Reflections on what can be done with life

I read something that made me think of what should be done with life, what it was about. It put into my mind so much. I thought of myself, my own longings and search. I thought of what one does with anything — what aim is worthwhile unless it can be repeated, continued, be permanent — and I see the fallacy of that. I thought of Frankenstein’s child, the created man, running into the wasteland, looking for a place to be, accepted only temporally by someone without sight; I thought of that delightful anonymity, and the acceptance that comes with it; that glorious isolation and the fear that is carried in its wake. Perhaps God is sightless and bestows that sort of privacy? Yes, perhaps I am completely alone, unknown. And I think of the voyage, the movement, the need to travel, to go beyond, to be directionless, remote, changing, exposed, borne up by the unplanned, exposed to the wind. I am excited by the movement, and then dismayed by the rest which must follow. Why am I sad at the break from movement? Why do I think it should never end? Because I want to make the journey itself into a destination. A journey should be neither permanent, nor an interlude; journeying should be the essence of change. But how can that be? Seeking is exciting, opening, creating, discovering, finding. Finding, what is that? Simply knowing that one has been seeking? Is there anything creative in a discovery? Is excitement a state or an opportunity? When I see into someone else’s eyes, behind them, into their soul — and I feel there love and my love — do I want to find what I see? Do I want to bask in that which I have discovered? Or do I want to feel the excitement of becoming, discovering, finding? Is it the going behind someone else’s eyes, or the being behind someone else’s eyes that I wish for? Philosophy provides a context to ask questions, and it is distracting because it means we need not reside in the world of answers. But it is a sterile pursuit. Movement, discovery, creation, love, anticipation, wishing, wanting, needing — all the things which precede an end result, the acts of questioning — those are what I want. And yet I yearn for an end result. I wish, not only for the wishing, but also that which I wish for. And what happens to that? It gets broken. It is a disappointment. But how can I feel content with being in a state of anticipation? It gives a lot, it makes me aware, it excites, it makes me available, it opens, it provides the space. Surely that is enough? Hankering after an end result I know is ridiculous, it is bound to lead to dissipation. But I chase the orgasm.

It is not that insight is not available, I know it is, and it can be transforming. And one insight is being content with simply being in the world, being available, accepting what is, accepting that is. In that acceptance there is peace. But if I am peaceful, if I am not chasing, I fear I will miss something of it — that which is available to me. And if I miss something of it, then I might die and not know it, or not know I have been alive because it will not be organised, structured. It is a clear competition: ‘be’ or ‘be for’. And there is a clear winner. But as soon as I grab the prize the problems begin again. Still I want to know where I can ‘be’, who I can ‘be’ with, how I can ‘be’ all the time. That is why I search, and I know the search is the answer, but it does not convince me. Do I expect a huge, explosive revelation? Not really, but I would like to feel convinced, to believe that being in a state of change, of openness, was the best I can do, the best anyone can do. And I think of Kafka’s Burrow and feel both buried and lost in it.

There seems two features: moving forward and accomplishing. Moving forward has novelty, urgency, desire but above all, potential and anticipation. Accomplishing, or wrapping things up, brings all of those potential things into a convenient place — a place where I can be satisfied. But meaning is in the task, in the act. Space can only be found in the openness provided by the environment of the task. There is no space in the dense clutter that is the world wrapped up. For me, unfortunately, I want both. I can’t be comfortable with open ended anticipation. I need to neaten it and yet I know this is dissipating.

I built a sports car once. It was my dream. I always wanted to do it. I did it. It was complete and I hated the possession of it. I was concerned it would be violated, attacked, marked. Some Dutch children pushed pebbles into its exhaust (a national dyke-plugging instinct!). I could not stand the possession of it — it was too perfect. I sold it. I felt so relieved. It is like the sexual act, the anticipation, the potential, the image of the becoming. But the orgasm is still wanted, and it destroys all else. It is a moment of possession to the dis-benefit of the continuance of potential. How can I be benign in the face of the world? How can I smile at the man angrily honking the horn? Perhaps? In moments. How can I leave the hitchhikers at the crossroads?

If death didn’t wrap up life, there might not be such a feeling that everything in life needs wrapping up. And yet death doesn’t truly wrap up life at all. It merely cuts it off, and at that point everything about living life is incomplete. So the example that life gives us is strictly an example of openness, a lesson in ‘non-completion’. So, there, I think, I have it — the problem is living with the incomplete. Being open to that which has meaning for us: open to being free, open to changing, and open to acting. It is there, with ever present transformation available, that light can come in, or that light can be seen from within, or that there can be an awareness of light. Show me a man honking a horn and I will smile at him until he can honk no longer! Show me two hitchhikers and I will wind down the window and tell them where the crossroads is! Show me a project and I will stick with it until it never ends!

Now, today, I had an elder brother — he always went ahead; the undiscovered country was never quite so foreign as it is now.

Any differences about how we should find our way in life seem irrelevant. Why was I so concerned with my metaphysical interpretation of the world? It is irrelevant — fascinating, interesting to talk about, philosophically puzzling — but irrelevant? Wordsworth’s ‘spots in time’: magic, encapsulated, un-continuing. Caught in the mind because they would not continue. Caught in the mind because they were beautiful, better than normal. I feel the same — unable to respond sometimes. The more I realise, the more unable I become. Like Socrates, I suppose, wanting to keep it live, wanting not to freeze it in text. Culturally we are so influenced by the Platonic focus on systematising which infected Aristotle like a germ, and the whole of learning that followed — how can we learn anything unless it is systemised? Poor Socrates, a victim of systemisation after his death and, in life, only wanting to know, enquire, wonder what was good, puzzle at who acted well. I understand liberation but something inside me insists on asking ‘liberation to what?’, ‘what will I do with my liberation?’. Sometimes, I cannot rid myself of that pestering inner voice. Do we swoop amongst the clouds endlessly or do we, as we are so strongly encouraged to do, always come back to earth? It is the temptation of the idea of ultimate meaning. But can there be an ultimate meaning? Maybe not, when everything is dead, when the universe is cold, when there is no possibility of life emerging again, maybe not. But that does not mean there is no meaning. That it all ends in a frozen ‘tychistic’ moment, does not mean that life has been meaningless. It is a mistake to look to an end product of life. What would it be anyway, a ‘super-life’, an everlasting life, a life that repeated all the things we ever dreamed of? We are alive and being alive is itself the ‘end’ of living. Being alive is our meaning. It is a mistake to look beyond life to see if there is a meaning for life itself. The meaning is in the being. Walk amongst a cloud of butterflies, or sit amid the buzz of summer insects, and you will know you are alive — amongst life, valuing life, being alive — and in so doing its meaning is found. But the voice still asks me, ‘but being alive for what?’. If philosophy can help me, and in most ways I doubt it, then it must help me attain presentness, unquestioned presentness.