“The Western cult of happiness is indeed a strange adventure, something like a collective intoxication. In the guise of emancipation, it transforms a high ideal into its opposite. Condemned to joy, we must be happy or lose all standing in society. It is not a question of knowing whether we are more or less happy than our ancestors; our conception of the thing itself has changed, and we are probably the first society in history to make people unhappy for not being happy.”

Source

Could you survive on the steppe? Could you reach down inside yourself and draw out a calmness, a focus, a hardness, that make the trumped-up stresses of modern life seem as nothing?

Could you find peace as the eagle… or the wolf?

If what happens now does influence what happens next, then doesn’t it make sense to look around a bit from time to time so that you are more in touch with what is happening now, so that you can take your inner and outer bearings and perceive with clarity the path that you are actually on and the direction in which you are going?

…It is all too easy to remain on something of a fog-enshrouded, slippery slope right into our graves; or, in the fog-dispelling clarity which on occasion precedes the moment of death, to wake up and realize that what we had thought all those years about how life was to be lived and what was important were at best unexamined half-truths based on fear or ignorance, only our own life-limiting ideas, and not the truth or the way our life had to be at all.

- Jon Kabat-Zinn

Exasperated, Croesus demands that Solon explain to him why he has not deigned to put him, great king, owner of unimaginable riches, even on the same level as these ordinary folk.

Solon replies that human life is so unpredictable, we are so at the mercy of fate, that until we are safely dead, no one can say whether we are happy or fortunate as we do not know what calamities might befall us from one day to the next. No one can truly be called happy until they are dead.

– Herodotus The Histories (1.29-.33) and (1.85-.89) trans Aubrey de Selincourt

According to Rolling Stone, Phil Collins was the second biggest pop star of the 1980s (after Michael Jackson).

Many of his hits — most powerfully “In the Air Tonight” — defined the decade. The man sold 150 million records. His songs endure.

You’d think that’s a pretty good life legacy — a decent roll of the dice, as it were.

But twenty years later, a bitter and melancholy Phil Collins has asked that people start calling him “Phillip.” He hates what the old Phil has become.

Via Rolling Stone:

The Eighties ended and the Nineties began in a whole different mood, with Nirvana and other punk-influenced bands establishing grunge as the dominant musical force. In many ways, grunge’s threadbare, garage-rock sound was a direct reaction to the overblown, synth-heavy bombast of the previous decade — and no one typified those excesses more than Collins. In the summer of 1994, reports began circulating that Collins had informed his (second) wife that he wanted a divorce — via fax. He denied it vehemently, and the fax itself was never produced, but no matter: Suddenly it was open season on the guy. Oasis’ Noel Gallagher started hammering on him any time he could, to uproarious effect. Among his choicest bon mots: “You don’t have to be great to be successful. Look at Phil Collins” and “People hate fucking cunts like Phil Collins, and if they don’t, they fucking should.” And so it’s gone, especially on the internet, where I Hate Phil Collins sites have flourished. He gets criticized for everything. For his hair, for his height, for his shirts (tucks them in), for being a “shameless, smirking show hog.”

“I don’t understand it,” he says, looking pained. “I’ve become a target for no apparent reason. I only make the records once; it’s the radio that plays them all the time. I mean, the Antichrist? But it’s too late. The die is cast as to what I am.”

Now we see the downside of being a pop superstar. Had Collins’ songs not been popular enough to get regular rotation on soft rock radio stations to this day, he never would have become a target for point-scoring assholes like Noel Gallagher. The proliferation of “I Hate Phil Collins” sentiment is a hipster-grunge reaction to Collins’ extreme outlier of commercial success — and in its own way, further validation of the outsized impact he has had.

And yet, for the man himself to say “The die is cast as to who I am” is just sad — a form of tragicomedy. Fate does not decide who a person is, much less the snarking of random trolls on the internet. Except in this case, Collins the man has chosen to let his detractors define him… and thus made it so.

Collins is wealthy but not healthy. The hearing in his left ear is gone. A vertebrae injury in his neck has oddly affected his ability to grip things: He is unable to hold drumsticks, or even write his own name with a pen.

Moderate physical ailments are hardly an impediment to a happy life. What haunts Collins, cruelly, is his inability to let go of a caricature that others have crudely drawn:

He pauses, and then he goes on. “I have had suicidal thoughts. I wouldn’t blow my head off. I’d overdose or do something that didn’t hurt. But I wouldn’t do that to the children. A comedian who committed suicide in the Sixties left a note saying, “Too many things went wrong too often.” I often think about that.”

His manner when he says these things is straightforward. He betrays no emotion. The second-biggest pop star of the Eighties (after Michael Jackson) just sits there, seeming like he maybe wished he could blink it all away.

“Everything has added up to a load that I’m getting tired of carrying,” he continues. “It’s gotten so complicated. It’s the three failed marriages, and having kids that grew up without me, and it’s the personal criticism, of being Mr. Nice Guy, or of divorcing my wife by fax, all that stuff, the journalism, some of which I find insulting. I wouldn’t say that I have suicidal tendencies over my career or bad press. They’re just another chink in the wall. It’s cumulative. You can say, ‘Grow up, man, everybody gets criticism.’ I know that. And I’ve philosophically adjusted to it. But does that make it any more pleasurable? No.” And that’s the trouble with wishing you were somebody else. As much as you may want it, you know it’ll never happen, at least not in this lifetime.

Wishing you were someone else? You are fucking Phil Collins, man! Those were (and are) some GREAT fucking songs!

And here we cycle back around to “Solon’s Wisdom,” as referenced in the opening quote.

The gist of Solon’s wisdom — as referenced by Croesus as a prisoner on a pyre — is that you don’t know how life will turn out, and thus until it is over, you cannot speak with finality of another man’s happiness or another man’s full life.

Modern culture treats pop stars like royalty, and assumes a glorious inner life to match the outer one.  Yet we know how Michael Jackson turned out, and now we see the self-imposed burden Collins must bear.

Do we really want to envy these people? Do we really want to envy anyone?

Fame, money, accolades, recognition from one’s peers… these things have their place, but in and of themselves they guarantee nothing. Sometimes (often times?) they are more pain than pleasure — more trouble than they are worth.

The point here, though, is not to have sympathy for poor Phil Collins. In many ways the man is trapped in a prison of his own making. Nor is the point to take comfort in one’s lack of fame. Saying “wow, I’m glad I’m not famous” is just smug self-rationalization — another version of “my situation is better than so and so’s.”

Instead, the point (at least for yours truly) is to recognize that the conventional wisdom as to what makes us happy — and as to WHO is happy — is all too often laughably, utterly wrong.

So is it better to be a pop star or a postal clerk? Not so easy to answer now eh?

Whose life is filled with laughter and love and great sex and fulfilling moments and personal epiphanies from end to end — the famously successful person envied (and hated) by so many, or the quietly content individual who outwardly displays no grandiose signs? Maybe it’s one, maybe the other. Maybe neither, maybe both. From the outside, can you really know?

And if conventional trappings aren’t the answer… if all the popular delusions are merely airbrushed lies… if incredibly wonderful, fulfilling and experience-enriched lives are open to anyone (including pop stars), wholly independent of who or what they achieve in the jaded eyes of the world… then what excuse does that leave for you, for me, for all of us?

“We’re taking a different path,” he said.

“The original path wasn’t bad, but it isn’t the best one. Instead of going through the logic mountains, here” –- his finger jabbed a point on the map -– “we are going to cut away and swing through the experimental mountains, here.”

Another jab tracing a distinctly different route.

“The ultimate destination is the same,” he said. “In due time -– over the course of many years, maybe even a decade or two –- we’ll reach the Point of Understanding, where all is made clear.”

“But the previous route emphasized a build-up of framework elements piece by piece along the way… a sort of filling-in of knowledge gaps for fellow travelers alongside.”

“This new path is going to be wilder, stranger. It will not be about methodically filling in gaps, or necessarily ‘filling in’ anything at all. Holes will be left unplugged… bridges left unbuilt… rivers left uncrossed. They are not the main focus now.”

He stopped to mull the new route. After a few moments pause, added: “To those unfamiliar with them, the experimental mountains can be a strange, indeed a bizarre place. A bit Alice in Wonderland (minus the caterpillars and Cheshire cats).”

“They can also be frightening. Open sunny vistas, yes. But then too unsettling nooks and crannies… glimpses of insanity… dark places.”

“The reason for the shift is simple: This is a selfish journey, not a selfless one.”

“There is an element of selflessness in the final destination –- the Point of Understanding which all of us (or at least a handful of us) will one day reach, together. A day of victory for all who stick the whole way.”

“And there is a sort of accidental selflessness in acting as a guide in the first place, leading the expedition as it were.”

“But, ultimately, whatever good comes of selflessness emanates from foremost consideration for self and self alone –- at least on this particular trip. In that light, it is the experimental mountains that will best nourish and fulfill us at this particular nexus of place and space and time.”

“There will come a later time when building bridges and crossing rivers again holds appeal.”

“But here and now, and perhaps for the next few years – How long? Hard to say – the wild and rough and perplexing edges are home away from home.”

From the derpy but occasionally brilliant folks over at Reddit:

Here’s a way of approaching the universe: You are a tiny speck of insignificant biological material in an immense universe that probably defies your brain’s ability of understanding. Yet you are remarkable, in innumerable ways. Every second of every day you are a walking ecosystem of life, housing trillions of microbes that continuously interact with you to keep both you and them alive. Your body is constantly building and rebuilding itself, encoding information on simple strains of molecules at the speed of jet engines, in each and every nucleus-possessing cell in your body. You are a walking, talking, living, breathing orchestra of life, a beautiful display of the potential inherent in our particular universe.

You are the remarkable product of an unbroken, let me say that again, UNBROKEN line of descendants stretching all the way back to the very first interactions of seemingly pointless inanimate molecules. You share a common ancestry with every living thing ever, including the estimated 106 billion humans who have ever lived. You are tied to the trees and the birds and the small phytoplankton that gently ride the crests and dips of the oceans of this world. You are part of the vibrant tapestry of what we refer to as life, a piece of art that stretches back billions upon billions of years. Everything this universe has thrown at you and your ancestors has been roundly defeated – from harsh radiation, to extraterrestrial objects, to volcanic eruptions and more. You are a symbol of utter perseverance, of the sheer will to continue onwards. You are a cry in the dark, the voice of one who will not be quiet.

So now you’ve realized that there is no inherent meaning to existence. So what? This doesn’t mean life has suddenly lost meaning – it means there was no meaning in the first place. So you haven’t actually lost anything. Instead, you have gained a wonderful opportunity. Give existence the meaning it is seeking. MAKE a purpose for yourself. Maybe it should be your kids, or maybe it should be giving from the bounty you have (because let us face reality – if you have an internet connection and personal computer, you are in the top 10%, maybe even the top 1%, of humanity). Maybe you should learn a new skill, explore a new facet of creation that you never realized was open to you.

So why do you teach a toddler how to behave? Because maybe that toddler will be the one to find other life, other existence in our so far lonely universe. Or maybe they will be the father, the mother, the close friend, the lover, the supporter of the one who does. Or maybe they will be the person to speak out at just the right moment, the one to stand up and stand out, who will provide the inspiration, or the moment of connection for the person who does. Or maybe that toddler will be the one to protect the life around us from an otherwise inevitable end, from the sucking void of empty existence that we struggle against every second of our being.

Are you just a breeder? Just biology? What an insult to biology! Just?!? I forgive you, because you know not what you say You are the product of a few basic particles, a few basic forces, yet you are impossibly complex, impossibly intricate. The sheer unlikeliness of your very existence is staggering, and yet here you are. The title of “breeder” is just a single facet of what you are. You can be a teacher, a leader, a thinker, a cook, a scientist, an artist, a musician, a protector, an enlightener, a champion, a peacemaker, a lover, a friend, a companion, a confidant… the list is as vast as the seemingly infinite complexities of neuron interactions in the collection of molecular structures known as cells in your brain.

And let us not end our poetic license there, for if all that is true, than this is also: There is something after death. The part of you that continues to exist in all life around you will never cease to be, not as long as things from this planet continue to live. You will continue on, interminably, from the beginning of life to its end potentially countless aeons from now, if ever. Maybe through some fluke you will be the Eve for humanity in the future, the one woman every human will trace their ancestry back to. Maybe not. But who can tell what the future holds. Rather than collapse under the imagined weight of nothingness, I posit that you should grasp hold of your life, and take it to heights heretofore unseen.

Given that Metaprocess is a multi-decade project by design, there will inevitably be cycles of high and low activity.

Low cycle periods do not come about for lack of project-specific content — there is an epic backlog of that — but simply because joyous life intervenes.

Food for thought from Richard Dawkins:

We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones.

Most people are never going to die because they’re never going to be born.

The potential people who could have been here in my place, but who will, in fact, never see the light of day, outnumber the sand grains of Sahara.

Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton.

We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people.

In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.

We privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state, from which the vast majority have never stirred.

He may have never heard the term, but he didn’t need it. He lived it, as the below anecdote shows.

Attribution uknown:

Bruce had me up to three miles a day, really at a good pace. We’d run the three miles in twenty-one or twenty-two minutes. Just under eight minutes a mile [Note: when running on his own in 1968, Lee would get his time down to six-and-a-half minutes per mile]. So this morning he said to me “We’re going to go five.” I said, “Bruce, I can’t go five. I’m a helluva lot older than you are, and I can’t do five.”

He said, “When we get to three, we’ll shift gears and it’s only two more and you’ll do it.” I said “Okay, hell, I’ll go for it.” So we get to three, we go into the fourth mile and I’m okay for three or four minutes, and then I really begin to give out. I’m tired, my heart’s pounding, I can’t go any more and so I say to him, “Bruce, if I run any more,” –and we’re still running– “if I run any more I’m liable to have a heart attack and die.” He said, “Then die.”

It made me so mad that I went the full five miles. Afterward I went to the shower and then I wanted to talk to him about it. I said, you know, “Why did you say that?” He said, “Because you might as well be dead. Seriously, if you always put limits on what you can do, physical or anything else, it’ll spread over into the rest of your life. It’ll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level.“

~

p.s. There is, of course, a more enlightened option when it comes to contemplating one’s demise…

Scientists Successfully Teach Gorilla It Will Die Someday