The Purpose of Life is …

… to Live!

Alan Watts by Norm Breyfogle

This has been verified, once again, through my listening to Alan Watts, may he RIP, while I exercised on a machine that emulates cross-country skiing—something I haven’t done, other than on the machine, that is.

Watts verifies the above bold assertion, one I originally made upon deep reflection when I was in my early 20s. This was a period of great inner searching while I was also studying scientific and other things at the U. of Cal. at Berkeley, working at various short-term and part-time jobs, reading voraciously as still is my way, getting used to being married but without children yet, and occasionally getting soused on cheap wine with my wife and friends. This was also a time when we were not sure if the world would survive an argument between the USSR and the USA (in the persons of Nikita Khrushchev and John F. Kennedy) over nuclear missiles in Cuba.

I had bought two DVDs of Watts’s lectures and other materials and was listening to one of them to offset the boredom I suffer on the exercise machine.

Carl Gustav Jung

I listened to Watts talk on C.G. Jung, one of his mentors, and about another great man of learning and wisdom, G.K. Chesterton. During this exercising and listening session, and during a previous session as I listened to Watts lecture on “What is Reality,” I was reminded about Life being that which we experience every moment, unless we tend, mentally or otherwise, to live in the past or future.

So today is a beautiful day to live in the moment, given that Spring has sprung in Stockholm and it is a wonderfully warm day. My wife’s daughter, Liv, and I will take a walk along the lake next to our apartment building in the remaining daylight, of which there is plenty at 4:30 PM at this latitude (59 degrees north).

Life is good.

Posted in Essays, Memoirs | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Words

"All words are lies:" (possibly George I. Gurdjieff, depicted here)

“All words are lies:” (possibly George I. Gurdjieff, depicted here)

Words, Words, Words. My head is filled with words; my mouth issues streams of words; my pencil scribbles across the page … toward what end? Or is it just a compulsion, nervous or otherwise…or no-wise, given that “nervous” is just another word used to approximate something innate and ineffable?

“To name something is to destroy it:” (unknown)

I wrote this to myself a few years ago:

Words are all I have.
Words are my sword and my shield.
Words, written and spoken, are the tools of my work.

Pity me, while you ponder what others have written on the subject:

CONFUCIUS SAID:

If words are not true, concepts are not right.
If concepts are not right, morality and the arts do not thrive.
If morality and the arts do not thrive, justice miscarries.
If justice miscarries, the nation does not know where to put its feet and hands.
Therefore, disorder in words must not be tolerated.
___

Joseph Conrad

Joseph Conrad

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
—Joseph Conrad in Under Western Eyes

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.
—Rudyard Kipling

Words are dwarfs, but examples are giants.
—Swiss-German Proverb

So, with all the above and more in mind, here I go with my writing career, starting with a rigorous online writing course. I do not, cannot any longer, allow myself to dream great dreams about what may come of the words I continue to spew. I feel that I must explain the world as I see it in the most concise way to those would listen with their eyes. It is just something I have to do.

I enjoy the play of words. It is as if the Great Everything were an infinitely-sided crystal that I am allowed to see and attempt to describe, one facet at a time.

California, Sierra Nevada, near Donner Pass, September 1998

California, Sierra Nevada, near Donner Pass, September 1998

I am a lucky man, I am
I sit in mountains watching sky
As Moon traverses showing path
For Sun to take in just an hour

The trees, my friends, stand ever straight
And radiate their calmness true
My soul’s enraptured with the touch
Of cool thin air embracing me

My breast does swell with nameless warmth
A joyful feeling calmly felt
How easily I might, I think
Become a tree and friend to all

There is no ending to this poem
Like Nature’s patterns through us all
And we are played as instruments
In this celestial symphony …

Posted in Essays, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment