Everything will be OK

The Nihilist: A Philosophical Novel was written by John Marmysz, who—like the story’s narrator—is a philosophy teacher at a college.

The narrator is a nihilist, explaining that, “The thought that I will at one point no longer be here, that I will evaporate into nothingness never again to exist, drives me to nihilism. This one fact of death makes everything else in life meaningless.”

For a great part of the novel, death is the centerpiece—either as the concrete death of a mother, friends, or colleagues, or as constant reminders of the narrator’s own impending death and those of the loved ones around him.

Does this sound sad? Perhaps, but the novel is rather funny and thoughtful in showing what living as a nihilist is like. An underlying force in the story, as in classical existential literature, is how the narrator refuses to give up even though life is meaningless.

The concept of “nihilism” is often associated with the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who used it to describe the lack of cultural values in his time. For Nietzsche, nihilism was something to overcome—for example, by producing works of art that bring new existential values and beliefs to the world. Nihilism is not overcome by referring to another transcendent world, but through a will to create. However, the problem is that people tend to cling to old, dying values (e.g., religion). Even though people who take this approach may confront current values (e.g., the happiness industry) and call their bluff, they still feel incapable of doing anything. Nietzsche labeled this tired approach “passive nihilism,” which stands in opposition to “active nihilism,” where one fights back in spite of it all.

The Nihilist succeeds in placing itself in between the passive and active forms of nihilism. Telling the story is, after all, an example of trying to make sense, and philosophy “encourages me to take nothing for granted,” the narrator says.

The route from passive to active is facilitated in a way that makes philosophy therapeutic. The narrator tries to understand and make sense regardless of his inability to do so. Sometimes he just has to accept that the feeling of oneness that he experienced as a young member of a punk band is gone. Sometimes he has to accept that he might violate philosophy’s rebellious callings by striving to earn tenure.

The novel opens with the death of the narrator’s mother. “My mother died when I was well into my 40s.” From there, the story moves back and forward in time, reflecting on various scenes from the professor’s life. There are many deaths: one person is shot, one kills himself, and one becomes so mentally unstable that he dies.

The professor tries to illustrate—and at times convince himself—that philosophy is not separate from life but is a part of it. What can we learn from all this death? Complain about our own deaths, as he suggests. Or, as he also offers, “My point is, when we introduce ourselves to new people, we tell them what sort of work we do for a living instead of telling them that we’re into punk music, or that we’re nihilist or anarchist, or that we fear death.”

So, instead of contributing to the meaningless system of capitalism that measures everything in money, we could be honest and share our experiences of what it means for us to be human beings.

A key figure in the novel is the philosopher Heraclitus, who famously said, “We cannot step into the same river twice.” This old Greek also explained that the world is fire—that is, impermanent. “Life is like fire.” This metaphor of fire returns in several places in novel: when the professor suffers from stomach pain that makes him vomit fire, when he breathes fire during an intense dream, and when he actually catches fire while running. The fire works as an existential guide that illustrates how life affects him. Some examples:

“‘So why did I fail the class?’ the student asked again. I smiled at Marlene again, trying to muster my patience. I also started to feel a burning sensation creep from my stomach up into my esophagus. My heartburn was starting to erupt once again.”

Later, he again experiences this sensation at the dinner celebration for tenured faculty:

“During my argument with the history professor I began to experience that old burning pain in my stomach… Before I was able to stand up and turn around, my mouth filled with stomach acid. The taste and the hot, burning feeling triggered a retching response and I vomited all over.”

The mind and body are connected.

The Nihilist is passionate because the narrator is on fire. Amid the strong influences and passions for philosophy and nihilism, the novel’s strength shines through: we see the narrator’s relationship with life. The professor allows himself to be surprised and even excited by life.

I read The Nihilist as a movement from passive to active nihilism—from philosophy as an abstract exercise to philosophy as a concrete therapeutic practice. It is about the professor becoming a philosopher.

Philosophy is always before us. Gradually, the professor realizes that life might be tragically absurd and meaningless because it raises more questions that he can answer. However, philosophy is “an open-ended process of ongoing questioning.”

The Nihilist ends with a kind of semi-resolution, not a moralizing finale or happy ending (although the narrator finds some comfort in running, but even here he burns). However, the reader may ask whether this burn is life-affirming, since he finally acknowledges that it “is a pointless exercise leading nowhere.”

Isn’t one of life’s beauties that it comes from everywhere, leading each one of us nowhere?

The Nihilist is a rich story that also finds comfort (albeit temporary) in other people. For a while, many of us—though unfortunately not all—have someone we can live with and perhaps even love and share crucial experiences with. For the narrator, this is his college sweetheart Colleen.

She tells him, “It’s OK it’s OK … Everything will be OK.”

And that’s enough. The last thing that the nihilist narrator does? He laughs.

 

thenihilist

Det sande liv

“Én kvinde er altid i sig selv det jordiske bevis på, at Gud ikke eksisterer, at Gud ikke behøver eksistere.” – Alain Badiou, Det sande liv

Den franske filosof Alain Badious bog Det sande liv – opfordring til ungdommen er filosofisk let, men ikke uden dybde.

Badiou tilhører den store generation af franske filosoffer, der efterfulgte Sartre og de Beauvoir m.fl., hvor vi finder navne som Michel Foucault og Gilles Deleuze, og som stadigvæk tæller Michel Serres (en anden gigant).

”Hvad er et sandt liv? Det er filosofiens unikke spørgsmål,” siger Badiou. Han revitaliserer Platons filosofi, hvilket bl.a. sker ved hjælp af begreberne sandhed og væren; begreber, som Foucault, Deleuze og Serres, eksempelvis, er mere skeptiske overfor.

Skulle man være uenig med Badious præmis, er det i grunden ligegyldigt, da Det sande liv ikke er en filosofisk afhandling, men et debatterende essay, der er relevant læsning for alle studerende, deres undervisere og forældre.

Badiou vil ”fordærve ungdommen.” Det vil sige, vække den fra dens åndelige dvaletilstand, hvorved den (læs: ungdommen) blindt følger den slagne vej. Filosoffen forsøger at vise – eller overbevise – ungdommen, ”at der er et falsk liv, et ødelagt liv, som er det liv, der er tænkt og udøves som en vild kamp om magt, om penge.”

Det falske liv er domineret af kapitalismens idealer og normer. Sandheden for Badiou er tættere på Marx end neoliberalisten Milton Friedman, hvilket man nu ikke behøver være filosof for at se det indlysende i.

Og dog! Hvorfor har de unge så svært ved at anerkende muligheden af det sande liv?

De unge baserer deres liv på et falsk fundament, siger Badiou, der kommer til udtryk i to former for lidenskab.

  • Lidenskaben for det umiddelbare liv, fx kortvarige forhold, spil og fornøjelser.
  • Lidenskaben for succes, fx drømmen om at blive rig og magtfuld

At leve for fornøjelser alene kan de fleste nok se det overfladiske i, men mange vil nok mene, at drømmen om rigdom er fornuftig, fordi den fremmer en lydighed overfor den eksisterende sociale orden. Det er studenten, der fortsætter på universitetet eller handelshøjskolen, mens hun skæver til hvilke jobs, der rummer mest prestige (læs: magt og penge). Begge er falske og nihilistiske. Den ene uden fremtid, den anden med en naiv tro på det forløsende i karriere og penge. Begge lidenskaber mangler en overordnet ide.

For Badiou – som for Platon – må det sande liv guides af en overordnet ide, fx kærlighed.

De to indre fjender er dog ikke de unges eneste problem. De har svært ved at ville vokse op, da de netop hyldes, fordi de er unge. At være ung er blevet et attraktivt ideal. Ungdommen lever endvidere under en større frihed, forstået som ” fraværet af visse forbud”, ”en negativ frihed…” Endelige mangler de unge symbolske ritualer, der kan hjælpe – især drengen/manden – med at blive voksne, fx værnepligt.

Det betyder, at de unge fortsætter en tilværelse af uendelig ungdom, der er kendetegnet ved en nærmest infantil adfærd, hvor det vigtigste synes at være indkøbet af legetøj. Legetøjsbilen bliver til en rigtig bil. Dukkehuset bliver til en lejlighed på Mallorca. Plastik telefonen til den nye iphone.

Badiou er nok lidt moraliserende, men han er ikke nostalgiker eller konservativ. Han efterlyser ikke den gamle autoritære mand. Nej, han vil vække de unges evne til at spørge: Hvad er det sande liv? Eller i det mindste: Hvilket liv er også muligt?

Efter at have opridset problemerne, vender Badiou sig nu mod de unge drenge og piger. Hvad kan filosofien sige til ungdommen?

Det, der adskiller filosofien fra sociologi eller psykologi er, at den har blik for det, som er i færd med at blive. Det, som er i sin vorden. Det, som fortrænges eller forsømmes, hvis man lever falsk, det vil sige blot kæmper imod det bestående (uden at skabe alternativer), eller blot gentager fortidens succeshistorier, det som en virksomheder kalder ”best practice”.

Fremtiden for nutidens drenge ser mørkere ud end pigernes. Det er efterhånden velkendt, at manden er fremtidens taber. Drengen har mere end pigen brug for ritualer eller indvielser, der kan vække manden i ham (ikke karikaturens Rambo). Disse mangler. I stedet for har drengen udsigt til, hvad Badiou kalder ”den perverterede krop, ”den ofrede krop” eller ”den meriterende krop.” Den piercerede og tatoverede revolte eller søgen efter identitet; den politiske selvmordsbomber, der ofrer sig for politisk eller religiøs tomhed og den lydige krop, der har fundet sig et arbejde.

Fremtiden for pigerne er lysere, sandsynligvis fordi deres fortid generelt har været mørkere. Dog, ser Badiou ikke det store potentiale i den dominerende ”borgerlige femisme”, hvorved kvinden reduceres til at blive én, nemlig karrierekvinden. En tro kopi af manden stereotypologi.

Det store problem er kapitalismen. Den fastholder drengene i en infantilt stagnation. Mens fraværet af en ydre markering, fx (ægteskab eller en mand, som tidligere) medfører at pigerne bliver kvinder for tidligt.

Badiou tilføjer ny energi til den ”borgerlige feminismes” lidt trættende positioneringskamp, der – ganske uambitiøst – handler om at fratvinge manden hans position, selvom dette reelt er en reduktion af kvindens potentielle. Kvinden er en proces, ikke en position. Manden er fastlåst i én position – historisk – som lovens garant, men når nu Gud ikke eksisterer, er der frit spil.

Historisk er kvinden blevet betragtet som farlig, fordi hun reelt rummer to positioner (eller To-positionel, som matematikeren Badiou skriver). Husmoderen er ”kun kvinde, hvis hun virtuelt dubleres af forførersken, forførersken er kun magtfuld, fordi hun færdes på kærlighedens bredder …” Kvinden er altid to-positionel ”noget, som udspiller sig mellem to positioner … Man forstår ikke meget af alt dette, hvis man ikke er overbevist om, at Gud ikke eksisterer, og dermed at ’Faderens Navn’ som En-positionel ikke længere eksisterer. En kvinde er processen i denne ikke-væren, som konstituerer det En-positionelle hele væren.”

Manden har undertrykt (og undertrykker (visse steder!)) kvinden for at bevare sin position, som den En-positionelle magt og lov. Af samme grund spærrer mange religioner kvinden inde i et sort boks eller gemmer hende af vejen.

Heldigvis – hvilket Badiou ikke nævner – vil de fleste unge mænd i Vesten ikke reducere kvinden til noget som helst (ej heller ophøje sig selv, fordi du tilfældigvis er født mand). (Et muligt problem er, at Badiou skriver med sine sønner in mente, men disse er angiveligt i slutningen af fyrrene (eller mere), da Badiou er næsten 80 år, hvorfor han heller ikke helt har blik for det, som er i sin vorden blandt de lidt yngre, hvor manden også kan rumme flere positioner).

Det overordnede problem er nu, at kvinderne har et ansvar overfor menneskeheden. Enhver kvinden bærer potentielt fremtiden i sit skød (en mands sæd kan blot fryses ned). ”Enhver kvinde kan være en pige uden noget ønske om moderskab. At det er en mulighed, er fuldt ud legitimt. Men man må indrømme, at det ikke kan være en regel.”

En regels universelle konsekvenserne skal nemlig altid undersøges, og en universel afvisning af moderskabet betyder slet og ret menneskeracens endeligt. Ergo: Det er en dårlig regel, fordi den ødelægger spillet.

Det er denne balancegang der p.t. er udfordringen, og som nok ikke overvindes ved at opfordre kvinderne til at tælle deres æggeløsninger. Løsningen er altså ikke pligter, men en kultivering af et fælles ansvar, som nødvendigvis må inddrage manden, hvorved omsorg, pleje og kærlighed vitterligt bliver et fælles anliggende, der udspringer af kærlighed – og ikke en frygt for at kvinderne taber eller vinder terræn på arbejdsmarked.

Til trods for sine matematiske ideer om kønnet, så virker Badiou i sine tanker en smule gammeldags. For eksempel slutter han med at spørge: ”Hvad er en kvindelig kunstner, musiker, maler, digter? … Hvad er en kvindelig filosof?”

Dette er ikke interessante spørgsmål. Her fristes jeg til at gentage Foucaults spørgsmål: Hvad betyder det for kvaliteten af det sagte, hvem der har sagt det? Ingenting. Det er indlysende, at der findes store kunstner af alle former for køn og ikke-køn.

Det kunne have været interessant, hvis han var dykket lidt ned i andre, mere progressive feministiske teorier eller posthumanismens tanker.

Selvfølgelig betyder kønnet ingenting med hensyn til god litteratur, kunst, filosofi og matematik, men kulturen, religionerne, uddannelsessystemet og fiktive kønsroller har alt for længe bildt os ind, at det er sådan.

Hvad nu hvis den italienske forfatter Elena Ferrante viser sig at være en mand? Enhver litteraturelsker, ville sige: So what?

Badious bog er ikke desto mindre vigtigt, fordi den gør de unge opmærksomme på, ”at der kunne ske noget andet end det, der sker.” En anden, mere fair og kærlig verden, er mulig. Det er ikke etableringen af position og karriere, ”der står i første række, men derimod en sand tanke.”

Det sande liv kan stimulere de unges spørgelyst, hvorved bogen til fulde tjener sit formål.

A Revolution Against Progress

“I’m actually a quite different person, I just never get around being him”

– Ödön von Horváth cited in Hartmut Rosa, Social Acceleration

There is something paradoxical about today’s achievement culture. For example, in most Western countries, we work fewer hours than the generations before us, we can communicate and get information faster and easier than ever, and we can travel farther faster, yet we lack time. We’re stressed.

Time has become the main character in modern life. Like Pierre in Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, who was present due to his absence, time is everywhere, because it is nowhere.

The logic goes something like this: Faster = more efficient. More efficient = more money. “Time is money,” as Benjamin Franklin said many years ago. Now, sadly enough, this is common sense.

In Social Acceleration—A New Theory of Modernity, German sociologist Hartmut Rosa explores the concept of acceleration and its influence on our lives. Systematically, he shows the causes and consequences of an acceleration that doesn’t stop for anything. He identifies three categories of change: technological acceleration (e.g., transportation and communication), social change (e.g., knowledge), and pace of life.

Hartmut borrows his underlying thesis from his German colleague Luhmann, “the division of time and value judgment can no longer be separated.” For example, if I spend little time with my kids, although I claim to love them, then I might be living incoherently. The moral that Hartmut outlines is: How we spend our time shows what we value.

Some may object here. Others might mention the awful concept of “quality time,” but as Hartman says, “the quality of ‘our times’, its horizons and structures, its tempo and its rhythm, are not (or only to a very limited degree) at our disposal. Temporal structures have a collective nature and social character.”

A pregnancy still takes nine months. (Is this the reason why some outsources pregnancy to “rent a mum”?). In most societies, people still need to be 16 or 18 years old to vote or drive a car. Still, acceleration also affects us socially. Because I receive your update on Facebook right now, you expect me to “like” it right now (or at least very soon). There is an underlying norm related to acceleration.

Hartmut inscribes himself in a long tradition of German sociologists with a philosophical touch, like Luhmann and Habermas, but most notably Honneth. Like his predecessors, he doesn’t see sociology as pure description but rather as something that can initiate change (which brings him closer to philosophy, where knowledge is transformative). Whether, Hartmut operates with a normative ideal like Habermas and Luhmann will not be debated here.

Social Acceleration presents us with a new lens (i.e., acceleration) through which we can see part of society more clearly. It presents an impressive analysis of acceleration that helps us see how our well-being is not just an individual matter but also a social one. If everything speeds up, it can be difficult to stay calm, offline. Due to the “shrinking of the present,” we can also see different forms of counter movements, such a slow living and mindfulness, that try to convince us that if we pay attention to each moment, then the chance of forgetting something important is less likely, e.g., forgetting to experience the living present.

Hartmut presents us with a new critique of alienation – an acceleration-theoretical one. In the end, he quotes from Horváth saying, “the acceleration society gets people ‘to will what they do not will’, that is, to pursue . . . courses of action that they do not prefer from a temporal stable perspective.”

As my old philosophy professor once said, “It takes time to think.” Ergo, today, few people are thinking. The price we pay for not thinking is stress, burnout, and careless ego trips.

Hartmut adds more fuel to the debate about whether or not “doing nothing,” such as reading and writing, is profitable or a sin. If it’s the latter, then I accept being an almost full-time sinner, trying to revolutionize capital-initiated progress.

Mindfulness in Rome

May 11 – 15, 2016: 2nd International Conference on Mindfulness, Sapienza University of Rome. See here the website of the event.

Among the many interesting presentations, I presented the paper entitled Mindfulness as an Ethical Practice.

In this paper, I ask two questions. The first is: What is an ethical practice? The second question is: Is mindfulness an ethical practice? My ultimate concern, however, is the possible link between the two issues: What relationship does mindfulness have with ethics? To answer these questions, I first draw on three ethical theories from the Western history of philosophy—Spinoza, Nietzsche, and Deleuze—to define ethics as a particular way of being. Then, I integrate and compare some significant elements from these ethics with the practice of mindfulness, mainly as Jon Kabat-Zinn defines it. This is done to clarify to what extent mindfulness is an ethical practice. My study reveals that not only can mindfulness be viewed as a classical ethical practice (as understood in a Western philosophical context), but—and perhaps more surprising—mindfulness is closer to some Western ethics than to Buddhism, e.g., regarding whether “the Good” is known beforehand, whether ethics is an immanent or transcendent practice, and whether ethics is a judgmental or nonjudgmental practice. Finally, I briefly discuss the ways in which Western philosophy can shed new light on mindfulness.

 

Why do I suffer?

Why do I suffer? In asking and answering this question, I may be mistaken with respect to the reasons for my suffering–for example, due to lack of knowledge, or to clever ways of deceiving myself. Yet, I can’t doubt the utterance. It’s there, expressed and alive.

In the book Self-Knowledge and Self-Deception, the philosopher Hugo Strandberg analyzes what we mean when we ask the question, “Who am I?” This classical question opens up the potential for a critical self-examination that is also a moral examination. For me to know who I am, I take myself as the object of my investigation, knowing, of course, that both “I” as the subject and “I” as the object will change during the process of living. The “philosopher’s knowledge,” he writes, “is then self-knowledge, and self-knowledge is not knowledge about just another object in the world but about my alleged knowledge of the world.” In other words, self-knowledge is knowledge about my relationship with (or relationships in) the world.

Therefore, by looking more thoroughly at these relationships, I may discover that there are things I don’t know. I might become aware of my lack of knowledge.

“Self-knowledge is not one thing,” the author states” (Strandberg 14). It’s a concept related with many other questions that emerge during my life. “Self-knowledge is a moral question” (24) It is a matter of befriending myself, as Strandberg writes, referring to Seneca. In other words, getting to know who I am is an ongoing dance between the two concepts of “self-knowledge” and “self-deception”. Self-deception, according to Strandberg, is a moral phenomenon, a mixture of knowing and not knowing, but always in a moral sense. To emphasize this point, he relates the idea of self-deception with remorse; if things “should” be seen differently, then “this ‘should’ is given by the perspective of remorse itself.”

The correlation of self-deception with remorse is quite innovative because it helps Strandberg to illustrate how “self-deception shows that I am morally split.” For this reason it is difficult to answer the question “Who am I?” The whole book is a reflection about what it actually means to answer this question.

For example, one question related to “Who am I?” would be to ask whether the self is something fixed, or something created that changes as one lives? The problem with the fascinating idea that we create our selves is, as Iris Murdoch is quoted for saying, “man is a creature who makes pictures of himself and then come to resemble them” (67). So, it may be morally good if the picture I paint about myself is good according to the consensus, but I may still deceive myself in the process. Perhaps I am just suffering from group pressure; i.e., I do not have the courage to live out what I already know about myself.

Self-Knowledge and Self-Deception, while well written and engaging, is a scholarly work filled with references and requires close attention on the part of the reader. This is nice in a time where many books try to popularize concepts at the risk of losing scholarly rigor or precision. The chapter “The True Self” could be useful to study for all those in the self-help industry who wish to improve people’s self-image and sense of self-worth. Arendt, Descartes, MacIntyre, Kierkegaard, and Sartre–among others–show up. Personally, I enjoyed seeing Sartre back and being incorporated into the philosophical dialogue.

I believe that, ultimately, one asks “Who am I?” in relation to another question: what does it mean to live. For Strandberg, the answer is related to my will to pay attention or not pay attention to something specific (for example, living up to certain moral ideals or not). Contrary to the state of not paying attention (and the lack of awareness that comes with this), a well-developed attention allows the self to dissolve or become “who one is” with the world.  This leads Strandberg to suggest that the answer to the question “Who am I?” is answered by the way we live–perhaps the question is not even asked.

To return to the topic of remorse, Strandberg argues that remorse is the distance between self-knowledge and self-deception that can be reduced by love. To put this into romantic terms, it is when I am not following my heart that I experience moments of regret.

I began this review by asking, “Why do I suffer?” To answer this properly– following Strandberg–I need to be open to others and befriend others and myself with love and compassion. I may then realize that my suffering is related with my relationship with the world. The point is that “goodness constitutes me in a way badness does not, and when I treat someone badly this does not mean that I become, or some part of me becomes, fully evil, for that would mean that full moral badness would be possible, that is, that badness would be possible without self-deception. This goodness which constitutes me in a way badness does not is non-determinable, is openness to others, and is love and friendship, whereas badness could be said to be an attempt at determining me and these relations to others” (180).

The lesson is to not presuppose, but rather to be open and curious in your interaction with life.

Self-Knowledge and Self-Deception deals with a classical question: who am I? At times it’s a difficult book due to the amount of theories discussed, but in general the author is quite good at guiding the reader by being very explicit about what he aims at, noting how he differs from Socrates, and so forth. Still, the book requires philosophical knowledge. Students who have a certain level of mastery of philosophy and its concepts will enjoy this book, as will other philosophers who are grappling with similar topics. It’s a rewarding read, and one that’s quite complex–I have in this short review only touched briefly on some key issues. I admit also that I found it rather encouraging to read a philosopher who brings philosophy back to the terrain of ordinary life, and dares to speak about “goodness” and “love”.

This review was published in Metapsychology (Volume 20, Issue 17).

Finn Janning, PhD in philosophy, is a writer.

Hugo

Meditation: Før og efter

For nogle år siden tog kunstneren Peter Seidler en række portrætfotos af deltagerne på et månedlangt meditationsophold (se mere her). Der var tale om klassiske før og efter portrætter. Baggrunden er forestillingen om at øjnene eller ansigtet, afspejler vores sind (fx øjnene er sjælens spejl).

Hvad sker der med sindet, når man mediterer længe? Kan ”det” aflæses i ansigtet?

Ja, det kan det åbenbart.

Et meditationsophold eller stilhedsretreat på en måned er ganske lang tid. Og længerevarende ophold, fx på en festival eller en strand, vil uden tvivl sætte sig i ansigtet på de fleste. Prøv at portrættere Roskilde festival-deltagere før og efter! Denne overvejelse har Seidler ikke med. Hans ærinde er snarere et forsøg, kunstnerisk, at validere effekten af meditation.

Et stilhedsretreat kan – ligesom en afslappende ferie – udfolde fire transformerende kvaliteter ved mennesket: venlighed, medfølelse, ligevægt og glæde. Hvem er ikke lidt mere venlig og balanceret, når de ligger i hængekøjen på stranden Tulum i Mexico? Hvorfor smiler du mere på feriefotos end …?

Venlighed, medfølelse, ligevægt og glæde er essentielle med hensyn til udviklingen af resilience (livskraft og mod). Selve evnen til at stå imod tilbageslag og modgang. Derfor er et stilhedsretreat en udmærket måde, hvorved man kan yde modstand mod præstationssamfundets normative tvang om hele tiden at skulle være på og præstere.

Der er selvsagt andre måder at yde modstand på. En af mine venner har bevidst fravalgt at arbejde, mens han har bygget hus, rejst, drukket mv. – levet et liv udenfor samfundets normer og idealer. Man kan også læse Spinozas Etik eller anden god litteratur, da sådanne læsninger transformerer en. God litteratur gør ens erfaringsfelt større, mere rigt og nuanceret. Filosofi og kunst anfægter. Faktisk kunne mange spare en del penge på retreats, hvis deltagerne i stedet for turde kaste sig ud i kunstens verden – blottet, åben og modtagelig.

Tilbage til portrætterne. Det, som et retreat kan hjælpe deltagerne med er:

  • Pause: dedikere tid og opmærksomhed på en selv, fx få et indblik i, hvorfor vi føler, tænker og handler, som vi gør, selvom vi måske ville ønske, at vi handlede anderledes.
  • Omsorg: for ens krop og sind. Meditationsophold er simple, vegetarianske, disciplinerede og til tider ganske kedelige. Men ligesom børn kan have glæde af struktur, kan voksne også have glæde af ikke at skulle tænke på, hvornår de skal op eller i seng, hvad de skal spise, etc. Dernæst – hvis der er tale om mindfulness – så suppleres meditationen typisk med yoga, hvilket kan være ganske lindrende, når ens ryg er øm.
  • Selvindsigt: sidder man længe og studerer ens eget sind, så vil man sikkert blive opmærksom på, hvor lidt kontrol man har over ens tanker og følelser. Følelser er forbipasserende gæster i ens liv. Hvorfor er nogle af disse mere velkommen end andre?
  • Klarhed: for mange er meditation et værn mod stress og burnout og overvægt, men reelt drejer det sig om klarhed eller visdom, fx erkendelsen af at, hvad der bliver til også dør ud, at selvet er en illusion, etc. Kort sagt: Intet varer evigt og alt er forbundet.
  • Tålmodighed: der er unægtelig et element af tålmodighed i meditationspraksissen. Klarhed og selvindsigt tager tid. Det er filosofiens ABC (alle de kloge gamle mænd og damer).
  • Accept: meditation handler også om accept – både en accept overfor det, som ikke kan ændres, og en accept af, at visse ting måske skal ændres (Spinoza talte om ens naturlige ret til at ændre ens liv, hvis det er mere trist end glædeligt).

Dette er ikke en udførlig liste. Nogle deltagere også i sådanne meditationsretreat for at udvikle og nuancere deres meditationspraksis, for at blive del af et givende fællesskab, fordi det er populært, etc.

Punkterne kan minde lidt om en god ferie (hvis den altså ikke er stressende). Og ligesom efter en ferie, hvor man godt ved, at man skal konfrontere chefen eller på anden vis omorganisere ens liv, så kan ansigtets smilende lethed sagtens falde sammen igen, hvorved deltagerne bliver afhængige af meditationsophold. Dette er ikke meningen. Snarere at man lever opmærksomt, nærværende og bevidst – også når man ikke indlogerer sig på et kloster. Og at man udvikler et mod til at leve frit.

Så, hvis venligheden, medfølelsen, ligevægten og livsglæden forsvinder lige så hurtigt, som rusen efter at have drukket fem-seks øl, så er det et problem. Mindfulness er ikke et quick-fix, selvom det til tider sælges sådan, men en gradvis stabilisering af ens tilgang til livet.

Seidler portrætter viser, at folk der er mindfulde, har et lettere sind. Det kunne have været interessant at se, hvordan deltagerne ser ud en måned efter opholdet, når arbejdet, manden, børnene, elskerinden, regningerne, regnvejret og så videre dukker op.

En simpel ting, som alle kan lære af dette eksperiment, er, at ens ansigt afslører ens sind – med mindre ansigtets folder er lammet af botox eller tomt, som en selfie. Det er her medfølelsen og accepten kommer ind. Kan man acceptere at slæbe rundt på det rynkede ansigt (de ekstra kilo), som kigger tilbage på en, når man kigger sig i spejlet?

 – Oplæg holdt på en folkeskole i Barcelona, hvor der ligeledes indgik meditationsøvelser.

Deadly energy

“Cocaine is a carburant. Cocaine is a devastating, terrible, deadly energy. There never seem to be enough arrests. Policies to fight it always seem to miss the mark. As terrible as it may seem, total legalization may be the only answer.” – Roberto Saviano, ZeroZeroZero

I believe in the power of words.

Today many books are being published, including books that should never be published, but these books will not last and will never become more than personal anecdotes.

I like to read books that do more than just entertain. The books I enjoy dispute or question our perceptions of the world, perhaps even our perceptions of who we are. These books make us see the world differently.

Italian writer, Roberto Saviona’s, ZeroZeroZero, is such a book. This book is catchy, but never without activating the reader’s critical sense, for example, by   confronting the reader’s illusions and naivety about what is actually going on in the world. More importantly, this book is reliable due to its thorough investigation that includes official reports, statistics, and interview with police, etc. It reveals our contemporary capitalistic history as seen through the lens of cocaine: the influence of cocaine, addiction, disposable pushers and mules, money flow and launderers, private soldiers, etc.

Cocaine is intertwined with capitalism, and vice versa, which illustrates the moral decline seen in capitalistic societies. Capitalism needs cocaine to satisfy its continuous need to grow.

In addition, the usage continually grows as more and more people use cocaine to keep up the pace of capitalism. Saviona states, “The faster the world moves, the more there’s cocaine; the less time there is for stable relationships.” Cocaine is today’s drug. According to Saviano, cocaine is everywhere. It is for everyone. “The guy sitting next to you on the train uses cocaine, he took it to get himself going this morning; or the driver of the bus you’re taking home … your son … your boss …”

You take cocaine to work harder, not party harder … and then everything collapses.

Furthermore, the cocktail of criminal activities and money (i.e. the amount of money you do not count but weigh) makes the moral = zero, zero, zero. The general moral is corrupted by drug money. It’s tempting to see the title, ZeroZeroZero in that light. However, the title doesn’t actually (at least not directly) refer to a lack of morals. Rather, it refers to the purity of the flour that you use for making Italian bread. The closer to zero, the more pure it is. Zero is the purest cocaine, the white gold.

Saviano tells the story of Columbian drug cartels in the 70s with Pablo Escobar and in the 80s when new, more violent leaders emerged. The Columbians killed each other with sticks, guns, chainsaws, and acid, while the Mexican cartels slowly took over. Today, Mexico is the country with the most powerful drug cartels. This power is not due to Mexico’s production (Columbia produces more), but it is due to the cartel’s distribution. Mexico distributes cocaine to the biggest consumer of all, the U.S., and this distribution provides power.

Saviano encourages the reader to acknowledge that reading is a powerful act. “In the Book of Revelation Saint John writes, ‘And I took the little scroll from the hand of the angel and ate it; it was sweet as honey in my mouth, but when I had eaten it my stomach was made bitter.’ I believe, that the readers need to do this with words. Put them in their mouths, chew them, so that the chemistry they are made of can work inside us, can illuminate the dark night and draw a line between happiness and pain.”

What kind of life would we like to live? What kind of life would we like to pass on to future generations? Are you aware of the amount of people suffering because you need an energetic fix every Saturday?

After reading about the extreme bestiality of these cartels, I was both fascinated and frightened. It was nightmarish reading. These drug lords believe that it is their right to live as they feel. A softer example is when Saviano wrote about Griselda, the most ruthless female drug trafficker. “She liked to choose her men, and if they didn’t go along, they were dead. One time a kid, younger than her, attracts her attention. Griselda wants him and fixes her eyes on him. He avoids her gaze, but Griselda insists. So the kid heads to the bathroom, and she follows, going into the women’s room. ‘Help!’ she starts screaming. ‘Help!’ and the kid comes running; maybe that weird woman is sick. Griselda is waiting for him, naked from waist down. ‘Lick me’, she commands. The kid steps away, his back to the door, but Griselda takes out a pistol and repeats, ‘lick me.’ So he does, the barrel of her gun glued to his head.”

When does contemporary society’s quest for happiness and profit make us sick?

The book also addresses new questions of trust. Who can you trust in a world where many people seem to have a price? Cocaine is a lucrative business, so lucrative that the drug cartels can bribe the kind of people we so-called normal citizens put our faith in, including police officers, attorneys, politicians, and, of course, businesses.

Are capitalism and crime the end of democracy? Are they closely related? Is this book a warning? It is.

Saviano ends his book by saying, “As terrible as it may seem, total legalization may be the only answer … it hits where cocaine finds its fertile terrain, at the law of supply and demand.”

I believe he is right. Legalization could be the answer. Read the book, and decide for yourself.

zerozero

What Passes Through Me

After my brother’s death, I wrote, “I need to live double.” That day I became a writer.

My brother died between the 3rd and 4th of October, sometime after the night had ended but before the next day had begun. It was in 1993 that an overdose killed him. He was 26 years old. I learned of his death the next morning. That day I wrote my two first lines as a writer: “I need to live double,” followed by, “Now, it’s up to me.”

Read the rest of the essay here, South 85 Journal.

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