psychology

Day 2383, Loss of dignity.

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Friedrich Nietzsche

The Gay Science

Book One

6 Loss of dignity. – Reflection has lost all its dignity of form: we have made a laughing-stock of the ceremony and solemn gestures of reflection, and couldn’t stand an old-style wise man. We think too fast, while on our way somewhere, while walking or in the midst of all sorts of business, even when thinking of the most serious things; we need little preparation, not even much silence: it is as if we carried around in our heads an unstoppable machine that keeps working even under the most unfavourable circumstances. Formerly, one could tell just by looking at a person that he wanted to think – it was probably a rare occurrence – . that he now wanted to become wiser and was preparing himself for a thought: one would set one’s face as for prayer and stop walking: yes. one stood still for hours on the street once the thought ‘arrived’ – on one or two legs. The dignity of the matter required it!

Day 2382, The cause of our talents.  

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This is a picture of a door with someone’s art painted on it. I don’t like showing of pictures of something that in itself is beautiful or interesting. The problem is that most things you take pictures of are interesting in themselves. A colorful sunset is beautiful, and a picture can show that, but as a photographer, you have to manipulate that reality to make the sunset yours. There is a thin line between just a picture of a sunset or landscape or a picture of these scenes that is in itself worth watching.

The art on the door and fence is interesting in itself if you go to the place where it is, you can enjoy it too, but there is a lot of distraction around it, and it might be cold or too warm and the light harsh. This picture shows what the original artist probably intended, and that is the illusion and movement. Though I manipulated this photo just like I do with a picture of a sunset, I find it still strange to take credit for it, and that is strange because a sunset is mothers nature’s work, but in a sense, so is the art we make as humans, as individuals too.

I sometimes make pictures that can be considered as art, but I have never put any effort into learning these skills. I take a lot of pictures, but that’s what I like to do and what I know of composition and style is something I just had without any effort. I had the luck that I got a camera from my parents when I was young so I could discover these qualities in me, I would have never known without the right people around me at the right time. I also find enough motivation and inspiration to keep on taking pictures, but again, there is no effort in that because it’s what I have always done when my mind is set on something, it’s “baked” in me.

I just want to say that we can praise the artist for what comes out of their mind or hands, but I think we should praise even more the coincidence that so much talent has come together in one place and gave birth to that art. I think some humility is good for all of us, and we shouldn’t inflate what “we” bring to the table ourselves. Some say that we are just conscious, I don’t know about that, but we are at least conscious of ourselves and our talents, and we should also know that we are not the cause of our talents, at most caretakers.

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Day 2380, love for a.

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Living in a small big country far from the centre makes it sometimes necessary to travel long distances to get what you need. We’re on the way back, but still 3 hours from our workplace, we have already traveled 14 hours. We picked up a large, used table saw to replace a 40 year old saw we had. My old colleague, who worked longer at the company than the old table saw is old finally retired at 72. So we young ones immediately took the chance to look for replacements of the old machines. The old machines need a lot of love and special encouragement to let them work correctly, something the old guy excepted out of his love for the machines. He didn’t understand why we complained that the old girl didn’t saw straight anymore, she just needs a little guidance and help was his response. I don’t know if I ever fall in love with this new saw, but the time it took getting her home has already helped with getting her closer to my heart, if only because I enjoyed a whole day of driving through this beautiful landscape.

Day 2376, moving thoughts.

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I have lived secluded for many years now. Not that I have no contact with the world, but I keep my distance. I look at it and analyze what I see through a filter of philosophy and poetry. I also get older, and the advantage of youth is slipping away, wherein you see all the grownups as living in a different world. Authority impresses when you’re young, but now that I am 50, I have little illusion left that someone knows what they are doing. Sure, most people think they know what they are doing, but self-reflection is a sparsely dealt out gift.

I see all these world leaders and bosses being confident and proclaiming what has to happen. Some rally the sheep, and others threaten nuclear destruction out of a delusional belief in themselves. Thousands of leaders have a direction formed in their minds that they follow, and none of these thousands of direction point in the same direction. For me, an outsider, this seems strange. Don’t they see that you can’t defend your direction in the light of all those other ones? They can not all be true, and why would yours be?

I understand that living with some kind of “truth” in yourself makes life easier. Doubting is nerve-wracking and keeps you on your toes, but one of my adopted truths is that the period between birth and death is not to be used to feel calm and at ease or pick a side. I don’t have the obsession to find and keep some kind of peace in myself and a side… sides are for people who need company. For me, living still means growing or shrinking but, in any way, moving.

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Day 2375, Simone de Beauvoir.

Daily picture, Poetry 

The door is still closed
to keep the fresh air in

Nochrisis

Simone de Beauvoir

The second sex

When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man. Being poorly integrated in the universe of humanity and hardly able to adapt herself therein, she, like the child, is able to see it objectively; instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain All.