the eXternal mind

Two weeks ago, I was using the few minutes before I went to sleep to read. I picked up Musashi’s Book of Five Rings (the Martial Artist’s edition by Stephen Kaufman) and noticed an excerpt in The Book of Earth that I never seemed to encounter in my past readings:

The warrior, however, understands that the end result of any study is a kind of death (sublime, not necessarily physical) before the attainment of perfection. Many different types of people have been known to die for either the right reasons or the wrong reasons. The only shame in dying incorrectly is to die a stupid and meaningless death. To die as a warrior means to have crossed swords and either won or lost without any consideration for winning or losing.

That suprised me since I didn’t hear about this dying part before. So last week (or was it two weeks ago?), I scribbled a few thoughts (they are not necessarily coherent) down in AP Biology when there was a substitute:

Musashi wrote that one must die along the way. But what kind of death? It’s definitely not a physical death unless he’s referring to a coma or a similar vegitative state. Perhaps he means a spiritual death. Even so, he was a Shintoist, and it didn’t seem like he abandoned his beliefs. Rather, his theory embraces it. Perhaps he means trancending beyond the spirit–hence the death.

Come to think of it, Musashi never said he reached the way. He wrote about it, but what is to say that he was enlightened? Perhaps no one ever reaches that state. Maybe Musashi means that by dying it is a mental state where we don’t care anymore–in a state of mu–not caring but caring. Why must one use paradoxes like this? I guess one seeks a middle way between caring, but the actual feeling is a bit different. I think I have expreienced this idea of “caring but not caring” before, but I don’t know how to describe it to you.

Or, he could have meant that one meets physical death but doesn’t actually die. For instance, one could be in a life and death situation where one is a hair’s width away from being sliced by a sword or shot by a gun. It’s said that one’s life passes before one’s eyes in such a situation so that may be some kind of reflection mechanism that enables one to be enlightened.

I was attempting to “white-man” rap (I’m not being racist here. I’m just poking fun at a joke from my school’s newspaper, The Acorn) on Friday during AP European history:

They were writing pure of heart.
They weren’t writing for world domination.
Of the mind’s eye uncorrupted,
For fellow man unquestionably,
but betrayed by the flaws of man.

The first two lines were borrowed from what Mrs. W said when discussing Shermans. I don’t plan to return them soon. I considered having the last line be: They strive forever. But I decided against it.

What is existentialism?
It is that which is different from the traditional.
It is that which you think it is.
It is that which no one knows.
Ask someone else.

This was inspired at an attempt to answer Steve’s question: What is existentialism?

Why I don’t know when I gaze
into the deep abyss of your shishogan eyes,
Your pretty tails that accent your fine face,
makes me want to adore you for eternity.

Me trying to mimic those really good poets. Please ignore it.

I was procrastinating today and found a big sheet of lined paper so I started solving some math problems, then started writing part of next week’s lecture for the Science Club, but finally settled on….writing a poem?!?! Yeah, I know, me and poems don’t mix, but I decided to give it a try in mock epic style: iambic pentameter rhyming lines. The result is below. At first, I was going to write about being bored (1st stanza) but the poem quickly transformed itself into a “Maggie: Girl on the Streets” type of poem (2nd stanza) so going along with the flow, I kept writing. In the last stanza, I was thinking about a particular story in Lone Wolf and Cub where Ogami thinks about when his path with reach peace. For any part that doesn’t flow as well, I cite literary license and the fact that I did that on purpose to create a special rhythm and tone. If you don’t believe me, you probably have a point.

the Blind and Tea

Sitting at one spot with nothing to see
staring at white walls, what should she be?
The smoke curls carefully to skies it flies.
The tar runs into lungs. Soon, she will die.
Bored and listless she lounges free from thought.
Through beauty born and can always be bought,
knowledge none and never to gain again.
Will weak, nothing to weep, easy to bend.

She walks along the streets at night searching
for a living. Standing at corners perching
for a man, any man, no, not any
for she wants better than to scrounge pennies.
Offers herself to a handsome fellow;
he hesitates but leaves. Another fellow, hello.
Nothing. Desperate, she asks the fat man
who boisterously laughs and says he can.

It’s another day in her gloomy life.
Every minute slices her like a knife.
When will her path end in glorious light?
When will the blind finally gain their sight?
Oh troubled world, stormy seas guide our souls
so that peace will finally take its toll.
Another girl on the streets cannot see.
Another man at home drinking his tea.

Good? Bad? Never write a poem ever again?