Participation

I hate politics. Yet as a citizen of a state, and not by choice a member of the trans-national human race, there is no excuse for not taking an active interest (at the minimum, a raised brow), in public affairs at both the local and global levels. Was it not Pericles who said — I paraphrase, the more industrious among you can look it up in Book Two of Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War and be amply rewarded — that one of the points for which Athens is worthy of admiration, lies in the fact that even ordinary citizens, though occupied with the pursuits of industry (shoemakers, making shoes all day), are fair judges of public matters — informed, sensible, participative. Those who have no interest in public affairs are not called unambitious, but “useless”!

I have an interest in politics. I don’t love it. Interest and love are not the same, else “love interest” would make no sense, or no more sense than “banana banana” or “horse horse”. Why am I thinking of bananas? That may have somewhat to do with pyjamas…

Anyway, before I say anything more about politics, I should like to recommend that we temper our passions in this respect. The young (forgive me, I generalize; anyone with a heart is in danger here), fired by idealism, rage etc, are easy prey for vested interests that feed on such passions to achieve its own ends, sucking dry lives and souls in the process. The suicide bomber, the campaign activist, the volunteer… are they not giving their lives for something they believe to be right? Who’s telling them right from wrong? Left-wing, right-wing? What do these labels mean? Are they not parts of the same body? I suspect so. Take care before you lend your heart to a cause, and find you can't get it back.

Thinking about Food; and Scrambled Eggs

Contrary to popular belief among those who know me (a highly qualified use of “know”, since how well do we even “know” ourselves, much less our peers?), I do know (again, “know”!) a little bit about food. Not so much in its preparation, but surely, in its enjoyment.

Would that I didn’t; but as a man of the flesh, possessing a heightened consciousness and sensitivity to the pleasures from the physical senses (are there but five?), I’m ashamed to admit that earthly pleasures hold not a little sway over me — and food is one of these.

Food for me is a sentimental thing; a language, a window — touching without touching, talking without words. Beyond technical skill and finesse in its preparation, like music, much of the enjoyment also comes from the care and heart that is put into it, which is communicated to the person doing the eating. As the eyes reveal a person’s soul, food is likewise a portal, a direct window into a mind or a culture. I’m not making this up — you could look past a painting gaining no impression, or you connect with it, as in art. Should cooking be any different?

In any case, let me not waste the reader’s time by parting with a mere thought. Here’s a recipe even a lazy bone could try, magic ingredient in caps:
- scramble two or more eggs over low fire
- pinch of salt, tablespoon of butter
- 1 or 2 tablespoons of EVAPORATED MILK
- have tea and toast ready.

Nothingness.

Consistent with my general habit of setting modest goals, this blog's opening entry shall be about nothingness – which is not the same as nothing. Nothing is just nothing. Nothingness is about being nothing, which consequently becomes something (being is necessarily about being something or other...) This is not trickery with words. There must be something about nothing; otherwise there would be nothing to say or think about it. The latter would be absurd, since we are always fussing about nothing: doing nothing, getting upset over nothing... even basing religions and belief systems on the pursuit of pure nothingness.

Could it be, that on a thought (about nothing), nothing became something? Is that how life and the universe came about? On a thought? Whose? Back on planet earth, I recall, as a first-year philosophy student, that one of my tutors was especially fond of saying, that “there is more that exists than meets the eye.” A rather clumsy way of saying whatever she wanted to imply, I thought, like something lifted off an '80s detective drama; and worst of all, a Caucasian American woman teaching Chinese Philosophy. What evil did Confucius do to deserve this? Needless to say, I paid her no heed. Young, brash, relatively untamed by experience, I fancied myself an empiricist, that only things that can be measured, held, captured by the senses (mainly sight, we are so blinded by our eyes), exist.

Ain't that a lovely, modern notion; reality squeaky clean and safely, triumphantly self-evident, freed from ghosts, goblins and assorted creations of myth. I forgot about me. The ghost in the machine. Even if all other real things were physical, my mind/consciousness is not. The moral of the story: don't be in a great hurry to stuff unknown/vague things into the bag labelled “nothing”, for no better reason than to free our scope of life from the straitjacket confines of physical reality. More on this later.