I am reading a book about 50 basics of philosophy. I wouldn’t be me if I wouldn’t try and think further on the things I’m learning, and I intend to use this platform to do so. These posts will be easily recognisable as they are numbered and categorized under ‘Abstract Thought’, so you can ignore them accordingly.
The brain-on-a-wire is a thought experiment based on the philosophical ideas of Descartes and others, dubbed skepticism. It questions reality as we perceive it and suggests the theory that we are misguided.
Our brains could be hooked up to a supercomputer simulating a reality that has little or no correlation to "real life" outside the fake program we are living in. The chapter concludes that, since there is no way to check if this even could be true, it remains something that bothers philosophers to this day. We can only be sure of our own existence, if that, and everything else we just have to assume is reasonably correct.
Reminiscing on our indestructible days.
The party never seemed to end,
We donkey-punched the night away.
You read about it every week, more often if you frequent roadie forums:
They fall, they get crushed, they get hit in the head, they get impaled. And if I had one, I’d raise my glass every time I heard. Another one bites the dust, silently, behind the smoke screen, and the masses will never know.
Alright. Let’s talk openly.
If I get fired over this, so be it. It was time for a change of jobs anyway. I hope I don’t, though. I like what I do.
Stagehands are people of all walks of life. Amongst our crew, there are students, anarchists, Rastafarians, punks, ex-convicts, future convicts, junkies, artists. Each of them is more than the sum of their definitions, has a whole life outside the job. There are personalities that collide but usually, we are extremely tolerant towards each other’s character. In a way, we are desensitized to it. And as usual when people close their eyes, this comes at a price.
We didn’t pay this price. A child paid it for us.
I tripped over some garbage this morning. IVAGO has been on strike for a week now and the city is bombarded right back to the medieval ages, reeking of beer cans and Spaniards. Although it is technically consider littering, no one bothers to take their trash bags back in, so they just pile up on the side of the street. Queue some bastards dumping old bed frames and broken TVs on top just because they can.
From there, I took a train. I had a hard time determining which train I needed exactly, because the website -of the NMBS, our train company thing- insisted I should piss off and take a bus halfway through the trip. No joke, I had to look it up on the bus company’s website, which is considerably better built. Still not good, mind, as they got all departure times wrong.
The train was shorter than usual, so that in rush hour, there were more people standing than sitting down at their crotch level, for up to an hour. It also had to take a detour to fill in for another train that mysteriously vanished from the face of the planet (I’m assuming) to pick up disgruntled passengers from towns in Honolulu or some shit.
Needless to say, they, like the rest of us, arrived way late.
Grrrreat. Another hippie telling me that I’m wrong because I might not be right.
My first roommate was a great guy, the sweetest man on the continent. He’d be playing didgeridoo with friends when I got home from work, and later on moved to his synth and drum computer to improvise melodies, using the same chords every time. He used headphones without me having to ask.
And he would ask existential questions. Most of which were unanswerable, but we’d have fun brainstorming anyway. But some questions had an answer, and I’d try and give it to him. Like the size of the universe. After a short conversation we concluded that it was not implausible that the universe was endless and stretched on forever.
But he would short-circuit over that.
“Yes… But what does ‘endless’ mean, really?”