It seems like the easiest way to learn something as by getting good at it while not really trying to get good at it. To make the otherwise dull practice part of an enjoyable habit, rather than to try by sheer force of will to learn and improve.
The things I think that I can sort of do came through that. I learned to draw as a child by tirelessly copying Garfield and Asterix cartoons as a hobby - an activity I'd now find tiresome within seconds. Later, I learned to play the piano by ear (to some extent) by having nighttime access to a dark room with a keyboard throughout a period of particular melancholy, during which having anything other than words with which I could clumsily express emotions felt like a welcome relief, no matter how imperfect the sound. I have a suspicion that talented people are those who persisted with an activity despite sucking at it for a long time; and kids learn better in part because they are less aware of how rubbish they are at the beginning.
My skills also reached their limits for related reasons. I have seen no clear improvements in drawing abilities in 10 years (but rather regressions in a technical wielding of dip pens and the like), because around that time it became a commitment and duty instead of a pleasure. More recent attempts to read musical notes, or to even just get my miserable fingers to dance a cheery jig over any musical instrument, have similarly been doomed to gloomy failure - with melancholy remaining the only feeling I can musically express, and even that only in limited terms. Various other aspects of life have involved similar rapid progress, followed by abrupt halts whenever I set about consciously improving them. Cultivating the desire to do things that are incidentally beneficial seems like a more effective way to progress than to sporadically embark upon grand attempts at direct self-betterment.
Which reminds me of an article I read about a few weeks ago. Habit Judo is an intriguing way to try to harness the power of this, by assigning random points for doing useful things. More generally, gamification involves applying a game-playing sort of dynamic (with rewards etc.) to things that are not normally considered game-like, thereby making them somehow more addictive. An idea that causes both a feeling of abject despair at the state of our collectively addled intellects, along with a scrambling to download the Habit Judo iPod app to try it out.
In any case, I find the idea of considering life as more game-like appealing. Especially because it would be a game in which, within some constraints, we can each pick our own rules and scoring systems to keep track of how well we are doing. To view life in such a way needn't be to trivialize anything, but rather it is simply one possible path to the minor revelation that current modes of existence needn't be fixed: there's no particular need to chase the same goal as others, and success defined in terms we find meaningful might matter more than success that would be recognised by others as such. The feeling of being confronted by such overwhelming possibility is bewildering and scary, but also, at least in some non-trivial way, fun.
While money might be one way of keeping score in the game, it's obviously not the only one. The purpose of this blog is, in a sense, to figure out how I want to score mine. The starting point is that I want to go in an ethical direction, where being better really involved being better. But this is played out against a backdrop of complex realities, limited insight, and a mistake-riddled past - and my only choice of role-playing character is the decidedly flawed one I've nurtured and neglected over the past 29 years. Nevertheless, at least that all adds to the intrigue. I make no presumption that I shall be any good at even playing by my own rules, but just knowing what they are would be a start. Then I might begin the process of considering how to achieve more by conning my lazy, apathetic, selfish self into developing habits and attitudes that get me where I want to go, without it necessarily feeling like a massive, painful effort. Outwitting myself, as it were.
The boundlessness of the game, and the impossibility of an ultimate victory, is as intimidating as it is inspiring. An infinity of possibilities abide in each moment, and an infinity are lost. An infinity of those possibilities were worse than the one that was ultimately realised, but a similar infinity were better. And this will always be so. There is forever room for expansion. In this regard, the world feels a tragic place - yet one full of so much opportunity that one could, if one were so inclined, expend all one's creative time and energy in the most fulfilling conceivable pursuit of making even tiny bits of it feel less tragic. That might be worthwhile. Even the thought of trying can be enough to add some meaning to existence.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Sunday, 8 May 2011
The Life You Can Save
A day or two after my encounter with the name-gathering guy on the street, I started reading The Life You Can Save by Peter Singer. It does not take long to read, and it is worth it. It is challenging, scary, sad, inspiring and hopeful. Or, as The Times put it, 'thoroughly practical, compelling, unanswerable'.
The website associated with the book is here.
Street giving
Note: What follows is an anecdote of no particular value.
A few days after my minor moral epiphany, I went down Heidelberg's most significant street to search for a relevant book or two. Walking back, I was distracted by weighing up whether Die Kunst kein Egoist zu sein ('The art of not being an egoist') is morally worth €19.99 in its hardback glory, not to mention its even greater cost in terms of the time it would take my German to falter through its 500 or so pages. Consequently, I failed to avoid the eye of the UNO volunteer standing in front of a life-sized picture of Angelina Jolie doing something good.
When he greeted me with a cheery 'Hallo! Can I tell you about what we're doing?' the part of my brain that controls expressions and responses took that question at face value and agreed, completely ignoring the screams every other part of my brain that has any insight whatsoever.
Quite quickly it became clear this wasn't a great idea. My passive German is passable in conversation, but my active German remains frequently inaccessible. And he seemed to want more participation than initially suggested. I played down my abilities and played up my foreignness, but to little avail. In what was presumably meant to be a moment of bonding, he joined in my self-deprecation, giggling 'You don't have an accent at all! Wur-duh, aah-bur...!'. I smiled grumpily.
It continued. 'Tell me about what you do!' he said, adding 'I'm interested!' upon seeing my hesitant, you-aren't-interested look. So I told him. To his credit, he did better at appearing interested than I would have done, but it wasn't easy to relate to the UN so we moved on.
He told me about what work the UN are doing with refugees, specifically focussing on a country whose name begins with 'L' (I don't remember which, but I'd guess 'Libya'). I'd set the expectations of my understanding low, so he also asked if I knew what he meant quite a lot. Inconveniently, I mostly did.
As the conversation progressed, it became increasingly clear that he wanted me to sign up to give money. The screaming, insightful part of my brain continued screaming, but now with a certain smugness, while the bit that had got me into this social mess just shrugged. I didn't want to sign up. I had not the slightest intention of agreeing to a lot of German things I don't understand and providing financial commitment to a person I don't fully trust, even if it were all to be carried out under the banner of Angelina Jolie. I wanted to think, to become informed, and yes, in the end, to act - but in a considered manner. In a manner, that is, that will not leave me walking off in abject, paranoid terror that I've just given financial details to a stranger on the street, and I might now have to deal with complex German forms; a feeling so unpleasant that my desire to do good would immediately be pounded into apologetic submission by my swearing, self-loathing selfishness.
So I asked if I could sign up on the internet. If I could take some time and think about it. He ignored this question, or at least responded only with a wordless gesture of dismissal delivered with the well-placed skepticism of someone who knew I wouldn't be back, and who (understandably) supposed I wouldn't really think about it. 'You know the refugees are there, and they need help... What else is there to think about?!' he asked, clothing his question in a rhetorical garb it hadn't earned.
And, alas, this did mildly infuriate me. For, were I to be in control of my faculties, I might have answered, 'Yes, I do know this. And I would like to know more. But I also know that they are not the only people in the world who need help. And I know yours is not the only organisation offering help. Nor is it necessarily the most efficient or effective or in need, nor am I sure that you are not on commission for getting people to sign up and that's why you're so unhappy with my promise of consideration, nor have I figured out whether simply signing up here and now to give away money is the best form of help I might offer. Should we perhaps instead help the several homeless people at the head of the street, for example? They are there too, and need help, and we both know it. So don't over-simplify, and let me think! Argh!!!' Knowing what is the right thing to do is hard.
I didn't say any of that, and instead clumsily fumbled my way out of the conversation. And he did something for that poor that day, while I did bugger all.
But I did think about it, like I said I would. And I'm still thinking about it. I hope that he would be pleased with that outcome.
Although the most specific part of that thinking has let to the conclusion that, while I am increasingly convinced that there is a moral imperative to give, I have objections to accosting people on the street as a method to solicit that. If it works, and leads to more money going to good things, then I guess my objections are not up to much. But I find it hard to believe it's the best way to do it, and suspect it makes many charities merely appear more irritating. Personally at least, I'd have felt much more well-disposed to him and to the organisation if they were offering information, possibly to take away even if only in the form of a cheaply scribbled web address, and not exerting pressure to commit then and only then. In fact, if charity-workers on the street were primarily there to inform and not to coerce, I'd be keen to stop and talk to them more often - rather than scuttle past as quickly as possible to avoid having to look into their inevitably frustrated and disappointed eyes.
Somehow, giving or volunteering need to be matched to the psychology of the giver. Then it may be done willingly, and consequently more generously. But I realise I have not yet earned the right to disagree too strongly with the methods of others.
And I can't rule out that this is primarily a visceral response, because his mimicking of my admittedly rubbish accent was annoyingly uncanny.
A few days after my minor moral epiphany, I went down Heidelberg's most significant street to search for a relevant book or two. Walking back, I was distracted by weighing up whether Die Kunst kein Egoist zu sein ('The art of not being an egoist') is morally worth €19.99 in its hardback glory, not to mention its even greater cost in terms of the time it would take my German to falter through its 500 or so pages. Consequently, I failed to avoid the eye of the UNO volunteer standing in front of a life-sized picture of Angelina Jolie doing something good.
When he greeted me with a cheery 'Hallo! Can I tell you about what we're doing?' the part of my brain that controls expressions and responses took that question at face value and agreed, completely ignoring the screams every other part of my brain that has any insight whatsoever.
Quite quickly it became clear this wasn't a great idea. My passive German is passable in conversation, but my active German remains frequently inaccessible. And he seemed to want more participation than initially suggested. I played down my abilities and played up my foreignness, but to little avail. In what was presumably meant to be a moment of bonding, he joined in my self-deprecation, giggling 'You don't have an accent at all! Wur-duh, aah-bur...!'. I smiled grumpily.
It continued. 'Tell me about what you do!' he said, adding 'I'm interested!' upon seeing my hesitant, you-aren't-interested look. So I told him. To his credit, he did better at appearing interested than I would have done, but it wasn't easy to relate to the UN so we moved on.
He told me about what work the UN are doing with refugees, specifically focussing on a country whose name begins with 'L' (I don't remember which, but I'd guess 'Libya'). I'd set the expectations of my understanding low, so he also asked if I knew what he meant quite a lot. Inconveniently, I mostly did.
As the conversation progressed, it became increasingly clear that he wanted me to sign up to give money. The screaming, insightful part of my brain continued screaming, but now with a certain smugness, while the bit that had got me into this social mess just shrugged. I didn't want to sign up. I had not the slightest intention of agreeing to a lot of German things I don't understand and providing financial commitment to a person I don't fully trust, even if it were all to be carried out under the banner of Angelina Jolie. I wanted to think, to become informed, and yes, in the end, to act - but in a considered manner. In a manner, that is, that will not leave me walking off in abject, paranoid terror that I've just given financial details to a stranger on the street, and I might now have to deal with complex German forms; a feeling so unpleasant that my desire to do good would immediately be pounded into apologetic submission by my swearing, self-loathing selfishness.
So I asked if I could sign up on the internet. If I could take some time and think about it. He ignored this question, or at least responded only with a wordless gesture of dismissal delivered with the well-placed skepticism of someone who knew I wouldn't be back, and who (understandably) supposed I wouldn't really think about it. 'You know the refugees are there, and they need help... What else is there to think about?!' he asked, clothing his question in a rhetorical garb it hadn't earned.
And, alas, this did mildly infuriate me. For, were I to be in control of my faculties, I might have answered, 'Yes, I do know this. And I would like to know more. But I also know that they are not the only people in the world who need help. And I know yours is not the only organisation offering help. Nor is it necessarily the most efficient or effective or in need, nor am I sure that you are not on commission for getting people to sign up and that's why you're so unhappy with my promise of consideration, nor have I figured out whether simply signing up here and now to give away money is the best form of help I might offer. Should we perhaps instead help the several homeless people at the head of the street, for example? They are there too, and need help, and we both know it. So don't over-simplify, and let me think! Argh!!!' Knowing what is the right thing to do is hard.
I didn't say any of that, and instead clumsily fumbled my way out of the conversation. And he did something for that poor that day, while I did bugger all.
But I did think about it, like I said I would. And I'm still thinking about it. I hope that he would be pleased with that outcome.
Although the most specific part of that thinking has let to the conclusion that, while I am increasingly convinced that there is a moral imperative to give, I have objections to accosting people on the street as a method to solicit that. If it works, and leads to more money going to good things, then I guess my objections are not up to much. But I find it hard to believe it's the best way to do it, and suspect it makes many charities merely appear more irritating. Personally at least, I'd have felt much more well-disposed to him and to the organisation if they were offering information, possibly to take away even if only in the form of a cheaply scribbled web address, and not exerting pressure to commit then and only then. In fact, if charity-workers on the street were primarily there to inform and not to coerce, I'd be keen to stop and talk to them more often - rather than scuttle past as quickly as possible to avoid having to look into their inevitably frustrated and disappointed eyes.
Somehow, giving or volunteering need to be matched to the psychology of the giver. Then it may be done willingly, and consequently more generously. But I realise I have not yet earned the right to disagree too strongly with the methods of others.
And I can't rule out that this is primarily a visceral response, because his mimicking of my admittedly rubbish accent was annoyingly uncanny.
Starting to think
During the intermittent bouts of melancholy that arise regularly enough, I search for some way to restore some sense of order. Or at least to distract myself for long enough for the brain chemicals to find equilibrium.
And so it is during times like these that I may be found meditating at the top of a mountain, for example. Not for very long, admittedly, but usually for at least for as long as it takes to become distracted by itches or (mercifully unrelatedly) a need to pee. Since this is typically of the order of seconds rather than days, it is insufficiently long to achieve orgasmic enlightenment. But it is nevertheless enough of a break from numbed normality to achieve some form of minor epiphany.
Usually it's the same epiphany each time - namely that my internet-addled attention span is of little use for either silent-being or deep-pondering - but even this feels worthwhile.
In any case, the characteristic feeling during these times is a consuming sadness, but conspicuously not a deep depression. Rather, I find myself curiously observing my sad thought-processes, wondering how their power might be harnessed for Good. If they could, that might be extremely useful. Like some kind of Personal Perpetual Motion Machine of Melancholy, which could not be stopped but shouldn't be anyway.
As this develops, I typically resolve to remain in the state of contemplation: dusting the world with a patiently light touch and gentle speech. The sun pokes up over the horizon of the soul's dark night, and with this renewed sense of humanity burgeoning the melancholy fades. So I start reading a book or watching TV, and eventually return to frittering away weeks pointing my head at websites I'm not even interested in reading. A few misplaced leaden words clunk on the head of an unfortunate conversation partner, and the thought some permanent improvement might have been made falters upon a realisation of reality.
This most recent epiphanic time might be no different, and least in this regard. But it seems at least a little different, since it has raised a question that is disinclined to leave me alone, even when I feel reasonably socially functional again. Inconveniently.
In essence, it appears suddenly inescapable that I have somehow managed to avoid thinking for the overwhelming majority of 29 years. And, unless I make the choice to change this, it will certainly continue this way. Indefinitely.
Amidst the decent, evil, multicoloured and inventively moustachioed plethora of Petes to be found in this rich multiverse, there must be at least one of them living in consistency with considered moral principles. But it has hitherto certainly not been this one. And this I would like to change.
There are an abundance of areas in which I unquestioningly meander along familiar paths, and an abundance of evidence that these paths are not morally right, and perhaps not even morally acceptable. They are just broad and helpfully filled with distractions, and the evidence that speaks against them is conveniently easy to ignore. To take three examples, at the time of writing this:
So this blog exists mostly as a place to think aloud. Or written down. Which will hopefully give me the self-discipline to stick with it, and not revert immediately back to an unexamined, socratically worthless life. It will most likely be self-absorbed, naive and in places ultimately embarrassing. But I trust that these are not inconsistent with it being worthwhile.
And so it is during times like these that I may be found meditating at the top of a mountain, for example. Not for very long, admittedly, but usually for at least for as long as it takes to become distracted by itches or (mercifully unrelatedly) a need to pee. Since this is typically of the order of seconds rather than days, it is insufficiently long to achieve orgasmic enlightenment. But it is nevertheless enough of a break from numbed normality to achieve some form of minor epiphany.
Usually it's the same epiphany each time - namely that my internet-addled attention span is of little use for either silent-being or deep-pondering - but even this feels worthwhile.
In any case, the characteristic feeling during these times is a consuming sadness, but conspicuously not a deep depression. Rather, I find myself curiously observing my sad thought-processes, wondering how their power might be harnessed for Good. If they could, that might be extremely useful. Like some kind of Personal Perpetual Motion Machine of Melancholy, which could not be stopped but shouldn't be anyway.
As this develops, I typically resolve to remain in the state of contemplation: dusting the world with a patiently light touch and gentle speech. The sun pokes up over the horizon of the soul's dark night, and with this renewed sense of humanity burgeoning the melancholy fades. So I start reading a book or watching TV, and eventually return to frittering away weeks pointing my head at websites I'm not even interested in reading. A few misplaced leaden words clunk on the head of an unfortunate conversation partner, and the thought some permanent improvement might have been made falters upon a realisation of reality.
This most recent epiphanic time might be no different, and least in this regard. But it seems at least a little different, since it has raised a question that is disinclined to leave me alone, even when I feel reasonably socially functional again. Inconveniently.
In essence, it appears suddenly inescapable that I have somehow managed to avoid thinking for the overwhelming majority of 29 years. And, unless I make the choice to change this, it will certainly continue this way. Indefinitely.
Amidst the decent, evil, multicoloured and inventively moustachioed plethora of Petes to be found in this rich multiverse, there must be at least one of them living in consistency with considered moral principles. But it has hitherto certainly not been this one. And this I would like to change.
There are an abundance of areas in which I unquestioningly meander along familiar paths, and an abundance of evidence that these paths are not morally right, and perhaps not even morally acceptable. They are just broad and helpfully filled with distractions, and the evidence that speaks against them is conveniently easy to ignore. To take three examples, at the time of writing this:
- I don't give to charity, and have never really done so in any regular, systematic or truly generous way. A reduction in grand possessions in the present is not a particular concern, but rather having no particular clue about my future plans makes saving an attractively safe option. And now that I live in Germany, the thought of having to figure out how to do it sensibly and jeopardise my otherwise simple tax involvement is extremely off-putting. (I do pay church tax, a curious phenomenon, but that was not so much through conscious decision as because the lady in the Einwohnermeldeamt was much more quick-witted than I early in the morning.)
- I walk past the homeless people found on the streets of Heidelberg because I don't know what else to do. I don't know what the consequences of stopping, giving money or talking would be, but I suspect they would feel bad - so I do nothing. (I do actually recall one act of very minor street generosity, but it ended in the guy swearing at me.)
- I eat meat because it fits in with my three recipes and maximises the palatable options in the university canteen. Otherwise, the main options are bread, lettuce and potatoes in some form. (And there's no guarantee the lettuce doesn't contain some form of meatiness.)
So this blog exists mostly as a place to think aloud. Or written down. Which will hopefully give me the self-discipline to stick with it, and not revert immediately back to an unexamined, socratically worthless life. It will most likely be self-absorbed, naive and in places ultimately embarrassing. But I trust that these are not inconsistent with it being worthwhile.
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