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Showing posts with label justice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label justice. Show all posts

Friday, 20 July 2012

Justice in Gotham City

History

The history of Gotham city is not unlike many American cities’ during British colonial rule. It was founded in 1635 by a Norwegian mercenary and was later taken over by the British, changing hands various times over the years. According to Alan Moore, the famous cartoonist and creator of such titles as Watchmen and V for Vendetta, Gotham city was the place of many mysterious occult rites during the American Revolutionary War (Swamp Thing #53).

A separate history was provided for by Bill Willingham (Shadowpact #5): an evil warlock has slept for 40,000 years under the place where Gotham city is built, with his servant Strega claiming the “dark and often cursed character” of the city was inherited from the warlock’s nature. Going by either story, the city assumes a post-Apocalyptic mood that is also Gothic at the same time, and accords it an ambivalence that invites literary exploitation.

This mood has since been open for modification by writers, more so after the chain of events set off by the villain Ra’as Al Ghul. He introduced a virus called the Clench, impacting the city greatly. Just as it was recuperating from its impact, it was hit by an earthquake measuring 7.6 on the Richter scale, prompting the federal government of the United States to cut off Gotham from the mainland because it had no hopes of rehabilitating it. However, respite arrived in the form of assistance from the brilliant billionaire Alexander “Lex” Luthor, Superman’s archenemy.

In this regard, there are many comparisons to be made to Mumbai, which is itself a set of seven islands, is constantly assaulted by terrorists, and often finds support not from the government but from unexpected quarters (but, it must be said, not as unexpected as Luthor). By extension, the residents of Gotham city are also likely to be more resilient and resourceful than the residents of other cities, and possibly quite cynical, too.

Everything about Gotham city is rooted in its mysticism-ridden history, and the fights fought between the region’s native tribes and evil powers. The first signs of modern civilization arise in the 19th century when, after the tribes’ abandonment due to infestation by what they claimed were evil powers, Gotham Town was born as a reputable port.

Around the same period, in 1799, Darius Wayne profited from his labours on the port and started the construction of Wayne Manor, one of the precursors of the city’s cocktail of Gothic, Art Nouveau and Art Deco architectures. The manor itself is what one would call “stately”. It is located toward the northeast of the city, removed from the clamour of urbanism and allowing Batman, or Bruce Wayne – Darius Wayne’s descendent – to plan his adventures in peace.

Exclusivity v. Justice

The isolation of the manor parallels the isolation of Wayne’s personality from that of Batman’s: the former is portrayed as a dilettante indulging in the wealth of his forefathers whereas the latter is portrayed as a vigilante that the city seems to subconsciously need. At the same time, however, it is hard to say what the difference might have been had Wayne Manor been situated inside the city. In this regard, there is a notion of social exclusivity in terms of spaces occupied within the city.

A good case in point for this would be the older part of Gotham, which is situated to the north of the city and generally considered a part of the city itself. Old Gotham is where Crime Alley (which includes the Bowery, the worst neighbourhood in all of Gotham), Arkham Asylum (albeit as an island – visible to the east of a forked New Trigate Bridge), and Amusement Mile (the stalking grounds of the Joker) are located. Therefore, the new city, developing on the principles of reformation and citizen-vigilantism, grew southward and away from its traditional centres of trade, finance, and commerce.

Disregarding the depiction of Gotham’s architecture in the Burton and Nolan movies and the TV series: another of Wayne’s ancestors, Judge Solomon Wayne, was, according to Moore, the inspiration for the city’s unique architecture. Solomon’s intention to reform the city and rebrand it, so to speak, resulting in his commissioning of the young architect Cyrus Pinkney to design and construct the city’s financial centre. Moore’s choice of this explanation coincides perfectly with the period of Gothic Revivalism (around the early 1990s).

[caption id="attachment_23697" align="aligncenter" width="470"] Click to enlarge[/caption]

Growth v. Justice

Justice within a city is not administered in a court of law nor does it arise out of the adherence to rules and ethics. It is a product of many of the city’s provisions, their accessibility, and how well they work together to give rise to a sense of social security and provide a livelihood. For instance, Gotham’s common man could be working a nine-to-five day-job at some company in One Gotham Centre, just down the road from Wayne Tower, living in the suburbs around the Knights Dome Sporting Complex, within swimming distance of Cape Carmine off Old Gotham, and supporting a family of three.

However, this is not social justice. The need for social justice arises when aspirations, income and social liberty don’t coincide: if the nearest amusement park is haunted by a psychopathic serial killer, if a trip to the airport requires a drive through Arkham Asylum, if affordable housing comes at the price of personal security, and, most importantly, if there is the persistent knowledge of the need for a masked vigilante to rely on for a measurable sense of appeal against all the odds – in simple terms. It is as if the city was carefully misplanned: the Gotham city everyman is someone forced to live in a dangerous neighbourhood because of lack of other options for sheltering.

In other words, social justice is a perfect city and, therefore, by definition, can be neither omnipresent nor omnipotent, especially since Gotham city falls under the umbra of laissez faire economics. As a corollary, to understand social justice within a city, we must understand where the city’s priorities lie. How has the city been developing in the last few years? Is economic equality rising or falling? Who within the city has a sense of ease of access when it comes to valuable resources and who doesn’t?

The Metropolis

The problem with studying Gotham city is that it is a city conceived as a negative space to serve as the battleground where the forces of good and evil meet. It has deliberately been envisioned as a child of the industrial revolution entombed within walls of steel and stone, overwhelming those living within it with by the enforcement of a systematic way of life that allows for the exercise of few liberties. This is what effectively paints the picture of Gotham city being a failed one. In fact, this very way of thinking is paralleled in the image of the Metropolis in Blade Runner (1982), whose Modern-expressionism production design was borrowed inefficiently by Barbara Ling for Joel Schumacher’s Batman Forever (1995) to imply a wildly whimsical side to the city. Anyway, this is how we understand the need for Batman, and how that need has been and is created.

It begins with the blighting of the police force: the superhero can become a societal fixture only if there is something fundamentally wrong with the one other body that is responsible for keeping crime in check. The Gotham City Police Department (GCPD) was corrupt for a long time, especially under the leadership of Commissioner Gillian Loeb, who had his hands in the pockets of the Falcone, Galante and Maroni crime families amongst others. The social scene inspired by such a network could be compared to the conspiratorial mood in the movie L. A. Confidential (1997).

By the time Commissioner James Gordon took over after Loeb’s successor Jack Grogan, the GCPD was overridden with lawlessness. Because of such a poor tradition, public authorities who should have been present to assuage the suffering of the historically discriminated were instead present to exacerbate, and profit from, the discrimination. Seeing that the GCPD couldn’t be cleaned from the inside, Gordon enlisted the skills of Batman, a veritable outsider, a deus ex machina.

Once the cleansing was complete, the city could formally begin on its path of reformation. Here is where the question of economic equality arises: when weeding out criminals, did the police department assume a rehabilitative approach or a retributive one? If the movies and TV series based on the comic may be trusted, then retribution was the order of the day, perhaps born out of an urgent need to do away with everything that has plagued the city and start anew.

At the same time, retribution also implies that enforcers of the law – and Batman – were willing to show no patience toward how the city itself was creating many criminals. This lack of patience is also reflected in many of the urban development projects undertaken by the city’s planning commission, especially such ill-conceived ones as the Underground Highway, as if the officials decided that desperate measures were necessary. (The ultimately-abandoned Underground Highway later went on to become the hideout of Killer Croc, apart from becoming the home for many of the city’s homeless – an indication that the forces of corruption at work were creating poverty.)

Conclusion

It can be deduced from all these threads that Gotham city is not simply a product of its history, which continues to influence the way outsiders think of it, but also its inability to cope with what it is fast becoming: a kennel for superheroes to flourish in. There are many decisions at work in the city that collude to create injustice in many forms, and the most significant ones are geographic exclusivity, a retributive mindset in the ranks of the executive, restriction on the exercising of social liberties based on past mistakes, and the presence of Batman himself.

Sunday, 3 July 2011

Judgment of actions: A thought experiment


  1. There is a man sitting under a table

  2. The following objects are placed on the table: a small vat of a concentrated acid and a guillotine-like blade

  3. A curtain is drown over the table to separate the objects to a half of the table

  4. If the vat of acid spills, it will burn a hole through the wood and kill the man underneath

  5. If the blade is dropped, it will slice through the wood and kill the man underneath

  6. On either side of the curtain, two men, A and B, are made to sit

  7. Both of them are independently made aware of the man under the table

  8. A is given responsibility over the vat of acid and B is given responsibility over the blade

  9. A is informed about the consequences of spilling the acid

  10. B is informed about the consequences of dropping the blade

  11. At some point, A accidentally tips the vat of acid but saves it from spilling over the table just in time

  12. However, the table has been upset enough to bring the blade down upon it, killing the man

  13. Is A's acquittal in a trial court dependent on or independent of his knowledge of the blade's existence?

Judgment of actions: A thought experiment


  1. There is a man sitting under a table

  2. The following objects are placed on the table: a small vat of a concentrated acid and a guillotine-like blade

  3. A curtain is drown over the table to separate the objects to a half of the table

  4. If the vat of acid spills, it will burn a hole through the wood and kill the man underneath

  5. If the blade is dropped, it will slice through the wood and kill the man underneath

  6. On either side of the curtain, two men, A and B, are made to sit

  7. Both of them are independently made aware of the man under the table

  8. A is given responsibility over the vat of acid and B is given responsibility over the blade

  9. A is informed about the consequences of spilling the acid

  10. B is informed about the consequences of dropping the blade

  11. At some point, A accidentally tips the vat of acid but saves it from spilling over the table just in time

  12. However, the table has been upset enough to bring the blade down upon it, killing the man

  13. Is A's acquittal in a trial court dependent on or independent of his knowledge of the blade's existence?

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong

(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)

It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
"You can't write poetry on a computer."

I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).

Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.

Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.

Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong

(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)

It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
"You can't write poetry on a computer."

I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).

Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.

Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.

Thursday, 9 June 2011

The morality of money

Let us clarify our moral position towards money.

  • It is unfair to blame the egoism of an egotist on the money he or she possesses.

  • It is unfair to blame any evil inflicted upon the undeserving on the money that enables it.

  • It is unfair to blame the failure of the working on the profits he or she may have first aspired for.

  • It is unfair to assume that money may not purchase happiness or love without knowledge of all of one's recourses.

  • It is unfair to conclude that money does not make the world go around irrespective of whether it may or may not.

  • It is unfair to foist the status quo of the human condition upon the desire for money.

  • It is unfair to include money into theocratic disciplines so as to justify its purpose in the hands of man, woman and/or child.

  • It is unfair to exclude the institution of money from the successes of mankind.

  • It is unfair to blame money whilst grieving the loss of money.

  • It is unfair for any one man, woman and/or child to claim money is ephemeral.

  • It is not wholly fair for all men, women and/or children to claim money is ephemeral.

  • It is unfair to renounce money and, therefore, claim to have renounced materialism.

  • It is unfair to hoist solely the blame of violating law upon money when it also facilitates the creation of law.


Wherefore the hungry hand recedes from the market upon the doorstep of which it has laid down a product of its skill, thereunto extends the healthy hand the money that stamps the seal of fair exchange.

The morality of money

Let us clarify our moral position towards money.

  • It is unfair to blame the egoism of an egotist on the money he or she possesses.

  • It is unfair to blame any evil inflicted upon the undeserving on the money that enables it.

  • It is unfair to blame the failure of the working on the profits he or she may have first aspired for.

  • It is unfair to assume that money may not purchase happiness or love without knowledge of all of one's recourses.

  • It is unfair to conclude that money does not make the world go around irrespective of whether it may or may not.

  • It is unfair to foist the status quo of the human condition upon the desire for money.

  • It is unfair to include money into theocratic disciplines so as to justify its purpose in the hands of man, woman and/or child.

  • It is unfair to exclude the institution of money from the successes of mankind.

  • It is unfair to blame money whilst grieving the loss of money.

  • It is unfair for any one man, woman and/or child to claim money is ephemeral.

  • It is not wholly fair for all men, women and/or children to claim money is ephemeral.

  • It is unfair to renounce money and, therefore, claim to have renounced materialism.

  • It is unfair to hoist solely the blame of violating law upon money when it also facilitates the creation of law.


Wherefore the hungry hand recedes from the market upon the doorstep of which it has laid down a product of its skill, thereunto extends the healthy hand the money that stamps the seal of fair exchange.

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Untitled, 04062011

Conceal'd 'neath the torn hubris of his investable ideals:
The blood-red wherewithal of the victorious mistaking!
Extend thy hand; present for the royal testament your mark
And let our lord, the King, know his fate for the taking!

Untitled, 04062011

Conceal'd 'neath the torn hubris of his investable ideals:
The blood-red wherewithal of the victorious mistaking!
Extend thy hand; present for the royal testament your mark
And let our lord, the King, know his fate for the taking!

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Language, truth and knowledge

It would prove futile to address every incidence of curiosity by seeking out the requisite "knowledge" that constitutes the "knowable" volume of the subject through an isolationist perspective; it is also obviously futile to address the content in its entirety lest the curiosity—essentially the context within which any epistemological exegesis becomes meaningful—stands overwhelmed. If I were to associate any semantic weight with the idea of justice, I would ask: where does the knowledge, "the truth", of law arise from, what is the need that, in the eyes of those who partake of its provisions, it assesses, and what is the modality within which it finds realization? Could there exist an epistemological variable the evaluation of which represents a (quantitative or qualitative) difference between the cognitive value of a statement of truth and that of a statement of law, thereby, say, establishing the origin of the truth of law as being independent of the same social urges that are the domain (of applicability) of the sanctions it backs?

Language, truth and knowledge

It would prove futile to address every incidence of curiosity by seeking out the requisite "knowledge" that constitutes the "knowable" volume of the subject through an isolationist perspective; it is also obviously futile to address the content in its entirety lest the curiosity—essentially the context within which any epistemological exegesis becomes meaningful—stands overwhelmed. If I were to associate any semantic weight with the idea of justice, I would ask: where does the knowledge, "the truth", of law arise from, what is the need that, in the eyes of those who partake of its provisions, it assesses, and what is the modality within which it finds realization? Could there exist an epistemological variable the evaluation of which represents a (quantitative or qualitative) difference between the cognitive value of a statement of truth and that of a statement of law, thereby, say, establishing the origin of the truth of law as being independent of the same social urges that are the domain (of applicability) of the sanctions it backs?

Monday, 2 May 2011

Crest of a knave: A short story

Listen to my story, all ye assembled here in this hall of gold, listen to my story before I set forth with the lust for glory and decay in my blood boils over, its wrath absterging all shreds of loyalty and honour in me. Listen to my story, all ye assembled in this hall of light, for you would hold me devious culprit in this dark affair of travesty and injustice whereas I would hold myself, sans lea or passage, owed the duty of the last word before your judgment scars my destiny forever.

A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.

Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.

However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.

Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...

Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...

Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?

*


Simpler version


Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.

Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.

Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.

Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.

After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.

Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.

He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.

Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Rusty and Sharded

Before I began writing this, I thought to myself how I would begin this entry. That's when it struck me that this is my diary; I can write whatever I want to write - and so I began this entry! Haha! It is difficult to understand why people pour out their sorrows in thousands of words but joy comes out in not more than a hundred words. If it weren't for a "special" relationship I believe I have with the words I put down, I wouldn't think words are oppressed that way. Would they rebel? In a world of words, what would the rebellion be like? Will the world "bloody" be draped across a thousand pages of their chronicles? Perhaps, but words are often used together with the logic that comes with using them - not grammatical but the one accompanying the justice (or judicial capacity) of reason.

He was a coward who said a picture was worth a thousand words; he was a coward because he couldn't bring himself to concede that each image is worth hundreds of thousands of words; he was a coward because he chose to remain shielded behind the idea of progress when he could have stepped out and up to realize the continuum of realities that spanned the gap between "the now" and the future. The sheer volume of information is stupendous. How can you stop at a thousand words? The "aphorism" itself seems like a bit of an irony: if the sayer was going for a metaphor, then saying "thousand words" is equivalent to asserting that a picture is worth a million words, a billion words, a zillion words... if you can't stop, then why put them together at all? A picture's a picture and a word's a word; let them bloody be! You don't have to understand everything for it to be a continuum. In fact, if you did, it wouldn't be a continuum! Think about it! I use a million words and, just like that, someone adds or removes a word to give the picture a completely different verbal form.

Anyway, there's one thing I don't understand at all. How can people not think? How is is possible that people haven't thought about of the things I've thought about? How in the Lord's name is it possible for a mind to be at rest? The mental sophistication is so easy to acquire that it's laughable! In turn, thus, it would mean that such people have probably visited all those realms of possibilities and still choose the verboten-addicted reality around us. Guano.

I don't believe that; it's too wonderful an explanation... and so is the "still mind". Why isn't everyone as curious as I am? Why can't the best engineers do with machines and logic-constructs what even an unaccomplished writer such as I can do with words? Or have I not seen it? I don't think such things would've escaped me. And before you, you Faustus!, begin to defend yourself, mind: I will always hold that logic has its own exotic designs. Only yesterday, I had stumbled across this site/page called "But Does It Float", and behold! What an awe-inspiring collection of images! Short descriptions here and there told me most of it was either avant-garde or "deconstructivist". "Deconstructivist"? Really? Why can't you name something with whatever comes first to mind (on an average) amongst the first thousand people who see it? By that suggestion, I'm going to call avant-gardes "rusty" and deconstructivists "sharded".

Anyway, there were hundreds and hundreds of images on display. At first sight, they were ALL excellent. After a few minutes, once the standard of excellence's been raised to accommodate the findings, about 30% of it is simply stupendous and the rest is... well, stupendous. Talk about logic and its designs! Only the truly insane can manage a recreation of chaos, and even then, sporadic manifestations of logic will become observable. Rusty and sharded both captured certain moods splendidly, and by "capture", I mean the freeze-frame trapping of the mind's infinite form-dance. By looking at the perfect painting, you suddenly become aware that your mind is a small individuation of the entire universe that the painting encompassed. That moment of oneness is truly fascinating; moreover, it feels like a release. Imagine an obscurely curved pipe which must be inserted into a bigger shaft; the engineer twists it and turns it and jams it, but when the orientations of the cross-sections match, the pipe just flows in without a complaint.

It's a world sans friction.

Sometimes, the banishing of logic itself seems like a kind of logic, and when you witness a creation fashioned on that basis, you know that rebellion is the order of the day. Literature, I now believe, has a similar, if not the same purpose: some liberation. That liberation, obtained via art of any form, I will always recognize with the individuation - the "charitocratic" vessel within which we sail, and the mind that enables such a journey is therefore not within us but without, at least in that moment. In hindsight, I recall having simplified the writings of Abhinavagupta for a friend. While Abhinava called that mind-universe coupling "God", I choose to call it the mind's awareness of itself, the ultimate permission to think, to keep thinking, to think whatever.

Rusty and Sharded

Before I began writing this, I thought to myself how I would begin this entry. That's when it struck me that this is my diary; I can write whatever I want to write - and so I began this entry! Haha! It is difficult to understand why people pour out their sorrows in thousands of words but joy comes out in not more than a hundred words. If it weren't for a "special" relationship I believe I have with the words I put down, I wouldn't think words are oppressed that way. Would they rebel? In a world of words, what would the rebellion be like? Will the world "bloody" be draped across a thousand pages of their chronicles? Perhaps, but words are often used together with the logic that comes with using them - not grammatical but the one accompanying the justice (or judicial capacity) of reason.

He was a coward who said a picture was worth a thousand words; he was a coward because he couldn't bring himself to concede that each image is worth hundreds of thousands of words; he was a coward because he chose to remain shielded behind the idea of progress when he could have stepped out and up to realize the continuum of realities that spanned the gap between "the now" and the future. The sheer volume of information is stupendous. How can you stop at a thousand words? The "aphorism" itself seems like a bit of an irony: if the sayer was going for a metaphor, then saying "thousand words" is equivalent to asserting that a picture is worth a million words, a billion words, a zillion words... if you can't stop, then why put them together at all? A picture's a picture and a word's a word; let them bloody be! You don't have to understand everything for it to be a continuum. In fact, if you did, it wouldn't be a continuum! Think about it! I use a million words and, just like that, someone adds or removes a word to give the picture a completely different verbal form.

Anyway, there's one thing I don't understand at all. How can people not think? How is is possible that people haven't thought about of the things I've thought about? How in the Lord's name is it possible for a mind to be at rest? The mental sophistication is so easy to acquire that it's laughable! In turn, thus, it would mean that such people have probably visited all those realms of possibilities and still choose the verboten-addicted reality around us. Guano.

I don't believe that; it's too wonderful an explanation... and so is the "still mind". Why isn't everyone as curious as I am? Why can't the best engineers do with machines and logic-constructs what even an unaccomplished writer such as I can do with words? Or have I not seen it? I don't think such things would've escaped me. And before you, you Faustus!, begin to defend yourself, mind: I will always hold that logic has its own exotic designs. Only yesterday, I had stumbled across this site/page called "But Does It Float", and behold! What an awe-inspiring collection of images! Short descriptions here and there told me most of it was either avant-garde or "deconstructivist". "Deconstructivist"? Really? Why can't you name something with whatever comes first to mind (on an average) amongst the first thousand people who see it? By that suggestion, I'm going to call avant-gardes "rusty" and deconstructivists "sharded".

Anyway, there were hundreds and hundreds of images on display. At first sight, they were ALL excellent. After a few minutes, once the standard of excellence's been raised to accommodate the findings, about 30% of it is simply stupendous and the rest is... well, stupendous. Talk about logic and its designs! Only the truly insane can manage a recreation of chaos, and even then, sporadic manifestations of logic will become observable. Rusty and sharded both captured certain moods splendidly, and by "capture", I mean the freeze-frame trapping of the mind's infinite form-dance. By looking at the perfect painting, you suddenly become aware that your mind is a small individuation of the entire universe that the painting encompassed. That moment of oneness is truly fascinating; moreover, it feels like a release. Imagine an obscurely curved pipe which must be inserted into a bigger shaft; the engineer twists it and turns it and jams it, but when the orientations of the cross-sections match, the pipe just flows in without a complaint.

It's a world sans friction.

Sometimes, the banishing of logic itself seems like a kind of logic, and when you witness a creation fashioned on that basis, you know that rebellion is the order of the day. Literature, I now believe, has a similar, if not the same purpose: some liberation. That liberation, obtained via art of any form, I will always recognize with the individuation - the "charitocratic" vessel within which we sail, and the mind that enables such a journey is therefore not within us but without, at least in that moment. In hindsight, I recall having simplified the writings of Abhinavagupta for a friend. While Abhinava called that mind-universe coupling "God", I choose to call it the mind's awareness of itself, the ultimate permission to think, to keep thinking, to think whatever.