starts...
And yes, I am listening now. I am 'watching' Trash Tv and writing about Trash Tv. The wonders of cheap, virtually mindless television.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Pieces of paper
A strange thing happened the other night; I felt a moment of actual being. Hmmm... Sounds rather like 'new age wank' as my brother would no doubt say. But I did.
Its a strange thing to receive recognition from something you have put your heart into. I have many times had loved ones and family members tell me how proud they are off me, but somehow such comments mean very little to me. That sounds rather harsh, so I will try and explain what I mean.
Think about your classic Mother... their child can do no wrong, more so, they love their child and everything they do is wonderful, a delight to behold. I remember Lee Evans commenting that his child did a solid poo, rather than the liquid stuff that babies do at first. He was SO proud! Family love you (ignore the arguments and drunken fights) they do. And they love you whatever you do. Although this means that they would be proud of anything you do. Unfortunately this is not a grounds for an accurate appraisal of any kind.
My theory then is that the closer someone is to you, the less their opinion of you should matter to you. Its not an insult to their powers of deduction or their ability to appreciate the finer details of whatever you do, but its because they love you. Only in the cold hard hands of a objective stranger, will you ever find a truthful opinion.
So when I received an email last night from one of my lecturers telling me that an essay I had sweated blood and tears over; had stayed up late re-writing and had enjoyed every hour of research for, was 'excellent' and he just thought I would like to know.... Well for a moment...just a moment before my brain kicked back in and I started to doubt his ability to see through my bollocks, I was me. Or at least a me that I have wanted to be...and a complete stranger thought so!
Never wanted to go to uni for the grades, not interested in the piece of paper. I always just wanted to know if my brain was any good, and if I could use it in some way. Last night, I felt there might just be a chance that I could.
Its a strange thing to receive recognition from something you have put your heart into. I have many times had loved ones and family members tell me how proud they are off me, but somehow such comments mean very little to me. That sounds rather harsh, so I will try and explain what I mean.
Think about your classic Mother... their child can do no wrong, more so, they love their child and everything they do is wonderful, a delight to behold. I remember Lee Evans commenting that his child did a solid poo, rather than the liquid stuff that babies do at first. He was SO proud! Family love you (ignore the arguments and drunken fights) they do. And they love you whatever you do. Although this means that they would be proud of anything you do. Unfortunately this is not a grounds for an accurate appraisal of any kind.
My theory then is that the closer someone is to you, the less their opinion of you should matter to you. Its not an insult to their powers of deduction or their ability to appreciate the finer details of whatever you do, but its because they love you. Only in the cold hard hands of a objective stranger, will you ever find a truthful opinion.
So when I received an email last night from one of my lecturers telling me that an essay I had sweated blood and tears over; had stayed up late re-writing and had enjoyed every hour of research for, was 'excellent' and he just thought I would like to know.... Well for a moment...just a moment before my brain kicked back in and I started to doubt his ability to see through my bollocks, I was me. Or at least a me that I have wanted to be...and a complete stranger thought so!
Never wanted to go to uni for the grades, not interested in the piece of paper. I always just wanted to know if my brain was any good, and if I could use it in some way. Last night, I felt there might just be a chance that I could.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Storage solutions..
Big Yellow Storage company must be doing quite well. I have just seen an advert on television for it. The tag line was along the lines of: "Don't throw away the things you love. Get some space in your life!".
What a fascinating place we live in. Marx would have us believe that we define ourselves in society by our relationship to a means of production. More contemporary theorists talk of the act of consumption as a methodological construction of 'self', so that we are able to 'make' ourselves in the image of what we buy and consume. (This idea is certainly played on by the fashion companies of the world!) But in that sense, consumption needs to be understood as the obtaining of goods and then the destroying of them to make way for more goods: as one buys food and then consumes it. Yet what happens when we consume goods that we then decide to store?
What items do you store? What mementos or trinkets? Are they family photos? Old blankets and clothes? Kitchen wear you hold back for your children's first flat? And how long do you hold them for? What items would it be worth holding on to, yet not cluttering up a house? And how much would you pay for that?
We live, we work, we consume and the economy of the world continues on its merry way. In consumption, there is a reduction of resources. In resource depletion there will be wild spread poverty. But don't worry... those old books you have read a thousand times, and can not bare to throw away, and that horrible vase your mother bought you that you can not stand, but need available if she comes round, they will be there waiting for you - safely in a little yellow box.
What a fascinating place we live in. Marx would have us believe that we define ourselves in society by our relationship to a means of production. More contemporary theorists talk of the act of consumption as a methodological construction of 'self', so that we are able to 'make' ourselves in the image of what we buy and consume. (This idea is certainly played on by the fashion companies of the world!) But in that sense, consumption needs to be understood as the obtaining of goods and then the destroying of them to make way for more goods: as one buys food and then consumes it. Yet what happens when we consume goods that we then decide to store?
What items do you store? What mementos or trinkets? Are they family photos? Old blankets and clothes? Kitchen wear you hold back for your children's first flat? And how long do you hold them for? What items would it be worth holding on to, yet not cluttering up a house? And how much would you pay for that?
We live, we work, we consume and the economy of the world continues on its merry way. In consumption, there is a reduction of resources. In resource depletion there will be wild spread poverty. But don't worry... those old books you have read a thousand times, and can not bare to throw away, and that horrible vase your mother bought you that you can not stand, but need available if she comes round, they will be there waiting for you - safely in a little yellow box.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Revision...
I know, I know. Stop wasting time and get back to work!
It's interesting this blog thing, I have wanted to write something else in for a couple of days now, and have not known what to write. Yet with exams looming, revision building up and time running out, I choose now to lay down a few words.
The library at UCL is interesting. There are so many rules, and all of them are broken everyday. People eat here, drink here, talk in several languages and general discuss life here. They listen to music and argue about the weekend; they help each other out and worry about dead lines. So here is the question. Am I getting old or is that all rather annoying?
I can understand the odd nibble, and defiantly a drink: it keeps the brain working and gives the mind a much needed break sometimes. But why the hell do people have to come here and discuss their life?! It annoys me...NO...IT REALLY ANNOYS ME! But then I guess if they can ignore the fact that sometimes I sit here and tap away on my laptop, talking to people rather than working, I guess I can let them off.
Strange... one girl just got up and closed the window on a beautiful hot day. Was she cold? Or did the noise from outside bother her? Aww shame...
Hmmm...My blogs are gonna have to get better than this....
It's interesting this blog thing, I have wanted to write something else in for a couple of days now, and have not known what to write. Yet with exams looming, revision building up and time running out, I choose now to lay down a few words.
The library at UCL is interesting. There are so many rules, and all of them are broken everyday. People eat here, drink here, talk in several languages and general discuss life here. They listen to music and argue about the weekend; they help each other out and worry about dead lines. So here is the question. Am I getting old or is that all rather annoying?
I can understand the odd nibble, and defiantly a drink: it keeps the brain working and gives the mind a much needed break sometimes. But why the hell do people have to come here and discuss their life?! It annoys me...NO...IT REALLY ANNOYS ME! But then I guess if they can ignore the fact that sometimes I sit here and tap away on my laptop, talking to people rather than working, I guess I can let them off.
Strange... one girl just got up and closed the window on a beautiful hot day. Was she cold? Or did the noise from outside bother her? Aww shame...
Hmmm...My blogs are gonna have to get better than this....
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
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