We do not experience the world, but instead must experience our experience of the world. By such a experience we gain the leverage to truly change the world. The gods cannot change you, but they can give you advice so that you can change you. In this way, you become the agent of your own experience, as the power of self-reflection is yours alone. Yoking the world in this way, one legitimizes one's humanity as self-reflection is the defining characteristic that makes us human.

Bhisma emobdies the mysterium tremendum-a concept pertaining to the fear of the unknown that causes man to take up religious practices in an effort to appease it-because he can reflect on his own disparity and disensures the continuity of his lineage. Some people paint curtains, as Goodenough posited, to separate and protect themselves from the uncontrolable, helpless nature of man that presents itself in the tremendum. Bhisma, however, does no such thing, but instead completely engages his dharma and humanity by self-reflecting, which severs himself from himself. By this act, by breaking his karmic bonds, by stepping out of character, Bhisma gained great power and leverage over others to the point where he died and was reborn with a different identity into the character known as Bhisma, the terrible. Just as the tremendum is the source of terror for man, so has Bhisma come to embody that virtuosity. By overindulging in the capacity of self-reflection, by cutting off his own love to make way for his father's lust, Bhisma delusionally disregards the impact this has on others and their thoughts, such as his disinheritance of the kingdom without an heir. This makes him godly in his embodiment of the tremendum, but also very human in his means for getting there. Perhaps this can be explained by Bhisma's origin, as as a former celestial and son of Ganga.

Karna, on the other hand, is an exemplar of the impermeable boundary of the human capacity to self-reflect. His mother Kunti appeals to him; the god Krsna appeals to him; but he cannot break the boundary he has formed with the Kurus because they adopted him and made him who he is. He legitimized his doing so by self-reflection, because he is the only one who can get inside himself. The more he cultivated his consciousness, the more deeply he had to commit to something greater than himself (Kuru cause) in order to feel legitimized, to engage his dharma and consequently to follow his principled reality.

Everyone has had girl problems at some point. Last night I was talking with one of my friends about an issue I had been having with this girl. I wanted to end our relationship, but there are so many good aspects of it. What complicates the situation is that I introduced aforementioned friend to this girl's roommate and the two of them hit it off. Now, when said girl and I have issues it affects him because he is another variable in the situation.

We have been having a series of talks on the matter for weeks now and he keeps empowering me with various bits of advice and what he deems to be the right thing to do in this morally ambiguous but clearly disparaged relationship. The details are inconsequential. What is important is that something had to be done, because by the karmic law of entropy, if the situation is left unattended then it will get worse as it already had. What is relevant to the Mahabharata is the result. At the end of his argument, seeing that I was deep in thought but also unmoved to his cause, he said something along the lines of "what would Krsna do?" Krsna, the unconditional god who cheated so that the Pandavas might succeed would only have done one thing. At that point my mind raced to images of my friend as my charioteer, Lord Krsna, and myself as that left-handed archer, Arjuna, sitting down in his chariot. I realized then that he had given me the best possible argument he could, and I was unconvinced. However, he was appealing to me to do what he suggested not because of his convincing argument, but because I loved him as a friend. Love is the reason that trumps all other reason (though it was philos and not eros), even when it is rationalized empirically. It was only then that I realized what I had to do.

As I walked back from Professor Brooks' office hours today, right at the corner of the academic quad I saw two squirrels copulating. I shouldn't say copulating though because it was the most sporadic and unusual attempt at procreation that I have ever seen. Needless to say, I had a Taoist moment and nonchallantly observed the two squirrels for some time. There right by some shrubs on the quad the male proceeded to mount the female for maybe a second or two. Then, as if a concussion grenade went off in the area, they both dispersed a short distance. The female began to climb a short tree, only to be followed by the male and eventually knocked right off the branch. The male then jumped down and repeated his brief moment of sexual unity, only for the two to disperse and repeat. This fascinated me. These squirrels had absoultely no idea what they were doing, nor did they have any sense of propriety as to how to go about the act. But how could they, being simple mammals and lacking the cranial capacity that humans have? All they have is instincts to guide them and nothing more. It was then that I established a relationship from what I saw to what we covered in class that day:

The essence of being human is the ability to engage in a choosing process. Everything is a desire that expresses itself in the process of legitimization, which is pragmatic and transcending. That is to say that humans can rationalize–we can make educated decisions if we so choose to, but even that is a choice. Animals do not possess this ability to choose–they were not endowed with a higher intelligence that allows them do anything but respond to their surroundings. Basically, humans are free in a way that allows us not to be bond to our instincts like other entities. But even this comes at a price. As ignorance is bliss (correction–a narrow horizon of ignorance), what then do we make of knowledge and the ability to choose? We make nothing of it, only we utilize it. In this way do we further humanize ourselves. We reduce our path empirically to managable behavior–benefits and losses. This reductive view allows us to cope with our extreme boon of the ability to choose. However, when you supress your ideas and values because it's easy to you so, you become a political being subject to the dictation of others. This is clearly delusional, yet many people do it. We do it because humans are spiritual beings and it is difficult to expand in a contracting world, however pragmatic it might seem. The spiritual journey is the quest for the unknown. As humans are in desperate need of achieving some sort of certainty, though it is impossible and at best it is an optimal probability, the reduce their world to pragmatic means. We want security over ambiguity, but that is the peril of desire. What's at stake, however, is how we legitimize that desire and if we deceive ourselves through reduction or expand our world past empirical levels.

It never ceases to amaze me how relevant the Mahabharata is to real life, or rather, how it seems like a commentary on it. It's so human and applicable to today's world. Every character has to answer the same questions: what do you want? why is it important? and what are you prepared to do about it? Now I find myself asking myself the same questions in regard to any dilemma and amazingly enough an answer is found without much grief.

I learned about three ways mantras take measure of things by the way we make them. This blew my mind. First there is delusion, which is too much subjectivity, or in other words, someone that does not have much connection with something greater than oneself so you dictate your own actions. Next there is, deception, the opposite of delusion, so it is too much objectivity. In other words, you are the product of what others say about you. Lastly there is illusion, which really is the best you can make out of life. In this way, the rabbit both comes out of the hat, but it also comes from other rabbits. This paradoxical duality exemplifies life in that reality is not always what it seems, but is what you make it out to be. Illusion is a twisted balance between delusion and deception where confusion and delerium make way for a deepening of relationships. The goal is not clarification, which is impossible, but instead to more fully experience the so-called reality we live in. Because everything is an illusion, there can be no certainty, so at very best any alleged certainty is a radical probability.

Furthermore, a common illusion is the reason for argument, which is always a question of space and real estate. The issue of the categories of orientation (this/that) and time (then/now) can be encompassed and resolved by the category of space (here/there). One can only bend in space; time and orientation come and pass but cannot be altered at will. We have anunga (limbs) so we can bend space, but snakes have no limbs so they can bend themselves. In this way, we are snakes that grew limbs.

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9/19/06

There exists a line between humans and celestials that is differenciated by conditionality. Siva, whole he confers various access to power through weapons, is not interested in taking sides because he is adharmic, amoral, impervious and basically unconditional. Krsna, on the other hand, is a god of expressive preferences and engages humanity. He can cheat (bend the rules of reality) because he is unconditional. Sages, on the other hand, while they can take sides and are disinterested in the effects of conditionality, cannot cheat. As ascetics, they care not about worldly interests, as the world presents nothing they need. However, because they are human, they must remain conditional. They can mess with the conditional world, but not to the same degree as the gods can. As access is power, it is rooted in the sage's immunity and indffierence.

There are so many disorganized thoughts floating around in my head after class today that I don't know where to begin or how to piece them together. Ironically, the Mahabharata is the same way, with a convoluted beginning and end. I'll just start writing them as they come to me.

I learned today about the normative–that is prescriptive nature of gods–as opposed to being normal. It works in the whole you create X and are created by X paradox. In such a manner, we often think gods created us in their image. But what is their image? It is whatever we conceive it to be, and in such a way do we create the gods. It follows then that when a god should have to take human form, that form manifests as the purest, moral, and altogether perfect essense of a human. This occurs when Vishnu deigns to be reborn as Rama in order to slay a demon whom Brahma bestowed a boon preventing him from beng killed by gods. Rama's supreme attributes would easily lead others to believe him to be of divine origin, and rightly so. In this way, the literary character of Rama (normative by design) and others like him from other epics become paradigms of humanity. We are every character in the Mahabharata because it while on the surface it is a normal text, its authors made it to be normative. In this way one can relate to every character in some way, either by the sin one commits that one recognizes as something one might do, or in the righteous act one would like to do and can see oneself doing. It all depends on how one engages one's karma. One always has the right to act, and if one does so with disregard to the fruits of the act, then one will incur good karma.

I now have some insight into why people like Arjuna have 10+ names. What is at stake is the relationship between personal identity and a greater sense of self. For example, there are quite a few people named Krsna, but how we distinguish between them and the Lord Krsna? The answer is more names. A surplus of names expands one's identity, so Arjuna can be identified as the son of Drapudi, the son of Indra, the ambidextrous archer, etc. While only one of these names might confuse someone since there could be numerous possibilities, such as the son of Drapudi, multiple names solidifies the character's identity into something specific. Additionally, names are not just titles, which would tell what someone does, but tells who they are.

The corollary of names is that things have function, which tells what they do, and not who they are. One does not always lead to the other, however. Having a name tells what what one's function is, so the son of a brahman is going to do brahman things. Without a name one does not know one's proper function, such a Karna thinking he was the son of a charioteer. Function does not lead to name, however, as this would contradict the way things are. Arjuna's dancing was great, except he was having an identity crisis and such occupation is inappropriate for a royal warrior. In order to assume one's identity, one must align name and function. Only then will one walk the footsteps of one's destiny.

I think juxtaposing this with today's society is interesting because there is much more leeway for self-efficacy to explore one's option then there was in antiquity. If you were born to a warrior, you were to become a warrior. I think it would be interesting to inquire into the sociological circumstances that both societies–that of assigning names and allowing one to pick one's name–succumb to and investigate which method of upbringing yields the least problems and the most benefits. Which style is more advantageous? I may engage such a research project at a later time. What is at stake in all this is purely ontic, because without a name one cannot properly function.

As I undertake this course, I do so with uncertainty. Is the scope way beyond my level? Can I even hope to achieve some higher understanding and/or meaning that I didn't get in REL 105? While I feel the course will be challenging, it with Brooks, and through him all things are possible. With this solice I proceed to engage myself and my mind in what is and what surrounds the Mahabarata.

Reading the epic a second full time and knowing what is going to happen, I find it less comprehensive but still confused by the lineages and multitude of characters. I also notice the extreme hyperboles used as illusrative devices. Some of them bother me, such as Bhisma having something like 75 arrows in him and not dying. That's just ridiculous. Or when Asvatthama was shot with an arrow between the eyes and still fights as if nothing happened. Bhima gets rocked in an earlier episode to the point where he couldn't move and then the next day he fights as if nothing happens. I understand it's because the are all "the foremost of car-warriors," etc. but it the unrealism gets absurd.

It is from these exagerations that I have concluded that the Mahabarata is but an epic Vedic fable. Its purpose is to dictate the mores and norms of the civilization it was written for, just as the Torah and the rest of the Bible does for Judaism and Christianity. Those many volumes were written by sages who had the imposition of values on their children and people in mind. In this way, the originators of the Mahabarata, or perhaps those who added to, included such values as the importance severity of vows, of performing austerities and penance, and of respect due to one's elders.

One thing I noticed while reading through the Mahabarata a second time is that Yudhisthira becomes purifies in Heaven after bathing in the Ganga river. Similarly, in Dante's Paradiso, when Virgil leaves Dante's side occurs when Dante bathes in a divine river, thus purging him of all sins and allowing his passage into the spheres of Heaven. I wonder if there is a relationship between the two–that is, if one of the books (Mahabarata because it is older) led to Dante including such an episode in Paradiso–or if simply the idea of a purifying river is a cliche device adopted for such a purpose. I may explore this point further at a later point in time.