Waxing Philosophical

René Descartes, philosopher; a wise and learned man
Said "I can prove that I exist; I think, therefore I am!"
I'd like to pose a question, though, that puts him on the spot:
A table doesn't think, so does that mean that it is not?

That verse was written by your friendly, neighborhood Halmanator back in the days of his youth, when he fancied himself a poet.

My tongue was, of course, planted firmly in my cheek when I wrote that verse.  As any logician will tell you, just because a premise is true, it does not automatically follow that its opposite is also true.  To wit: although thinking or self-awareness can be considered proof of an entity's existence, it does not follow that any entity which is not self-aware and unable to think does not exist.

We might extend the argument to say that an entity can also prove its existence by imposing itself upon the thoughts of one or more other sentient entities.  If you or I think about the table, we acknowledge its existence even though the table itself has no self-awareness or thought.

But if we accept that, we may blunder into the following challenge:  Hundreds of thousands of young children believe in Santa Claus.  They think about him so, given the previous argument, that is proof of Santa's existence.  But of course, Santa Claus doesn't exist ... or does he?

Perhaps the argument can be made that anything that occupies the thoughts of another does exist in some sense, especially if it occupies the thoughts of multiple others.  The tooth fairy, the bogeyman, Bugs Bunny, Darth Vader, Tom Sawyer, el chupacabra, Superman, Little Red Riding Hood and, yes, even God.  It may be argued that all of them exist in some sense, if only because we, the human race, have willed them to.

Autumn

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

This excerpt from "Autumn Fires" by Robert Louis Stevenson pretty much sums up how I feel about autumn. This is my favorite time of year. The vibrant colors, the crispness in the air, the festivals of Oktoberfest, Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en; all around one sees a celebration of the earth's bounty even as both man and nature prepare for the winter hibernation. Alright, most of us don't actually hibernate, but there is a definite slowing of pace as winter approaches. We travel less, the shorter days leave many less inclined to work as many hours as they might during the longer days of summer, and I like to think that we spend more time in the comfort of our homes with our families.

In my hemisphere of the world, the constellation Orion, the hunter, can be seen directly overhead in the early morning hours before the sun rises. By December, it will be visible at night. Orion is my favorite constellation, possibly because I associate it with this season. It's one of the larger constellations and includes several of the brighter stars in our galaxy. There's even a nebula hiding in his scabbard. He seems to stretch out his arms as if to embrace the Earth.

Being an essentially lazy person, I don't much care for the chore of raking up fallen leaves, and their beauty as they cover the dormant, yellowing grass with a multi-coloured carpet makes me even more reluctant to remove them. I know that I'm not alone in feeling this way. In his book, "All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten", Robert Fulghum writes:

"Across the back of our house is a row of middle-aged matronly maple trees, extravagantly dressed in season in a million leaf-sequins. And in season the sequins detach. Not much wind in our sheltered yard, so the leaves lie about the ladies' feet now like dressing gowns they've stepped out of in preparation for the bath of winter.

I like the way it looks. I like the way it looks very much. My wife does not. The gardening magazine does not like it, either. Leaves should be raked. There are rules. Leaves are not good for grass. Leaves are moldyslimy. But I like leaves so much, I once filled my classroom at school ankle-deep with them.

There is a reason for leaves. There is no reason for mowed grass. So say I."

Here's to you, Robert. It's always nice to meet a kindred spirit.

The Laddie Fancies Himself A Poet

Those famous words from Pink Floyd's "The Wall" once applied to me. In my younger days, I wrote many poems. There was a time when I even dreamed of becoming a famous poet. Hey, it seemed better than working for a living!

My poems usually rhymed, because I happen to like rhyming poems. During my adolescent years, the high school English teachers who read my work often suggested that I focus more on non-rhyming poems. I sensed a kind of snobbery that seemed to suggest that rhyming poems were of a lower order than non-rhyming ones, more suited for greeting cards and other such common frivolities. Hmph! Tell that to Poe, Byron, Wordsworth or even Shakespeare!

Well, I never did become a famous poet and the poems of my youth are now hidden away from the world in an obscure attic drawer ... or, at least, they were until now. At risk of seeming presumptuous, I've decided to use this blog as an exhibit for a few modest examples of what I consider to be among my better poetic works. I thank you, Dear Reader, in advance for your kind forbearance, and I invite your comments, as always.

We begin with a poem that was inspired by something that I once saw. There used to be a derelict CF-105 fighter aircraft rusting away in a field in my home town. I discovered it while riding my bicycle one summer and I immediately clambered all over it. While doing so, I noticed a dead baby bird lying on the ground beneath one of the wings. It seems that its mother had unwisely chosen to build her nest inside the wing, just in front of the aileron. The nest had probably fallen out of the wing and the baby met its fate when some curious passer-by had moved the aileron up and down, dislodging the nest in the process. The poignancy of the sight inspired this:

Brought Down

In a wide and lonely field
A fighter aircraft stands
A touch of glory past it yields
Made by human hands

Its wings no longer touch the sky
Its engines roar no more
The plane which once flew fast and high
Brought down by raging war

Beneath its wing a dead bird lies
In quiet, grassy lands
Eternal peace within its eyes
Made by Gods own hands

Its wings no longer touch the sky
Its body cold as stone
This creature that was born to fly
Brought down by death alone

I'm sure most people are familiar with "Footprints In The Sand", about a person walking along the beach with God. I decided that it would be even better if it were put to rhyme...

Footprints In The Sand

I had a dream the other night, like none I've had before;
I dreamed that I was walking on a beach beside our Lord.
My life flashed by across the sky as we walked hand in hand,
And as we walked I saw that we left footprints in the sand.

And as the story of my life flashed by in front of me,
I noticed something else becoming very plain to see;
We left two sets of footprints during times of joy and fun,
But during times of pain and sorrow, I saw only one.

This troubled me and so I said, "Lord, I don't understand
The mystery that lies behind those footprints in the sand.
You said that, if I followed You, You always would stay close,
So why did You desert me when I needed You the most?"

The Lord replied, "My precious child, I never left your side.
You see two sets of footprints when life left you satisfied,
But when your life was hardest you see one instead of two,
For in those times of suffering, t'was then I carried you."

Here's a short, whimsical verse reminiscent of Ogden Nash, if I may be so bold...

Question

René Descartes: Philosopher. A wise and learned man
Said "I can prove that I exist. I think, therefore I am!"
I'd like to pose a question, though, that puts him on the spot:
A table doesn't think, so does that mean that it is not?

...and, finally, a bit of musing on the dangers of the cold war era, appropriately entitled...

The End

I saw the jets go flying
First one, then two, then three
And found myself admiring
Man's vast technology

I watched them go in wonder
Till I saw them no more
And then, like distant thunder
I heard a growing roar

I saw the mushroom rising
It belched forth scarlet flames
And found myself despising
Those horrid silver planes

Okay, so "New car, caviar, four star draydream" it's not. Still, I hope you enjoyed them.

Encouragement vs. Realism

This blog was inspired by my best friend Mart, who started blogging before I did. He mostly blogs about his two daughters and he sounds so proud of them. Both on his blog and in person, he tends to gush about all the things that his two girls do. The older one, Rose, plays the piano and now the younger one, Autumn, is learning music as well. Autumn seems particularly vivacious and creative.

I have a fifteen-year-old daughter named Jessica. I'd like to brag about her like Mart brags about his girls but, when I see her various endeavours, I see only room for improvement. Most distressingly, the things that she appears to enjoy doing the most are things for which she has no particular talent.

Like many other teenagers, she likes Japanese manga and anime, and she's forever drawing anime pictures. Unfortunately, her pictures aren't all that impressive. Body joints are angular and disproportionate (even for anime). Limbs are straight and shapeless. Poses are awkward and unnatural. So I got her a book on drawing manga, thinking that its pointers regarding technique might help, but I've seen only marginal improvement in her work at best. I suspect that part of the problem is that, rather than reading the book and developing her technique step by step, she continues to draw as her whims dictate and the book sits largely unread and ignored. She doesn't seem to have the self-discipline to learn the rudimentary skills. She wants to simply start drawing full-fledged scenes.

She's also tried her hand at music, only guitar rather than piano. She started with an acoustic guitar borrowed from a cousin and was later given a hand-me-down electric guitar and a mini-amp from another cousin. She tried Internet self-study and sounded terrible, so my wife and I signed her up for guitar lessons at a local community centre for several weeks. Again, the lessons haven't really helped much. Now, I don't expect mastery after only a few weeks, but some sort of improvement would be gratifying. Instead, she just strums away tunelessly, evening after evening. Again, instead of practicing the skills learned during her weekly lessons, she attempts to play Avril Lavigne songs. She seems to want to go straight to her destination, skipping the tedium of the journey. Incidentally, like many young girls, she also harbors dreams of becoming a singing star like Avril Lavigne but, again, her voice and her singing talent are mediocre at best. She couldn't carry a tune if she had a wheelbarrow.

Perhaps I adopted my critical attitude from my parents. My parents were generous with their criticisms but sparing with their praise during my youth (he said, settling back into his virtual psychiatrist's couch). When I did well, little was usually said. My parents considered the absence of criticism as being equivalent to a compliment. On the other hand, I was frequently reminded of my failings and shortcomings. "You don't need to be told when you've done well," my mother used to admonish me. "You should know when you've done well. You only need to be corrected when you haven't met expectations".

But this is not about me, it's about Jessica; or, rather, parenting in general. The question that preoccupies me is this; how do we, as parents, walk that fine line between being supportive and being realistic? When Jessica shows me a finished drawing and asks my opinion, I point out any flaws and weaknesses that I see. Would I be doing her any favors if I were to smile and say "That's very nice, dear" in the interest of stroking her ego and let her believe that her work needs no improvement?

At one time, she entertained the idea of becoming an actress. I told her that for every Julia Roberts, there are thousands of attractive, talented young ladies who nobody has ever heard of. I explained that the entertainment business can be a shallow, superficial one that rewards style over substance. Often, it's not about how talented you are or are not so much as the connections you have and the favors you've done for those in a position of influence. It's not how good you are, it's how marketable you are. Even those who reach the limelight often can't cope with its glare. Those who achieve significant fame lose all privacy and are hounded constantly by press, paparazzi and their fans. Would it be kinder of me to encourage her dreams without warning her of the pitfalls?

When I was young, I wanted to learn to fly. I've always loved airplanes and anything having to do with flying. When I told this to my parents, they immediately listed all of the reasons why it wasn't a good idea. Learning to fly is expensive and time-consuming. I'd need to have perfect eyesight. The moment that began to fail, my career could be in jeopardy. If I were to become a commercial transport pilot, I'd never be home. I'd constantly be traveling to some far-off place, and, being a natural homebody, I'd likely be miserable. When I suggested that I might consider joining the air cadets, I was told that most who follow that path end up polishing the aircraft if they're lucky. Very few actually get to fly them. And let's not forget how dangerous flying can be.

So today, I work in an office, with airplane calendars and models adorning my cubicle, and in my spare time I fly simulators on my PC. Once in a while I'll go soaring at a local gliding club, or maybe take an introductory flight in a single-engine Cessna at the regional airport. They didn't kill the dream, but they certainly maimed it. I don't want to do that to my daughter.

Jessica does have a lot of good qualities, and I've seen the glimmer of talent in a couple of areas. She has talked about becoming a kindergarten or primary school teacher, and I think she would excel in this. She has a genuine fondness for small children, and she's very good with them. This year, she answered the door and handed out the treats on Hallowe'en, and I was genuinely impressed by what I saw and heard. She was always friendly and cheerful with the children, greeting those who she knew and recognized by name. When a large crowd showed up all at once, she had them line up in an orderly fashion and then served them one by one. She sounded like a teacher even just handing out treats.

And there's one other talent that I'm proud to say she seems to have inherited from me. She has a talent for creative writing. She spends a fair bit of time writing poems and short stories. I've read her work and I've been genuinely impressed by some of it, and have told her so. Again, I see a real glimmer of promise there, and I'm happy to encourage her to continue developing this talent, even as I chide her about "getting a vocabulary". At the same time, I point out that the number of people who have earned a living solely from writing is small indeed, and even those did not achieve their fame early or overnight. But there's that negativity again.

As parents, we want to encourage our children to follow their dreams and to realize their fullest potential, but we also want to protect them from the dangers and pitfalls that exist. Encouragement and realism sometimes seem at odds with each other.

What's A Halmanator?

Greetings! You have stumbled upon my blog. I thought long and hard about whether or not I should do this. Does the world really need yet another blog by some unknown? Probably not. But I like to write, and I've found that writing down my thoughts helps to crystallize them. So let's say that I'm doing this mostly for me, and if you care to come along for the ride, you're welcome.

What's a "Halmanator"? Well, it's a nickname that was bestowed upon me some years ago by a work colleague and I decided that I kind of like it. I was born in Austria, (but raised in Canada). Arnold Schwarzenegger is Austrian, and he's the Terminator. So I'm the Halmanator. How's that for an obscure celebrity link?

You might also think of a Halmanator as being a sort of machine or process. News items, pop culture references, stories, anecdotes and random thoughts are dumped into the Halmanator, processed, and often emerge as something different. That's what this blog is about. Just me, thinking aloud about things and putting my own personal slant on them. I believe that no two people see the world in exactly the same way. I hope to show you what the world looks like to me. I'll try to keep the mood light most of the time. I want to make you feel good, not bad. Sometimes I may come across as pensive, brooding or even angry. Nobody's happy all of the time. If something pisses me off, I'll say so, but I'll try not to dwell on it.

And now, let me close off this inaugural post with a few lines stolen from Shel Silverstein.

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!