Here are the details about some herbal ingredient in these foea.org generic viagra australia medications, avoid taking them in order stay healthy. online viagra order Men who feel more stressed may lose an erection during the time of physical intimacy. And when it comes to sexual pleasure, everyone wants to have sexual pleasure in their life. viagra ordination It also affects viagra professional canada your stamina and sex drive. From The Mural Gazer, Episode 56, News Style. Buddy Hope contemplates ending it all.
Thanks for checking out my first video post of Today’s Writes. This excerpt is taken from Episode 56 of my novel in progress, The Mural Gazer. At one level, it’s a philosophical but very personal take on suicide – not as a desperate act, but as the rational decision by a man who’s grown tired of living. So I don’t see it as a discussion of suicide per se, so much as an existential, inner conversation on the value of life without meaning.
Protagonist Buddy Hope is more sad than desperate. Sad, because purpose and meaning have drained out of is life, and the thought of continuing seems cowardly. He has arrived at this ‘to be or not to be’ moment, not in Shakespearean torment, but almost dutifully. The twisted irony of his circumstance is: his purpose in life has become to end it.
And what about those he’ll leave behind?
That becomes the real question. And Buddy doesn’t have an answer. He’s written his note. Said oblique goodbyes to his estranged wife, children, lover, and friends Bernice and Harry. But he knows his leaving will be a painful shock to them, and they will be left to struggle with the question: why? To wonder what they could have done to save him.
So another conundrum confronts him: Buddy realizes he has to commit a cowardly act, if he wants to discontinue his cowardly existence. His only consolation, if you can call it that? The belief that people will have to patch the fabric of their own consciousness with shared memories of him, and that mourning might, in a convoluted way, bring them together.
Is that a vain hope?
Today’s Writes are excerpts and reflections on some of my works in progress. They are an opportunity to share, and an invitation for people to participate in my story telling. Thank you for being here.
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Poetry, of course, stands on its own. In fact, one of the joys of all literature is the creative response it evokes in the minds of readers. Sharing our responsive impressions is now possible, and this is mine to Rosemary Ratcliff’s poem Our Changing World.
This video was produced for the Chemainus Valley Cultural Arts Society, where I volunteer as a communications guy. Collaborations like this help bring the arts in general, and literature in particular, to a larger audience.
If you want to simply hear her poem, and let its language activate your own interpretations and visions, hit the play arrow, and close your eyes! Then share what it evokes for you in a comment!
Sometimes, usually late at night, after having devoted an inordinate amount of time to figuring out some arcane and indecipherable philosophical theorem, I ask, “Why torture myself? Why not simply accept uncertainty and live out my days happily, secure in the knowledge that what is, is, and what shall be, shall be?”
Why bother with philosophy?
Recently, an answer to that question emerged. As mentioned previously here, for some weeks I have been muddling through Anthony Kenny’s A New History of Western Philosophy. Having just finished the lengthy section on Medieval Scholasticism, I considered myself not much the wiser for it. On the contrary, I felt disheartened and depressed.
That night, however, a list of conditions that I consider foundational to my own philosophy took shape, one after the other, in my mind. Even as I tapped them into my mobile – which I keep handy on the night table for recording thoughts – I realized these fundamentals were in response to my reading of the Medieval scholars… that they are part of my attempt to make sense of what my intellectual forebears had to say.
Here are the foundational statements to my own metaphysics:
Substance is neither created nor destroyed.
Change is incessant and never ending
All change is transformation of one substance into another
There are three fundamental substances: energy, matter & spirit.
Nothing exists that is not composed of the three fundamental substances.
The three fundamental substances never exist in isolation from one another.
The purpose of Being is Being.
The purpose of existence is existence.
The purpose of change is change
The nature of spirit is Being.
The nature of matter is existence.
The nature of energy is change.
Entropy is countered by Being
Being is threatened by entropy.
Nothing cannot exist.
This moment has been possible for all eternity.
All future moments are possible in this instant.
I can imagine that which does not exist; I cannot imagine that which is impossible.
What I imagine does exist.
I can only know what exists in imagination.
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Not everyone will agree with that starting point. Perhaps no-one other than I will. And I may have to revise its terms as I go. But for this existentialist, at this moment, every one of those statements is true, none of them are conditional or contingent.
A butterfly on our back verandah. There’s more than seven wonders in this world!
When I was a kid, my parents insisted I go to church. My older sister and brothers didn’t have to put on a scratchy suit and sit in the bum-polished pews of Norwood United for an hour or so of tepid religion – either because they were already saved or irredeemable, I didn’t know which. But I had no choice.
Then, at some point, Mum and Dad stopped attending, but insisted I continue to make my weekly pilgrimage to the House of God. I resented this arrangement, felt like a sacrificial lamb, being sent as a proxy to atone for my family’s guilt. The only redeeming factor in the whole situation was Rev. Kennedy’s daughter, who sat in the front pew, revering her father, while I sat toward the back, revering her.
Eventually, having recognized my own apostasy and the unattainable nature of the reverend’s daughter, I stopped going to church, too, saving the offertory money for other entertainments that might or might not have required forgiveness, but certainly had nothing to do with salvation.
Thus I spiralled like a misguided spark down the black hole of disbelief. I didn’t permit myself to know it at the time, but I’d stumbled upon my own sort of absolution at the drained font of atheism. It took decades for me to realize I was an atheist, decades more to believe it. I suppose it was mostly the unsettling notion of personal mortality that kept me in suspended animation all those years.
Having lived long enough to know that I don’t want to live forever, though, I’ve freed myself from that more or less selfish entanglement for imposing God on the universe. And what other reason could there be?
Well, it turns out that belief sort of sneaks up on you. If there is no God, I found myself asking, how do I explain all this? ‘All this’ referring to a seemingly infinite and eternal universe which harbours that most astonishing of all miracles: living Beings? Entities that are conscious, that procreate, and that have evolved into something as complex and incomprehensible as my self?
If you are not awed by the panoply of life buzzing, rooting, galloping, creeping, wriggling and a thousand other …ingings all around you, and inside you, and before you, and after… if you aren’t amazed, utterly and profoundly amazed by every bug on every leaf on every tree in the forest, then you can’t be fully human, can you?
That’s where religion sneaks back in. Aren’t awe, wonder and other such terms clearly in the religious realm? Don’t you have to be certifiably religious to use that kind of language in public? Doesn’t it bespeak things we mere mortals can’t understand, or even appreciate wholly. And if we can’t comprehend this universe of ours, who can? I mean someone has to? Otherwise, just like a bunch of passengers on a jumbo airliner, whose pilot has just died of a heart attack, we’re doomed.
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The catch to that sentence, “I don’t understand!” is it presumes there is someone who does. And of course, there have been plenty of prophets throughout the ages, who have proclaimed God’s word in fulfilment of that presumption. And most people throughout history have taken a proclamation of some sort as their truth.
Who knows, they might be right. That I don’t believe in a divine being who exists outside the realms of the physical universe and animal consciousness doesn’t mean all those prophets have been wrong, or charlatans. I don’t have to disprove the existence of God to disbelieve; nor do believers – despite the strenuous logic of thinkers like Augustine, Aquinas, Duns Scotus et al – have to prove His existence as a prelude to common faith.
As an existentialist I refuse to waste everybody’s time and energy with elaborately futile refutations of God’s existence. Is God possible? Yes. Therefore he cannot be denied with certainty. That’s an end to it. In fact, existentialism is not incompatible with faith.
On the other hand, I don’t have to listen politely to the strenuous attempts of believers to ‘save’ me. Or accede to claims about God-given rights in the realms of morality, justice and politics. I don’t mean to quibble, but there’s a stark contradiction to the lyric “God keep our land glorious and free” in the Canadian National Anthem. Who’s God are we talking about? And how is this presumed God going to be fair and impartial to citizens who don’t believe in Him?
Rev. Kennedy was a nice man. I liked him. Most believers are tolerant people. But there’s an underlying pity, or smugness in perverse cases, to the religious outlook. Not only are non-believers damned, according to the Bible, they are also incapable of true wonder, true awe. The heathens are not experiencing the eternal light of salvation; their vision is dimmed by blinding cataracts of sin. The presumption here is that, without God’s divine light we cannot be truly spiritual.
The damage done in the name of that kind of faith has been incalculable.
The other day I was sitting with a group of people in our workshop, the only indoor space on our property where we can practice the edicts of social distancing in accordance with COVID-19 protocols. We heard a cricket chirping in the room, and I spotted him next to the baseboard on the opposite wall. I excused myself from the conversation, walked over and coaxed the creature onto my hand. What a delight! To accompany a living Being out-of-doors and let him go about his singing in a place where it might attract a mate.
Awe is scaleable. Some people need dramatic music and dazzling vistas to achieve that sense of wonder; some need prospects of omnipotence, eternity and infinity; others find it in the minutest of details, in the awareness of spirit infusing every space, every nook and cranny of consciousness.
As an existentialist and atheist I’m reminded every day of my spiritual connection to this world, and I want to celebrate its wonders every moment. In that sense, I’m a believer, too.
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Direct-to-Web is more than just a digital format that allows me to distribute and share books cost-effectively and in an environmentally sensible manner, it’s also a way of opening up the boundaries of literature to new possibilities.
I’ve written 35 episodes of the The Mural Gazer, now, and have developed a format that works. But I’m only just beginning to appreciate some of the possibilities D2W offers. The most immediate pluses for readers and authors:
A D2W book can be read on a mobile, a laptop or a desktop computer. No special devices or programs necessary, other than access to the internet and the web.
Audio readings of a D2W story can be bundled with the print edition, so audiences can read or listen depending on their situations or preferences.
The cost of a getting a D2W book into readers hands is a fraction of print or eBook editions because there are hardly any distribution and printing expenses.
A D2W novel can be the modern equivalent of a serial, published episode by episode on the fly.
Graphic elements can be incorporated into the Direct-to-Web experience.
For those who want to lessen the environmental impacts of producing and distributing books, Direct-to-Web offers a much more sensible format than conventional publishing.
Those are immediate benefits of Direct-to-Web. Some of the possibilities that go beyond what is normally expected of literature, and which I haven’t even begun to explore:
Audience interaction. An author can communicate with his audience while he’s writing a book, and remain in contact after a book is published.
Side-stories. Links can be included in a book that will take readers off on side journeys. The possibilities of this feature for subplots, or excursions to actual settings, or… are enticing.
Collaborative opportunities. Musicians, visual artists, photographers, actors, all kinds of arts disciplines can be brought to bear on a plot or theme. Again, the possibilities are limitless and fascinating.
So, much as I like to see The Mural Gazer as a direction literature needs to go in, I’m pretty sure my vision is dwarfed by the reality of the medium I’m so excited about! Of course print editions of books are going to be the mainstay of most readers for some time. But I’d be surprised if mid-21st Century readers are toting paper and hardcover editions around with them; in fact, I’d be surprised if literature occupies anything other more than a shrinking niche in public consciousness if authors and publishers don’t develop the potential of Direct-to-Web books.
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A circle has no ending, no periods or dates. No beginnings either no pre-determined fate.
Some think it has a boundary scribed in rock or sand a sharp, defined circumference that we can comprehend.
But geometry's no pattern for what our minds embrace, our circle's not a border, fixed in time or place.
We're gathered here as writers looking in, and up, and out and all our conversations admit a note of doubt.
The only thing that's certain, at the centre of our sphere, is sharing, comparing, preparing are the reasons that we're here.
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We took our new Rialta camper van on its second inaugural run over the weekend, heading for French Beach, via Lake Cowichan and Port Renfrew, then on to Bamberton via Sooke, Goldstream and the Malahat.
The trip redefined our concept of perfect weather to include foggy, thought provoking days, that force you to bundle up and wear a hat, to ward off the droplets condensing on pine needles and leaves.
I always tell people, “I’m not a photographer, I’m just a guy who takes pictures.” But as an ex-journalist (if there ever was an ambulance chaser, who could combine those contradictory terms) I have taken thousands, probably tens of thousands, of shots.
So, although the technical and compositional skills of photography remain outside the view finder for me, I have learned something about the Zen of photography – the delight one takes in capturing a perfect moment in the neural circuitry of mind and camera.
B.C. offers so many opportunities for those focusing clicks. In this series, my favourites are the two images of Diana walking on a gravel spit off Bamberton Beach. The fog obscured much of the background, which made the parts it revealed more meaningful, more symbolic.
Careful as she was, observing the seagulls in the first shot, I anticipated the instant she would nudge just a fraction of a step too close, triggering their flight instinct. Birds taking wing are an inspiring image for me, and seagulls, with their long, elegant wings and immaculate white plumage, are a constant metaphor of my coastal existence.
Pleased with my photo prowess, I was repacking my camera, when glanced up and saw Diana heading back to shore, and about to step into the frame of a surreal composition that placed a ghostly boat in front of a ridge of hills looming out of the fog. The territory between that moored boat, and the mysterious landscape, is incognito, which means it’s a zone of possibilities, of unknowns.
Shafts of sunlight penetrating a forest canopy; a fungus encrusted log, the haphazard architecture of a driftwood hutch… to encounter those kinds of visual wonder on a couple of beaches, in a few hours… that’s part of the endless fascination of Vancouver Island.
Stay tuned. We’ll be heading out for the third inaugural trip in the Rialta soon… just as soon as I can get a mechanic to tell me why the engine light came on, as if our camper van didn’t really want to leave Port Renfrew, and complete our South Island circle tour.
In Chapter 8 of Anthony Kenny’s A New History of Western Philosophy, on page 463, there is a section talking about Scotus on Divine Law. My initial reaction was to set aside the nuances of the conversation as being irrelevant to an atheist’s point of view. But as an atheist, who has been raised in a society still at odds over the existence of God, and who can’t deny the religious controversies I have been immersed in, I have to pay attention to all the possibilities that might be believed.
If I am understanding Kenny’s explication, the new idea Scotus introduced was the arbitrary nature of God’s absolute power. As an omnipotent, omniscient being, God does not have to decree a ‘natural law’ in keeping with mankind’s happiness. He admits there are some essential aspects of ‘divine law’ that cannot be contradicted, even by God – for example, God cannot command a person to blaspheme Him or deny Him. But outside those absolute contradictions, which are foundational and fundamental, God can command anything He wants.
Thou shalt not kill may be a commandment, but if God chooses to break it or make ‘exceptions’, it is perfectly within his power to allow murder and not classify it as sin. Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not commit adultery, many of the Ten Commandment edicts only apply because they are decreed by the will of God, and if God chooses to vary them under certain circumstances, it is within his infinite power and wisdom to do so… and who are we to question the divine will.
To me, the logic of Scotus’ interpretation of ‘divine law’ seems obvious. I have often wondered how theologians up to his time could possibly explain the limits they wanted to place on God – how they could fashion God in their own image and according to their own mental and spiritual powers. If I were a believer, I would go farther than Scotus, actually. I would say that God has the divine ability to enact what seems to us mere mortals as contradictory realities.
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Of course, that godly power is often usurped by religious and political leaders for their own ends, quite often, to simply use as a means of grasping earthly authority for the sake of ungodly enterprises.
This unshackling of God would play an important role in the coming Reformation, Kenny says. By countering the ‘eudaemonistic’ nature of a loving God, he disabused those who agreed with him of any notion that the power of their God could be contained within the bounds of any human desires and comprehension.
A more scholarly philosopher than me might be able to tie that depersonalized version of God to the eventual apostasy of most of His followers. It certainly reinforces my notions of morality and ethics as being evolved systems of belief and behaviour that only exist in individual minds, communing with other individual minds.
There is no moral code, inscribed on tablets that have been handed down to us by God. Each human has his or her own set of moral standards that have been developed over a lifetime. Ethics is the complex, never-ending task of coordinating and reconciling individualistic social behaviour into a code the majority can agree and adhere to. To accuse someone of being ‘immoral’ is really saying they are activated by moral impulses different from your own; to call them ‘unethical’ is to say, they don’t agree with or abide by many of the behavioural standards endorsed by your society.
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Picked up the cat this morning to give his mourning hug listened to the breath of going in and coming out squeezed like an accordion his fur pressed to my ear listened to the resonance of going in and coming out listened to the purr of in and out
The woman I have identified as my fictional character Harriet Phipps in an upcoming The Mural Gazer story
Ultimately, every story is as much about the author as the characters he describes. It’s characters, no matter how laboriously presented as fiction, are inspiring creatures of his own experience and imagination. So it’s not surprising that, in writing the Mural Gazer, I am having to become a mural gazer myself, drawn into the settings and scenes on Chemainus’ walls, just like Harry Sanderson.
This morning I met Harriet Phipps in Mural #41 – The Outdoor Gathering. She was Harry’s great Aunt. He knew her in childhood, and is occasionally reminded of her by a framed portrait that sits on the mantle above their fireplace at VORLand’s End.
She plays a central role in the Mural Gazer story I’m working on at the moment. In the scene I’m describing, Harry is comparing the portrait on the Chemainus Seniors’ Centre wall, with the framed photo of his great aunt, which he’d brought with him in his jacket pocket. It will be her beckoning glance that draws him into the mural, because – though he did know her personally in his early childhood – he sees things in the portrait he’d never appreciated in real life, and he wants to meet this suddenly mysterious woman…
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He fumbled the photo of his great aunt Harriet out of his pocket. Studied it. Held it up to the portrait in the mural. “Could be,” he mumbled. But the likeness wasn’t perfect by any means. What startled him most about the woman in the mural was her imperious, blue eyes. His Aunty Harriet had died long before the invention of Kodachrome, but he remembered her piercing gaze – even as an old woman, it held you fast when she stared. She didn’t often stare, though, Harry remembered. It was as if she’d learned not to, the same way you learn not to point a gun, but always keep the barrel slanted down, toward the ground.
She was old, in his faded photo; the woman on the wall was young, and arrestingly beautiful, Harry thought. “Not pretty,” he opined, “beautiful.” She appeared to him a woman who knew things about herself and her world that others could not possibly fathom. A woman who made up her mind about things, and said exactly what she thought at exactly the right moment.
Exactly the right moment, he repeated. Exactly the right moment…
Then he was gone.
Harry Sanderson
I didn’t know how much I wanted to meet this woman, until I wrote this passage. You can get into the evolving stories in my Direct-to-Web novel, The Mural Gazer.
