1) I post about a few inconveniences online
2) I use a little dramatic language as is akin to human nature
3) I say, "down with Farenheit, give me the perfectly logical Celcius scale instead"
4) I am branded a Nazi.
Perhaps Nuremberg was too harsh....
Monday 28 December 2009
Thursday 17 December 2009
To rid the disease...
As humans, we are only akin to responding in two ways; comply or rebel.
It has been hardwired into our systems for some reason. Perhaps it was something evolutionary, for it meant well to comply with someone you percieved was doing good for you. And in the halcyon days, if you can call them that, of our ancient ancestors, it wasn't a difficult choice. If your tribe is hungry, hunt the mammoth. Blizzard outside? Hide within the hunted mammoth's ribs. Leaders were the ones who could propose these obvious solutions. Genes that felt otherwise were destroyed.
This has led to remarkable actions that have radically changed the face of our race and the face of the planet. It was this instinct that made the Nazis comply when authoritatively ordered to do so. You don't think so? Read about the Milgram Experiments.
When in doubt, there is room for the other instinct, rebellion, to kick in without the threat of extinction. This is what happens when we are still unsure as to whether we should warm the earth or not.
This is what happens when I install software and am imposed to accept a bunch of other stuff that I scarce use. Itunes? Quick time tags along. Windows? IE is now my burden. Yahoo messenger? Here is Yahoo toolbar for good measure. If that isn't enough, it displays the temperature of Delhi in Farenheit! This transgression was enough to inspire this post. Trying to make us Indians learn to accept Farenheit as temperature reference is sacrilage!
I shall now endeavour to rid my browser of this affliction. Here's to rebellion. Here's to rid the disease...
It has been hardwired into our systems for some reason. Perhaps it was something evolutionary, for it meant well to comply with someone you percieved was doing good for you. And in the halcyon days, if you can call them that, of our ancient ancestors, it wasn't a difficult choice. If your tribe is hungry, hunt the mammoth. Blizzard outside? Hide within the hunted mammoth's ribs. Leaders were the ones who could propose these obvious solutions. Genes that felt otherwise were destroyed.
This has led to remarkable actions that have radically changed the face of our race and the face of the planet. It was this instinct that made the Nazis comply when authoritatively ordered to do so. You don't think so? Read about the Milgram Experiments.
When in doubt, there is room for the other instinct, rebellion, to kick in without the threat of extinction. This is what happens when we are still unsure as to whether we should warm the earth or not.
This is what happens when I install software and am imposed to accept a bunch of other stuff that I scarce use. Itunes? Quick time tags along. Windows? IE is now my burden. Yahoo messenger? Here is Yahoo toolbar for good measure. If that isn't enough, it displays the temperature of Delhi in Farenheit! This transgression was enough to inspire this post. Trying to make us Indians learn to accept Farenheit as temperature reference is sacrilage!
I shall now endeavour to rid my browser of this affliction. Here's to rebellion. Here's to rid the disease...
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Driftwood
I wrote this in a pensive mood, one evening a few months back...
He walked alone through the road along the wooded reaches at the crack of dawn. Alone was good for there were no limits that his mind knew nor his walk would know, that presence of another would most certainly serve to normalize, constrain and make mundane. The hour was that of transition; from a world of uncertain chirping of the delightful six-legged creatures that have fascinated him ever since he laid his sense upon them to the more certain calls of the early birds. Thus unbound by the limits of purpose and another mind or body’s demands, he wandered on, both physically and mentally, wherever he was sent, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
This was that state where rationality broke down and his mind refused to comply by the guidelines of its being every other time otherwise. This was a time when nothing could have chosen what he cared for. Most things that would otherwise seem so significant to him, was detached and so far away that he transformed into an altogether different creature. Anything mattered but nought to him, neither the lofty dreams that he had, nor the little liberties that define us. Now was a time when his mind was so far removed that no force, human or otherwise, could bend its state of emotional isolation. He wasn't happy for how kind life had been, neither was he sad for its harsher realities. The beauty of his surroundings mattered to him only as much as it would have to the wayside rocks that he passed along.
Why is it that we pursue something just for the thrill of the ride? Unto what end is achievement, pain, happiness, misery, pride, anger, lust, envy or sorrow? How much does it matter whether our demeanour would placate the expectations of them who surround us? How much does it matter whether it placates our own, if by doing so, we are merely making way for the arousal of certain ephemeral, visceral emotions that are brought about by the action of naturally emitted chemicals? How much lesser still it matters, if these chemicals are pushed through by consuming more chemicals? Our emotions are but reactions between baking soda and acetic acid of differing strengths, spurting and gurgling whenever they confront each other and merely as significant. Now isn’t that a neat experiment? Make a rudimentary mountain of clumped lumps of mud and poke a hole on the top so as to fill it with baking soda and add to it the vinegar in your hand. A reddish hue might just about qualify to remind you of a volcano. Cheer its occurrence heartily while repeating it till the ingredients are spent, or you are.
Then what be the purpose of such existence? If there be no higher being, it has no meaning. If there is something of that sort, we are merely its experiments, serving to glorify our deeds and emotions, clawing the dirt around us to ground us more firmly, consuming, producing, purifying and polluting things that we deem so worthy, pumping ourselves with pleasure, both physically and mentally only to be irrevocably transformed into insignificant dust, only to source his amusement. Of course, the significance of such amusement can be questioned as well leading us to reach an irreversible loop. What are we but mere parasites of that which surround us, which in turn are the same. However, that doesn't change the nature of our discussion, nor does it make us more relevant.
He then joined the stream that ran beside his path, unshaken, unstirred yet much happier than the happiest man in spite of the absence of joy, because he knew not any sorrow. He was the master of his emotions. He did not submit to the will of another being in any way whatsoever. He did not see the need to care or concern himself with any other. He refused to depend upon anything for survival. His life refused to be imprisoned in the prison that it had just discovered around itself.
He floated on, dead, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
He walked alone through the road along the wooded reaches at the crack of dawn. Alone was good for there were no limits that his mind knew nor his walk would know, that presence of another would most certainly serve to normalize, constrain and make mundane. The hour was that of transition; from a world of uncertain chirping of the delightful six-legged creatures that have fascinated him ever since he laid his sense upon them to the more certain calls of the early birds. Thus unbound by the limits of purpose and another mind or body’s demands, he wandered on, both physically and mentally, wherever he was sent, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
This was that state where rationality broke down and his mind refused to comply by the guidelines of its being every other time otherwise. This was a time when nothing could have chosen what he cared for. Most things that would otherwise seem so significant to him, was detached and so far away that he transformed into an altogether different creature. Anything mattered but nought to him, neither the lofty dreams that he had, nor the little liberties that define us. Now was a time when his mind was so far removed that no force, human or otherwise, could bend its state of emotional isolation. He wasn't happy for how kind life had been, neither was he sad for its harsher realities. The beauty of his surroundings mattered to him only as much as it would have to the wayside rocks that he passed along.
Why is it that we pursue something just for the thrill of the ride? Unto what end is achievement, pain, happiness, misery, pride, anger, lust, envy or sorrow? How much does it matter whether our demeanour would placate the expectations of them who surround us? How much does it matter whether it placates our own, if by doing so, we are merely making way for the arousal of certain ephemeral, visceral emotions that are brought about by the action of naturally emitted chemicals? How much lesser still it matters, if these chemicals are pushed through by consuming more chemicals? Our emotions are but reactions between baking soda and acetic acid of differing strengths, spurting and gurgling whenever they confront each other and merely as significant. Now isn’t that a neat experiment? Make a rudimentary mountain of clumped lumps of mud and poke a hole on the top so as to fill it with baking soda and add to it the vinegar in your hand. A reddish hue might just about qualify to remind you of a volcano. Cheer its occurrence heartily while repeating it till the ingredients are spent, or you are.
Then what be the purpose of such existence? If there be no higher being, it has no meaning. If there is something of that sort, we are merely its experiments, serving to glorify our deeds and emotions, clawing the dirt around us to ground us more firmly, consuming, producing, purifying and polluting things that we deem so worthy, pumping ourselves with pleasure, both physically and mentally only to be irrevocably transformed into insignificant dust, only to source his amusement. Of course, the significance of such amusement can be questioned as well leading us to reach an irreversible loop. What are we but mere parasites of that which surround us, which in turn are the same. However, that doesn't change the nature of our discussion, nor does it make us more relevant.
He then joined the stream that ran beside his path, unshaken, unstirred yet much happier than the happiest man in spite of the absence of joy, because he knew not any sorrow. He was the master of his emotions. He did not submit to the will of another being in any way whatsoever. He did not see the need to care or concern himself with any other. He refused to depend upon anything for survival. His life refused to be imprisoned in the prison that it had just discovered around itself.
He floated on, dead, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
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