I like to think I have a “sense of things”. I use my brain, of course, but I often invite and listen to my gut, and to certain intangible intuitions that are simply there.
As I think I have argued, thought systems can be boiled down to their basics. They can be understood practically with the same precision with which mathematical formulas can be understood.
However, thought systems are deployed by human individuals, and of course this means that thought systems in REALITY never look exactly like they ought to in theory. Chaos enters. And this is fun. It makes things entertaining, and life. . . lively.
I have, for example, argued that the only good Muslims are bad Muslims. By this, I mean Muslims who ignore the many verses inciting them to kill and terrorize (terrorism is already in the Koran: how many people openly admit this?), and who instead rely upon what I would regard as GOD given instincts about what is decent and what is profane. And if someone wants to argue this is the overwhelming bulk of Muslims, I have no argument with this. Most people want peace, want harmony, want prosperity, and detest violence and hate.
Scandinavia: I spent a number of formative years in the frozen North, surrounded by many blonde kids with names ending in -son, or -sen. I know what it is like to stand at a bus stop when it is 20 degrees below zero and the bus is late, and you wore tennis shoes because the misery of feeling like your toes will freeze is less than the misery of the mockery of wearing snow boots like a grade school kid.
As it happens, being the macho man that I am, I am listening to Abba at the moment. And in point of fact, I just watched Bergman’s Island a few days ago, where he talks candidly about his many “neuroses” (I am conflicted about that word. I will likely post on this at some point; I have been contemplating how I would describe my own emotional dysfunctions, and “neurotic” seems as good as anything, even though I felt like kicking Woody Allen even before I knew he married the adopted (and much, much younger) daughter of his ex-wife.)
Shit: I’m channeling Arlo Guthrie: “But that’s not what I came to tell you about. . .”, or something like that. I played Alice’s Restaurant at a bar once, but you couldn’t understand a damn thing.
Suffice it to say that “sunshine in a bottle” may be in play, but I always get to the point eventually.
Read this article: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jan/27/scandinavian-miracle-brutal-truth-denmark-norway-sweden
Lots of interesting content. I want to focus on Sweden.
“Swedes seem not to ‘feel as strongly’ as certain other people”, Daun writes in his excellent book, Swedish Mentality. “Swedish women try to moan as little as possible during childbirth and they often ask, when it is all over, whether they screamed very much. They are very pleased to be told they did not.” Apparently, crying at funerals is frowned upon and “remembered long afterwards”. The Swedes are, he says, “highly adept at insulating themselves from each other”. They will do anything to avoid sharing a lift with a stranger, as I found out during a day-long experiment behaving as un-Swedishly as possible in Stockholm.
Effectively a one-party state – albeit supported by a couple of shadowy industrialist families – for much of the 20th century, “neutral” Sweden (one of the world largest arms exporters) continues to thrive economically thanks to its distinctive brand of totalitarian modernism, which curbs freedoms, suppresses dissent in the name of consensus, and seems hell-bent on severing the bonds between wife and husband, children and parents, and elderly on their children. Think of it as the China of the north.
OK: what the hell is my point? This: the miracle of the North seems predicated on being as INhuman as possible. It works to eradicate the Male, and the Female. It attacks families. It works to mechanize humanity–where Socialism is merely a rationalization of applying industrial ideals to social engineering–without the least thought about what it means to be human in the first place.
What is the point of life? Can we not ask this question? And can we not query the Swedes as to the generalized answer their One Party State has created? And what is that answer?
In my view: nothing matters. Nothing matters absolutely. If you KNOW that Islamic immigrants rape Swedish women at five or more times the rate of indigenous men, why care? That is unpleasant knowledge. It could lead to judgmentalism. It could lead to unpleasantness, perhaps even–fucking hell and horrors–spontaneous EMOTION.
Here is the deal. I watched Bergman’s “Cries and Whispers” perhaps two weeks ago. It affected me. As my kids were mocking me for, movies tend to take weeks for me to process. I cried during Toy Story 3, when all the toys were in the incinerator, making common cause, connecting, facing death together, with bravery.
I make no apology. I think it is a great thing, and a wonderful privilege, to be fucked up by something you see on screen, and to have the capacity to wander through a myriad of feelings, and walk out a bit wiser and more organized emotionally. This is what the fuck life is about, god-damn-it.
Cries and Whispers is a powerful movie. Bergman himself was locked up in a morgue as a youngish child, perhaps 8, and says a dead women on a table watched him with her eyes. This seemingly left a permanent impression on him, which he perhaps processed in part with this movie.
But the point about the movie is the extreme emotional restraint. I remember, from my own life, how extreme cold can push you into yourself. It turns you into an introvert. As Garrison Keillor–who I don’t like in most respects, but who is UNQUESTIONABLY a great story teller puts it: extroverted SWEDES (I inserted that) are the one who look at YOUR shoes.
Remember the English are Vikings who studied Latin. The Angles. The Saxons? Boats, hard men. 1066? Normans/Norsemen. And that was the second such invasion in quick succession. I forget the king who lost, but shit he was a Norseman too, and he won the first go-round.
Where am I going? Beside the freezer for booze and ice?
Oh, hell.
In that movie, I actually felt for the older sister. She has massive unprocessed trauma, but lived in a world where weakness was not allowed, even for an instant. Therefore, she lived in hell.
The younger sister: she felt compassion. She cheated on her husband precisely because she idealized love, and found it in the Doctor, at least for a time.
But she was vain, weak, self centered. She tried to comfort her sister, in THAT scene, but failed. She tried to be there for her other sister, briefly, but was unable to forget the abuse that got visited on her, by a sister who desperately needed connection, but who also wanted to hate and attack as a matter of principle everyone she could.
Fast forward: OH, we are all crazy. In my own small world, in my own small perceptual domain, I watch people. I watch vanity, error, stupidity.
This of course does not mean I look at myself as exempt, but it does mean I put myself in a slightly different place.
That place has no walls, but exists in a land with rivers, and no obvious mountains.
Truth: I am having to edit this, since I am not sufficiently drunk. Truth: I like people when I am drinking, and even when I’m not I value family connections.
In the Bergman movie, the maid has the worst work, but she is also the most real. She does the hard work that the elites around her are frightened of.
She is nobility, in my own iteration. She is what we should all strive for, even thought most of us are cowards.
She lost her child, as we discover early on. She is pious, and still capable of love.
Oi.
I’ll leave it at that. Too much complexity.
YOU, though: chances are good I feel your confusion and anger, too.
Postscript, the day after: I’m going to leave this mess as is. Clearly, alcohol does not make anyone smarter, but in my own case it has often allowed me to process emotions that needed processing. It is an anesthetic I use for emotional surgery, or have used. I am in the process, again–but this time feels different–of giving up drunkenness. That was my first bout in two weeks, which is good for me.
I think the surest sign that alcoholic is not the best word for me is that I retain, sober, an affection for what it has done for me. It has not cost me any relationships, any jobs, any major loss of self respect. It has on the contrary helped me manage otherwise unmanageable emotions, acted as a balm when I needed it, and all with no visible affects on my health or overall well being, other than a few extra pounds in my belly.