Sunday 25 July 1999
|
Pic of the day: Morning in Daggerfall. OK, I did sneak a trip to the
fantasy world of Daggerfall today again. I don't go there nearly as
often now that my Daggercomputer is gone - the laptop is not the best
for this kind of game - and this web journal fad takes a bite out of my
play time. But I still visit now and again. I see on
alt.games.daggerfall that there are still newbies getting into the game.
It sure has some lasting appeal.
Tonight I dreamt that giant dinosaurs were stomping the streets of Kristiansand. Meteors streaked the pale blue evening sky. The light and the colors were so pretty. I thought about how ironic it was that we had recreated the dinosaurs just in time for the next mass extinction. But I did not feel bad about it. It was the end of the world as we know it, and I felt fine. OK, I guess that should be enough dreams for one weekend! Onward to what's on my mind on this sunny Sunday. I took a quick walk for ca half an hour, as it is recommended that a man do every other day too keep his heart and arteries in somewhat presentable shape. (I also use stairs instead of the elevator at work, but that does not take nearly half an hour, so the effect is probably a lot less. I miss one and only one feature of our old office building: We were spread on four floors, and the computer room was at the first and I at the fourth, so I was going stairs all the time. Employers should really think about the health of their workers and not just try to squeeze a few seconds here and there by getting it all as compact as possible.) Anyway, as I went for the walk today I snatched my "food for thought" MiniDisc and my Sony MiniDiscMan. There was one particular line of one particular song that stayed with me after I came home too. In Chris de Burgh's song Shine On (from his Power of Ten CD) he sings about how time is fleeting, like a river, and "We must say all the words that should be spoken, before they are lost forever." That, sort of, is what I try to do here. All the words that should be spoken. I guess I am throwing in some that should not be spoken too ... it is not all that easy to hit the mark. And there are some that are not quite fit for this forum. But still. Before they are lost forever. I'm reading about the Danish philospher Kierkegaard these days. We have quite a bit in common, I'm afraid. I guess he more or less founded existentialism, which is a pretty good school of thought except for the whining. I hope I'm less vague and complicated than the existentialists, though. For most of my life I did not know it, but recently it has become clear to me. I am a philosopher. Not by career, but by nature. Not many people are, at least when they are sober. I suspect I've taken after my father, and more or less his entire family, who seem to have had a tendency towards pondering life and the universe and everything. Which is not a bad thing to do if one can keep one's sanity intact. Kierkegaard was certain that humor was the sign of true understanding. I suspect he was right on that one too. The problem with people, says Kierkegaard, is that they take too many things seriously. I guess most of us have met someone whose mind has been warped by some almost trivial event in the past. They feel that they have been dealt with unfairly, and probably this is true. And in gratitude for this, they continue to hurt themselves for the rest of their lives. Chewing and chewing on the bitterness, reliving the torture of their belittling again and again and again, endlessly. Lying awake in the night thinking of the injustice they have suffered, of the revenge they would have taken if they only had the chance. The high-pitched whining and insane babble chase away those who could have been their friends, and in the loneliness of their self-made desolation they suspect even those who try to help them. Their worm will not die, nor will their fire be quenched. And then they die, and what has it helped them at all? It could have been me. I have known hate and longed for revenge. Daydreams of holding the steaming liver of my enemies in my blood-slick hands. But one day as I sat in the old rocking chair in my parent's place and read a small leaflet by Elias Aslaksen, I understood that I and I alone am responsible for what I do with my body, including my brain. No one but me can lift my hand in anger. Sure, I have had my flashbacks. For much of my twenties my nights were filled with dreams of fear and hate and killing. I shot them, I stabbed them, I axed them, I crushed their skull with stones, I throttled them with my bare hands. I lost count of the deaths, I woke with the taste of blood in my mouth. But it faded gradually, as I started to accept my own imperfection, my own humanity. All in all, I guess I've been an existentialist from that day in the rocking chair. Existence is good. I wish I could exist forever. |
|