I have this weird thing of basing how the month would go on common things that happen on the first day of the month- It happened when I noticed to do lists on first days of months and how the months added up to the first days.
Anyways, 8th month of the year, August, started of with windows popping open with rain and wind, someone's surprise birthday party and thus, some hope for an exciting month- So, I predict surprises this month. (:
I hope these various 'educational-like blogs don't make me sound preachy. I was procrastinating on the net when I stumbled across the work of St. Thomas Aquinas.
Aquinas believed that there were two ways to arrive at 'the truth', one through reason and logic and the other through faith. He also believed that it was possible to prove the existence of God a priori, through reason alone. He then went about to try and do so. Though this may seem like intellectual suicide to most people, he did an absolutely fantastic job. Some go as far as to say that all modern philosophy is a reaction, either against or for, Aquinas's work. The church today hold him as a model for those studying for priesthood, and Pope Benedict XV even declared, "The Church has declared Thomas' doctrine to be her own."
The Quinque Viae, or Five Ways, are how Thomas set about proving God.
1) The unmoved mover (or first mover).
We can argue that anything that is moving today is because something set it into motion. Think ball, bat, hand, muscle, electric signal, brain, birth, evolution, earth, universe, big bang (what caused the concentrated matter that exploded in the big bang to explode in the first place?)
Aquinas argued that for something to be moving there has to be something else moving it. Therefore, at the beginning there has to be something that set the first object into motion that is itself unmovable.
2) First cause.
Anything that has been created has to have been created by something else, because nothing can create itself. But if nothing could create itself, then nothing would have ever been created, and the universe would fail to exist. Therefore, there must have been a Creator, itself not created, who created everything else (anyone know how the concentrated matter that exploded in the big bang got there in the first place?) 3) From contingency. This argument is 'til today the Church's Ace of Spades. Scientists simply cannot understand how the very first matter got there in the first place, and if it was condensed energy, they cannot understand how the very first energy was created.
Nothing in the universe is really necessary, the universe would function fully well without anything. In fact, the universe itself is not essentially necessary (necessary meaning, it did not always have to be there. In fact, because of the big bang and the theory of the 'heat death of the universe' we know that the universe, like everything else, has an age and is not infinity). Seeing as nothing is necessary, there has to be a point in the past when nothing existed. However, something exists now so we must assume that at least one entity is infinity, and existed when nothing existed so it could bring something into existence.
Another way to read this is that if nothing was necessary, nothing would exist, and for something to exist there has to be something that is necessary and that is God.
4) From degree.
For us to judge if anything is good or bad, we must compare it with something better (or worse, but apparently Aquinas was not interested in proving the existence of the Devil). For these comparisons to be anything but entirely arbitrary (based on personal opinion) there must be something that is the best possible thing (Ice cream is cold and liquid nitrogen is colder. Absolute zero can tell us how cold they actually are).
5) Teleological argument.
Everything in the universe (alive or otherwise) works towards some kind of goal, whether it is aware of it or not. This goal may be something as simple as death. Since everything has a goal, there must be a supreme entity directing the whole show.
My goal is to pass the IB. The IB teachers' goal is to feed their children. The goal of the human race is to continue. The goal of the earth is to provide its inhabitants with resources. The goal of the sun is to provide the earth with energy. The goal of the universe is to provide space for the sun. And so on, until we reach God.
I want to grab you by the balls. But you’re tired of this daily assault. Everyone is different, everyone has a story, and everyone has something new you’re dying to hear. I don’t. I’m Typical [Sada, actually. That’s my name. It also means ‘forever’ if pronounced the right way] SADA. Forever typical. I’ve always been afraid of being so. So typical. I have no new story. Nor a new take on an old story. But I blow things up!!! Don’t sit at the edge of your chair! You can’t rush me off to the nearest court for a never ending trial. I don’t blow up people. I blow up what they feel. You know, sometimes you want to feel that nervous jerk of emotion but can’t remember how to? It’s your drug when you live in a city like Bombay. A sada bambaiyya falooda.
And then it rained. This story isn’t getting anywhere is it? I mean, it’s got these random cuts and goes nowhere in particular. I’ve been sponsored by these Bombay fairies with a yearlong supply of Mumbai’s world best pav bhaji and faluda, to create this mysterious, artsy sort of feel to Bombay. This attempt to win my treat, and spend less time on this assignment has made it appear rather sketchy. I’m rushing this because another party wants a different, more cultural take on Mumbai and I’m willing to do it for endless vadapavs and leftover pink undies.
So it rained. The place rotted. You could smell fresh shit from every corner. You could smell stale plastic chappals that cut the cake and smattered it into puddles. Sheera sat on these wide steps, watched as people ran around, covering themselves with plastic bags. She just sat there, letting her hair get damp with the smell of chemical clouds. If I was shooting this, it would be a rather typical scene: a pretty girl spacing out on picturesque stairs. I would get a gorgeous heroine to do this shot, but no one would be as perfect as Sheera, even though she looked quite ordinary and had a constellation of pimples on her forehead.
Now as she watched everything, she pulled out large, twisted green chillies from her pocket and nibbled them slowly, tugged and twisted each taut green bit, till she reached the stem. This gave her a strange high, with her pulse quickening in retort, her eyes watering till everything seemed like a kaleidoscope. Her tongue burnt, thick and numb making her speechless. Then she stuck her tongue out, catching the droplets of water. They teasingly escaped her at first, letting only her lips get moist. Then they trickled in slowly, tickling her as she rolled and unrolled her tongue. She shivered; you know that shiver when you control a squeak when your bladder’s bursting? She shivered as the rain trailed down a path on her tongue, pricking her in its attempt to sooth.
She sat like a stunned frog for long, and walked around writing her name on the windows of cars that collected fog and droplets. Some things in life are random and she danced home.
Inspired by Anadi's post on Logic, here's a famous short story: Love is a Fallacy, by Mark Shulman. It's one of my favorites, needed it recorded somewhere. ;) Sorry Eng A1 HL [muwci]
Love is a Fallacy
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute-I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, as precise as a chemist's scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And - think of it! - I was only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take for example, Petey Butch, my roommate at the University of Minnesota. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender yourself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it-this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. "Don't move." I said. "Don't take a laxative. I'll get a doctor."
"Raccoon," he mumbled thickly.
"Raccoon?" I said, pausing in my flight.
"I want a raccoon coat," he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. "Why do you want a raccoon coat?"
"I should have known it," he cried, pounding his temples. "I should have known they'd come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can't get a raccoon coat."
"Can you mean," I said incredulously, "that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?"
"All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where have you been?"
"In the library," I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. "I've got to have a raccoon coat," he said passionately. "I've got to!"
"Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They're unsightly. They-"
"You don't understand," he interrupted impatiently. "It's the thing to do. Don't you want to be in the swim?"
"No," I said truthfully.
"Well, I do," he declared. "I'd give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!"
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. "Anything?" I asked, looking at him narrowly.
"Anything," he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn't have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl. Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer's career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt sure that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house - a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut - without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
"Petey," I said, "are you in love with Polly Espy?"
"I think she's a keen kid," he replied, "but I don't know if you'd call it love. Why?"
"Do you," I asked, "have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?"
"No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?"
"Is there," I asked, "any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
I nodded with satisfaction. "In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?"
"I guess so. What are you getting at?"
"Nothing, nothing," I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.
"Where are you going?" asked Petey.
"Home for the weekend." I threw a few things into the bag.
"Listen," he said, clutching my arm eagerly. "While you're home, you couldn't get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?"
"I may do better than that," I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
"Look," I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
[The Stutz Bearcat was an expensive sports car, very popular in the 1920s.]
"Holy Toledo!" said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. "Holy Toledo," he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
"Would you like it?" I asked.
"Oh yes!" he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. "What do you want for it?"
"Your girl," I said, mincing no words.
"Polly?" he said in a horrified whisper. "You want Polly?"
"That's right."
He flung the coat from him. "Never," he said stoutly.
I shrugged. "Okay. If you don't want to be in the swim, I guess it's your business."
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a baker's window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn't turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
"It isn't as though I was in love with Polly," he said thickly. "Or going steady or anything like that."
"That's right," I murmured.
"What's Polly to me, or me to Polly?"
"Not a thing," said I.
"It's just been a causal kick-just a few laughs, that's all."
"Try on the coat," said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. "Fits fine," he said happily.
I rose from my chair. "Is it a deal?" I asked, extending my hand. He swallowed. "It's a deal," he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. "Gee, that was a delish dinner," she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. "Gee, that was a marvy movie," she said as we left the theater. And then I took her home. "Gee, I had a sensaysh time," she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl's lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my finger tips. "Polly," I said to her when I picked her up on the next date, "tonight we are going over to the knoll and talk."
"Oo, terrif," she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. "What are we going to talk about?" she asked.
"Logic."
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. "Magnif," she said.
"Logic," I said, clearing my throat, "is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight."
"Wow-dow!" she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. "First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter."
"By all means," she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
"Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise."
" I agree" said Polly earnestly. "I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything."
"Polly," I said gently, "the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?"
"No." she confessed. "But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!"
"It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve," I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. "Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can't speak French. I can't speak French. Petey Burch can't speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French."
"Really?" said Polly, amazed. "Nobody?"
I hid my exasperation. "Polly, it's a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion."
"Know any more fallacies?" she asked breathlessly. "This is more fun than dancing even."
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. "Next comes post Hoc. Listen to this: Let's not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains."
"I know somebody just like that," she exclaimed. "A girl back home - Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic-."
"Polly," I said sharply, "It's a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn't cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker."
"I'll never do it again," she promised contritely. "Are you mad at me?"
I sighed deeply. "No , Polly, I'm not mad."
"Then tell me some more fallacies."
"All right. Let's try Contradictory Premises."
"Yes, let's," she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. "Here's an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can he make a stone so heavy that He won't be able to lift it?"
"Of course," she replied promptly.
"But if He can do anything, he can lift the stone," I pointed out.
"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "Well, then I guess He can't make the stone."
"But He can do anything." I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. "I'm all confused," she admitted.
"Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?"
"Tell me some more of this keen stuff," she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. "I think we'd better call it a night. I'll take you home now, and you go over all the things you've learned. We'll have another session tomorrow night."
I deposited her at the girls' dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But the I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening: I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind, a few embers still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, "Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam."
She quivered with delight.
"Listen closely," I said. "A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming."
A tear rolled down each of Polly's pink cheeks. "Oh, this is awful, awful," she sobbed.
"Yes, it's awful," I agreed, "but it's no argument. The man never answered the boss's question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss's sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?"
"Have you got a handkerchief?" she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. "Next," I said in a carefully controlled tone, "we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have no blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn't students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?"
"There now," she said enthusiastically, "is the most marvy idea I've heard in years."
"Polly," I said testily, "the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren't taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can't make an analogy between them."
"I still think it's a good idea," said Polly.
"Nuts," I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. "Next we'll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact."
"Sounds yummy," was Polly's reaction. "Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium."
"True, true," said Polly, nodding her head. "Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me."
"If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment," I said coldly. "I would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can't start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it."
"They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures," said Polly. "I hardly ever see him any more."
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. "The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well."
"How cute!" she gurgled.
"Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, 'My opponent is a notorious liar. You can't believe a word that he is going to say' . . . Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What's wrong?"
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence - the first I had seen - came into her eyes. "It's not fair," she said with indignation. "It's not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?"
"Right!" I cried exultantly. "One hundred percent right. It's not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start . . . . Polly I'm proud of you."
"Pshaw," she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
"You see, my dear, these things aren't so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think - - examine - - evaluate. Come now, let's review everything we have learned."
"Fire away," she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without let up. It was like digging a tunnel. At first everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I determined to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.
"Polly," I said when next we sat beneath our oak, "tonight we will not discuss fallacies."
"Aw, gee," she said, disappointed.
"My dear," I said, favoring her with a smile, "we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched."
"Hasty Generalization," said Polly brightly.
"I beg your pardon," said I.
"Hasty Generalization," she repeated. "How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?"
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. "My dear," I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, "five dates is plenty. After all, you don't have to eat a whole cake to know that it's good."
"False Analogy," said Polly promptly. "I'm not a cake. I'm a girl."
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper words. Then I began:
"Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and the moon, and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk."
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
"Ad Misericordiam," said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me. At all costs I had to keep cool.
"Well, Polly," I said, forcing a smile, "you certainly have learned your fallacies."
"You're darn right," she said with a vigorous nod.
"And who taught them to you, Polly?"
"You did."
"That's right. So you do owe me something, don't you, my dear? If I hadn't come along you never would have learned about fallacies."
"Hypothesis Contrary to Fact," she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. "Polly," I croaked, "you mustn't take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that things you learn in school don't have anything to do with life."
"Dicto Simpliciter," she said, wagging her finger at me playfully. That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. "Will you or will you not go steady with me?"
"I will not," she replied.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because this afternoon I promised Petey Burch that I would go steady with him."
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! "The rat!" I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. "You can't go with him, Polly. He's a liar. He's a cheat. He's a rat."
"Poisoning the Well" said Polly, "and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too."
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. "All right," I said. "You're a logician. Let's look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Burch over me? Look at me - - a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Pete -- a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who'll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Burch?"
"I certainly can," declared Polly. "He's got a raccoon coat."
Holmes and Watson are on a camping trip. In the middle of the night Holmes wakes up and gives Dr. Watson a nudge. "Watson," he says, "look up at the sky and tell me what you see." "I see millions of stars," says Watson. "And what do you conclude from that, Watson?" Watson thinks for a moment. "Well," he says, "astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. Theologically, I see that God is all-powerful, and we are small and insignificant. Uh, what does it tell you, Holmes?" "Watson, you idiot! Someone has stolen our tent!"
My favourite part of logic has to be Fallacies. They're simple and brilliant. The most famous logical fallacy is the Monte Carlo (The Gambler's Fallacy). It can be explained in the simple example that if I toss 5 coins (or for A1HL, 80) and they all land heads, that doesn't mean that its more likely for the next coin to land in tails.
The "Post Hoc Ergo Properter Hoc" fallacy (in English, 'after this, therefore because of this') is my personal favourite and with sufficient explanation it can logically prove the inexistence of God. It basically says that we have an unfortunate (and incorrect) tendency to believe that if something has happened, it is because of something that happened before it. For example, "The sun rises when the rooster crows, so the rooster's crow must make the sun rise."
'Post Hoc' is not only for outlandish statements. We might not even know when we fall victim to the fallacy. For example, it might seem logical to say, "Most people hooked on heroin started with marijuana." This is true, but even more started with milk.
Every morning, Mrs. Old-Person steps onto her front stoop and exclaims, "Let this house be safe from tigers!" Then she goes back inside. After years of this peculiar behaviour, her neighbour finally asked, "What's that all about? There isn't a tiger within a thousand kilometres of here." And she said, "See? It works!"
I hope I've made the connections to praying and God too obvious to point out.
I've always wondered how much fun life would be with background music. Imagine....you walk into a crowded cafeteria, the fan blows on your face, the air sings, your hair flies, you laugh delicately.....and then there's this soft tune in the background and everyone turns to look at you. Or you're feeling incredibly smart and important, there's a kind of jump in your stride, you look around smartly, smile flashing your dimples, wave like a cool dude [and there's stayin' alive playing in the background]...or you turn around and he's staring at you with brown eyes and messy hair [and there's a heartbeat tune in the background as you smile]
but....this could get incredibly messy! does the tune play according to you or others? because you make be a villian to some and a sweetheart to others. so you walk in, and think some mean thoughts to yourself about a particular girl you just cannot stand [and there's the traditional vamp title track from a cheap b-grade serial playing in the background. uh-oh]. Or you're stealing a glance at someone during a rather important seminar [and a loud, raunchy love song plays in the background accompanied with occasional heavy breathing, while you tried so hard to conceal your horny sentiments].
and if everyone has background music, everyday may seem like a major rowdy, loud festival.....and we'll get so used to the noise of overlapping tracks that it'll cease to be special....
since whatever you feel plays as background music, you can't talk to yourself anymore and you won't have to make an effort to understand people anymore. for example, slow, melancholic music will play while a friend, who looks happy, but is actually sad walks by. before this system of background music, you'd make an effort to go to her, understand her. with everything so direct now, you'll just go to her and ask her what the matter is and if she refuses to tell you, her background music will! everything will be so direct, so blatant! perhaps we'll become better human beings who think only good thoughts all the time [which would be really boring], or we'd be smart and change the settings and language of the background music. if a kanada song is playing in my background and I speak loudly enough to conceal the tune, who's going to understand what it means? right!
while it would be crazy fun during romantic moments [yes! rain dances will become more common], by the end of it we'd be deaf, blatantly direct and honest [killing a few people and losing a few friends], and the magic would be lost since we take it for granted. yes! i have decided! its more fun when background music plays in my head! that way you'll never know what I'm thinking....yes, if you're not sure of your audience, suspence and spontaneity is way better!
They'll all start with the casual, "What have you decided to do?" or a "What's the plan?"
Till a year ago, it was just "Oh, which class are you in?"
Maybe followed by "Made good friends?" or empathizing comments on the increase in workload or curiosity on boarding school life.
But when you reach senior year, something pops in their heads.
Oh My God, Is This Girl Ready To Face the Mean World evaluations begin.
"So which grade are you in?"
"Where?"
"How's all the work going" [Translate: Getting good grades?]
"What do you plan on doing afterwards?" [Translate: Which college?]
And if your attitude in response is below satisfactory, they turn to the parents with looks of anxious confusion, hoping for a justification for the behavior.
I Mean, Its Goals and Dreams We've Reached!
And if to top it off, your parents attitude matches yours- they take it upon themselves to stuff sense into you, and your parents. [Clearly They couldn't Raise Her Properly.]
It is then they rise, as guardians, taking charge of the 'situation'.
Comments on friends and boarding school life disappear. Those are Distractions.
Replacing them come: "Well, it is your last year, if you haven't decided now, then when?"
And then they'll turn back to the parents with myauntsmotherinlawssonsbrothersfriend went to (random never heard of college name here), you should look over there for her!
They realize, by the way, that you're probably not a good enough student.
Because Good Enough Students have Goals and Dreams.
'Goals and Dreams' have absolutely nothing to do with...
who you are. As a person.
What you like. Because those are hobbies that don't earn you any good money.
What makes you happy. Because flexible people are happy wherever they land up.
Your 'Goals and Dreams' aren't yours.
They in fact, have nothing to do with you.
Furthermore, we've decided them for you:
a) Top College, (ranking and social values of location)
b) Well paying job...
You should know the rest...big house, happy parties, little children for whom you arrange play dates, teaching your little children to become good big children who will have 'Goals and Dreams'
Whoa, Your Screwed Up, pops in their head. Your Family is Also Screwed up, follows.
The whole point of working hard in our lives, according to me, is to have open choices.
To be able to answer, "I'll have them all" when you're asked red, green, yellow, blue?
Or simply getting asked that question.
Then why, if I've readily, with interest, worked hard in my life, should my Goals and Dreams be about which college is heard of and which job looks nice and pays well? I'm not the one stuck in a rut with no options.
If we've done all we could, options can surround us, we can simply get up and pick and be awesome at the real Goals and Dreams.
What would the world be like without feminist jokes?
The first joke is arguably more anti-chauvinist than anti-feminist.
A rich man is dating three women and is trying to decide which to marry. He gives each of them Rs. 200,000 to see what they do with the money.
The first has a total makeover. She goes to a fancy salon, gets her hair, nails and face done, and buys several new outfits. She tells him that she has done this to be more attractive to him because she loves him so much.
The second buys the man a number of gifts. She gets him a new set of golf clubs, some accessories for his computer, and some expensive clothes. She tells him that she has spent all the money on him because she loves him so much.
The third woman invests the money in the stock market. She earns several times the Rs. 200,000. She gives him back his Rs. 200,000 and reinvests the remainded in a joint account. She tells him she wants to invest in the future because she loves him so much.
Which one does he choose?
Answer: The one with the biggest boobs.
I just realized that I'm probably the only guy who reads this blog. Here goes more social suicide.
On a transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning.
One woman in particular loses it. She stands up in the front of the plane screaming, "I'm too young to die!" Then she yells, "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on earth to be memorable! No one has ever made me really feel like a woman! Well, I've had it! Is there anyone on this plane who can make me feel like a woman?!"
For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten his own peril and they all stare, riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane. Then a man stands up in the rear. He's a tall, tanned hunk with jet-black hair, and he starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbottoning his shirt. "I can make you feel like a woman," he says.
No one moves. As the man approaches, the woman begins to get excited. He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest as he reaches her, extends his arm, holding his shirt to the trembling woman and says, "Iron this."
Without feminist jokes, the world would probably be nicer, but not anywhere near as fun :)
My revelation today was that "beer can" in an English accent is "bacon" in a Jamaican accent. I spent about 15 minutes amusing myself with this before moving on with my life.
She wondered if things would have been different. Yes? No? Maybe. Possibly.
If she wondered? Or if things were different?
Both.
She liked to think of the possibility that one decision could turn the future around a 1000 times. Maybe more. Maybe less. She wondered if she would miss out if she said no. And maybe miss out on something else if she said yes. She didn’t like making decisions. But she didn’t like anyone making them for her either. Decisions. Oh she could make those alright. Being responsible for them though was a whole different story. She wondered if the choices she made changed other people’s lives more than she realized. And if they were all changing each other’s lives, with every passing second, how was she supposed to believe that voice that said, “Life is what you make it.”? Six degrees of Separation. She was amused by how her friends seemed to find it an exciting prospect. It scared her. Did she really want to be that connected? Here. There. (Hello. I believe we’ve met before. Yes. No.) Everywhere.
We plan. We strategize. We choose. We sacrifice. We manipulate. We get manipulated. We hope. We scheme. We stall. We wish. We scream. We rant. We win. We lose. We cheat. We score.
Black and White. Black and White. Black and White. Black and White. RAINBOW.
Sometimes I think life is like a game of wizards’ chess. Not regular chess. No. Life hasn’t gotten that boring yet.* I just wish I knew who was making the moves.
"'Making Peace' is a trubute to the people who- all over the world- devote their time, energy and reseources to the cause of peace. It also marks the centenary of the Nobel Peace Price awarded to the International Peace Bureau (IPB)..."
This month long tribute holds concerts, debates, expositions, films and exhibits in regard to global issues and world peace
"Cartooning for Peace" is one part of this whole thing
Designed by the French cartoonist Plantu, "Cartooning for Peace" is an initiative born October 16,2006, at UN Headquarters in New York. Twelve most famous cartoonists of the world participated in a two-day conference on the theme "unlearning intolerance" with Kofi Annan, Secretary General of the United Nations (1996-2006). The lecture was accompanied by an exhibition. A movement was born.- Cartooning For Peace website
We're on the edge..... in a new world or at the corner of an old one. It doesn’t matter. As we sat in our ‘happy place’, all of us had that time. That time out of reality when we sat at the edge of the world. We saw the valleys below us, saw the barbed wire separating us from the real world, and we wondered whether we are inside or outside. "We want to do so many things", we thought as we sat at the edge of the world. The wind felt eerie, and relaxing. It felt like an omen. When I think of it, try to re-create the reel.... it tickles my tummy, seeps deep down my navel, a belly-dance quiver that gives me goosebumps between my thighs.
Now its raining, and we sit indoors.
We need a place to spill ourselves as everything changes and decays as it struggles against time marked by rain and light. We need a place to say what we like, to make mistakes. A world where we can meet ourselves- outside the real world, away from the world of pasted perfect smiles and endless posts. We don't have a plan. We live with this shivering restlessness we can't explain. We need to find what it means. No, we don't. We need it to be there so that there's no turning back.... and there's no jumping forward. We need the chaos to push us and pull us back. We need the thin line of the edge.
