Moderate Opinions

In Geometry lessons in school, the best way to draw a straight line was to define two points and then join them up with a smart line scratched out along with the side of a scale. For once, this is not meandering rumination but a very specific (and bulletproof) idea. And what better way to draw a line of thought than to pin down the two points at either end of it. So here go the points, two quotations spanning two millennia and, in all probability, two very different men.

Moderation in all things, including moderationAttributed to Titus Petronius
1^st Century AD

Opinions are like… noses?! Everyone has one! Paraphrased, Anonymous
20^th Century AD

We live in extremely indulgent times. And with the contempt bred off familiarity, we don’t really appreciate how indulgent they are. In the 17^th century, some 400 years ago, Galileo Galilei was prosecuted and placed under house arrest for life for supporting the Copernican Heliocentric ‘myth’ (sun-centric universe as opposed to the biblical earth-centric one). And today, we have freedom of speech that allows us to diss the state-heads or the pope (but NOT a certain South Indian actor). Some dissers do diss-appear rather mysteriously, but then that’s always a risk.

These indulgent times seem to have fostered an obsession with opinions. Everyone does indeed have one. And as the original quotation about opinions (that didn’t make it here because of the censor filters) indicates, they do tend to stink pretty often. But then a permissive society implies the explicit freedom to opine subjectively. Not surprisingly, everyone’s at it!

In many ways, it’s a good thing. Tyrants have been overthrown (and lynched), outdated systems have been torn down (and replaced with even more ridiculous ones) and good causes have been adopted (and groomed into boisterous free-for-alls). I’m sorry, but it’s getting obvious. I have an opinion… against opinions!

It might be a very oxymoronic way of being, but at the same time, it is a very persistent one. If there is one thing I truly believe in, it is moderation. The human body has been built for moderation. The survival of our species is the result of millennia of moderation. And our stupendous growth and development, especially in the last two centuries, is a result of moderation too… moderation in moderation.

Now what does moderation have to do with opinions? It’s pretty simple, really. Opinions are rather benign things, except when taken to the extreme. Sweeping generalizations, rabid convictions (backed with nothing more than hate and spittle) and zombie-like mob mentality are all the franken-offspring of opinions. It all comes down to us versus them and in that silent moment before the storm, there is always an opinion setting flame to fuel. The result; hate, hurt and sundry horrors.

I am often questioned about my lack of a standpoint. It is often equated with a likening to an invertebrate. I am asked if I am not infuriated by the plight of the under-privileged and the atrocities of the powerful. My answer is always the same; I do not know enough to foster such strong sentiments. And given all that I am occupied with, it is unlikely I will have the time to enquire and research enough to gather accurate and sufficient information about all these causes.

I am an average guy (next planet probably) with a personal set of dreams, some them even indirectly resulting in public good. I have but one life and a whole lot of things to do within its infinitesimally short span. I often do not have the time for a peaceful morning tea. Making time for opinions about urban legends raked up by manic strangers halfway across the world is quite out of the question. In short, given the option between moderation and opining, I’d choose the em-word every single time. And that is my opinion!

Damn! Did I just contradict everything I said?

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Song of Life

Sing me a song of life. Let there be a lilting note of childish joy. Build it up to the boisterous interlude of youth. Play it softly, weaving in the melody of wistful reminiscing, mellowed with age. Give in now to the strains of unrequited love. Over and over again, nurture the tune into an overture of existence, and breathe out the words that sing about life and all there is to it.

Sing me a song of life. Play long enough, and you will see a dance start. Little dust motes pick up the rhythm and sway around, borne by bright beams. Look closer and you can see forms of the faerie, twirling in gay abandon to the music. Oblivious to the emotions that have built up every note of that harmony, they are only possessed with the beat and the cadence that lifts them up. Their very being seems to thrum with the orchestral symphony of your life. And yet, they are strangers to the joy that runs in your veins or the pain that throbs with every heartbeat.

Sing me a song of life. Feed the music with your lifeblood, and watch others cavort around, carried away by the sheer beauty of it all. There might come a time when you stare with the morbid fascination brought on by the precious last moments as your essence drains away. And there are others who will streak themselves with the brilliant crimson, two steps away from the next masquerade.

Sing me a song of life. But watch carefully and you will see the cuts and the lies. The crimson congeals too soon and the crescendo seems to be composed of anguished cries. Note that the languor of those who frolic is of those who have been fed well. A bit closer and you see lips pucker in anticipation and the tongue running across white, sharp teeth. The prey might writhe in agony but the predators will be too busy applauding the killing stroke. Life ends as abruptly as it begins... and there is always a celebration to mark the event.

Sing me a song of life. Let it be real and let it be alive. Let it defy the end and stretch out to the heavens. Throw back your head and scream out your passion in a poignant requiem to all you are and will be. Let there be no watchers. And let the dancers be consumed in the fire that strokes the melody of your life.

Sing me a song of life. But let it be life at its purest and truest. Let it be a rhapsody that embraces all that hearken to its seductive notes, forever. Let it go on and on. Cos there is no other tune I'd rather lend my ear to.

Sing me a song of life...
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Story of Totter and Plop

I don’t claim to remember the memory, but I can safely assume that a little over two and a half decades back, I took my first steps. I must have let go of that convenient and secure piece of furniture that allowed me to stagger to my unsteady feet, and then I must have tottered through my first dangerously unstable steps. In all probability, I then proceeded to plop down on my behind. I guess in baby-talk terms, I must have even spent a few moments wondering what possessed me to try something so ridiculously dangerous! But then I guess the totter was exhilarating and the plop wasn’t too painful.

This is pure speculation based on nothing more concrete than my current walking ability.

Going on with this conjecture, a few hours or perhaps a day or two later, I must have tried the totter-step again. Totter, plop, totter, plop. With time, I am brave enough to assume, I tottered more and plopped less. Somewhere down the line, I learnt to walk. Grace came into the picture, and though I still plop once in a while, I don’t totter much.

This has been a recurrent pattern in life. Totters and plops. And I am not talking just about walking here! Time and again, I have been persistent enough to take enough plops and continue tottering through the awkward and difficult phases of life till I discovered the beauty and grace beyond. However, at times one plops too hard. And it hurts. Pain inevitably leads to fear. And with fear comes the hesitancy to totter. And with the hesitancy comes the increased risk of plopping. Replay loop ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

I mentioned the term ‘recurrent pattern’. That’s a treacherous thingamajig if you ask me. It’s subjective, and your fear makes you see patterns where none might lay. And giddy optimism might cause you to turn blind to these recurring patterns screaming warnings at you. And what do these patterns say?

Here there be plops!

When is the last time you fell? And I am not talking about the banana peel incident that you have been trying so hard to put behind you.

When is the last time something really mattered to you and you couldn’t get there, in spite of putting in all you had? When is the last time you plopped so bad that you thought you would never dare totter again? When is the last time you wanted to live like never before, and then could barely stay alive through the crashing realization that what you wanted was not to be yours… and would never be.

I read this statistic recently that claimed that 90% of accidents happen in the 10% of the path that lies at the beginning or the end of the journey. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We do tend to fall a lot right at the beginning or the end of a quest. Let’s talk about the end. Right when we’re nearing what we think is the end, when whatever it is that we have been pursuing peeks beguilingly out from behind that last barrier… WHAM! Sucker punch!

Recurrent patterns. When it comes to my life and the recurrent patterns therein, one particular aspect seems to be blessed with consistent doom. This doom is highlighted all the more by the sheer contrast of the splendor with which all other aspects seem to breeze through. But then, hope rears its scarred and bandaged head. Give me one more chance, it croaks. Damned pest! Hadn’t it succumbed to the sheer annihilation of the last big plop! Apparently, it hasn’t.

There is beauty, and there is hope. There is life, and there is the desire to live. There is that last mile of tottering, and there is the threat of the last, big plop; the plop to end all totters.

Well, all that matters is the vision beyond the barrier, the promise of a better life to come, of dreams to be realized. And like a cheerfully drunk kamikaze, I shall plunge... like the sake drunk samurai, I shall totter through the ritual steps of Harakiri, closer and closer to that tantalizing mirage of perfection...

I just hope like hell that I don’t plop!

Cogito Ergo Finito