As I sit today with a puppy curled up next to me, I ponder my future and all things green. I think about houses and cars, sewers and mars and I wonder why we are the things that we are.
I'm sure that in the instance of light and show that to the naked eye the cosmos seems so close. Am I suffocating? Am I really alive. Do I think or does everything seem blue and pink. There I come and here I go and then we dance on the rich sea sand... under glowing red moon.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
There are times like now when I wonder to myself if ever I will amount to anything. And then I say to myself, “Self. No, of course not. Because in the cosmic scheme of things, no one ever amounts to much of anything anyway.” Of course when I say this to myself I have to wonder what in the hell it is that I am saying. The cosmic scheme of what things? And what do I mean by “amount to anything?” I suppose that I amount to whatever I do. And for that matter I amount to whatever I think.
Imagine for a moment that the Universe is a closed system just like my mind, which I believe to be, essentially, “the stuff” of my brain (e.g. its matter and configuration and processes and existence in time—a functioning neural network). Now, if the Universe is a closed system then my actions (e.g. what I do) affect only the elements within it. And because my mind is a closed system, what I think effects only the elements within it. So therefore what I amount to is both what I do and what I think since my mind, a closed system, is fully contained with the Universe, another closed system.
Therefore I could simply do nothing but think and amount to a great deal affecting an incredibly complex yet closed system and no one would know it. Of course I could do a great deal of stuff without necessarily too much thought and have very little effect on either the Universe or my mind. Or I could expend a tremendous amount of energy both thinking and doing and still have little effect on the Universe, yet take my toll on my mind. Of course to effect the Universe in any significant way is currently unfathomable. Although as thinking beings we've certainly managed throughout our entire history to do both a lot of thinking and doing, affecting adversely as well positively both of our closed systems, the mind more so than the Universe—we are supreme egoists first before we are anything—just what would it take to actually affect the Universe in any noticeable way?
One cosmically insignificant accident, such as a bunch of planet sized asteroids one day slamming into our planet or, for example, wiping out the solar system, would end any potential I (or any thinking being) might have to affect change to the universe—assuming this were to happen before we found a way to live out in space away from earth.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
I think I'm going mad I really think I'm going mad I really think so.
There are times like now when I wonder to myself if ever I will amount to anything. And then I say to myself, “Self. No, of course not. Because in the cosmic scheme of things, no one ever amounts to much of anything anyway.” Of course when I say this to myself I have to wonder what in the hell it is that I am saying. The cosmic scheme of what things? And what do I mean by “amount to anything?” I suppose that I amount to whatever I do. And for that matter I amount to whatever I think.
Imagine for a moment that the Universe is a closed system just like my mind, which I believe to be, essentially, “the stuff” of my brain (e.g. its matter and configuration and processes and existence in time—a functioning neural network). Now, if the Universe is a closed system then my actions (e.g. what I do) affect only the elements within it. And because my mind is a closed system, what I think effects only the elements within it. So therefore what I amount to is both what I do and what I think since my mind, a closed system, is fully contained with the Universe, another closed system.
Therefore I could simply do nothing but think and amount to a great deal affecting an incredibly complex yet closed system and no one would know it. Of course I could do a great deal of stuff without necessarily too much thought and have very little effect on either the Universe or my mind. Or I could expend a tremendous amount of energy both thinking and doing and still have little effect on the Universe, yet take my toll on my mind. Of course to effect the Universe in any significant way is currently unfathomable. Although as thinking beings we've certainly managed throughout our entire history to do both a lot of thinking and doing, affecting adversely as well positively both of our closed systems, the mind more so than the Universe—we are supreme egoists first before we are anything—just what would it take to actually affect the Universe in any noticeable way?
One cosmically insignificant accident, such as a bunch of planet sized asteroids one day slamming into our planet or, for example, wiping out the solar system, would end any potential I (or any thinking being) might have to affect change to the universe—assuming this were to happen before we found a way to live out in space away from earth.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Dusk
Can one be content with merely doing or is it that we seek fulfillment, hollow though it might be, by doing so that others might praise us?
Constantly these days I struggle with the feeling that I will accomplish little before I die and I feel as though I am rushing toward it, toward death, and I a feel like I still need to hang on so that I can accomplish something, something wonderful for all to see so that my name will be placed among the rest of those few whose names any child can recall. How foolish a thought is this? And how common a thought in the mind of any man reaching a certain point in life?
Do I continue working for someone else, working among my piers so that (as a mentor) I can help them become better engineers so that perhaps they might also help me to improve... as a designer, and engineer, a human being?
I used to loath contact with people, but not so much anymore. Sometimes when I listen to those with whom I work speak to one another about such happiness in their youth, the conversations inevitably centers around their friends or family. When I, in turn, speak of youth I can recall only the silence of my bedroom. I almost always recall in my mind my ugly shag carpet and how the light in morning would cross the far wall as it coursed its way from morning through evening. Evening was my favorite time, just before the sun had set, because the sun would eventually become an emblazoned burning orange as it was being swallowed by the western horizon, and my room and I would be cast in its deep orange-umber glow as we sat alone together, waiting.
Constantly these days I struggle with the feeling that I will accomplish little before I die and I feel as though I am rushing toward it, toward death, and I a feel like I still need to hang on so that I can accomplish something, something wonderful for all to see so that my name will be placed among the rest of those few whose names any child can recall. How foolish a thought is this? And how common a thought in the mind of any man reaching a certain point in life?
Do I continue working for someone else, working among my piers so that (as a mentor) I can help them become better engineers so that perhaps they might also help me to improve... as a designer, and engineer, a human being?
I used to loath contact with people, but not so much anymore. Sometimes when I listen to those with whom I work speak to one another about such happiness in their youth, the conversations inevitably centers around their friends or family. When I, in turn, speak of youth I can recall only the silence of my bedroom. I almost always recall in my mind my ugly shag carpet and how the light in morning would cross the far wall as it coursed its way from morning through evening. Evening was my favorite time, just before the sun had set, because the sun would eventually become an emblazoned burning orange as it was being swallowed by the western horizon, and my room and I would be cast in its deep orange-umber glow as we sat alone together, waiting.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Grand Cycle (or a lot of rambling nonsense)
Home alone again and listening to Hendrix and drinking white wine and red wine, having spent more than a week sober, and with good reason. The back was terrible last Sunday, and I screamed, screamed, screamed in pain, to myself, and I couldn’t lie still. I had to sit up, and days after I kept waking to the feeling that I was drowning, or something. I couldn’t breath, it was awful, and I’d find myself waking up, gasping, choking sometimes, at two in the morning, and I’d turn on my little nightstand light and I’d sit for a while, maybe twenty minutes or so on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor, at my feet, at my shoes a few feet away, then I’d glance outward towards the rest of the room and look about, and all I’d see was the stillness of things and all I’d hear was the god damned air condition clicking on and then eventually off, and I’d hear the occasional strange noise, the house creaking, settling, and then I’d grab whatever book was sitting on the nightstand beside me, and I’d read. I’d read for a half hour sometimes, and then several hours other times, until I could read no longer, and until the breaths I took replenished my tired blood, when I felt as though each gasp of air was not in vain…when I felt that I might survive sleep…might wake up the next morning, although groggy, dizzy, yet alive to face another day, to see my wife, to be once again… to be me. That’s all I asked. For despite whatever depression might accost my mind, whatever physical ailment might attack my body, I still yearned for one more day, for life, for the breathing, in and out, in and out, and to hear my frail heart beating against my soft chest. I yearn always for this feeling, for while death may be imminent, just around the fucking corner, I want to keep breathing, keep feeling, pain and all… I want to keep going, to see what happens next, to feel my lover’s breath once more against my naked body, to traverse the aisles of the supermarket and purchase food… glorious fucking food. I don’t want to die because I know, I feel it in my bones, that there is nothing… nada... nyet… nothing after this fucking life, and so be it. No Heaven or Hell… no Hell, for God’s sake, for while Hell might be the last place you’d wish to find yourself, at least it was something and not nothing. At least there was fire, brimstone, agony… feeling, for fuck sake. There was that. No matter how bad it was, how bad could Hell be compared to an eternity of nothingness, of lifelessness, of listlessness… of void… of never knowing, never wondering, never contemplating… unending darkness, but that doesn’t matter anyway because you’d simply cease to exist and with that ceasing you’d cease to understand, to comprehend, to be conscious. No dreams, no nightmares, no bright white light at the end of that seductive tunnel that pulls you towards it non-stop. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. You would be alone, and you wouldn’t know it. No one would, for everyone else would continue on, grieving, getting over it, meeting new people, other lovers and that would be that. You’d be nothing more than a picture on a mantel, a memory in someone’s failing mind, your few scribblings left behind, perhaps in a trunk in some dusty attic, a house for spiders, and for mold and mildew. Your work, your life, crumbling away, yellowing with time, and that would be that, until someone, some kid, some little girl, might discover a scrap here and there, some bit of wit, some serious sentence, some piece of you, still crying out, yearning to be heard, and then nothing but kindling perhaps, or some cool kind of ancient wrapping paper for some child’s birthday gift, or to the trash where your words, your thoughts, might wind up in a heap, a heap of garbage rotting, disintegrating, like your shell of a body, deep under the dirt, becoming again one with the earth, the universe, pieces, parts, down to the molecule, the proton, disintegrating… down to the electron, the nucleus, the sub-atomic particle… disintegrating, breaking away, fast, onward through the universe, congealing somewhere by some heavy, heavy force of gravity, pulling you back into substance, something, matter, renewed again, into light, heat, energy, matter, hot gases, molten rock…rock forming, lava flowing, cooling gases, water condensing, raining upon another world, ready to begin anew. Ready, ready. The primordial soup, readying itself, barring any catastrophes, and the single celled animals erupt, and then more, and more, growing in a soup green, gray, cloudy, fresh water and minerals, pouring down and in, replenishing, and you grow again, again, and the specter that you once were now hints of tomorrow, the primordial thoughts sparking in your simple cells, your new yet someday ancient DNA, and one day you will grow into something, something small, something potential, something slimy, extracting gas from liquid, oxygen from water perhaps, and then you might eventually crawl upon the land, then back to the water, then back onto the land, which maybe less harsh this time, and you might rest your weary body, your weary legs, appendages, things, under the shade primitive leaves of some kind of primitive tree, trembling as the wind blows and wondering what next to do, and you make your way back to the water, then back out much, much later, more robust, and take to the trees, which are different somehow, different and new, oh the glorious, tall, reverent trees, then back down to the land, then fighting off the insane, deadly creatures, fighting the insane, deadly diseases, believing eventually in spirits, looking up to see the sun and the stars and the moon and ascribing some primal meaning, something ethereal, other worldly, spiritual perhaps, for you have no explanation as you witness the grass growing in the warmth of the sun sometimes, and dying in the dead cold other times, and eventually you sense cycles, patterns… and one day you discover eventually the wondrous thing that is fire, like the sun, but closer, hotter, more effective, and you learn to cook your food, fend off beasts more easily, and eventually make your own clothing to warm you from the elements when fire isn’t around, and you hone little tools of stone, wood and plant at night by the light of your fire, and you carve, and cut, dig and chop, and grow, the intellect growing, too, ever onward, upward, and you fear others who might know more than you so you gather your people and conquer the strangers with your tools, and you take their tools, and you learn, learn, learn, and you become the leader, for you lead your tribe, your small group of followers, mostly inbred kin, towards victory, and while it might not have made sense at first, the spoils… oh the spoils… strange skins, strange vessels, strange tools… strange foods, perhaps preserved, strange images on stone, strangeness all around, and you accept some and discard others and fear yet some other things, for some reason, for no particular reason, you fear and you make up stories of danger, death, gods, spirits, and then you move onward and upward, and civilizations come to pass and with it clothing, and manners, and things, all manner of things, and food is easy to come by and work, too, for now you find yourself employed, wanting more, making more of yourself and you move onward and upward and you find yourself once again drinking the beer, the wine, feeling better and better and poorer and poorer, writing words down onto something, perhaps paper and with a tool, perhaps a pen, perhaps a keyboard, perhaps dictating into something artificial, whatever that means, that might take your very words and transcribe them into the writing of the day, of the age, and then you marry and are happy… And then one day your find yourself home alone again and listening to Hendrix and drinking white wine and red wine, having spent more than a week sober, and with good reason…
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Christmas List, 2004
I thought for my first journal entry that I might share my Christmas list. My wife and family insist every year that I provide them with one, and each year it's similar to the last. Only the titles and the names of the authors change (mostly).
1.“Alfred Tarski: Life and Logic” by Anita Burdman Feferman and Solomon Feferman
2.“Faces in the Water” by Janet Frame
3.“Janet Frame” by Janet Frame (autobiography)
4.“Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism” by Susan Jacoby
5.“Java Cookbook, 2nd Edition” by Ian F. Darwin (computer programming)
6.“The Selfish Gene” by Richard Dawkins
7.“A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson
8.“Dark Age Ahead” Jane Jacobs
9.“The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell” by Bertrand Russell (note: do not confuse this with his second volume, one that I already possess, “The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell: 1914-1944”)
10. “Bertrand Russell: 1921-1970, The Ghost of Madness” by Ray Monk
11. “On Intelligence” by Jeff Hawkins and Sandra Blakeslee
12. “The Origins of Totalitarianism” by Hannah Arendt
13. “The Art of Computer Programming, Volumes 1-3 Boxed Set, 3rd Edition” by Donald E. Knuth (list price is $164.99 but can be ordered from Amazon at a 24% savings for a total of $125.39, no including shipping, of course. You might also be able to find a used set at Amazon of via eBay. Also make sure that it is the 3rd edition and not 1st or 2nd edition.)
14. “Daniel Dennett (Contemporary Philosophy in Focus)” by Andrew Brook (Editor), Don Ross (Editor)
15. “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath” by Sylvia Plath, Karen V. Kukil (Editor)
16. “Half a Life” by V. S. Naipaul
17. “Fearful Symmetry” by Northrop Frye
18. “Complete Essays of Montaigne” by Michel E. De Montaigne, Translated by Donald M. Frame. Published by Stanford University Press, June 1, 1985.
19. “Samuel Johnson” by Walter Jackson Bate. Published by Counterpoint Press, Jun 1, 1998
20. ”Samuel Johnson: The Major Works (Oxford World's Classics)” by Donald Greene. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2000.
21. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume I - The Poetry of Desire (1749 – 1790)” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, September 1, 1992.
22. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume II - Revolution and Renunciation” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2003.
23. “The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson (Modern Library Paperback Classics)” by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Brooks Atkinson (editor). Published by Modern Library, September 12, 2000.
24. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume II : Within A Budding Grove” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
25. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume III : The Guermantes Way” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
26. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume IV : Sodom and Gomorrah” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
27. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume V : The Captive & The Fugitive” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
28. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume VI : Time Regained” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
29. “Civilization and Its Discontents” by Sigmund Freud. Published by W. W. Norton and Company. Reissue edition, July 1, 1989.
1.“Alfred Tarski: Life and Logic” by Anita Burdman Feferman and Solomon Feferman
2.“Faces in the Water” by Janet Frame
3.“Janet Frame” by Janet Frame (autobiography)
4.“Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism” by Susan Jacoby
5.“Java Cookbook, 2nd Edition” by Ian F. Darwin (computer programming)
6.“The Selfish Gene” by Richard Dawkins
7.“A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson
8.“Dark Age Ahead” Jane Jacobs
9.“The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell” by Bertrand Russell (note: do not confuse this with his second volume, one that I already possess, “The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell: 1914-1944”)
10. “Bertrand Russell: 1921-1970, The Ghost of Madness” by Ray Monk
11. “On Intelligence” by Jeff Hawkins and Sandra Blakeslee
12. “The Origins of Totalitarianism” by Hannah Arendt
13. “The Art of Computer Programming, Volumes 1-3 Boxed Set, 3rd Edition” by Donald E. Knuth (list price is $164.99 but can be ordered from Amazon at a 24% savings for a total of $125.39, no including shipping, of course. You might also be able to find a used set at Amazon of via eBay. Also make sure that it is the 3rd edition and not 1st or 2nd edition.)
14. “Daniel Dennett (Contemporary Philosophy in Focus)” by Andrew Brook (Editor), Don Ross (Editor)
15. “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath” by Sylvia Plath, Karen V. Kukil (Editor)
16. “Half a Life” by V. S. Naipaul
17. “Fearful Symmetry” by Northrop Frye
18. “Complete Essays of Montaigne” by Michel E. De Montaigne, Translated by Donald M. Frame. Published by Stanford University Press, June 1, 1985.
19. “Samuel Johnson” by Walter Jackson Bate. Published by Counterpoint Press, Jun 1, 1998
20. ”Samuel Johnson: The Major Works (Oxford World's Classics)” by Donald Greene. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2000.
21. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume I - The Poetry of Desire (1749 – 1790)” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, September 1, 1992.
22. “Goethe: The Poet and the Age: Volume II - Revolution and Renunciation” by Nicholas Boyle. Published by Oxford University Press, July 1, 2003.
23. “The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson (Modern Library Paperback Classics)” by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Brooks Atkinson (editor). Published by Modern Library, September 12, 2000.
24. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume II : Within A Budding Grove” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
25. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume III : The Guermantes Way” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, November 3, 1998.
26. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume IV : Sodom and Gomorrah” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
27. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume V : The Captive & The Fugitive” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
28. “In Search of Lost Time, Volume VI : Time Regained” by Marcel Proust. Published by Modern Library, February 16, 1999.
29. “Civilization and Its Discontents” by Sigmund Freud. Published by W. W. Norton and Company. Reissue edition, July 1, 1989.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Fear and Self Loathing
I sit here nearly paralyzed from hopelessness and fear for I know not what to do. I have no clue. I took down as many books of poetry as I could find in my library—I have no order, rhyme or reason to my library—and have intended my study of poetry in order that I might master it and become myself a great poet. Hah! But alas I have lost interest and cannot find it again. It's gone. Somewhere. As if it fell out of my head last night whilst I was sleeping. I am paralyzed, as I've said. I sit here listening to music awaiting my wife to arrive home from work and alas I can do nothing. I cannot read, I cannot write except in this pathetic journal; I have no words of encouragement for myself. I am nothing. I am shit.
Why am I all the time filled with nothing but self loathing? And fear? I used to fear a lot of things. Perhaps it was the medication. Now I am full of disdain for people and for myself. I read the news and I am so much more disgusted with the world than I had been while on medications. When on medications, at least on different medications, I could cope better. Perhaps it was because I was just numb. More numb than I am now. Now, I am not numb. Not really. The current meds (little more than placebos, I think) barely do anything to subdue the mental anguish. I feel more like a raw nerve. Exposed. I want to lash out at people. I snap at Sherri more now than I ever had. Mikhail has upped my topamax and so that has helped a little, I suppose. I think she needs to up it more, though. I think maybe I need to try that welbutrin again. Something. Anything!
Why am I all the time filled with nothing but self loathing? And fear? I used to fear a lot of things. Perhaps it was the medication. Now I am full of disdain for people and for myself. I read the news and I am so much more disgusted with the world than I had been while on medications. When on medications, at least on different medications, I could cope better. Perhaps it was because I was just numb. More numb than I am now. Now, I am not numb. Not really. The current meds (little more than placebos, I think) barely do anything to subdue the mental anguish. I feel more like a raw nerve. Exposed. I want to lash out at people. I snap at Sherri more now than I ever had. Mikhail has upped my topamax and so that has helped a little, I suppose. I think she needs to up it more, though. I think maybe I need to try that welbutrin again. Something. Anything!
Friday, May 21, 2004
Ethics and G. E. Moore
I’ve learned today from Moore that in ethics, ‘good’ is indefinable, but what is good can be defined, e.g. pleasure is good. But pleasure is also indefinable. But something like ‘chocolate is good,’ is a definition about chocolate, good describing the sensation. Yet still we cannot define good, although we know what it is—well, I would think that Hitler, somehow, didn’t understand ‘good’ in any sense.
This has led me to think about other things that cannot be defined, but that define other things, such as pleasure. For example, the massage was pleasurable. We can define a massage, yet we cannot define pleasure. So there are words that, like atoms, are basic units of definition. ‘Quality’ is another word. Quality can be used to define a certain property of some thing. In this case a quality seems to be synonymous with property. But when you use quality in the following way, “This item has quality,” or “That extremely flawed diamond lacks the quality of this flawless one.” What then is quality in this sense? It describes a grade of excellence, but then what is excellence?
If Ethics has to do with what is ‘good,’ then it must also have to deal with what is not good, or what is ‘bad.’ Again we know something is bad when we experience it, but how do we define bad?
This has led me to think about other things that cannot be defined, but that define other things, such as pleasure. For example, the massage was pleasurable. We can define a massage, yet we cannot define pleasure. So there are words that, like atoms, are basic units of definition. ‘Quality’ is another word. Quality can be used to define a certain property of some thing. In this case a quality seems to be synonymous with property. But when you use quality in the following way, “This item has quality,” or “That extremely flawed diamond lacks the quality of this flawless one.” What then is quality in this sense? It describes a grade of excellence, but then what is excellence?
If Ethics has to do with what is ‘good,’ then it must also have to deal with what is not good, or what is ‘bad.’ Again we know something is bad when we experience it, but how do we define bad?
Idealism, Realism and G. E. Moore
I read G. E. Moore’s Refutation of Idealism. I’m almost certain that his assertions are a refutation of Idealism as I understand it. But the text is dense and sometimes I got lost and couldn’t tell whether or not he had convinced himself. Idealism, as I see it distilled to its essence, is the phrase, which I had to learn, esse est percipi, or to be is to be perceived or experienced. Essentially, nothing exists that hasn’t been perceived. Thus Idealists, I think, believe in an ultimate Self, or perceiver, which is where a God or something metaphysical comes to play. Which is why an Idealist can meet someone who he’s never met because something greater has already perceived this new someone.
Now, I could be all wrong here, but this is my take on it. Now, I probably need to go back and read Moore’s refutation. While it made some sense as I read, I didn’t study or read it well enough because now I forget its essence. I think what he was partially saying was that there is an intractable connection between the perceived and the perceiver such that the perceived need be perceived in order to be. Yet things continue to be (and I’m sure his argument went to kind of prove this) after I’ve stopped perceiving it (e.g. I look skyward and perceive the color blue. I close my eyes and only perceive in my mind the memory of the color blue. When I open my eyes a moment later, the blue shall still be there even though I stopped perceiving it). Now, here is where I get wishy-washy in my thoughts and I need further study because I think I might have misunderstood some of Moore’s fundamental points.
Now, I could be all wrong here, but this is my take on it. Now, I probably need to go back and read Moore’s refutation. While it made some sense as I read, I didn’t study or read it well enough because now I forget its essence. I think what he was partially saying was that there is an intractable connection between the perceived and the perceiver such that the perceived need be perceived in order to be. Yet things continue to be (and I’m sure his argument went to kind of prove this) after I’ve stopped perceiving it (e.g. I look skyward and perceive the color blue. I close my eyes and only perceive in my mind the memory of the color blue. When I open my eyes a moment later, the blue shall still be there even though I stopped perceiving it). Now, here is where I get wishy-washy in my thoughts and I need further study because I think I might have misunderstood some of Moore’s fundamental points.
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