Hi JLNobody
You wrote:
Quote:
....let me just suggest that the question of observing observing is something that must be answered by each of us in the act of looking, not cogitating.
Oh, for sure, But thinking and pondering can lead to insights and inquiry , knowledge has value, up to a point.
Quote:When I try to observe my act of trying to observe my act of trying to observe....I conclude, rightly or not, that the only way I can become aware of my observing experience is in my memory of it. Without memory we would not be aware of the act of observation. We WOULD observe but not know that we are doing that; only afterwards (probably immediately afterwards) can we do so. In this way Twyvel is right: one cannot observe observing. But so is Frank: we can recall the experience of observing (BUT "recalling" is not "observing" perceptually, only conceptually).
I think there could be an aware of observing without memory. I could be aware of the immediate moment in which everything is always new and arising for the first time, in fact I think that is what is actually happening.
It is memory that robs us of a lot of the wonder and beauty of the immediate moment by polluting it with familiarity.
And as you say recalling an experience of observing is an observation itself. It's the observation of what appears to be a familiar idea, concept, mental image etc.
But I think you would agree that an observation of a past observation is not the observation of observing.
twyvel, Knowledge can have both positive and negative value. We respond to our environment in different ways based on our own knowledge base and experience. We can extrapolate all of our knowledge up to a certain point in time, but the next observation or knowledge will change everything. c.i.
cicerone imposter,
If the next observation or knowledge changes everything as you say, were you in possession of knowledge in the first place?
Was the apparent knowledge that the earth was flat,.... knowledge?
twyvel, Good question! I've often wondered about that very thing, because it's almost impossible to explain many human phenomenon such as Mozart and idiot savants. c.i.
I think people have tried to answer this question for centuries.
Of course, you ave to agree on what "to know" means. Is what you "know" what you believe in (in which case the "apparent knowledge" that the earth was flat is knowledge), or is "knowing" being aware of the truth, at which point the debate heads toward the nature of truth, a debate which we all know and love....
twyvel wrote:Quote: I honestly think you are making way too much of the fact that "being" -- "existing" -- is a very mysterious process -- and understanding it is probably beyond the ken of humans at this stage of their evolution.
I don't know what you mean here Frank, you appear to be contradicting yourself.
I do think there are people who have profound insights of 'being, 'existence' and consciousness/awareness.
And you are sure they have profound insights of being, existence, and consciousness/awareness?
To the point where "they understand" it?
You are sure of that?
I am the black infinite. The cosmos twist in my favor. I command the seven seas, my eyes light up the skies. I command armies and minions all foes piss in their panties at the sight of my terror. My halitosis incinerates life. The universe orgasms in the palm of my hand. All who dare oppose the RED death will be crushed by my god like strength and serpent tounge along with my fast typing skills. I am the ALPHA AND THE OMEGA!!!! I AM KULL THE CONQUEROR!!!! HOOOOY YAH!!
Yes well, I'm afraid I'm already established here as the annoying insane one, I'm sure there are other forums...
we're all in this together, or not at all;
i am a part of the "we"
the we has existed since the 1st sentient glob of protoplasm realised it was; we wonder; we pass along; and the next set of "we" wonder, perhaps with a leg up from our wondering.
we create culture, it is all there is.............it defines us; we consume it; it is our reward 4 being.
(even while there is no purpose; we just "r") we search;
if we "knew" there would no longer be a purpose 4 being.
NNY is just jealous because he can't make the universe orgasm!
I like How Bo Go Wo said "We" to make it somehow relevant to the philosophy thing.
Don't tempt me temptress! Chimi Chongas are soooo good, I really wish I had one. Setana likes flautas, and they too are great, but do not compare to the Magulation of Chimi Chongas.
Using my spooky eyes of DOOM I can aliennate stuff... Like chairs... of DOOM! and patio furniture of other sorts... of DOOM!
...
(first time I've ever used a smiley, and only using one because you two did)
....
of DOOM!
The doomed universe whimpers, "orgasm, orgasm"
NNY and THe ReDHoRN, please keep us informed about your budding and/or existing relationship. Personally, I don't care much about giving the universe an orgasm, just my wife, and more than one. Maybe I am 'meta-physical' after all
I do in fact enjoy libations after I am Donne...
Cav; is that John Donne: "every man's orgasm diminisheth me......."
(gives new meaning 2 "the sun also rises")
I'm confused, seems like someone has inferiority complex when it comes to bed! I'm not saying who but no one can make the universe orgasm but me, Now that's the metaphysical nature of it all! If you think you can make the universe orgasm then SHOW ME! BRING IT ON BUDDY!!! please remember IM KULL THE CONQUEROR OOOOOH YEEEEEEEAH!
SHOW ME YOUR STUFF!(but not that kind of stuff, but hey you know, i'm just looking for some TOUGH COMPETITION! OOOOOOH YEEEEEAH YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES? And that's a challenge! WHOSE THE MAN?
I'm sorry but it's too hard to be serious about this competition stuff!
Who is competing? I am Donne personally. BoGoWo, not one of my faves, that poem, but I thought no discussion of metaphysics would be complete without a mention of the man. As for ReDHoRN...hee hee...I might suggest switching Schopenhauer for Whitman:
SONG OF MYSELF
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied -- I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.
*There is a whole lot more, but I thought the first five verses were a good teaser.
nice leaf!
to drink the heafty elixer of raunch!
I am not WHAT I used to be.
