Per Aspera ad Astra; or, Musings on Perfection; or, Off-the-Chain Crazy

Perfection. It is our destiny, as a species, to be always striving for it yet never reach it. We toil, sweat and strive - per aspera ad astra - yet are doomed to an eternal state of not quite getting there; a perpetual Salieri syndrome. The preconditions of our existence forbid the concept of perfection to exist except as an imaginary ideal. Plato helps us to come to terms with the impossibility of perfection by inviting us to view the world as made up of eide, perfect forms or ideas, which however are unavailable to us; what our senses perceive is but a copy of the perfect form, crude and imperfect.  Even if we were to achieve perfection, the ancients tell us, we cannot hold onto it, for everything is in flux. In a universe defined by entropy, the attainment of perfection can only ever be an illusion; a fleeting phenomenon; a bird in flight glimpsed for a moment in the flickering light of a longhouse hearth. Panta, as Heraclitus would have it, rei. The quest for perfection is bound to cause frustration and, if not actual weeping, certainly the gnashing of teeth.

Or, as Oscar Wilde philosophised: We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. In other words, the world's a mess, there are rampant slugs voraciously eating everything we've carefully planted, and we've ground and gnashed our teeth to the point where our dentist feels compelled to ask some very unsettling and weirdly personal questions: Perfection is indeed a fleeting, unattainable ideal. However, if we follow the example of our favourite Irish poet and raise our eyes from the sewer, drain, or gully in which we are ensconced, we may contemplate, if only for a moment, the celestial spheres planted in the sky for our delight and edification. The stars here represent, as our alert and intelligent readers have already gleaned, the unattainable ideal of perfection: the eidos. We are here going to make a rather bold claim, namely that we have identified three such celestial spheres that, contrary to the claims of that ass Plato, exist in our actual physical world. The contemplation of these stellar phenomena make life, we would argue, bearable. 

It is very rarely that one agrees fully with anything one reads or hears. Whether because of ideological differences; cold, rational reasoning; or unrestrained delusions of grandeur; one is sure to get hung up on some statement, claim or supposition and present counter-arguments which may or may not be unbearably pedantic. (Hell, we don't even agree with everything Our Mum says, though we defer to her on most issues.) There are, however, as mentioned above, three exceptions to what we may term the Rule of Perpetual Disagreement; three reachable stars of, if you will, earthly perfection. 

The first star of earthly perfection is this podcast episode about the correct approach to Christmas decorations, by Swedish intellectuals Ann Heberlein and Anna-Karin Wyndhamn. This cerebral and aesthetical oeuvre is a masterpiece of logic and sanity, and frankly comes as close as possible to perfection as it is possible to get in this flawed, imperfect world. Tust us: you may take every word as gospel. 

The second celestial sphere of impeccable exquisiteness is George Orwell's essay on how to make tea. Though the gods of Olympus toy with our fates for their own amusement, manipulating us and forcing us to navigate such hellish phenomena as hangovers, slugs, and corporate trust exercises, they have granted us a panacea: Camellia sinensis and boiling water. No-one understands the divine properties of tea, or expresses the correct method of wielding it, better than Orwell. Consider, for instance, his first point:

First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays—it is economical, and one can drink it without milk—but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. 

Aah. Read it, and let yourself be soothed by wisdom, wit, and hot water. 

The third heavenly phenomenon which makes life bearable is of course equestrian statues. Time, however, is fleeting; more on this another time.

Let us quickly move on to something else which surely approaches the status of a celestial sphere of perfection that we may glimpse through the imperfect prism of this mortal coil: Bog pics from Jonny! That handsome rascal has been to Wales, and what he has been up to we had better not divulge for fear of shocking sensitive readers. You may be sure of this, however: If George Orwell's instructions regarding tea represent the sublime, then Jonny's bog pics from Wales symbolise the chaos of the human condition. Having sent us pictures of some very beautiful and intriguing hygiene facilities, Jonny then writes: 

I have a less beautiful one.

Wondering where that room on the left leads?

Here.

 

 

Since it is our custom to post a toilet selfie from Jonny, in order to boost morale along our readers, here's one from earlier this year. 

The poet Nashe claims - and who are we to contradict him? - that,

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-wo!

 

Doubtless he is not only right but would have chosen, if given the option, to illustrate his poem with this picture of Jonny.

This post's Festive Video represents, if you ask Shewee Fiend Friend, perfection. Permit us, if you will, to disagree. If it makes you feel better, the message that preceded Shewee Fiend Friend sending us the link to this piece of music read:

What was the terrible but amusing song we listened to immediately before getting drunk in the hipster pub where we had poutine?

Life. You only get one.

Festive Video: Fucking Werewolf Asso, Alphonse Laurencic

Related Reading

All posts featuring Our Mum

This podcast episode about the correct approach to Christmas decorations, by Swedish intellectuals Ann Heberlein and Anna-Karin Wyndhamn

George Orwell's essay on how to make tea 

All posts featuring Jonny

All posts featuring  Wales

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend 

All posts featuring Increasing incoherence and eccentricity

More stuff about the poet Nashe

The Secret to Happiness: Double Toilet Roll, Flowers, and A White Tiled Floor.

We tend not to read a lot of challenging literature here at the Privy Counsel, having come to the comfortable conclusion that we know what we like, and we like what we know. Why bother reading anything other than P G Wodehouse, if the result is that you end up depressed and horrified? Well, quite. 

Depression and horror, of course, are part of life whether you like it or not. We endured, for example, a seminar recently where talking about one's personal life was encouraged, and people took this as a signal to start sharing information about their cats. As you may imagine, it took quite a lot of wine and ranting to get over this particular trauma, and we're not entirely sure that we ever fully will. There are, however, techniques for facilitating relative sanity. 

The trick, or so the evolutionary psychologists tell us, is to not focus on the horror. The human brain is engineered to anticipate danger, preferably seeing it everywhere, not excluding that other seminar you nearly had to go to, about sustainability. By making you permanently anxious your brain is, to put it crudely, promoting its own survival by ensuring that you don't forget to worry about snakes, bears, and whether the acquaintance you just made is likely to send you pictures of lasagna in the future. This is all fine. The problems emerge when life becomes so safe that, although there is no lack of sociopaths who will insist on talking at length about their grey cat Jasper and their brown cat Molly and these animals' respective feeding habits and individual peculiarities, there are very few actual life-threatening dangers, like snakes and bears, around. The brain, however, doesn't know the difference between grizzly-bears and cat-fanciers, responding with reasonable horror and panic when confronted with either phenomenon, and ensuring that you dwell on the memory, thus continuing your state of panic. The most effective measure against this constant state of angst is to focus on whatever good things happen to float by, in the polluted mess of a river we call life. Let go of the metaphorical mangled bike tyre, and grasp for the attractively weathered and potentially useful piece of flotsam wood.

There are many different methods for focusing on the good stuff and trying to forget about that weird photo of layered pasta. Some people meditate, others, for reasons unfathomable to us, knit things. Personally, our preferred method of dropping ice-cubes down the vest of fear is to open a bottle of wine and let nature take its course. Whatever you do, do not read modern literature.

Jonny, that splendid piece of manhood, is a philosopher in the true sense of the word: a lover of wisdom. Not for Jonny the convoluted conversations about whether Foucault's fuck-ups in the realm of historical accuracy mean that he can be discarded as a credible academic (yes), or the anguished political contortions on the subject of interest-rates (nobody understands this; let it go). Jonny went to a restaurant in Leeds, and it was nice. This hunky sage writes:

Chaophraya, Thai restaurant in Leeds.

Double toilet roll. Ample.

Flowers. Lovely.

White tiled floor. Nice.

Even a place as nice as this is not immune to graffiti though it seems.

Reader, there you have it. Go to a nice restaurant. (Take photos, if you want. Maybe send them to us.) Have some wine. Spend time with people whose company you enjoy. Develop the skill of telling complicated but plausible-sounding lies to get out of having to hang out with people who are prone to talking about cats, or sending photos of lasagna. Chill the fuck out. Personally, we're off to drink vast quantities of champagne. Vale!

 

Festive Video: Whitney Rose, Chivalry Is Dead

Related Reading:

All posts featuring Jonny

All posts featuring man's pragmatic everyday struggle for survival in this perilous world

All posts featuring graffiti

Some posts featuring restaurants

All posts featuring Thailand

A Startling Absence of Themes, Rhymes, and Reason

There are times in one's life that are clearly themed. There are, for instance, times when one gives up on learning Greek, times when one is dedicated to drinking large quantities of gin, and times when one rants more or less incessantly about the decline of literacy and how we're all hurtling back towards not just the seventeenth century but a pre-Reformation stage of not having standardised writing. 

Sometimes these times, stages and phases mix, mingle and flow into one another. Sometimes there is no theme at all - unless of course the theme is "a startling absence of themes". This feels unsettling. One has a sneaking suspicion that perhaps there is a theme lurking in a dark corner after all, but that either one missed the memo, meeting or rally at which it was announced, or one has been too distracted by the horror clowns capering around the potato field to pay attention. Perhaps there is actually a pattern, but said pattern will be revealed by a load of bricks which are currently in the air and are about to hit one on the head, with painful consequences, before sorting themselves into an attractive arrangement on the floor. 

 

Sometimes one simply has no idea what the hell is going on - literally, metaphorically, or on any other level. This is, in our experience, a time to harden the fuck up and keep on keeping on, but also, potentially, to prepare to explore new avenues. Sometimes, granted, what hits one is lyme disease. But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the thing that hits one isn't a ton of painful bricks, but a delightful present, or a sudden realisation, or sunlight. Reader, it may be time to prepare for potential presents, realisations, and sunlight.

Not literal sunlight, obviously. Unless one happens to be in the southern hemisphere (in, for instance, just to pick example at random, Australia), the days are getting shorter and the nights longer and darker. As we mentioned in a previous post, a phenomenon which Jonny has termed the Twelve Days of Cistern is currently the only thing enabling us to view the darkening days and approaching winter, with its attendant emotional carnage and horror clowns, with anything resembling equanimity. Literal sunlight, at Privy Counsel HQ latitudes, is about to become as rare a commodity as electricity. However we received, just the other day, a terribly enticing present which wasn't - and we would like to emphasise this - gonorrhoea. We also received a delightful missive from Tudor Friend, which read:

History! Toilets! Death! All the things one loves.

Tudor Friend helpfully says, further:

My dad adds “that’s one fucking big latrine! But ‘dig her wide and dig her deep’!” That is a quote from “The Specialist”, one of his favourite books, which is all about the proper way to build an outhouse.

Have we mentioned that, although we have never met Tudor Friend's dad, he is an inspiration to us? Pondering the Erfurt latrine disaster is prone to making us contemplative and reticent. We believe, however, that Tudor Friend speaks for us all when she says:

It does kind of boggle the mind, doesn’t it. “Our royal family just all drowned in shit” is really awkward to represent on the family escutcheon….

Having pondered the unreliablility of floors, irrespective of the presence of brick patterns, and the propensity of Death to lurk in medieval outhouses, let us contemplate the fact that there is always Jonny.

Jonny's messages are admirably clear and informative.

Is there a more delightful sight, in the known universe, than Jonny doing the thumbs up in front of an outdoor urinal? Reader, there isn't

It is important to remember to aim.

It looks to us - though we're not experts in this field - as though there is adequate splash protection. Reader, do you feel safe?

We're still not quite over the delightful experience of hearing our favourite band in a weird sports bar in, of all places, Kristianstad.

Festive Video: Sarah Shook and the Disarmers, I Got This 

Related Reading

All posts featuring the learning of Greek

All posts featuring an excess of gin

Has Newtonian Physics Been Unfairly Maligned?, or, We Are Arguably Hurtling Down an Incline towards the Seventeenth Century, or, In Defence of Boffins 

All posts featuring horror clowns

All posts featuring Jonny 

All posts featuring Tudor Friend

The post featuring hearing our favourite band in a weird sports bar in, of all places, Kristianstad: Where East Meets West