| *Apertural*
(10:55pm) Upon Virtue and Judgment
Today has been an endless ennui: I have felt restless, insatiable and inconsolable all day, and although I thought (rather eerily, exactly 2 hours before this and then 4 hours before that) that writing would be needfully restorative in dispelling this lingering feeling, it is not until now that I'm actually following through with the task/exercise. Many things have happened lately: so much is still at large that is yet to be accounted for, and still so much more that I wish I could say or articulate on a matter that I fail to do so (ironically out of an equally insufferable restlessness that comes from trying to write!); but its not until now that I've had the time or opportunity (since exams have finished) to write, so I thought I would celebrate my tentative freedom with a lengthy entry. It is also particularly pertinent/apt given that a milestone has recently passed, for it is the anniversary (exactly a year and a day) since I began writing this online journal mid-last year. Although this event is not an occasion which I wish to regularly celebrate, it does afford a chance at least see how much things have changed, and to a larger extent, how much things have stayed the same. There is also the equally notable (and less significant) milestone of there being now two thousand hits of people who have visited my website (including my own recorded visitations) since I began writing, which is odd since it feels like only a short while ago I was writing a similarly 'celebratory' post acknowledging my thousandth visitor/hit, even though in actual fact it has been a longer time dividing the last thousand, than the thousand proceeding that. Besides all this, I am beginning to bore myself with my own rhetoric, so shall move to a less sober matter and begin by discussing/recounting the events of the last two weeks in brief and the last few days in a little more detail.
My exams officially ended on Tuesday 27th, but there has been plenty more going on that that. Normally, I should be finished now - free to indulge in three, almost four weeks of holidays - but because it has been quite a hazy semester, and there has been plenty of things starting and stopping and starting again, I've actually held over a few assessments which I will now have to finish these holidays. The first of these is actually four and a half thousand words (worth 40%) worth of reflective pieces (more like casual essays) that I was meant to write during semester over a 5 week period, but am now instead forced to write over the course of an evening and a half. Although I had told myself time and time again that I should have bartered for more time - it will be glad to see these things finally ridded from my schedule, even though I'm not that confident that I'll be able to finish them within the given time frame (due on the 1st of July, without specifically saying *when*, which I will intepret liberally to mean 'around 12am'). The larger task I still am yet to complete is the entire workload (three essays worth 100%) for my course in Law and Social Theory. I have taken my fair share of time, opportunities, generosity and patience in this course, which is why I'm stuck in the position I am in now; but I am (in some way) looking forward to the next three weeks, because I will have an unimpeded time frame within which to work on these essays and get them in a submittable state that I should feel comfortable with. So other than the sorry fact that I won't be seeing much of a holiday because of my complacence in these courses, this semester has been a bit of a disaster. I am likely to fail two courses, hopefully get a credit in one, and (if I'm able to work successfully on these essays) the possibility of a distinction in another. Though sad though it is to admit, this is the ideal picture - If my average mark is over 55%, they will allow me conceded passes for marks around 46 or 47, but no lower - and I'm not sure if I even got that much in each course... . I'm not entirely sure how I have let my marks slip so low - this semester, whether I pass or fail, will severely affect my overall university performance, and (whether or not I choose to dwell on it) my marketability as a young graduate, or my potential future career as a lawyer. Although my outlook, ambition, or sense of intellectual self-respect have not changed that fundamentally, the actual proof of the pudding has gone to shit. I am looking to pick myself up next semester, but even now, as I speak, I am still demonstrating the fact that I'm still far from able to priotize my time enough to save myself the extra effort.
On a seperate note, after these assessments finish, there will be at least a week period where I will possibly be able to enjoy myself, and I do have quite a bit planned before the Second Semester begins. Andrew has suggested to me that he, Tom, and myself all go on a roadtrip to Brisbane (to visit Breeze) or the Gold Coast (to visit Andrew's girlfriend and friend) for about 3 or 4 days in the middle of the July break. As I will have no other commitments (despite these Essays) it sounds like a fantastic idea. On the way of course, I may be able to visit Bill and Rehka Moushi, and it will be delightfully nostalgic to get a chance to stay over at the Port Macquarie house, although I will have to ask their permission. Either way, I think staying in Port or Coffs Harbour, or at least visiting them is in order. Another incentive is of course the sheer enjoyment of being amongst the company of old friends. I haven't spent such a prolonged (if one can call it prolonged) amount of time with other people since my trip to Melbourne with Sandeep, or more recently, my trip to Fingel Bay with Breeze, Andrew and Cheyne. I'm sure it will be more fun than anything, and it will be a lovely little precusor to my around Australia trip with Mike at the end of the year, to see at least whats in store (or what's involved at least) in driving around the east coast of Australia. Nevertheless, this is all weeks and months in advance - I'll try to focus on getting these things finished, and then organising the celebrations later.
Music has been the most wonderful and intoxicating thing of late, but even that has seemed to become less of an enjoyment and more of a distraction. After finishing my Business Associations Exam the previous Monday, I took some time to compose and managed to write a short piece and start two or three others. I was hoping that would be the end of the matter, but it consumed me for most of Tuesday and Wednesday I spent tinkering with them here and there and listening to them over and over, rather incessantly. By the time I had done some actual study for my second exam, it was already too late - I needed to rely on someone else's notes for there was no way I would be able to consolidate the information myself, and even then, I was braced for time. In the end, my earlier indiscretions cost me later, and now, even still, three days on, I am letting the music come in the way of me finishing the tasks at hand (I composed something over the course of today that I had begun working on yesterday). However, to my defence, I am quite powerless to the urge to write some music, especially once I have already started tinkering around with the notation software, or have caught in my head a particular melody: the desire to record something particularly inventive, or imaginative, or novel, or dramatic, seems to take a hold of you, and every new note (or serious of notes) once placed cannot be left alone - they need to be fiddled with (forgive the pun) and hammered into position until it seems to be precisely the sound(s) that occured in your head only moments before. Sometimes the sounds do not become thoughts until they are notated and then played over. I find that to be the most uncanny thing about composition, although probably its most telling feature - that some of the best ideas generated do not actually come from the inventiveness of your mind, but the sheer accident of sound and sense entering into dialogue. Its quite similar with poetic composition too - sometimes its not so much that the image, simile, metaphor, or musicality of the verse that has entered the mind first, but that a particular word, or a particular phrase creates the premise *for* the feeling, or image, or idea, or metaphor, etc. All the same, it doesn't necessarily mean that I can sit here whole-heartedly and compose for hours (one day, maybe) on end (although I have in the past) - it's a process equally fraught with restlessness, procrastination, and short-comings, and rather than serve as an escape from the trials of the more important impending task (my university assessments!) it actually just magnifies my restlessness until I feel utterly put off both tasks. Nevertheless, of the two labours, composing always seems the least offensive and therefore the one I have the greater weakness towards. Even after being formally trained in music I don't think this division will resolve itself, but it will definitely add the requisite drudgery (if it can be so added) or at least routineness to musical composition which will keep my hands away from it for a while. I don't think great men ever achieved much while embarking on two varied and intensive enterprises...
Composing aside, I have had the chance to expand my knowledge of classical music, having only just started downloading again after the exam period has ended. I was listening to the radio on the way to my Litigation Exam and, almost like a portentous sign, I suddenly heard the announcer say that they were about to play 'Amarilli mia bella' by Caccini. I was positively awoken from my 2-hour-sleep-induced slumber! You must understand that for the longest time, ever since I was in year 4, I have been trying to find this piece called 'Amarilli', but I knew nothing of the music, the composer, its period, its style, nothing. When I was quite young my mother enrolled my brother and I in some speech training and dramatic acting classes, to improve our pronounciation and who knows what else. The classess didn't last for very long - maybe two months in total - but I do have rather fond and vivid memories of going down that little lane, sitting outside on that old ladies porch as I waited for my brother to finish, and of course my own experiences with 'How now brown cow', etc. At the end of the 'semester' of training, we were given a tape (which I would be very interested in finding again, given that they are obsolete now) which recorded our examination performance, and how well we had progressed in our declamation. Thinking about it now, it would be a rather hillarious tape to listen to, as I don't remember doing very well even though I tried particularly hard to impress her. For some reason or the other the backside of the tape had a very wonderful and delicate recording of this unnamed piece, which my brother and I referred to as 'Amarilli', for we had know idea what the piece would be called otherwise, and it was the only distinguishable word/phrase that we could understand/hear. I was enchanted by this piece - and I won't try to spoil my childhood delight in hearing it over and over by trying to recall/attest to it now - but it was one of those moving moments where a melody, or tune, or piece is suddenly given so much more significance to you than it would if it was heard normally, or when one was older and more discerning. That piece remained silently with me for many years, not as something I oftened recalled or remembered, but when I did let it drift through my head several times. The next time I remember making something of that piece was when I got a little drunk at Phil Teissyre's 18th, and began singing it out loud amongst a crowd of girls. It was a rather embarrasing moment, but I do recall it quite vividly. I don't know if I was trying to impress the girls, or was simply singing out in my semi-drunken self-involvedness, but later on I told people that it was an 'old italian aria', not knowing anything more of the piece. I think what enchanted me most about it was the fact that it was so mysterious, and so precious - that outside of that tape, there was noone else whom I thought would know the piece by ear (let alone my rendition of it) or further still, its name. I would sing the song over and over in the shower, while driving, and thankfully never again while drunk - but it was now a part of me - a memory from my childhood, a mysterious clipping from my limited breadth of experience, and some kind of otherworldly beacon, occasionally calling out to me, beckoning me to not let it become forgotten. You can now imagine my delight, when, almost 12 years after that fateful day when I heard the piece, I was given its name, its composer, and a recording of the piece before my very ears! I was not transported, as I hoped I would be, for I had an exam to worry about and was drifting in and out of consciousness as I was still very tired; yet still, it was a wonderous occasion, and I could see it as nothing other than a sign, something I don't believe in but rarely feel the need to call upon to explain the wondrous merriment that is life. Although I had unsuccessfully tried to search for this piece several years ago on a file-sharing programme, now that I knew the composer it took a matter of minutes, and there it was, mine to keep electronically, for as long as I desired.
There have been other pieces which I have recently discovered, that have been similarly delightful. While driving home from an outing on Wednesday night, I heard an absolutely awe-provoking string quartet on the radio that seemed to stretch the very possibility of the genre/ensemble itself. I tried to listen out to maybe pick some noteable feature which could help me distinguish its composer - but I assured myself I had never heard anything like it before. The piece didn't end while I was in the car, so I noted the time and then looked it up on the internet as soon as I was reminded of it. There was only two possibilties of who it could be - 'String Quartet in A Minor' by Boccherini, or a Concerto by Vivaldi. I proceeded to download some work by both composers, as despite all my praise of his music, I had absolutely no Vivaldi. After downloading as many pieces by Boccherini as I could find, I came across the 'String Quintet in E Major, Minuet' . I assumed it would have been a rough piece, full of violence and harmony like the piece I had heard on the radio - but much to my surprise, it was a superbly well known piece, one of the most delightful decorum and pomp, wonderfully structured and full of adroit little musical phrases and thoughful key changes.
I had also recently downloaded some Prokofiev. Now this is a complete mystery, as to how I came across this composer in the first place. The first time I heard of him (I think) was while I was browsing over a some music brochure which a friend had given me and in listing all the available music they had to offer, there was the name 'Prokofiev', which I though was an exceedingly odd name, and one which I had heard absolutely nothing about. The name didn't make me curious enough to search it out, so I forgot about the matter. The next time, I was listening to the radio and there was this disastrously long, windy, whiny piece which didn't seem to hold onto a single idea very long and didn't return to recapitulate one of them, which I thought must have meant that the music was particularly modern or at least 20th century. I forgot the name instantly after it was referred to by the announcer, and it wasn't until I accidentally downloaded a piece of his music while searching for something else (I think it was some Tchaikovsky, I'm not sure) that I actually got the chance to listen to it. The name alone would have got you curious, but I was absolutely delighted by the fact that for the first time since hearing it on the radio many, many months ago (not the same account as above) and before that an unknown period, I had heard the piece which seemed to be the single most powerful and inventive 'modern' piece I had heard since developing my interest in classical music almost a year ago, whose title I now know as a musical scene taken from his ballet, 'Romeo and Juliet', when the 'Montagues and Capulets' are feuding. This piece is wonderful, you can't help but storm around the room, or thrust your hands out in front of you and cheerfully clench your fist on the lead note of every bar. I've listened to it over several times today and the joy of putting a name to the piece and hearing it after such an absence still hasn't worn off.
I mused over all my excursions, drawing conclusions about all the music and literature I've been listening to and reading over the last two months. I have unknowingly thrown myself in four directions - Russian, Italian, German, and French. First, I had downloaded a heap of Russian music - Mussorgsky, Rimsky Korsakov, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Rachmaninov, etc. (and, as I've stated in an earlier post, dabbled in some literary works by Pushkin). Its interesting to see how similar it all is now that I have the benefit of hindsight - the rough chords, the brusque bow strokes, the use of timpani, high-pitched violin gestures, minor keys, and generally speaking, it seems to be united by an errant masculinity. On the other hand, I've also been downloading a lot of Italian music - including Corelli, Pucinni, Cacinni, Bocherinni, Respighi, Vivaldi, etc. (unfortunately, I have not picked up my Dante in quite a while, so I can't say that I've been reading any Italian literature). Its interesting to note the apparent similarities there, although I think the italian composers are seperated by plenty more years than the Russians, who all seem to be late 19th early 20th century composers. The music is soulful, at times melancholic but for the most part, celebratory of life. The Italians seem to proudly bear their emotions on the outside, pamphleteering them about in various flourishes, but never too excessively - apart from a triumphant end to a piece in some of Puccinni's operas, or some patches of the portraits of Rome that Respighi paints (with music of course) - while the Russians seem to bury their emotions in deep, aggressive chords, manifesting in an equally powerful, pent up way. I won't dare to draw any further parallels because I am already beginning to flaunt my ignorance about, but it is enjoyable to know that I have listened to enough music, with enough discernment to say that I can differentiate between the various types/eras/countries with relative ease. I have also recently read two French Novels, 'Manon Lescaut' by Abbè Prèvost (the basis to several operas, one by Puccini), and 'Carmen' by Prosper Mèrimèe (the basis to Bizet's Opera 'Carmen'). Although I'm not much of a reader, I was particularly fond of these books - they were relatively short, Manon Lescaut only 150 pages, and Carmen just over 50 pages (which I read in one sitting at a Cafè after my violin lesson), which made reading all the more delightful. They were also bound in an endearingly old book, which made me feel all the more excited about reading them, because I'm particular fond of old and precious things. I have just begun reading 'Madame Bovary' by Gustave Flaubert, but won't be doing so in depth until I'm done with these assessments and can spend another half day or so at a Cafè reading.
I'd like to pause here and just say how truly wonderful it is to begin reading again. I haven't read for a long time, and despite the fact that it makes one feel like one's thoughts are particularly substanceless when one has nothing upon which to base their introspective/extrospective thoughts in conversation with others, I still continued to not read and feel marignally more intelligent than everyone else on a day to day basis. However, latetly the urge to read has come back, seemingly out of nowhere, and it has been such an experience. Sitting there yesterday, reading over the entire story of Carmen, (which was full of mystery, intrigue, romance, and suspense while at the same time being remarkably well written) I got such an appetite for the stuff. Once you grow accustomed to hearing your own voice echo in your head (albeit not too loudly) it becomes such an enthralling task. You seem to passively skim over the words, while at the same time your actively testing out your vocabularly, and subsequently, your imagination. Unlike prose reading for law (or anything of length mind you), which despite the occasional metaphor or analogy, is largely unimaginative (requiring only the cognitive tools of analysis, memory, and reason), recreational reading is full of so much imagery that if it has been a while since you have done so (as was the case with me) your mind is positively aflight with the variety of images presented before (or underneath) it. In the more descriptive passages, it did not feel as though I were reading at all - I was staring into some unknown, intangible nebula, (which for some reason I could place slightly above my left eyebrow) seeing pictures form before me, change colour, or shape, or intensity as the description changed, seeing people chatter away, before being suddenly whisked away into another room, or scene, or another country altogether. Reading was so much like film in this regard - for every angle that I chose to view things was partly my own, and partly due to the way the author had written. It made me feel particularly important, as I almost felt at times (as I'm sure is the case in these classic novels) a member of the story, an unknown character that peers from behind some ferns, or remains perches above a fan or on a balcony from afar, watching. Yet, what made me feel that reading was superior to film in this regard was that in film, the imagination is suffocated, in a way. The images which come before the eyes are formed, and fully-figured. All the great constructive/reconstructive power of the mind is laid to waste, as all your mind has time (or energy) to contemplate is the images itself, and only afterwards, in their remembering, does the reconstructive joy of recalling the movie from the imagination come into play. Yet with reading, the imagination is bold, fierce, and free - things can take whatever shape or form which suits you. If you are unhappy with the way a character is being potrayed, you can merely focus upon that intangible nebula and suddenly, they are dressed differently; or brought anachronistically out of their time frame, and into your own; or of a difference appearance altogether. The mind is given free reign to chop, change, and rewrite the entire story in its very own fashion - and that truly is the most enjoyable feeling, for it is as close as one can get (without actually writing) to daydreaming, and sheer delight in the imagination itself. In fact it is arguable to say that there would be no joy in the world, if the imagination was not being fed in some measure (in accord with the Hobbesian notion of the imagination, for I am familiar with none other) or regard. Anyway, I digress - back to my account.
The German side of me is the least developed. Although I was learning for a while, it slowed and eventually stopped before my exams. Although I have picked up some Goethe occasionally as a break from studying, the translations don't suit my poetic appetite and just the knowledge that they have been doctored into English verse to try and mimic the German makes me feel a little uneasy about their authenticity. Nevertheless, I'll continue reading it for it does help with my general German vocabulary, and I suppose I can always procure a better translation in the future, if the poetry is of interest to me in the first place. Thus reviewing, it has been in these four directions which I have been recreationally launching myself towards, and although one would think they are all off in various directions, its interesting to see how the histories, biographies, and artforms all seem to borrow, mimic and overlap with one another. I cannot of course ignore the fifth direction, English literature, but apart from what I occasionally write on the Xanga, I have not been writing any new poetry, and haven't picked up or reviewed any of my favourite poems in weeks (albeit one Donne poem which is skimmed over the first few lines). Ironically, I will be shortly writing a poem again not out of my own impulse but for another person again. I think its the most absurd and unimaginative task possible, but the corporation that my brother works for gets its employees to occasionally perform these 'tasks', which is meant to encourage employee-intimacy and team spirit. One of these tasks (would you believe) is to write a poem of less than a hundred words which is to capture the essence of the corporation. I haven't heard of anything more artistically defunct in my life, but if it serves a purpose to its inventor than so be it. Thankfully there are prizes for it, which range from movie tickets to PDA's. Since the chances of winning a particularly sought after prize is so easily achievable, I will be writing the poem for my brother and hoping that my vague literary skills will be able to impress the board/employers/employees of the Computer Science Corporation, who I have already assumed (in my prejudice) to have no understanding of what is the purpose of, or what actually constitutes good poetry. Still, it will be an amusing task.
I shall now move onto the more sober vein of my entry, which is what made me feel it would be an appropriate topic of discussion, given that it has cropped up in my life more than once in the past 4 or 5 months, and is of general importance to living at large, or I should sincerely hope so. Several things have been bugging me about the way people are. I try not to dwell on them, but its in my nature. One thing that I was certain of, is that I wouldn't find myself writing about these people or things. Needless to say that they will remain anonymous (not like it would really matter given the small amount of people who are aware of this website, and the even fewer amount who will have bothered to have read this far) but I feel it has bothered me sufficiently enough for me to discuss here, or at least use this as a platform to organise my thoughts. A few days before my litigation exam, I had time to prepare, but at the same time felt assured that Providence, or at least a trusted friend, would present me with a consolidated and contemporary set of notes that would allow me to do reasonably well in the exam. I began calling people around noon on Thursday, which was four days before the Exam. Everyone I seemed to ask, was either just beginning to write their own notes, or was planning on using an old set of notes, and perform the arduous task of updating all that had changed in the course from the previous year. I realised at this stage, that I was particularly screwed - there were only two people who I could still depend upon - one who said she was half way through her notes, and the other professing that she would be finished just before the exam (which was actually the case, she emailed me at 2am on the same day as the exam, just less than 7 hours later). I thus had only one lifeline if I was to do well - or at least, be up to par with my performance the previous few years (which has been wavering around 70 in law, but has since dropped down to just over a credit) - that person was my friend S. S and I had been acquainted since first year. It wasn't much of a friendship at that stage, but she was another person whom I became acquainted with on the internet, and, although not necessarily trusted at this stage, a loyal companion/outlet for me to vent all my youthful indiscretions upon. There is little I remember of our actual friendship between the years after that - we would speak very intensely on the internet, and meeting in real life would be acknowledged with nothing more than a nod, or a raising of the eyebrows. We were both shy in our own regards, and although I was particularly extroverted on the outside in first year law, I was desperately trying to seek out some real, substantial connections - looking for people of substance, not necessarily to latch onto, but to wind down around (I was progressively finding the social scene in law both cumbersome and tiring) and 'be myself'. The friendship with S wasn't complicated by all sorts of other factors - we would speak on the internet, meet in real life briefly, continue speaking on the internet, and that was it. Soon enough though, the conversations on the internet became less frequent, and we began talking more in real life. We had grown accustomed to each other, and each other's ways. We began speaking more openly about all sorts of intimate personal details - sex lifes, sexual preferences, friendships, lost and found loves, the law, university, our upbringing and cultural backgrounds, etc. I was beginning to feel, without necessarily having to acknowledge it, that we were becoming, slowly but surely, less virtual acquaintences and more tangible friends. Soon enough, the friendship progressed outside of University, for I was invited to her 21st. Initially I wasn't sure about going, but as fate would have it, I went along, presentless (as usual) and thought it would be a fun night to let of some steam and drink merrily at someone else's hospitality. The night was great as I recall - a boat cruise around the harbour, sumptous food and plenty of booze, ciggerates and conversation. In the end of the night she had even affectionately placed her arm around my neck as we drunkenly walked, in a troupe, back to Darling Harbour to get a cab home. For a girl who shared little affection with other people - I felt somewhat privileged, or at least that I must have now meant something to her, more than a virtual acquaintence. The years after that were much the same, but there was a greater feeling of certainty that what this was, was real - two people who had a genuine affection for one another (purely as friends mind you), a similar temperament and intellectual outlook, and had a general cynicism enough about ourselves to see the general follies of other people's lives/friendships to make good conversation out of it. Soon I invited her to my 21st, and then less than a year later, I was invited to a birthday bash at her house, where I was not only allowed to stay over, but allowed to join her, her partner, and some other friends for breakfast the next morning at Darlinghurst, their shout. We met at mutual parties twice; we knew mutual people; we gossiped a little but mainly, I thought, indulged a little of our lives in each other, for the sake of gauging where we stood in the world. It was, though not a very intense friendship, one that had a foundation - or at least, that's how I percieved it.
I am not sure now if I am overanalyzing, or I am making a much more dramatic point about something rather trivial because I've brought into my recollection this entire constellation of factors which has defined my friendship with S over the past 4 or 5 years; but I think there is no harm in saying that a true testimony to friendships, is not the moment of joy or bliss, but the hard times- times when you need people's support practically (and theoretically, for the most part) unconditionally; when you assume people will give you the benefit of the doubt, before you are made to explain yourself; to forgive you for your transgressions, and to be sympathetic and empathetic with your weaknesses and temptations. I have had my fair share of good friends in my life: people whom I still cherish and associate with to this day; I have also had my fair share of betrayers, liars, rogues, cheats, and all those other labels for those people who (to quote a Sanskrit proverb) are "like a jar of poison with milk on the surface". Some people, it becomes quote obvious from the get-go whether they will be of importance to you in your life, or will stick around in the years to come; others, one can't be so certain about, they are sometimes here, sometimes there, sometimes everywhere, and sometimes everywhere else other than where they should be; others it becomes plainly obvious that they are bad right from the start, and should be gotten rid of.; and still others, though we realise they are bad, it still takes us a great deal of time to find the courage to rid them from our lives, or at least do what's best in the circumstances. These are all the things I factored into account while assessing what S had done, or rather, failed to do.
The act itself was miniscule - some people will say of no consequence at all, and that I am far too sensitive, or too bothered by the insignificant. What had occured was that I messaged S three days before my exam, distraught that I had done no study but to clear my conscience also hoping that I could get away with a set of notes that would ride me safetly through the pass/credit mark. I realised that this is not light imposition - people get particularly sensitive about this kind of thing, and its no easy thing to give away one's notes. I can remember during the HSC the reluctance I had in distributing my notes, which I protected at every cost. I can also remember other law students asking me to forward on notes that I had recieved, and although it was more out of sheer laziness, I would make some excuse that I had accidentally delete them and save myself from the effort of caring. However, I've had to use other people's notes all the time. One can even say that had it not been for such characters as Ramesh, Dawnie, Ivan, Shreeya, etc. (some still friends, others not) I would have never got my way through the last three and a half years of law. I never expected to become so dependant on other people's generosity however, but its an easy trap to fall into at university, when you get into a cycle of habits which are almost diametrically opposed to academic study, and you reassure yourself with the safe feeling that you'll get the notes a few days before the exam, no sweat. Since starting law, I have not had the opportunity to share my own notes, but I have passed notes on, shared class notes, class assignments, etc. etc. several times. Once or twice, I wouldn't deny, I felt a little odd, and angry, about sending my notes to people whom I didn't think very highly of - especially when they were things as precious as essays (which actually do have an intellectual property value, and can result in academic misconduct for plagiarism) - but for the most part I would say that I bear the attitude of many a law student - "giveth and ye shall recieveth", or "a friend in law is a few marks more", or something similar. I wouldn't say that I procured friends for the sake of getting notes, but I would say that having friends definitely helps. Further, there is something about the cunning art of getting notes, that makes it almost glamorous (in fact quite glamorous) to be getting similar (and sometimes even better) marks to your hard-working colleagues, simply through your knieving, opportunistic sense; yet it does strain friendships, and friendships can break because of them (it has not happened to me, until now), so it is a very precarious thing to do, and is generally shunned upon because it is such a 'high-risk-high-return' approach to friendships/acquaintences/university/law/knowledge/etc. Nevertheless, I think I've adequately articulated my position on the matter.
When I asked S if she could send me the notes, I did not do so straight away, and upfront. I offered some help of my own, and then made a request in that form. The immediate response was an SMS which said "I don't mean to be rude, but make your own notes for once". Being typically lawyerly, I reviewed over what was said. I deducted that there would be nothing to blame about her conduct apart from the statement "for once", particularly in conjunction with the caveat saying "I don't mean to be rude". This girl, as I knew very well by now, was very frank and very honest when it came to how she felt about a particular matter, or her opinion; this was granted I thought. But what it caused me to do was review over the entire position, retrspectively and macroscopically. Suddenly it all dawned upon me, piece by piece, little level of evidence by evidence. Here I was in a time of need, asking for some harmless help, knowing that I would do terribly if I didn't have some authoritative notes, and making this person relatively clear on knowing that she was my only hope of passing well, or at least guaranteeing me passing (without doing my own work of course).Yet this was also a person whom I had spent many many occasions discussing the details of my academic record over the past year or more with. I had told her my trouble with honours, I had told her my difficult in handing in things, and that I had been given extensions. I thought it was harmless to at least appear somewhat whimsical about it all, because after all, noone wants to be put in the position of consoling someone for no reason in particular. She also knew the way I was - my intensities, my overanalyzing, my tendency to go off the deep end with philosophising and abstract thought, my tenderness and susceptibility to the opinions of others, and most of all my sensitivity to pain - at least, the pain of betrayal. She knew all this, not nescessarily in catalogue form, but in plenty of dimensions. Yet, despite all this, it was not an issue for her. Why? Because those times when I was retelling my intimate, private experiences, expecting a safe haven from judgment, some leeway and discretion, all I was really getting was judged. I realised suddenly, in an almost cataclysmic recollection of every single experience I had with this girl, that there was a reason why she was always particularly detatched, or particularly remote from what I had to say; that it wasn't me being particularly 'intense' so much as it was her being particularly indifferent; that I had led myself on to believe that this person really cared about me, cared whether I lived or died, cared about me in the way that made me important to them. All of it suddenly did not matter - I was classed, and had been, for a very long time; I was 'the university friend' to her - even after having been to several parties with her - I was nothing more than a person with whom she was acquainted and engaged in conversation with, and would probably not exist in her in a few years time. She was a pure existentialist, at least as far as I was concerned - stoic and heartless, emotion was unbeknownst to her - she was a contemptible harpy with a stone face... . Despite all these dramatisms, I really was quite disenchanted with myself and my judgment. How it became all so clear to me only retrospectively, how unimportant I was to her, and how little it would mean to her to help me, and how much of an imposition that was to her. I do not need to explain why this is not your normal cocktail of competitiveness and small-minded conservatism. It was a disregard beyond measure. It was an unwarranted moralizing with an ulterior purpose. And yet, there is nothing upon which I can hold her accountable, other than my decision now to no longer befriend her. I am still deciding how I am go about doing this. On the one hand, I can continue to speak to her, and be conscious of being judged and treated partially the entire time. On the other, I could try to explain to her in this similar level of depth (or even simply by directing her to this website) why I feel so troubled by her sentiments (or lack thereof); but the later course of action is impossible to me - you cannot force another to supplant feeling where it is non-existent. These people do not bear the same understanding, or attitude towards friendship that I do. To me it is primary, each experience shared is a measure of the totality of its potential. To her, it is secondary - each experience shared may be a measure of something, but it is equally to be judged and make the other person accountable to some invisible sense of 'righteousness'. I am beginning to get convoluted, so I will pause on the matter - although it is far from over. A part of me, a rather pernicious, destructive side of me - wishes to as dramatically as possible confront her, rail on her, and tell her to fuck off as wittily and nonchalantly as I can - yet I know this won't resolve the matter, and may work against me. I will brood on the matter and figure out what exactly I shall do when semester recommences. For the time being, I am happy knowing that I have written this entry, gathered my thoughts, and am partially settled on the matter. The irony of all this is at the same time I was struggling to come to grips with the extent of this transgression (in the macroscopic sense) I was exposed to the generosity of another person, who had a rather simple but elegant philosophy that "we are not put here on this earth to not help other people". While for me, forming such a conclusion is equally problematic, her willingness to help, general disposition and kindness, and willingness to accept me in all my vulnerability was terribly endearing, but it made it difficult for me to reach any conclusion as to how I should class, or understand, or act upon my friendship in the future. This was my first instance of what it means to be judged.
The second instance, which I have since disussed with other people, but at the time it was of such a shock to me that I felt the need immediately to write about it, was an incident today where it was made public news that a close friend of the family had been involved in a compromising circumstance which could potentially (if not already) have had distastrous consequences for his reputation as a professional. When the news became known to me, like most people, my initial reaction was shock; but upon contemplating the details of the incident, scanning over my own judgment of the person's character, my own sense of shame occasioned by similar actions, and my empathetic regard for a person in their position, I was proud to say that within a moment I had reconstituted my response, and was now an ardent surporter of this person. I was discuss this person's conduct with another person, also a close friend of the family, who seemed increasingly adamant to make a show of this person, and make it appear as though this person had transgressed some social boundary from which there was no moral or forgiveable return. I was a little shocked myself from their responses, or rather, their lack of responses. When pressed with the question of what their opinion was, they would not speak about the particular, but stayed in the universal. Secondly, when the issue came of accepting the grey, it was not done so in the spirit of conversation, but done so rather stand-offishly, as though to that person, all there really was, was black and white. I of course must remain vague on the matter because after all, I am protecting the interest of friends from both parties, but it got me thinking. What is our duty as social beings? What is it that puts us into a frame of reference which is outside of our own experience, allows our imaginations to enter into the circumstances of another person, and after a little reconnoitre, return laden with a deep seated empathy for what it means to 'live'. In other words, why do we offer our discretion, collectively or singularly, as well as the benefit of the doubt, forgiveness, empathy and compassion for those around us, especially those who have 'transgressed', commited 'sin' or 'crime' or some other matter? Does this make us virtuous (in the secular sense)? When do we have the right, and more importantly, when don't we, to judge the actions, statements, thoughts and experiences of others? None of these questions were resolved in this matter - in fact, they were left in a messy state, but not one too messy for there to be any need to clean up. The brief social glimpse would be evaporated on the kitchen table of revery and forgetfullness; and I was not interested in calling on the rain clouds to preciptate that which had left so quietly. Yet I will, for the purposes of bringing some closure to the breadth of this discussion, engage a paragraph on it, and leave the matter to everyone else.
For a very long time, I believed that the virtuous life was all that mattered. Having the respect of peers, the counsel of the wise and venerable, the friendship of the influential and powerful, and the companionship of the loving and compassionate. My views have since changed, although not entirely. Civic duty is as much a part of me, as is the very common language which I suckle upon for my individual nourishment with words; but even civic duty has its price, and that currency will come in many forms. No bounds exist so powerful as the shackle the human mind - and what is contemplated in dreams needn't always be the reflection of what they are in life. We allow ourselves little morsels of the divine, and instead of permitting those thoughts within the gambit of our social being, we call it by other names, mainly under the guise of religion. Religion holds tenure over all the most prized and necessary human concepts. Knowledge is a precious and powerful form of oppression, as it is a liberty beyond all definitions, and this is something of the reason why it consorts so frequently with sacrament. Yet human love preceeds all institutions, even those institutions which seek to confine it. The soul knows no bounds, and the crimes that we call by name most heinous are nothing more than the naive indolences of a child. Whether such a view can exist, however, is the more practical of the questions which I have asked. Can the well which does not bring water raise a town? It is our nature also, although it is our baser form, to accept that which is handed to us, bundled in a lot that can fit in the palm of our hand. What appears greater is what is greater, and one's own body knows no union with another's beyond the reassuring strokes of a mother or the embraces of a some-time lover. The economic soon takes over, and we pride ourselves on invention; but we have commited a travesty of invention - for we have removed a cog to let the whole wheel spin effortlessly, but we have lost the beauty of the timepiece. Virtue is a fiction of the selfish man. All which is great and noble is ignoble and grating as long as we dare not try to peer beyond these walls. Outside, there is equally nothing - an expanse of loneliness that is a solitude only death can stomach; yet inside, and invisible, there is an equally horrifying solitude. It is the solitude of the human condition, where man peers into a void that is his own. Yet tell me, how deep do you think this void is? How far does it expand? I shall tell you. The void is only half as deep when you can see yourself standing at the other end. And collectively, this void is suddenly a well which springs a water that is like an elixir to the most parched of tongues. No more is there need to search for the well to civilize us, for the well is within.
There is nothing original in way I say, nor in my method of relating it. Yet I hope in there you find some measure of understanding in terms of what (at least my opinion is on the matter of) judgment and virtue constitute. This is by far the longest entry to date. Five hours later, I have surprised even myself at my length and fortitude. Goodnight.
Pravin. |
