The physical and chemical properties of the universe are freaking amazing. Their complexity, stability, scale and resolution of detail are completely breathtaking when considered at any level of comprehension. Without an equivalent of natural selection by which to explain their emergence it is easy to assume that they must have been the design of a sentient. Of course the counter argument to this always has been and always will be the anthropic principle - that were the universe any different or any less "spectacular" in design then we would not be here to perceive it so; thus we should not be surprised and cannot logically infer anything about its creation.
In the movie Prometheus the android David asks a human crewmate...
Why do you think your people made me?
We made ya 'cause we could.
Can you imagine how disappointing it would be for you to hear the same thing from your creator?
In the movie Innocence the advertising caption was...
Why are humans so obsessed with recreating themselves?
If the universe was created intentionally then, taking an anthropocentric line of argument, we shall assume that the emergence of sentient life was part of that intention - either for experiment or by design, but ultimately because the creator could create that life.
To what end? To learn something? Peter Weyland, from the same school of ambition and entrepreneurship as Eldon Tyrell, gives this powerful speech several years in the future...
Both of Ridley Scott's films come to pretty much the same conclusion; humans learn fuck all from the creation of sentient life. In Blade Runner the children have shorter lifespans than humans, the humans play god and skirt around the periphery of the drama the Replicants make themselves. In Prometheus the David 8 android is physically and logically superior to humans and practically immortal, but lacks the fire of the Replicants and humans themselves. In both cases, the human reactions to their creations are nothing short of ambivalent - it was something that was done because it could be done, and yet the problems of the purpose of creation and human mortality remained - from the human perspective they have created nothing more than an image of themselves, a reflection that is ultimately, as Innocence ponders, obfuscating rather than instructive. Curious, no, that the creation of life, at least in the thought experiments of intelligent writers, answers no questions about the purpose of the creation of life? Going back to our hypothetical demiurge, what would it learn from us, its creations? Were we as a species worth waiting thirteen billion years for? If we created sentient life, like us, would we benefit in any spiritual or philosophical sense? Would the creator itself learn anything from our compulsive technological procession? I think... nothing, no, no and no.
However for writer Iain Banks in the Culture novels, the creation of sentient machines, along with interstellar travel, is a technological leap towards
post scarcity and liberal utopia. The technology itself answers no
questions, but makes life while we have it more diverse and stimulating. Banks is, I am happy to note, quite similar to Tolkien in his take on creation. For Ronald, for Iluvatar, the act of creation by necessity results in both good and bad consequences, but all add to the glory of life. The music of Eru is created simply for the joy of doing so. In the results driven practicality of the modern world where cause and effect can be scrutinized without end, and often censored or trammeled at even the lowest level because the Great Game is all encompassing, it is easy to forget that even the greatest of technological advances can have no more impact than the furtherment of enjoyment for the living. Or perhaps we should not be surprised at that at all, for perhaps, like the Olympians from whom Prometheus stole fire, revel in the time we have with our fires burning brightly, maintaining one's elan vital, is all life was ever meant to be about. Perhaps if there is a demiurge, it simply enjoys watching its children play with the fire it gifted them.
Time for another of my pet artistic/philosophical topics.
Music...
For a long time I have been fascinated by the central theme of The Iliad; generally recognised as the first story in the western literary tradition it is curious to me in that it follows a single theme along many threads in an insistent, almost dogmatic, fashion: Possession. The possession of women by men, of power by men, of life, death, jealousy, honour, status, trophy, skill, love, respect, immortality and the bodies of fallen friends. The whole story revolves around players who are constantly seeking the possession of something or someone.
Now this in itself is fascinating; why did the early Greeks craft a story such as this? Why does the story not cover the beginning nor the end of the war? What didactic lesson, if at all, was this meant to imbue the listener or reader with when, I think fairly, it can be said there is no conclusion (one might say "point") to the theme?
Well, in my own mind I have I feel answered these questions in part with a new interpretation of the Iliad that I have been building. To get there, I want to jump forward to Danny Boyle & Alex Garland movies of today...
The three movies they have so far collaborated on, The Beach, 28 Days Later and Sunshine, follow very similar themes and my interpretation of The Iliad requires a preliminary interpretation of these stories. All three follow a young man into a progressively worsening situation, and on one level chart his responses and eventual "triumph" over the obstacle. In each case, the man is clearly of middle class origins, educated either in a formal sense or worldly way, but finds no tools within that experience to deal with what he faces. Instead, he becomes like his aggressors, he becomes animalistic, savage and wild, acts unpredictably and totally unlike his usual self. Having just written this, I am pleased to find on Wikipedia that Boyle was influenced by Apocalypse Now:
"It had eviscerated my brain, completely. I was an impressionable
twenty-one-year-old guy from the sticks. My brain had not been fed and
watered with great culture, you know, as art is meant to do. It had been
sandblasted by the power of cinema. And that’s why cinema, despite
everything we try to do, it remains a young man’s medium, really, in
terms of audience."
Brando and Sheen are clearly reflected in the young men of Boyle's movies. But what does this mean?
Each man is conservative and is forced, for his life, to abandon this for anarchy, to embrace anarchy, to triumph. In The Beach, the triumph is over the conservatism of the beach community. In 28 Days Later the triumph is over the anarchy of the zombies and the conservatism of the army. In Sunshine it is over the conservatism of the pan-theistic religion of the captain (on a side note, what organisation sending a space ship to the sun to save humanity would ever call the ship Icarus, and when it fails - whoops, didn't see that coming - call the next one Icarus II? Geesh!). That each man triumphs over a different adversary in each movie is important; and what this signifies is the strength of anarchic-conservatism over either of its constituent parts.
Let's go back to the first story ever recorded; the Epic of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The king Gilgamesh represents ultimate conservatism; he has absolute wealth and power in his kingdom, and was famed for the construction of the epitome of conservative architecture; a big wall. Enkidu is anarchy embodied; a feral man who runs with the animals, he is civilised by procreating with a whore for a week. Apart they are forces that rival and challenge one another, together they are stronger than anything else in the land.
Above, Capa (or "Kappa" or "K") and Kaneda attempt to repair the solar shield in Sunshine. Below, Kaneda and Kei run from the cops.
Above, Kaneda faces down the light of the sun. Below Kaneda enters the light of Akira to help Tetsuo.
In Akira, the two friends Kaneda and Tetsuo become anarchy realised as they tear up Neo Tokyo. The Colonel is the force of conservatism, desperately trying to protect the city and its people using all his military power. The Doctor, the scientist, is portrayed as a short sighted fool possessing neither power. What succeeds in stopping Tetsuo in the end is not Kaneda (anarchy) or the Colonel (conservatism) but the three espers; Takashi, Kiyoko and Masaru. Again, they are symbolic of the convergence of anarchy and conservatism; they are childlike in stature and voice, but elder in appearance and power and knowledge. They stay with the Colonel in safety, but Takashi is escaped by radicals and comes into contact with the bike gang early on. This dualism gives them the power to summon Akira, to stop Tetsuo.
Finally we may return to the Iliad. To desire the possession of what one does not have is anarchic, to hold what one has is conservative. Achilles is the fusion of these elements and this alloyed psyche is his real strength; the conflicting needs to be immortal and yet to be famed gives him a life-force beyond all others. Hector is representative of all Trojans, excepting Paris; conservative, and thus his and his city's fate are writ. His father though also conservative, enboldened by Hermes, he, like Boyle's characters or Ootomo's Steamboy, crosses the line into anarchy and does the unthinkable in order to regain the body of his son.
Conclusion
I believe that this simple message, that united anarchy and conservatism are stronger than either force alone, is a pervasive and universal theme of all art. What I find incredible is that firstly, this was the central theme of the very first written art in the history of civilisation and has persisted 1000 years later with the Iliad and 3000 years later with cinema, and secondly that this message is not taught more explicitly.
It is clearly manifest in history, in contemporary politics and economics, but it is rarely identified. Yes, the likes of Nietzsche or Freud or Campbell have elicited the basic need for a Hermes like figure to traverse the boundaries of the mind/soul/society/whatever to bring external knowledge to the group and so strengthen it, but nowhere have I seen this insisted upon with such clarity and strength of vision than in Homer, Boyle and Ootomo (and Michael Mann with whose works I've been having a protracted love affair). Thus, we can answer that riddle from the start, how come this was the theme for the very first art of our cultural history. At heart, the difference between these artists and the aforementioned academics is one of Action: They are artists of the world, and for men in the world. Unlike the academics of towers on rare heights or scientists gazing at glowing rectangles, these are men that have themselves been actors in the world, and have transferred that experience to art for others to learn.
The Music
Is from the soundtrack for the animation Akira, and is composed and performed by a Japanese music "collective" called Geinoh Yamashirogumi. Every track is remarkable, but this one in particular has an artistic beauty tied to the movie. Sections of melody decay into chaos, only to be restored by the Buddhist-style chanting, the primal rhythm of a male chorus. But are they human? No. Each instrument and vocalisation becomes an animistic cry from nature. The deep percussion at the start, the female chorus crying out Tetsuo's name, the priests forcing order, the cacophony of the city in the xylophones, the chorus returning with a lullaby for Akira and Tetsuo - this is the city of Neo Tokyo reacting to and trying to influence the events of the movie. It screams in pain, rejoices in life and pleads with empathy. I cannot listen to music anymore unless there is a story, either intrinsic to the piece or provided by mine own interpretation, to accompany.
Sue Naami is the fat lady who bombs the swimming pool. It's a joke from Scouts. Said with a New Zealand accent.
I just watched the C4 program, "Japan's Tsunami - Caught on Camera", and it was well worth taking a ganders. Most of the footage has been shown on TV or the internet before, but the interviews with the camera-peoples were very illuminating, mostly for the largely normal and predictable reactions they all exhibited (except for the totally chilled out guy who said, "Well, what could I do? I just climbed the tree.").
Ten months on and, well at least here in Shizuoka, you'd be hard pressed to find any evidence in daily life that Japan had suffered it's worst natural disaster since the Great Kanto earthquake crushed and burned over 300,000. An order of magnitude smaller in the blood cost, about 30,000 people were crushed and drowned. Trivial! If I reach into the collective psyche of the culture I now live in, this catastrophe, the instant death of 0.02% of the population, has really registered as nothing more than an event of the year. A "happening", as the Japanese say in borrowed English, that is quite disagreeable yet nevertheless seems right at home amongst the milieu of bad news that permeates the twilight of fear-driven Western capitalism.
Engage Anti-Capitalist Drive
"The contrast between publicity's interpretation of the world and the world's actual condition is a very stark one, and this sometimes becomes evident in the colour magazines which deal with news stories. Overleaf is the contents page of such a magazine."
Ways of Seeing, John Berger
The following page shows in the top half refugees from atrocities in Bangladesh in 1971, the bottom this ad for badedas bath products...
"Publicity is essentially eventless. It extends just as far as nothing else is happening. For publicity all real events are exceptional and happen only to strangers."
I witnessed no stronger proof of Berger's argument than what happened to publicity in Japan after March 11th. The commercials on TV just stopped. For weeks. Only one company, one suspects at the behest of the government or TV stations since nobody wants consumers remembering a time when there were no ads, continued to "advertise" on TV. But these were thirty second, "We can do it, Japan!" "commercials" for a company which nobody has a clue what they actually do. They only had three or four commercials in their portfolio, and indeed viewers got so irritated by seeing the same commercials, often back to back, day in day out, the company even made some more.
If you watch this 100 times, I guarantee you too shall grow to hate this kid.
Berger's assault on Capitalism from this point is merciless...
"Publicity exerts an enormous influence and is a political phenomenon of great importance. But its offer is as narrow as its references are wide. It recognizes nothing except the power to acquire."
"Publicity turns consumption into a substitute for democracy. The choice of what one eats (or wears or drives) takes the place of significant political choice. Publicity helps to mask and compensate for all that is undemocratic within society."
"Capitalism survives by forcing the majority, whom it exploits, to define their own interests as narrowly as possible. This was once achieved by extensive deprivation. Today in the developed countries it is being achieved by imposing a false standard of what and what is not desirable."
He is perfectly correct. TV stations just cut everything for round the clock news commentary for several days, since no existing program could cope with the reality presented by the disaster. The silence of Japanese culture spoke more about itself in that week than it has ever done in its loud, crass, rock-bottom-denominator days before or since.
Irrespective of what Japan was before, which from my point of view had some very artistically productive and socially vibrant decades within living memory, it is now a consumer-culture par excellence. Rather like a perverse Orwellian perpetual war culture, Japan is now in a state of goading its citizens to spend more, forget about reality more, worry about China more in a desperate bid to stave off the long defeat. The long defeat into what? Into a marginally poorer and more anarchic state than the situation they had the good fortune to be handed to them by America and protected-market policies after the Second World War. This wholly reasonable reaction to an economic decline would not be so bad if they didn't have to drag the culture down with it, by employing every artistic mouthpiece for hire to bray the monotonous call-to-arms (to support Japanese industry) before the impending Ragnarok.
I think my body is slightly purer for having got that out.
If you buy into Japanese culture, it isn't nearly so bad looking from the inside. I enjoy some programs on TV, and go to J-Pop concerts and readily engorge my share of complementary tripe as happily as Ralph. Not two weeks ago we partook of an Arashi concert in Nagoya, had excellent seats in the central arena section, and I boast to my students that I got a wave from Ninomiya.
Man, it was awesome. I should add that even the lamentation of death is something that is
beginning to irk me; currently I am fascinated by
pre-industrial/pre-modern fatalism, so even if Japan had commemorated those taken by Poseidon with sufficient European melancholy and pomp, I should have had something to complain about. Not to mention that today I found myself (kind of) defending the SOPA bill and political lobbying in a forum discussion with some stridently uneducated gamers, it's probably best that I suffer my chronic dualism in silence. ..........
"Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is out at hazard."
The judge
The latest idea to catch my mind is a proposition I'd like to make - all emotion stems from playing games.
The above quote from Blood Meridian concerns the philosophy of Judge Holden who himself is a hermetic representation of Satan or War, in which he speaks, so he later claims, for the benefit of the kid, to educate him in part on the purpose of life and also in the nature of war. A while after, he admonishes the kid for not playing the game (which was to scalp as many native Americans as possible for money)...
"You alone were mutinous. You alone reserved in your soul some corner of clemency for the heathen."
The judge
Recently, over the past few months, a thing that has become an irritation for me has been the practices of the video game publishing company, EA. Having bought out one of my favourite developers they then trashed my two favourite intellectual properties, turning them into populist, dumbed-down-for-kids crap. I query myself, and try to ask, why is it that this angers me so?
As the judge is angry and disappointed with the kid, so too I am angry with EA because, from my perspective, they are not playing the game: I buy games I like, a portion of that money goes back to the developers who profit and go on to make more and better games. But, in appropriating Bioware's franchises as they did to attack opposition IPs and appeal to the kiddy market, EA broke the rules of the game I was playing. When the kid broke the rules, the judge tried to kill him. For me, well, I'm not a war god so I just get pissed off and rant wildly and vow to never again buy a game from EA.
Of course, each plays his own game, and EA and the kid see things differently...
"It was you, whispered the kid. You were the one."
EA are playing a different game; the game of finance in a popular culture market. Like the music, movie and, to a lesser extent, book industries of yore, they are currently riding a wave of success in an undereducated market that will buy their mass-appeal drivel for a little while yet. EA, and other big publishers, have been breaking the game contract with old customers for years, hoping, like the judge, to educate the youth into a new game with new rules.
They can get away with breaking the rules of my game because my rules are not binding, are unenforceable. In The Merchant of Venice, Shylock and Antonio have a natural and passionate enmity stemming from the different business games that each plays. Yet in the loan contract they agree upon they willingly treat with each other according to rules they both accept.
PORTIA You, merchant, have you any thing to say?
ANTONIO But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.- Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well! Grieve not that I am fall'n to this for you; For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom
But the sickeningly happy lovers (and audience, one presumes) cannot accept this game of blood the businessmen are playing, and make a mockery of the court and common sense to rescue melancholic Antonio and punish Shylock - both of whom could not be any more ambivalent.
PORTIA
Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
SHYLOCK I am content.
PORTIA
Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
SHYLOCK
I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;
I am not well: send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.
All their venom is nowhere to be found; the game they were playing has been destroyed and with it the context for their emotion. All that is left is the judgement of the staged court, which has vapourised their contract and ridicules the passion with which they had entered upon it.
Simple, generic Game properties...
A Game consists of Rules and Goals
For a Game to Work, all participants must nominally play according to the Rules
A cheater is a participant who breaks the Rules
And as this generalised game pertains to emotions...
Participating in a Working Game is enjoyable
A participant who achieves a Goal experiences delight
A cheater will inspire hatred in others
And I could define others with greater or fewer caveats, e.g. honour as defence of the Working Game, spite/malice as attack of the working game, etc.
I believe I can trace and explain all emotion from this. From the kinders I teach who experience joy with the die, or those who have not been taught how to play by their parents exhibiting confusion and anger when they don't win, to old ladies on trains who raise my hackles by asking personal questions without first introducing themselves - all can be systematically defined as individuals playing working, broken and different games as each perceives it for himself, and as I perceive them.
There is a great deal more that can be harvested from this seed, in business, politics, anthropology, art and so on, but I shall save the details for programming. What do you think?
Returning to the publisher-that-shall-not-be-mentioned, I realise according to this system that I am angry because they broke the rules of the game I was playing and, if a corporation can be angry, they/it must be angry that people like me do not play their game. Rather than become bitter like the moody merchant, I can't go far wrong finding other developers and other publishers to play with who want to play the same game....
But herein lies the melancholia of Antonio. He is a merchant of Venice, not Rome or Constantinople. He must go down to the rialto to do business, and must come into contact, however indirectly, in work or at play, with the Jewish usurer he despises so much. He would do himself and his brother Shylock a massive favour if he just ditched the anti-semitism and accepted the economic structures of Venice for what they are.
ooOoo
What distinguishes a game-game from the games we play as part of life are the boundaries, temporal and physical, that surround and dissociate games of entertainment from all else. The hallmark of games played out in reality is that they have no clear demarcations and, to greater or lesser extents, they shall affect us. Provided we buy into the games provided by our society, the culture of that society is itself a buffer that protects us from foreign games that work on different rules. People playing different games, like the big game publishers that haunt my life, irritate the hell out of us because they don't play by our rules, thus they are cheating. We could try to call them out, but they might stick us like Doc Holliday...
(I have been working on an interpretation of Blood Meridian, which includes amongst other concepts this interpretation of Games. The book is easily one of the best books I have read - you should read it!)
That's right, I have now officially passed into the era of old age, hereafter doomed to patching up my body as it slowly... well a bit dramatic, but that's how I felt. That's the first part of this post. The second is the means to escape old age.
Continuing what I did before, here is some topical background music to accompany this post...
Woke up and walked to work as normal, except I had a nasty pain in my right groin, not dissimilar to a twisted testicle. It got steadily worse on the way to work, and by the time I had arrived, not thirty minutes later, I was feeling most uncomfortable and quite nauseous. A teacher kindly proffered a chair to recouperate on, but there was no recouperating to be had. After perhaps, 45 seconds on the chair, the pain got much worse, and I decided quickly I wanted to go to hospital. Retelling this to my students later, those who know me well were quite surprised because I always bemoan doctors and hospital and medicine (that's to come, mind you), but there comes a point with pain when even principles must be abandoned.
I was hastily ushered into a taxi cab across the street, and I gasped a request to take me to the nearest hospital. Having resigned myself over to the conveyance of the taxi and the inevitable medical care of Shizuoka's finest doctors, I relaxed all inhibitions I had been placing on myself and let the pain take over.
At university I attended a couple of lectures on "pain", and simply from an academic point of view, the topic is really quite interesting. Kind of like left and right, or a three-body physics problem, pain is something relative that is impossible to define in isolation or measure quantitatively. At first, the pain was intense in my groin and lower abdomen, much like the report of a terrible stomach ache or malicious kick to the testicles. But as the intensity increased, it seemed to be carried up to my brain, and from there force itself upon every part of my body in waves of paralysis and rigidity that were at once both painful and beyond pain so as to be not painful but simply distressing. My consciousness seemed to recalibrate what pain actually meant, but not by turning it off, because it couldn't, but by dissolving it in a mental spasm, overwhelming the sensation of pain with nonsense that induced a semi-paralysis. Instead of suffering pain, I was aware of suffering pain.
Symptomatically, this manifest as rigor, an inability to move or coordinate movements or to speak, and mild hyperventilation.
It was the most intense pain I have ever felt and, unless I do retain youthful world angst and go the way of Mishima, likely the worst pain I shall ever experience. Even if I should happen across some other illness or injury of comparative nociceptive activity, at least I know my brain has some kind of automatic pain-shutdown that comes into effect. Which is certainly of some comfort.
Anyway, back to the back seat of the taxi, I'm writhing and panting like I'm going to die at any moment, and the poor taxi driver is hoping he won't have a dead foreigner to explain to the police. We get to the hospital and I awkwardly throw my wallet at the driver, not caring whether he takes all my cash and my credit cards. He helps me into reception.
Reception lady in the emergency entrance asks, "Do you have insurance?" ".... yes.... but..." "Do you have an insurance card?" [whole body shaking, barely standing, hyperventilating] ".... check.... my... wallet..." [she checks it, but it isn't in there] "You don't have a card, please fill out this form..." "I've got the fucking money just treat me you lunatic!"
No, I didn't say that. Nurses came and plonked me into a chair and wheeled me away from the [charming] lady, got me on a bed and from then on it was like ER. Doctor, young man, asks me some questions and as I reply in Japanese I am aware of being pleased with myself for maintaining some mental decorum whilst under such pain; the other time I saw a man moaning on a hospital bed like this he was dying from an abdominal aortic aneurysm and he was incoherent. The doctor quite quickly suspects a kidney stone, confirms enlarged right kidney with ultrasound (I don't think he could see the stone with that), they give me a suppository for the pain and soon I am quite mellow, lying in my own bay, thinking what an exciting experience this has all been.
They give me two abdominal x-rays and an x-ray CAT scan to confirm the diagnosis. Older doctor shows me the stone on the CAT scan. He tells me it will hurt again when it comes out. I want to ask him some questions. What kind of stone is it? He says of course it is a calcium stone (I think he is bullshitting, it probably was, but even the next doctor I go to wants to test the stone to check). What caused the stone? He has no idea. What can I do? Nothing, just wait. Nice work doc.
I got some more morphine suppositories, and then go to work. Not being happy with this hospital, I got to another for follow up. Next one is much better, but they couldn't keep to the damn schedule and I have work to go to, so I don't bother going back there either. (Seriously, don't get me started on doctors, I've heard dozens of stories from students on doctors, to add to my own, who make mistakes, once fatally, over prescribe medicine, and are even drunk on duty). At no point did any healthcare professional (cough) give me any advice other than what was written on a leaflet (drink lots of water). Total bill for symptomatic treatment (which is all doctors can do 90% of the time): $400
The internet was, fortunately, much better. Twenty seconds of google-fu and 1 yen of internet and electricity costs turns up the advice that 60oz of olive oil mixed with 60oz of lemon juice melts the blighted stone like tofu cooked with radiation; I made and drank the disgusting concoction (the lemon juice is what makes it unpalatable) three or four times. I know not whether this actually cured me, but I never passed a stone to my knowledge and only suffered mild renal colic once more.
Runaway Horses
The music is by Philip Glass, and is part of the soundtrack to the movie Mishima, written and directed by the Schrader brothers. You can watch the whole thing on Youtube, and you should do [edit - now you cannot thanks to copyright on a movie that doesn't even seem to be in publication any more, try a rental shop]. The second book in Mishima's tetralogy is called Runaway Horses, and it is the finest novel concerning the youth of man ever. It is slow and considered like the middle aged lawyer, Honda, who seeks a connection to his youth, punctured by sections of extreme beauty and purity of idealism. The end of the novel also gives the finest line of prose ever written, which was also used as the final line for the movie.
Isao and his creator Mishima likewise, suffered from a peculiar form of psychache whereby they give a shit about what they themselves think and they ACT on their beliefs. As a form of mental pain, their psychache, the kind that drives action, was of a quality and intensity analogous to the small lump of ill-formed calcium tearing up my ureter. It spurred me onto quick action out of fear and panic, an action that is always in danger of being yielded and diluted to the pressure of daily conformity and numb peace, unless it has an unstoppable progenitor.
The genius of all art lies in self awareness, and Mishima so consistently undermined his own beliefs and those of his characters that he draws point to self awareness in the comedy of taking one's beliefs too seriously, and yet, in spite of that, believes and acts on them anyway. His art was only crystallized, proven by experiment, when he killed himself. The Will to Act.
The self immolation of the rabbit at the beginning of Tezuka Osamu's Buddha sums this up well. The impetus to act, the stone in one's mind causing pain, can manifest a desire to do good, to create or to help, but only in real world manifestation can this impetus be transformed into something worldly, and thus historical, and thus timeless. In this perverse way of viewing action, the fantasy of the mind is in fact a concrete reality from which the certitudes of one's world are born and maintained; when these are acted upon they become something surreal, seeds of a kaleidoscope, born into a physical world where their repercussions are, unnaturally, refracted and distorted eternally in the interpretations of other minds.
I am constantly amazed at how institution and power structures, and the individuals who work for them, act without moral compunction, and without reproach, often killing thousands through such tools like "policy" and "economic theory", yet are unknown, unpunished, and undiagnosed as sociopaths and not sectioned. Yet, someone who believes in something beyond themselves, someone without ego, with morality who acts in their own name and is willing to be punished under that name, someone who dares take up the sword against an individual of an institution, is labelled a terrorist, has human rights stripped from them, and is punished as the worst kind of criminal. The powers that be in modern society are trying to erase the Will to Act, and the impotence of protest and the youth of modern developed society is sickening proof of their success. This is why we find escapism in the tales of those who do act; Mishima, Batman, Mohammed or Buddha. What we should learn is not how to escape, but how to transform thought into action.
Mishima began his regimen of physical and mental perfection when he was 30, which he did not stop until his death 15 years later; I like to think that it took him this long to form a stone in his belly strong enough to found his beliefs on, and jagged enough to drive him towards action. I have a stone, but it is not yet strong enough to stand up to reason; before I act on it I must accept the comedy and pain of belief in order to calcify the stone, lest it dissolves without a trace.
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