A depressed philosopher


Day 277-1

When I was a kid I took apart my toys, curious for what was inside and how it worked. I have never stopped doing that. I remember when I drove a car with a stick shift for the first time. Some people get it explained, try it for a while and succeed, or not. Others just drive away without thinking about it, but I studied the car, learned how the clutch works, what happens in the gear box, friction, movement, and I drove away without a problem. I understood the mechanism and its workings.

The technic of researching and thinking about tools and problems we have is not only useful, I restore wooden boats for a living, but also something I like to do. This capability has given me the chance to be responsible for a lot of the projects I have worked on what, coincidently, fits with some other, les favorable, character traits I have like…knowitallism.

But on a more serious note.

When I later in life was met with some hurdles, like depression, I used the same techniques as if it was a car and I wanted to know why and how it was not working. Some therapist say: “do this and avoid that”, but that doesn’t say anything about what the problem is. It might help but if we use the car as an analogy It’s like saying: “don’t turn the radio on to high and don’t go downhill”. So, I started reading books, I know…it’s all pre-google, and the biggest section in this particular bookstore where I went was the one with all the self-help books. Those books are not helpful at all, especially if you read a couple of them. They all claim to have the answers and cures for life’s problems, which is impossible of course because they cannot all be right. My opinion is that if there is a book with the answers for life’s problems we all would know about it, because it would work. There are not so many opinions on how to repair a car, if your solution for repairing a car doesn’t work you will not be taken serious in the repair business.

There is no book with answers was my conclusion after some more wandering around in the world of possible cures for depression and the closely related feeling of…why?

But, I went back to that bookstore for one more time and looked for other books, I asked for help, wondered around, aimlessly, bookshelf after bookshelf till I bumped in to this old lady. She was wearing a shirt of the book store, so she must have worked there. She looked at me, and saw something in my desperate eyes, something she hadn’t seen in a long time. She said:” I know what you are looking for, follow me”. We walked down the rows of books and books and finely, at the back of the store, when you closed the door of the man’s toilet you could see a tiny bookcase, with a broken off nameplate on top of it. It sad…philo

Philosophy, brought me a manual to life, and maybe I’m still at the register but one thing that it has taught me so far, is how to stand without ground under my feet, very useful if you ever been depressed.

Letter to a dying friend

Our mind

Day 585-1

At the end of your life you look back.

We often think, as people, that life is endless. The days flow together, in a week, a month and before you know it, ten years. Looking at it like this, there seems to be no end and you take your time for granted. But the reality is, of course, very different. What is life more than a memory. You have an experience, process it with your biases, your colors, and archive it. Later you open the drawer with the memories in it and put on your glasses containing new life lessons, convictions, and experiences, and use them to look at those old times. That’s our life, colored memories, strung to each other like a web spun from old desires, dreams and stale air anchored to those sparse, valuable moments that make it all worthwhile. Life viewed like this is a construction and time plays a small role in it. This web is two dimensional, seen from the side it’s a few moments thick. All these ambiguous memories and old stories are not as important as those lasting once. Those lasting moments often fit in a few beats of your heart, so in the time you have left, you can still fit, worth a lifetime of new valuable ones.

Democracy from all sides


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If the truth is a circle and I can only see one part of it, and I realize that, I than cannot proclaim to know the truth. I can proclaim my side of the truth, my part of what I can see but not much more. I think this is self-evident but if I look at myself I know that I have enough opinions without knowing all or at least more of the circle or truth.

If two people both stand on opposite sides of a statue and describe the side they see then they are off course both right as far as describing their side, but if a third person walks around the statue and describes it there is a bigger chance that that description tells you more about the statue as a whole, it’s more truthful despite all three were telling the truth.

Off course you can argue that the two-people standing on one side and not took the effort to walk around where purposely not telling the whole truth. If than again they were bound to their place you could argue that they were telling the(ir) truth.

Can we expect in any form of discourse that all people that take part try to “walk around the statue” so that we at least can collect all description of that statue and democratically come to a consensus as to its form.

Is it ok if one or more stay on one side and thus give more weight to that side, skewing the results Is that democratic?

What about the people that cannot see, or touch the statue and still form an opinion. That is a problem, and it can lead to a miss representation of the statue if the teachers that inform the blind and senseless are given to much power in their description of the different sides.

The wall


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I stand for a wall.
Left and right infinitely long.

I look up, looking for the edge.
Infinite far away, I do not see it, so it seems to be.

I turn around, look back in time.
Infinite deep, it seems to be.

I turn again and stretch my hand.
And touch the wall, it’s warm.

A shiver pulls through my back, my shoulders are shocking.
It pulls on my hand, and then it goes back.

I look better, come closer.
I see eyes, a mouth, these stones seem a live.

My hand retreats and I turn my head.
These stones, are looking at me.

I lean back more, I see hundreds, thousands of eyes.
The wall lives and breathes is warm, alive… it’s cold.

I step back and look left and right; the eyes go again.
Infinite high and long is this wall.

Made of rectangular humans formed out of stone.
I frown and laugh, and walk further again.

Looking for an opening.
Some eyes are scared, and watch, others see me not go.

Satisfied and content they appear to be in their rectangular life.
At least, on the surface, don’t know how deep they will be here.

I stop again, curious in their depth.
Perhaps I can pull one out and determine, the thickness of the wall.

The joints are hard, gray like cement, I look better, this will be hard.
Elected prejudices together with sandy habits appear to separate the bricks.

But these hard joints tie them together, I try to move more than one.
The joint forms them, separates and binds them, it conceals their depth.

I look around, look at the ground but find nothing sharp.
With my finger I touch one of the joints and scratch with my nail.

The eyes are now horrified in the stones all around.
I ignore them for now, and I scratch more, but soon give up.

This will take forever, nails do not grow that fast, life is too short.
I walk further looking for something that can break or bite, a stick, book or a sight.

The grass is green here but I would like to see the depth of this human being and what is,
the color of the grass behind this wall