Northerly

So there I stood, at the northernmost point of the island, and stared through the wreathing mist and the cold salt air. in such places, the briny vapour curls around you like a living thing. It is like being in the heartless belly of an aerostat; it is like being enveloped in something which fails to digest you only because it doesn't care.

At ten at night, the atmosphere was surreal; sharpened perceptions at very short range composed my universe. There were some lights, blurred to stars by the watery breeze. There were chill, hard, metal things which you could see and touch and feel; there was a sense of being on the edge of reality — which you could not see or touch or feel.

Things like this remind you of how tenuous, how faint, how inconsequential your grasp of logic and thought and the processes of mind can be. You know you are nothing and that any thoughts you have are possibly only self-confirming chemical impulses. These roil in a more concentrated chemical mass, one that is shielded from the more diffuse medium of your environment by a barrier of bone and thin membranes.

You are like a barnacle on a great whale. The moment of stillness engulfs you. If you could hang suspended in this space, and in this time, you would be as immortal as such a parasite.

But you cannot, and you are not.

Selective Senility

Yes, I'm still a fairly young man. But I was looking at my sister-in-law's profile when I noticed a rather enchanting quote which I shall now reproduce:

God,
Grant me the senility
To forget the people I never liked anyway,
The good fortune
To run into the ones I do,
And the eyesight to tell the difference.

I'm not in favour of real senility, even if selective, but I would like the effects. Thank God, however, that recent instances have shown me that He gives to each of us only as much vision as we need.

The other day, for example, I was at my favourite hangout when some unaccountable reflection caught my eye. I saw a single shrivelled foot peeping out at me from behind the otherwise shuttered dark environs of a pedicurist's. Immediately, I knew it was someone I did not want to meet — and this proved to be true. Up to that point, I hadn't known I could identify this particular old lady from her left foot; in fact, I hadn't known I could identify anyone from either of their feet!

I suppose that it's not so much selective senility but selective perceptivity. As the bandwidth decreases and the processors wear out, what remains should be the most useful stuff — if you could ever know what would be the most useful. Since you can't ever know (even if you could guess), it's good to ask God for His most selective guidance.

Extrasensitive

My senses are insufficient. I don't know the people I work with anywhere as well as I knew the previous lot. And that leads to me being less sensitive than I ought to be. It's hard. From people you've worked with 2, 4, 6 years continuously – to people you've seen for a bit and worked with hardly at all. I feel blind, deaf, dumb.

Little, Big

That's the title of the immensely perceptive and World Fantasy Award-winning novel by John Crowley, who has been mentioned elsewhere here. What it taught me, many years ago, was that there are three kinds of things in our lives: the big things, the little things, and the unclassifiable, pointless or absurd things – and that sometimes, things can fit into all three categories at once.

There are some things far bigger than ourselves: the history of nations and of the world, the salvation and damnation of humanity; art, philosophy, education and science; war, poverty, famine and death. Yet, they are only as important to us, personally, insofar as they impact on us. We can be swept up in causes and lofty ideals, but that is just a projection of a particular philosophy into a world which might very well just get along fine without us.

It's like my itch to reform education. On the face of it, it is a grand endeavour, a stirring ideal. But I have no idea whether it will affect anyone if I do it. Sure, many people will say it is a good thing; some will say it is me being idealistic, and so on. But it is like spreading a gospel – you will never know, even if people assert that they do, how much you yourself have actually done. You might have run around doing things, speaking to people, eating many flavours of ice-cream or making a spectacle of yourself – but nobody actually knows what the ultimate effects of these things are.

Don't get me wrong: this is not some kind of postmodernist evasion of responsibility or meaning; it is not a claim that truth does not exist. I have much respect for the truth. But I do claim that we as humans cannot know the ultimate significance of our actions. We can assume a limited measure of knowledge about the immediate significance – the more immediate (i.e., in the strict sense of there being no mediating period of time between events), the more probable that we can know something.

Which leads to three kinds of responses from people: 1) why sweat the small stuff, look at the big things; 2) you can't affect the big things, deal with what you have at hand; 3) it's all nonsense (or absurdity, or chaos, or irrelevance) anyway. I think we all respond in these three kinds of ways, and often our responses in categories 1 and 2 fall firmly into 3.

At least two people have commented online that I seem preoccupied with my fractured toe (aha, is that 20 posts already, you of the not-green eyes?) The truth is that it is a great inconvenience in a practical sense, relative to my usual mobility. I rely a lot on walking faster than most other people, and it's a little frustrating to be limping around. But it's a small thing in the long term. It's not death, war, famine, pestilence, plague, the inexorable destiny of humanity or the inevitable chaos of perception.

But it is immediate. There is no mediating period or distance between the fact of my temporary disability and my state of mind. Whether Singapore education is in a parlous state or not, is not my responsibility. But the toe is mine. It is nobody else's responsibility, and nobody else's irritant in the immediate sense. I don't wake up in the morning thinking of the fate of badly-educated millions, or of war-torn and poverty-stricken nations, or of the spiritual health of the oppressed, or of the great and silly philosophies of our time. I leave that to God, and if I can help, that's nice. But you would be a liar, or severely odd, or having a transcendent episode, if the first thing you felt on waking up didn't have something to do with the more immediate needs of your body. Like taking a leak, or unkinking your back muscles.

And then, after dealing with the immediate, I can think about the mediated, the intellectual, the blogospherical, the 'higher' and more distant things. Which I probably have less impact on, and may not be within my grasp as something to be done with all my might. From navel-gazing to crystal-ball divination, I suppose. But me, I will look at my ice-cream, my fresh hot coffee, and gain revelation – revelation of the kind that says, "Wow, this is really good coffee. It makes me happy."

Which reminds me: I still have to finish off that second chapter on the woeful inadequacies of the education system, and what we know of it. Toedles... oops, associational slip there.

Faith

I think there has been too much nonsense written about faith, evidence, truth and knowledge. Perhaps the first thing about faith is that it is certainty which eludes reason. If there is a deductive process leading to B from A, then B is not a matter of faith (excepting the matter of belief in A, which might very well be a matter of faith). If there is evidence leading one to conclude that C is a likely scenario accounting for all the evidence, then this is a matter of reason as well. Only if there is a complete absence of conclusive evidence, all evidence being the sort that is supportive rather than directive (i.e. the evidence is consistent with the scenario, but does not necessitate it), can there be space for faith.

True faith is a stark, cold position. It is a redoubt set in a ring of high stone walls against a black and starless sky. Faith does not lend itself to questioning, and faith may entertain reason but is not susceptible to it. Faith has often been called an emotion, but it isn't even that - emotion has physiological effects and antecedents, but faith is too subtle for those. Faith is not a matter of the crude sensory perception of the body, or even the finer differential perception that the body derives from those senses.

Faith is thus not reliable in the evidential sense or the deductive sense; it is not reliable in terms of instinct, emotion or perception - if it were, it would be undermined by anything which could defeat these guardians of the mind. Why should faith be of any use to us then?

Faith is of use when no evidence or reasoning, no perception or emotion, can give us an answer. In a darkness where all human powers are cloaked and baffled, it is the one thing that might give us a chance of sight at all. For faith, as the Good Book says, is the assured certainty of things that are hoped for, and the substantive reality of things which are not perceived. It is justified true belief (as some have said about knowledge) which contains its own justification, certifies its own truth, and leads to raw and unembellished belief.

And it does not sit well with everyone, for there will always (of necessity as well as nature) be those who must see as through a glass darkly. It does not always sit well with me; it has a terrible bedside manner and an uncompromising personality. But I have learnt that it is the only thing, besides hope and love, that can be relied upon in dark times.

Appraisal

This is about appraisal, and the language thereof.

I think one of the most difficult things to do is to reflect on one's own being and be assured that such reflection indeed reflects the self, without adornment (from Latin ornare - to embellish or decorate) or denigration (from Latin nigra - black, hence to blacken). The highly self-critical (from Greek kritias - a judge) tend to see all the weak points and isolate the strong points as ornaments rather than structural members; the highly tolerant tend to see all the points as having validity (from Latin validus - having influential effect, strength) without judging them too critically.

There is some good advice to be had, however, in some parts of the Bible (from Greek ta biblion - the book) which deal with reflecting on the self and the powers which are inherent (from Latin heres - an owner) to it. I'm looking at Romans 12:3-8.

It's an interesting passage which enjoins us (in verse 3) to look at ourselves in sober (from Latin sobrius - moderate and reasonable) judgement, and not more highly than we ought. It does not command a weak and feeble self-denigration and humiliation (from Latin humilis - insignificance, obscurity, submissiveness, abjectness). Being humble is one thing - it is well-defined here - but humiliating oneself is really to look at the image of God in which we are made and to say, "Oh, how dreadfully bad/useless/pathetic I am." The former is sober judgement, the latter is immoderate devaluation.

But how to avoid such a pitfall? Surely pride (especially in the Satanic direction) is a worse error than humiliation, you might think. I do not think this is true at the human level. Pride is as immoderate and lacking in sobriety; it is as bad and untrue a valuation to think of oneself as higher than one is, as to think of one as so low that God must have made a mistake; pride can lead a person to deny the power of the Spirit, but so can an extreme sense of self-worthlessness . This is the implicit point of the whole of the next five verses.

The Book says here that each of us is gifted, according to an unknown but certain and definite measure of grace. We need to evaluate ourselves so that we know what kind of specific grace it is that we have. It is here that many people fall into error again. It is clearly implied here that not all the gifts are expected of us - Christ had them all, as the perfect model of all things; we are not able nor expected to be all things. It is this passage which explicitly divides the gift of service from the gift of leadership (and more) - thus showing that not all leaders are gifted servants, nor fully encouraging, nor unfailingly generous. Not all leaders are excellent teachers, nor wisely merciful, nor consistently prophetic. In fact, a multiplicity of gifts is likely to be the exception rather than the rule.

So what should a person with the gift of teaching do? Teach, of course. Leave the leadership to a leader, leave the mercy to the merciful. Yes, we can all show mercy; but there are few who can do it without pity, laxity, condescension or any of the other distortions of mercy. Yes, we can all teach; but there are many who cannot teach well. And a leader, assuming he has that gift, should lead - you can do no less, and in some cases, you should do no more. For both can be errors: too much can be as bad as too little, when the task before you is fitted to the gift(s) given to you.

This is not to say that we should not be prepared for any and every kind of good work. We should indeed be prepared. But not all vessels are equal, nor filled with the same measures and kinds of essence; not all tools are equal in effect or purpose, weight, size, sharpness or balance. And this is what we should be concerned about - the full, true, accurate and beautiful expression of the blend of powers and properties which is unique to each one of us.

It is a lesson that many people forget, to their regret and that of those around them.

Visual Acuity

There are many ways to see things. This makes some people see things that are not there. It even makes people see things that are there, but ought not to be - and of course, see things that are not, but should be. This is what beauty is all about.

There are too many plain girls and ugly guys simply because they cannot see that grace and chivalry outweigh fluff and prettiness. Yes, blondes have more fun; yes, men sometimes "don't make passes / at girls who wear glasses." But for a species whose visual acuity can detect the change of a single photon, and whose imagination populates a universe with endless ghosts and tortured ambitions, we can be pretty silly about deciding when not to see beauty - even when we can choose to see it.

Here I stand, a pleasantly ugly fellow of no great prospect and no high ambition. But God made me, and empowered me with the divine and controversial spark, a spark that defies the material and mundane and ignites high and peculiar creativity at will. And each of these - my brethren, my sisters - are likewise empowered, likewise able to be filled of an essence which can rewrite the meaning of life in a flash.

O take heart, my brothers and sisters; lift up your eyes! Raise the weak things of the earth against the great, shape the foolish things as weapons against the wise, celebrate the day of small things. The little instruments of profession and craft, given unto our willing hands, can make sanctuaries and citadels in a world which prefers to tear down and destroy. Go, go and read about Zerubbabel. And see, with blinding sight.

Midwinter

Over the years, I've consciously and deliberately attempted to immunise my brain against illusions. However, since 1995 or thereabouts, the amount of research on the way the human brain works has expanded vastly. We now know so much about the way the brain works that illusion and reality are more and more coterminous. It is all rather vexing at times.

For example, check out the illusions linked here. I suppose people like Speedcuber will want to try at least one of the phenomena out, if he hasn't already.

Optics and midwinter — the two are so very similar in so many ways. Can you think of some?

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And of course, what would life be without poetry? Here is one of my favourite carols. Christina Rossetti's In The Bleak Midwinter is one of those rare pieces which is cold, warm, bleak, elevating, and evocative of both cheer and tears all at once. Enjoy!

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

Ah... poets should write more songs.

Reading

Reading is a beautiful little university town in the south of England. It is also a pursuit which may bring wisdom, which offers material for reflection, which allows one to look at the thoughts of another and capture the resonances thereof. You can read music, you can read for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. One person can read another, by form, finger, face, or feeling.

And yet, we are overwhelmed with the visual image and the soundbite, day after day, dreary session after dreary session. To encourage people to read, you must sequester them; you must deny them cheap and easy recourse to the graphic, the acoustic, and the mundane. For whereas sound, action and visual image bring knowledge in their own ways, only the written word stands any chance at all of faithfully reproducing sequential, intelligent reasoning. And if this is what is required, we must read, make others read, and set up places where reading might be fruitfully accomplished.

It makes me feel rather unhappy when material which can be presented to the reading intelligence of people who presumably have the ability to read, and which is best perused carefully and referred to as necessary, is presented as quick slides and talk - especially when the slides are not optimised for knowledge transfer and when the talk is much the same in quality. One ought at least to get a performance equal to the combined power of the text and the intelligent re-enactment of it from the reader's mind. But one doesn't. And it galls. It galls in all three parts, as another Caesar might have said.

Interlude 5: Research

For ten years now, I've been accumulating data about the place in which I work. I have watched and counted and drawn inferences and listened to people and watched the fabric of history unravel and the palimpsest rewritten. I have seen facts interpreted and misinterpreted, recorded so that they become more artifact than fact. And in the end, who is to say what the truth is, or what it ought to be?

The fact of human existence is that it is malleable. Eternity is something we apprehend but cannot comprehend, and that ruins us for the big picture. So for those who cannot stand to look out into the infinite unknown - and yet know what infinity is about - there is nothing but the small (and ever-decreasing) circles of perception and detail.

We know now that the brain creates its own pictures of reality. The simplest case which can carry this image is this: the human eye does not see anything if it is moving. But we seem to see seamlessly. This is because the brain sees a start picture and an end picture, and interpolates everything else. The brain, we now know, is selective in what it records, and it ceaselessly re-edits memories. The more we emphasize or reiterate or dwell on memories, the more true they become, the more reality we build into them - even if they were never true.

This is the problem of human research. It is based on consensus, and where it is based on fiat, it must fail.