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Freewheel...
May. 4th, 2016 09:26 pmI keep replaying certain "posts" in my mind, mostly because I haven't gotten around to setting them out in pixels.
For example, I'm taken with the idea of encapsulating some of my observations about coping with cancer (e.g., "You didn't think you were going to live forever, did you?") and wonder if I would have enough material to "compete," if that's the right word, with Aurelius' Meditations.
(Heck, what is a "meditation"? Something you think about? I really have no good idea.) Aurelius's scribblings seem to me to be the thoughts of a man talking to himself. Reminding himself of his proper role in the universe.
For which I salute him, because you would think that something like that would not be so hard, but—trust me—it is.
It's hard to wrap your mind around the fact that quite a bit of what, in the depths of your soul, you feel to be true simply isn't. That said, that does not stop us humans from acting as if it is.
As an example, consider the following quip, attributed to Woody Allen:
Eventually, we all will die, and only way we can achieve "immortality" is to be remembered for some achievement, but Aurelius—and other Stoics—know full well that even this is an illusion.
For example, according to my good friend Feht, had it not been for the concerted efforts of one Felix Mendelssohn, it is almost given that a certain Johann Sebastian Bach would have continued to languish in obscurity, perhaps to our day. (As someone who enjoys Bach's works, that's something I have a hard time wrapping my mind around.)
That said, the fact of Bach's fame or obscurity makes not a whit of difference to Bach himself, because he is, um, dead. As a result, he doesn't feel any better or worse that we thrill (or, inconceivably, do not thrill) to, say, his Brandenburg Concertos—because he does not feel. (He's dead, remember?)
Does that make sense?
We are, all of us, merely souls propping up a corpse.
For example, I'm taken with the idea of encapsulating some of my observations about coping with cancer (e.g., "You didn't think you were going to live forever, did you?") and wonder if I would have enough material to "compete," if that's the right word, with Aurelius' Meditations.
(Heck, what is a "meditation"? Something you think about? I really have no good idea.) Aurelius's scribblings seem to me to be the thoughts of a man talking to himself. Reminding himself of his proper role in the universe.
For which I salute him, because you would think that something like that would not be so hard, but—trust me—it is.
It's hard to wrap your mind around the fact that quite a bit of what, in the depths of your soul, you feel to be true simply isn't. That said, that does not stop us humans from acting as if it is.
As an example, consider the following quip, attributed to Woody Allen:
I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.The humor in what he says lies in our knowledge that "not dying" and "living on in my apartment" are not in the cards. It's part of the inescapable nature of being human.
Eventually, we all will die, and only way we can achieve "immortality" is to be remembered for some achievement, but Aurelius—and other Stoics—know full well that even this is an illusion.
For example, according to my good friend Feht, had it not been for the concerted efforts of one Felix Mendelssohn, it is almost given that a certain Johann Sebastian Bach would have continued to languish in obscurity, perhaps to our day. (As someone who enjoys Bach's works, that's something I have a hard time wrapping my mind around.)
That said, the fact of Bach's fame or obscurity makes not a whit of difference to Bach himself, because he is, um, dead. As a result, he doesn't feel any better or worse that we thrill (or, inconceivably, do not thrill) to, say, his Brandenburg Concertos—because he does not feel. (He's dead, remember?)
Does that make sense?
We are, all of us, merely souls propping up a corpse.
