Do physiological abnormalities plus a state of suffering equal illness?

Ten poor men are trapped in individual metal cages. The cages barely allow these men to walk two paces. They defecate in a pot right next to them.  They eat right next to the pot in which they defecate. They sleep curled in a ball. These ten cages are inside a vicinity, that could also be described as a cage. There is no natural light, but the prison is illumined pale white 24 hours a day by electricity. They are monitored and kept alive by a group of detached scientists, who appear simultaneously in homogeneous, ankle-length white coats and deflecting round glasses. Serco security guards pass food through the bars of the cage with elongated sticks and the scientists proceed to scrawl furiously on their clipboards. 

Most of the prisoners have adjusted well to their new environment. They sleep eight hours a day. They perform their work task, knitting jumpers, for twelve hours a day. They receive an allowance so that they may stay in this vicinity which provides shelter, is relatively warm, and gives them two meals a day. They are allowed to leave the cage and 'commute' (walk) inside the vicinity for one hour a day. They have three hours of free time where they may choose to speak to their neighbours, watch the screen of silent images of faces across the vicinity, or read a selection of books provided. The well adjusted prisoners follow these rules.

Prisoner 1 however has been documented by the scientists to have an irregular sleep pattern, runs instead of walks, shouts frequently instead of talking, and refuses to knit. Often, he is tasered, and his knitting needles removed from him, as he attempts to conceal them and use them as a weapon against the security staff during his commute.

Prisoner 6 on the other hand sleeps profusely, often drifting off during his task, does not engage with the other prisoners, and often stares at the screen, even when it is off.  On the commute he will regularly standstill, and only walk a few paces before leaning against a wall. Generally, he is despondent. Prisoner 9 is quite the antagonist. He is very talkative, night and day, and is constantly trying to persuade the other prisoners to rebel against, what he calls, 'psychtators'. This is a neologism Prisoner 9 created to describe the scientists as psychiatric dictators.  Prisoner 9 has developed an elaborate theory of how the scientists are poisoning their food to make them docile so that they are forced to do slave labour. However, most of the other prisoners ignore Prisoner 9 from fear of removal of their eating privileges.

The scientists come to a consensus that Prisoner 1, 6 and 9, are ill. Prisoner 1 has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), Prisoner 6 is depressed, and Prisoner 9 suffers with acute paranoia. Upon day 1236, all ten prisoners in turn are taken to a back room, where  they are given a muscle relaxant, rendering them with severe muscle weakness, and place them lying on a table to undergo a FMRI scan of their brains.

Deficits in neural activity within fronto-striatal and fronto-parietal circuits are found in Prisoner 1, compared to the other prisoners, excluding Prisoner 6 and Prisoner 9.  Prisoner 6 was found to have, overall reduced activity in the ventromedial prefrontal cortex (PFC), diminished discrimination between emotional and neutral items in the amygdala, caudate, and hippocampus, and enhanced responses to negative versus positive stimuli in the left anterior temporal lobe (ATL) and right dorsolateral PFC. Finally, Prisoner 9 showed prefrontal deficit for “without-arousal” responses, compared to the other controls.  The psychtators have now gathered evidence of the differential physiological underpinnings in order to qualify their claims that these prisoners are ill, and need to be medicated with neuro/mind altering drugs with 100 different possible side effects.

Now, what I hope the reader is now thinking is, that despite the differential neurological underpinnings, surely these people are not ill! That these people are merely responding to a harsh  environment. It is quite plausible that Prisoner 9 is bang on the money, and they are poisoning them for cheap labour, and if I were in a cage all day I might feel a bit depressed like Prisoner 6, or go wild like Prisoner 1. Do the other prisoners following orders even have minds to differentiate from? Are they not mere knitting sheep?

The so-called 'ill' prisoners do not need mind altering drugs.  Rather, what they need is a prisoner revolution. To break from those metaphysical and iron bars, smash the psyhtatorship and free themselves from a life of slavery.

But the other prisoners, I'm afraid, don't see it that way and fall for this codswallop about weird brains. They continue their life of servitude for scraps of food. In time, the other prisoners are chemically manipulated to produce the desired behavioural outcomes to achieve maximum efficiency and maximum profit.  This profit is made by selling 'designer' jumpers to the other prisoners. But these other prisoners don't have iron bars. Their metaphysical bars are so well established, that they can leave their iron cages, and roam the streets. They are the self-disciplined prisoners, who whip themselves, and consume jumpers and other prisoner produce, turning the turnstyles of the psychtatorship and enriching the psychtators!

Are you ill? Maybe you are indeed!

Ellese Elliott

After the life of a philosophical story teller

I was asked to write a short story on a specific subject, by an old mischievous friend, who  remains,  still to this day, a perennial magician of great elusiveness. Who reveals nothing, and only operates on the planes of appearance. His soul, known to be neither black nor white, shudders along the parameters of this breathing organism. But I hate arbitrating stories around themes! As a rule, I do not allow any morsel of matter to provoke my bones into the motions of a story teller.  Any story written thus far has only been, seemingly and spontaneously, electrified by a force that reveals itself through me. And I write!

Alas, for some time now, I have not been stirred in this way. The magician reminded me that this is so, when he beckoned me to  write on a subject nearly as tricky as he; the afterlife. So what does a philosopher have to say today about this great, unexplorable subject and for what purpose has he beckoned me to do so? I am led to believe this is to engage the modern reader with an ancient question in a philosophical way. Also, that this activity may give me a sense of purpose. And already here,  there is something being said about life, that it can be, perceived to be,  purposeful.  The next question might be that, if life may be purposeful, is the afterlife, perhaps, purposeless? To explore the afterlife, one must clearly know what life is, in order to distinguish when it has ended, and what occurs after. To begin,  one may ask, can life be without purpose, or is purpose a defining feature of life? If purpose is a defining feature of life, and there exists something without purpose, but perhaps once had it, we may say that this thing is of the afterlife.

Wherever people walk, when asked,  they may articulate why they are walking.  The answer usually consists of the connective 'to'. For example, ''I am walking 'to' the king's castle'', I am walking 'to' my impending doom'', or ''I am walking 'to' firm up my bipeds''.  You could argue that you are walking 'away' from something, or someone, but away necessitates 'to'. People orientate their actions towards some goal. But what about other life forms?

Are other life forms actions purposeful? Plants move! Indeed, they may wilt and wither under an immense temperature, or gracefully spiral towards a lustrous light.  Although we may not suspect that plants know  or can articulate sentences with the connective 'to' or 'away', it may be argued that plants nonetheless move with purpose. However, we can think of other peculiar instances.  Some people may walk, not because they aim 'to' or 'away'. Rather, they may say that they walk with no aim, to get nowhere. Here, it may look as though walking is aimless, yet the aim is within the activity itself, and  internal to it. Sometimes, one just wants 'to' walk.  We are here trying to understand what are the essential characteristics of life, so we may distinguish life from what is after it, and purpose appears to be, thus far, a defining feature.

Unfortunately, upon further reflection, I am getting into a pickle. If I am unsure what the essential defining characteristics of life are, how am I citing instances of life? There is a presupposition being made of what life already is, when I evoke such instances. I could go with such presuppositions, and take the modern scientific view of life. Something is living if it expresses a number of basic functions such as, breathing, excreting and moving.

What is 'afterlife' is then what becomes of that thing when it ceases to express said functions. That is on what is life,  but we can still ask further, what has that thing become when it no longer carries out those particular functions?

Alas, even if we admit of  some scientific assumptions on the defining features of life, there is another presupposition; namely that there exists a hard and fast distinction between life and the afterlife. After all, they may indeed not be opposites. Nor may the afterlife be the negation of life. So what if there isn't such a stark distinction?

What comes after life, could be a lot like living; with only one or few features to distinguish it from life.  Blurred lines, matrices and overlapping qualities and quantities  could interweave into something which is beyond life and the afterlife. Beyond the binaries of barbarian thought! A mystical force that spontaneously excites the nerves into the motions of a writer that keep us on the cusp of banality and creativity. 

Yet there are many maybes, speculations and postulates for an unenthused story teller. And one simply cannot begin to tell tales on such a tall subject without the invisible force that communicates through me, as I am stricken to the world of appearance, with the tricky magician who too is hiding within it. Oh when will I see again and be able to illuminate life?

Regrettably, this will be my first non-story, as I cannot summon the ability to write on what is such an impenetrable subject in a philosophical manner, unless I enter the realms of pure fancy and then I will be in the realm of  fiction. But that was never the aims of this philosopher.

One day, soon, I shall return to transcribing  The Philosophy Tales. 

Ellese Elliott

The seamless inquisitor

Oh doom and gloom,

Born without a silver spoon,

When will you let the lovely light flood the solemn seas

And at what time will the rain no longer torrent the wilting trees?

When will the birds incessant singing stop,

And return to the grace of the natural clock?

Can you imagine a mind free from sorrow,

Or a heart as free as the paths of tomorrow?

Oh grey in May,

Who equally abhors each day,

When will the winds of wrath subside for goodness sake

And at what time will the high tides dissipate to form luscious lakes?

How long will you stop the flowers from bloom,

And return the madness from the mourning moon?

Can you conceive a life without misery,

Or a vivacious body not struck by melancholy?

Ellese Elliott

TWELVE YEARS OF SLAVERY

This story of one man's plight, kidnapped from his family home and forced into a life of slavery, reawakens one to the horrific acts that may be committed in the shadows of a sick mind.

This shadow casts an ideology of power, fear and evil, that unites men and women of the same colour, and divides them if they are of a different colour. Yet there are other divisions cast in the same way. Of great importance are such stories, which vividly demonstrate and show just how base we can become within a delusional narrative.

When such a narrative spreads into the minds and the actions of people, one enters into a false dialogue. One becomes seemingly ensnared by theatre, as a character who cannot see any other alternative unfolding of events; frozen and fixed within a self-fulfilling nightmare of which one partakes. When freedom of choice is limited within the parameters of such a story, it appears there is no way out. Permeating the unconscious behaviours, we so-called thinkers become enslaved to it, only to be awakened to drives pushing us into a direction none of us wish to go.

How can that be? It simply would not, if there was at one's disposal, a true, fair and moral tale. If there was more than one set of parameters, more than one theatrical performance, likewise there would be more than one script. However, who will narrate, produce, combust into a flame of flickering ideas? Becoming stuck in the thick slime of beliefs which allude to no other option but this one, one fails to do so.

Any sparks of creativity are quickly extinguished by the dominant powers, whose very foundation of truth contradicts any rebellion against them. From fear of retribution, the rulers, or benefactors, will conceal and destroy the tools of creativity and freedom. Passion and creative thought is quickly curtailed as folly, even by those who may be freed by it. Scared of the vengeful violence that occurs within such a paradigm, the nightmare deepens, reinforcing a fixed monologue of shit. What then, can awaken one from this evil reverie, when reason may ride the wildest dreams, and a fiction may be perfectly logical?

Indeed, a great author with a turbulent mind is needed to rage against such systems. A new story needs to be written. One which will encourage the minds of people to believe in something completely different, and so set them free from partaking in a play where only misery, loss, and fear is injected into all of our hearts; even those of the powerful. Lest their hearts have already burned out, surrounded by no light by which they may be guided out, let them be reignited by the imagination. The freedom to write and to think outside of such a dialogue presents a dash for freedom beyond the maze.

Do not believe, any of you, that there is no way out. Do not believe, not for a single second, that there is no alternative. For as long as human beings preserve the ability to tell stories, especially those stories which may find different assumptions, assumptions which lay the foundations for better conclusions, then it simply is not true that there is nothing we can do. It is wrong that you must play the role of the slave, or the master. Reject such notions as having no place in your story.

Once you have done this you may tell others, who also must reject such notions. And only when enough people have realised that they have been entranced and hypnotised by a persuasive lie, may they break out of it.

However, the lie is not the hardest part to accept, it is the fact that one may believe that they chose such a life. But no, this is not true either. It is only when one is made aware, when one understands they have been tricked, that they have any power to choose otherwise. But unless one wakes the others, one's own attempts to break out of such a narrative will be rife with booby traps, and zombies.

Ellese Elliott

Let me taste your rubied departures

Let me taste your rubied departures,
Peer into your ocular spheres,
Run my hands through your long glossy fibers,
And whisper sweet nothings inside your transformers

Let me place my tongue on your liquid enzyme producers
Wrap your transporter bipeds behind my head
And enter where lies your delicate incision
As I admire you, in all your precision.

Ellese Elliott

What is logic? - By Ellese Elliott

What is logic?

Logic is hidden behind every conversation, joke, story or argument.  Logic is necessary in order to be able to have an understandable form of communication.  Without it, conversation, jokes, stories or arguments could not take place.

Aristotle was a famous old bloke from Ancient Greece who thought a lot about a lot of stuff, but most importantly, for this subject, he thought about thought; what it was and how it takes place. He said that thought has laws. There are rules which enable the process of thinking to happen. The most crucial law of thought is the law of identity. The law of identity states that:

                                                     A = A. 

The equals sign is another way of saying the same as.  Anything can be put in the place of ‘A’.  For example, 'A = A' can stand for ‘that orange’ is ‘that orange’,’ you’ are ‘you’ and ‘logic’ is ‘logic’. This means that a thing is identical with itself.

 
The other thing that Aristotle said was that if it follows that if everything is the same with itself and that this is a law, then it cannot be a contradiction. This thought is expressed in the law of non-contradiction.  It cannot be that:

                                      

    ORANGE = NOT ORANGE

 

We cannot think this orange is both an orange and not an orange. Let’s put this in a scenario:  let’s say you and your mate Kinglsy arranged to go out on the pull. You both agreed to meet outside Tottenham Court road tube station at 10:00pm.

You are standing there, it’s pouring down with rain and Kingsly isn’t there. You try calling him, but it’s forwarding to 02 voicemail and taking your last bit of credit and your thinking, ‘I hope this twat has got a good reason why I’ve been standing here for half an hour like a mug in the rain.’  He turns up causally at 11.00pm. You’re very angry, so you say, “Where the hell have you been?”

Kingsly says, “Mate, by 10.00 pm I did mean 10.00 pm, but I didn’t mean 10.00 pm and I meant 11.00pm. Do you know what I mean? “ 

This is an example of a contradiction and is not a reason at all, let alone a good one.  When we are met with a contradiction we are just utterly confused. We have to ask, “Kingsly what the hell are you on about?” Kingsly then goes on to say some other nonsense because he has taken acid. Kingsly is no longer using the laws of identity to express himself. This raises an important point as it doesn’t matter how logical you are being if the other person is being illogical, a conversation cannot take place.

Now, it seems pretty obvious that things are what they are and are not what they are not. Therefore, when we talk about whether an object is either an orange or not orange, whether it is either 10.00pm or not 10.00pm, we are referring to the last law of thought called the law of excluded middle.  An example is as follows:

I am a human being

Or

I am not a human being.

One of these statements has to be true. However, they cannot both be true or they cannot both be false.  When Aristotle thought about the laws of thought thousands of years ago, he realised that human beings cannot think outside of these laws. As a last exercise, try it yourself. Can you think of an orange and not an orange, which are both properties of the same thing? Can you understand what Kingsly means by 10.00pm and not 10.00pm? Or do you think it is true that you are a human and not a human?

If you could think of any of these things you may have a hard time explaining it.....

Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Logic' Issue 45

Masc / Fem

We are now the masculine and the feminine.  We are the hunters, the gatherers, the fathers, the mothers, and the workers.  I  cook, I clean, I work, I study, I spend, I shop, I drink, I diet, I commit, I explore, I travel,  I settle, I go on top, and under. Who am I? What sex am I? Can you tell by considering any of these activities I do? I am not a he/she I am the new masc/fem, masculine, feminine. Whatever new crappy term you would like to use it does not matter. What question this raises, however, is as follows: are these terms, these ideas (masculine and feminine) still

useful or are they becoming out of date?

Notice, however, that the subject is I, and not everyone. I can only speak for myself, the activities I do. I cannot speak for all. I could perhaps speak of my culture, but not everyone in my culture does what I do. Maybe the majority does do the above, but this is a concern of sociologists to investigate not a philosopher.  So I pass the task on to them, what do people do now? Are there any clear distinctions in our activities between the sexes? I’m not sure there are. 

Nevertheless, if, for example, men generally are: staying at home, rearing the children, doing the cooking, the cleaning, and spending, whilst the women are working, travelling, drinking and being on top; can we describe the men as masculine and the women as feminine? Are these gender roles based on sex? If they are based on sex, I’m not convinced there is strict correlation. And if they are based on sex, then we would have to constantly modify the meaning of the terms to fit with the complex behaviours -- which may be distinct between man and women, or not.

Or did a philosopher think of these concepts then just apply them to which object fits with it? Is this likely? That a philosopher sat on the steps of a stoop, and said, “Let’s make up two separate ideas where one is defined by being physically strong and the other is physically weak.” They then went out into the world and looked at the males and the females and noticed that men were more physically strong, and that more women were physically weak. And then the philosopher defined man as masculine and women as feminine?  This doesn’t seem that likely.

From these thoughts I would conclude that I would want to see some scientific evidence that there are a lot of women that act the same, a lot of men that act the same, and these same ways are different between men and women. If this can be proved to be true, then these ways may be defined as feminine or masculine, but until then I am happy to abandon the notion all together.

Ellese Elliott

Experience - By Ellese Elliott

Experience could experience Experience. Yet, there was only Experience. There was nothing in it, outside of it, in front of it, or behind it.  Experience was very lonely, and bored, so experience created Time.

Now Time was okay, it seemed to give Experience something to look forward to, but it also gave Experience a sense of loss. Experience could only experience Time passing or in anticipation as Time seemed to always leave Experience behind, or not yet arrive. Time never stopped. So upon Experience’s reflection, Experience thought that it was because Time had nowhere to stop; literally nowhere. So Experience created Space.

Vast and always yonder, Space gave something for Experience to explore and a place for Time to stop. Yet Time still did not stop, but now Experience could experience the flux of Time and the freedom of Space. Yet when Experience reflected, on Time and Space, Experience found that it could not distinguish one place from another. All was empty. So, Experience created Energy.

More so in some parts and less so in others, objects and shapes and currents and waves Energy gave difference and variation. Now Experience was able to distinguish things and where it was in relation to Time and Space.  But Experience suddenly realized, in the face of difference, and in the flux of Time, that Experience no longer could experience everything. Experience experienced a loss, as Experience no longer had a complete picture, but loads of different pictures in a long succession which you only get to ever see one at a time. So, Experience cut itself up, into tiny pieces and scattered these pieces all about, placing some pieces in some objects and other bits into other objects. Experience did this so Experience could experience everything. Experience was no longer one, but many

But what Experience did not expect, as Experience had not yet understood how Space and Time worked, was that Experience could only be in one place and not many places at the one time. Experiences were then forever separated and seemed never again to conjoin creating different worlds each time anew. This meant that, unless Time ran out and Space collapsed, Experience would always remain incomplete.

The more Time passed by the more Experience seemed to lose but also gain. Experience tried to put itself back together, but experiences were always being swept away.  ‘Oh no experience, what have you done?’

Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Open topic' Issue 40

CBT, psychiatry and identity - By Ellese Elliott

                                          CBT, psychiatry and identity

A sense of autonomy? Ha?  I thought as George Szmukler, a Professor of Psychiatry, stipulated informally that Psychiatry promotes autonomy.  I was reviled by such a comment as he went on to suggest that he aided a patients autonomy when he paid a patient their own money that the psychiatrists had withheld in order that the patient would take the prescribed medication for their ‘mental illness’.  I don’t know the details of this patient’s case, except that the patient was frivolous with money, and that the patient was in debt- according to Szmuckler.  Exploiting the patient, however, to take medication is not the part I want to address here. The point I am addressing asks how is psychiatry aiding a sense of autonomy, or self actualisation? Unless Szmuckler has a completely different meaning of the word ‘autonomy’ I would argue that psychiatry does not aid self actualisation:- involuntary treatment, reprogramming therapies and being labelled ill for behaving outside of the box is insanely oppressive.

  It’s the brain, it’s the chemicals, and it’s the neurons. What about all the shit people go through, heart break, hostility, poverty, etc... the daily nuances that make life that little bit more unbearable, which we bear and bear until cracks appear, our glands begin to secrete sweat, our heart races, and we tremor with anger; but oppressed by the force of watching eyes, always watching, we act in strange, seemingly inexplicable ways and we are burdened with the blame which should lie with the many flaws that pervade and permeate the organised crowd. How dare you react outside of the appropriate list of reactions!

And what of CBT, the new revolutionary treatment which is but a stone throw away of the philosophy of the stoics? CBT is not challenging the arseholes on the train that won’t let other passengers on, or TFL who increase rail fairs more than the rate of inflation, or the pricks at work who talk to you in manner that suggests they are less lowly then you, or the cunts at the bank who smugly tell you they are charging you for being overdrawn, when you never told them to give money that you don’t have. No, they teach how to cope better with it, so you crack less. To help you cope with the cesspool of a society where people get off on screwing over other people, ride their ego trip over the moon and pass the pain and suffering of the so called innocents. Programmed to withstand - even now I am reduced to writing my thoughts on scrap, not because I fear that people will judge me if I shout aloud, but as it isn’t even in my nature anymore.

From the periphery of my blood shot vision, bloodshot from the toxic caffeine ritualistically consumed  and the deprivation of respite, I see a parent commanding their child into subordinance, to sit, to hush, to not disturb the empty whims of this tube carriage. Do not disrupt them, lest they may be stirred and let the zombifying rhythm ensue.

Learning is an awful practice, at first it may be met with some repellence, then neutrality, then it is sucked in like a black hole into an abyss of detritus; all the teachings of others, or rather of the other. We are all bombarded.  Its not a plethora of ideas, but one gargantuan, repugnant, enforced idea. Enforced with violence on a mass scale.

Man, woman child, but an EROM – An erasable read only memory with structures that are fixed and units to be filled. Oh where is the will? Beaten into passivity? Disgusting. And even as my thoughts seem to challenge this oneness, I cannot escape. Clichés wish to pour from my pen. I won’t. Every thought is a thought transpired, as is every sentence, every word, every meaning; already in the mind of a machine.  Imprisoned in language, how I wish to have never received it, infecting every bit of my being.  Leaking into me and mutating the ineffable qualities of the ’I’.  The ‘I’ that perhaps once was, before.
I wish to see again, without the perceptions of the master race of men, and hear unswayed; to smell the scents without civilization; and taste the blood drawn from my own touch.

Don’t give me this idea and tell me it is right. Don’t tell me your reasoning of the origin of a sound. Could it not be the sky that hums every time I board the train, or the moon that howls when full?  Don’t give me that plate of meat from a being that was perhaps more sentient than I.

I want my will, my way. And I am not ill, I am not ill; in the mind or the body.  And the agents of psychiatry will not inject me with the will of the master race, as they did from birth.  I am too far gone.  Psychiatry will not let me realise myself, psychiatry does not aid the realisation of the self. Psychiatry is a tranquiliser of the will, and CBT is a Red Herring. Ha.

By Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Identity' Issue 37

Visit our Market Stall

Come and Visit our market stall - Greenwich Market - email us and find out when we are running! 10 til 5

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Open Topic' Issue 31

Missing person - By Ellese Elliott

Missing person

What if my soul has gone?

Because it could not take the pain

Left me empty and without song

For my mind to weave itself insane

Did it fly into the heavens?

And leave me to dwell below the stars

Alone, with no friends among men

To drown myself at the bar

There is no sunlight, rain nor thunder

No longer does my world appear the same

Through the eyes which bare no sentient perceiver

Through a body which merely holds a name

No longer do I dwell among the living

Nor can I seek comfort among the dead

Merely a being full of air; breathing

Likened to a stick man with a head

The future is grim.

O what am I to do?

By Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Open Topic' Issue 31

A young girls dream

When I was a little girl

I decided I was to save the world

I felt others pain and sadness

And that our society was subject to madness

Yet as a child I had no means

No idea how, nor any money in my jeans

But knew the journey I would take

And the decisions I would make

When I arrived at puberty

Quickly everything became about me

The latest fashion was my obsession

And my happiness was determined by possessions

But it did not take long to realize

That these ideals were lies

And that the dream around me

Had been created by the enemy

Then a number of circumstances

Were to sabotage my chances

But a skein I grabbed onto

And unraveled some helpful clues

I pieced them together

I forgot I was so clever

And the picture was philosophy

And it was intended for me

Anon, I travelled this path

And rekindled my ability to laugh

At what was so much nonsense?

But slowly made more and more sense

But locked in a lingual cage

That had been kept secret from age to age

How would one steal?

This truth to then reveal

This is how I would save the world

The dream I prophesized as a little girl

To bring philosophy to the masses

So they could save their own asses.

Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Open Topic' Issue 30

Abracadabra! - By Ellese Elliott

 Abracadabra!

This article does not explicitly address magic as an art, or as the usage of various techniques and practices to control the natural using the supernatural; but rather magic in the broader sense of the term. When we talk of miracles, when we talk of the inexplicable, we tend to speak of magic -that which is beyond our cognitive grasp. This will be the the sense of the term which will be considered in the matters ahead.

Abracadabra – according to Wikipedia - means, 'created as I say'. It is possible with a bit of logic, and a few premises to then create magic using a syllogism. Firstly, a syllogism is merely a conclusion that is arrived at by following the logic (or rules) of argumentation through from two premises (or statements). So, using the rules of argument, I am going to prove that everything is Magic! Ready.......

Magic is that which cannot be sufficiently explained.
Nothing can be sufficiently explained.
Therefore, everything is magic!

Wow! Unbelievable! The crowd cheers and with stars in their eyes they go out and buy the latest consumer goods. “But hey!” some brave soul left standing in the room cries. “That can't be right.” “Oh no?” the magician argues. “Why?”

“Firstly,” the brave soul argues- lets call this soul Sam, “I do not accept the first premise, 'Magic is that which cannot be sufficiently explained'”.
“And why is that?” the magician smiles.
“Well, what do you mean by insufficiently explained? I have never heard anyone refer to magic as that which cannot be sufficiently explained?”
“Good point!” says the cunning magician. “However, that is precisely how we use the term. For instance, when the children sit around my feet, and see me pull a white rabbit out of a hat, do they not call this magic? But why so? I will tell you why. Because it is incomprehensible to them how I can do such things. They cannot understand it, or conceive any possible worldly explanation how it can be so. Yet, as soon as they see how this is done and it is explained to them, revealed for all it's trickery and deceit, do they still call it magic? No, they don't.
“Or let's give an example in science. Mr Newton, the great man of moves, attempted to explain all those mysteries of our universe and could not explain for instance, why the moon and the earth have an effect on each other without them actually touching each other. So how did he explain this? He said, it was magic! Well he called that magic god, or a miracle, but all the same he could not explain without appealing to something we cannot grasp.” Sam was quite surprised at these answers and said, “I will give this some thought clever magician, but I am not convinced by your argument as I am sure there are counter examples that would not fit into your definition of magic.” Go ahead the Magician teased.

“Let's move on to the second premise – 'Nothing can be sufficiently explained.' Have we not done this. Did the big bang not explain all the wonders of the universe, or evolutionary theory not explain man?”
“Ha!” the magician laughed. “And what or who created the big bang? And what came first the chicken or the egg? Did these things come out of thin air? As long as we do not know the answers to these questions it cannot be there are any sufficient explanations or explanations that explain everything including the explanation. Are you with me?

Sam was not convinced and yet he had run out of ways to challenge him. The logic, or the way he connected his premises seemed to be valid, and for now the premises stood without a good enough attack. But wait a fool hardy minute. The magician said magic is that which cannot be sufficiently explained and that nothing can be sufficiently explained. Not one thing. And yet everything is magic he concluded. So everything can be explained by magic - ha! That is a sufficient explanation. My friend, you have walked straight into a contradiction! The second premise contradicts the conclusion as on the one hand you have said there is no way everything can be explained fully, and yet you have said everything can be explained by positing magic.

Abracadabra – you are wrong.“

And then the Philosopher went out to play.

By Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Magic' Issue 25

Art work - By Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Tales - The Quest - By Ellese Elliott

The Philosophy Tales - The Quest

In the depths and wisdom of space, at the edge of reality, a lone man travelled across a strange land in the pursuit of something great. It seemed his search had lasted as long as time extended; travelling over six hundred thousand plethrons; which was a long, long way. Despite his old age he was not weary, nor did he waver as his belief in something greater had kept him strong. It had kept him alive! The land he travelled across was by far the most treacherous. Freezing winds as strong as a herd of wild horses stampeded over his blistered body. The hail like bullets battered down upon land and sea. The sky emerged as a shattered mirror, the ground a pebbled desert of glass and the whole world was a luminous white.

Qqqcccrrrrkkk! A jagged crack suddenly ripped through the ice; parting the floor beneath him into two. “Argh!” he shouted as he nearly fell in, but instead hung by the strap of his bag from a shard. Being an experienced traveller, he was equipped with all sorts of gadgets and tools. Carefully, he manoeuvred around and pulled out his durable ice pick then used it to climb to safety. It would have been a long way down, but he soldiered on, prepared for any battle, persevering.

The seasons were different there. The moon would never fully rise above the surface, nor would the sun and the planets appeared as though they were crashing toward where he be. Consequently, the days and nights were much shorter, with dusk and dawn seemingly lasting forever. He hardly slept, and awoke each time by a siren like howl of a carnivorous creature; a kindred traveller.

Hoowwwlllll! This time, he was already awake. He had not stopped, sensing the proximity of the 'Great Something' was close. As he reached the peak of a humongous mountain that had taken many weeks to venture up, a peculiar noise swept passed the fragile hairs that lined his ear canal; a silent ringing persisted . The strong forces of nature seemed to immediately subside and he thought his eyes blurred the view. Removing his shield from his aged face, some of his skin was removed with it. Tiny crystals had formed in the wrinkled crevices of his blemished countenance and his lips were chapped blue. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus, squinting into the distance. There was nothing wrong with his eyes.

"Hergh," he gasped, as shock overcame him; travelling down his frozen nerves, cracking his insides. He wailed in pain with every muscle left in his body, but no object was present to give this act to the ear. The silence travelled endlessly. There, in front of him, his belief was realised. It was 'The Great Something'. “Ex Nihilo" he mouthed, it was 'The Nothing'. Before him, all around, there was emptiness. He looked back at the battered land and at this point, at this peak, the world seemed to dissipate into 'The Nothing'; turning gaseous and intangible, before vanishing. Equally, the world seemed to emanate from 'The Nothing:' forming, solidifying and hardening.

The bold traveller removed his ragged glove from his left hand, exposing his tender flesh to the bitterness of the cold and reached slowly out into the unknown. Unbelievably, his hand seemed to run away from him like water rushing over a fall. He suddenly retracted, scared 'The Nothing' would cast his hand into the abyss. However, his hand was intact. “How can this be?” he questioned, “How can 'The Nothing' create this world?” Standing on the borders of this contradiction he wondered if he himself, at that moment, was being created or destroyed.

'Aha! Maybe,' he thought, 'it was just that things had never travelled any further then this point. So, if I throw something into 'The Nothing' then there may be something.' This seemed to be a half reasonable hypothesis to make. 'Now, what something shall I throw?' he thought to himself, looking about. He hesitated for a minute, not quite sure, and then he picked up an icy rock from beneath his feet. Giving himself enough space he threw the rock as hard as he could into 'The Nothing', his body nearly flew with it. He closely watched on like a hawk watches its prey as the rock fragmented into a rainbow of light, glowing with every imaginable and unimaginable colour possible then finally disappeared. His fear was confirmed and 'The Nothing' remained.

Behind him the day was already turning to night. The sun and the moon set; the stars rose, yet all remained still before him. He could not sleep, even if he wanted to. How could he have? He wore his bemusement with such intensity. How utterly baffling this all was. Straining his wits he thought, 'If the rock, could not travel through 'The Nothing', does that mean that the sun cannot travel through nothing either, but only through something? How can this make sense? How can anything move if there is always something in its way?' The world had become a plenum of glass pebbles on the edge of a vacuum according to reason. Maybe it was his mind that created such nonsense. Perhaps it was his belief that had caused such events. Perhaps indeed it was.

The traveller believed there was something greater, yet he did not know what that something was. Obviously his belief had led him here, but did his belief in the 'Great Something' cause 'The Nothing'? Did his belief create 'The Great Incomprehensible Nothing?' 'The Nothing' certainly was great, but was 'The Nothing', something? The simple answer is no. The bold traveller believed in a 'Great Something' not in 'The Great Nothing'. Conclusively, as 'The Nothing' wasn't something he dismissed this idea as absurd.

In turmoil the man reflected on his life and his journey; the journey he had taken to find what he had always sought; something great. But now, with aching bones and a heart full of dismay, he had failed to understand it. Standing on the edge of reality, where the darkness never looked so full of life and the stars and the moon so bright, he thought ‘how could all of this be possible?’ And was there any meaning to any of it? He would be hopeful if there was even a speck of meaning in this void. The bold traveller had realised how much he does not know, if anything at all apart from that.

Frustrated, angry and confused his blood rushed away from his brain, and furiously flowed to the core of his heart. 'I must know.' he thought in a state of intense conviction. Taking a deep breath, sucking every minuscule particle of the world as he was able to into his lungs, he leaped out of the something and into 'The Great Nothing'. Hoooowwwwwlllll! It was morning and the bold traveller was gone. Did he find the answer? No one knows. No living being would come across 'The Nothing' for over five million years. When they did, they did not have to jump in to understand, as they had advanced way beyond the powers of reason we have today, but I will tell you one thing for certain; they did not have even an inkling of passion as the man who made a great leap from belief to knowing.

By Ellese Elliott

Dedicated to Gregory Wood

The Philosophy Takeaway 'Something/Nothing' Issue 24

Bus Culture - By Ellese Elliott

Bus Culture

No I'm afraid I'm not an automaton

in the sense that I fail to conform

I wanted to carry the stick on the bus

and not leave it outside because of us

I would say please excuse my rudeness

but it be a fiction inferred from a moral mess

so instead I look into your eyes

your simple mind they fail to disguise

A diagnoses of weirdanity

is clearly directed at me

mindful in my challenge

you mindless through sleeker means than a syringe

thoughts running parallel to my actions

but you equal a congealed set of reactions

I really truly feel

you all deserve to be killed

and yet I am an automaton

as I cannot turn my emotions on

but there is still meaning

all around it is beaming

a constant expression of dull

is the stain that appears on my soul

but underneath it is active

questioning and creative

unlike you batch no10 of hens

you who refer to yourself as men but are also women

who a behaviourist could fully account for

commodified, stamped and brought in store

your insides being sucked out

all on display for the right amount

but I have my stick on the bus with me

and I show more depth than the applied term of weirdanity.

By Ellese Elliott

Philosophy Tales - The Renegade Sons! - By Ellese Elliott

 Philosophy Tales - The Renegade Sons!

 

Glaring from the outside in, far enough away that she wasn’t gorged  by the blaze, but her hair singed by the flames, Greudach await to see who, if anyone, would emerge from the burning shack and into the moonlight.  The inferno raged and roared like a pack of hungry lions, feasting upon the screams of those inside. The callous smoke trailed the frosty sky and dirty snow floated in the wind choking the young girl with its ashes.

Petrified and frozen stiff by the fire, she did nothing to save them.  ‘Creek. Crash!’ The left side of the house came crumbling down, liberating a cloud of dust.  Thick, hot and grimy; the cloud smothered the lungs of the living, than slowly cleared as it was inhaled out of the air.  Alone, standing in the cleft of the gorge was a mass of metal.  That was it; they were gone.

 A pang of horror hit her in the chest like a gong struck by a mallet and a wave of shock flooded the atmosphere. Unable to breathe, Greudach drowned in sorrow.   But then, in the depths of her despair, someone emerged from the flames.  Someone had lived.

Staggering, spluttering and spilling in all directions an adolescent boy covered in soot had escaped from the gateways to hell. “Cailean!” she shouted and burst into motion; her frozen state melting away. ‘Is that you? Oh my bubba!’ Greudach wailed in her realisation, “I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry!”

 Cailean said nothing, in shock, he allowed her to hold him. “I thought you were gone, I thought I would never see you again.” Overwhelmed by her tears, their embrace was a comfort to them both. “Where is the rest of the tribe?”  Cailean asked, but Greudach could not reply with words, she just cried; if only the water that streamed from her eyes were enough to have filled buckets; then her family may have been here,   but they weren’t and Cailean understood, without the words being uttered, that the family had returned to the dusts of the Earth. 

“I don’t even know how it happened.” she cried. “I had just gone to gather fodder for the goats up the glen when I heard a loud bang. I ran as fast as my wee legs could carry me bubba, but it was too late; the clan were ben the burning hoose.”  Cailean however, knew all too well what had happened; he was there. Rage filled his heart; a feeling that was foreign to a boy who, at the tender age of thirteen, had indulged only in the innocence of childhood. Their mother and their father sheltered and protected them both, offering them a superior education; averting away from the indoctrination of the masses. But now they were gone, and so were the rest of their siblings; their lives hijacked by the ‘Freedom Enforcers’.

 For over eighty years the “Just War” had waged, the soldiers self proclaimed as the ‘Freedom Enforcers’ killed millions; demolishing state after state in order to achieve a vision of a ‘Free world’.   “Freedom. Ha!” 

  “Come Cailean, let us leave this place.”

That awful night something had been destroyed in them both, but in Cailean something had been created.  Baptised, no longer the son of Artair, his father, a just and fair man, but the son of the ‘Just War’.  Cailean was now known as what the ‘Freedom Enforcers’ called a ‘Renegade Son’ and will be  targeted, hunted and killed by the special unit ‘Backlash’ as those who lived would seek vengeance.  The Renegade sons, dispersed all over the world, were the victims turned rebels of the ‘Just War’.

Greudach and Cailean left on foot; wandering for many days in search of food, or an inhabited place.  They fought many of the elements, escaped unknown perils whilst wounded inside and out by the events passed. Tired and hungry, on the sixth day of walking, they saw over the hills a small town. They were saved!

‘Bailie five-hundred yards ahead’ It said on an old rickety post. “Bailie aye? Don’t Bailie mean something to do with justice?” Greudach asked.  “Something like that.” Cailean replied.  “Listen to me Greudach.  When we get to this town I tell you heather lamp, you don’t want no one suspecting noting.”  “What you on about bubba?  Of course I heard our father telling us to raise our knees high in case of folk being suspicious, I ain't stupid you know. Artair always told me every night by my bedside that folks been converted.” “Aye shut up ya bampot, let’s just go down the brae!”

And so, when one hundred yards yonder from Bailie the children heather lamped.

Cailean and Greudach stood out immediately. Most of the people of Bailie wore clothes bearing the crest of the ’Just War’, but the siblings just looked like Heather pikers, poor,  but they were heather lamping  so it was okay. Looking around the village the shops were closing, and with no money between them, their misfortunes continued. However, Cailean spotted some bakers throwing the unsold food out in the alleyway.

They crept over, albeit still heather lamping and climbed over the wire fence.  “Oh gosh Cailean. Kebbuck!” Greudach screeched.” “ Shhhh!” Cailean screwed his face up at Greudach’s stupidity, but then they heard voices approach. “Quick. Hide.” Cailean whispered.  Grabbing the cheese and bread they hid underneath the bins.

“Aye the meeting is on tonight, at Barebal’s house. Its top secret! Don’t let anyone else know.” A man quietly imparted this clandestine knowledge to another. “But Aonghus, my friend, he is a ‘Freedom Enforcer, but wants to escape, can't he?” “No! No way. You mad? Don’t let anyone know.  Especially a ‘Freedom Enforcer!’ Even if they say they want to escape, don’t trust ‘em.“ As the children quietly eavesdropped unbeknown to them they too were being tracked by the ‘Backlash Unit’ who were able to discover their location when they came into close range with a ‘Freedom Enforcer.’

“Okay okay, so it’s at Barabels house, tonight at seven thirty.  And I just have to scratch me nose twice and they’ll let me in.” “No No, you have to scratch ya nose twice and pull your ear. Do you want to get shot in the face?”  “Sorry I’m just nervous.”  “Quick let’s go ben, before someone hears us talking.” Aonghus urged and they went.

“Bubba, look at all this cheese.” Greudach smiled. But Cailean didn’t care about the food. He had
just found out where his brothers were meeting, the ‘Renegade Sons’. Meanwhile the ‘Backlash Units’ radar had scrambled and for now, Cailean and Greudach were untraceable.  

It was approximately seven fifteen when the two men who spoke of the secret meeting appeared out of the bakery. By that time Greudach had ate most of the food and Cailean only some.  Hiding in the shadows they followed the unsuspecting comrades down the main street, through some back roads until they arrived and went in to what must have been Barebal’s house. “Come Greudach lets go in the houdin.““No, what for?” Greudach said apprehensively. “Just come on and remember, scratch ya button twice and pull your ear.”

They went over to the house and a little nervous slammed the heavy bronze knocker which, a peculiar thing in itself, bared the shape of a star.

“Who is it?” A frail old voice asked with the door still on the chain lock letting out a glow of candle light. Greudach and Cailean gave the signal nervously. “Booom!”The door slammed shut in their faces creating a small gust of wind and a series of locks were shuffled and turned.

“Ceud mile failte, cuad mile failte! A hundred thousand welcomes!” A big round lady greeted in a jolly voice. “I am Barebal, nice to have some new comrades on board, and so young. Come come, the meeting’s starting.” Rushed past the living room and into a huge dining area containing a long table the room was filled with, who could only be, the ‘Renegade Sons’.

“Welcome ,welcome  comrades. Ceud mile failte, caud mile failte!” Barebel bellowed form the head of the table which presented gothic chalices and plenty of drink. “Look over there.” Cailean said ”There’s Aonghus and that other guy.”  “We have all come together to finish the ‘Just War” and by whatever means possible!” “Aye! The comrades chorused listening loyally as Barabel continued. “We are the Renegades. The people who had previously lived lives and worked and had families and were good. Now before me, looking around the table, I see sorrow and deep loss, death and anger. Guid-mean and guid-wives killed, our children murdered and our animals slaughtered.  But I also see something great and good and right and we together will fight against the ‘Freedom Enforcers.’Those lhiam-lhiats who  do not spread peace and justice like the name of our abducted town, Bailie, but fear, horror and enslavement. They hide under the guise of good, and spit on its name and call us renegades.  Well I tell you, freedom is not enslavement. And until we exterminate those ‘Freedom Enforcers’ freedom will never prevail!” “Aye!” They all cheered, including Cailean!  “Now let’s drink before we discuss the means to the end. Cheers!” Chalices banged together and the room was filled with bustle. 

Cailean and Greudach walked around the room fortunately not having to heather lamp. As they circulated they could not help but overhear the similar misfortunes of others.  Men lynched, women shot and their children cremated.  The way they were treated under the regime was worse than how any criminal or animal had been; degraded daily by those who said they fought for freedom. The contradictions were profound.    The regime stood in complete polar opposite to their goal. How could it have been possible to achieve such a benevolent end using such malevolent force?  Surely the force for freedom would have been much kinder?

 ‘Ting ting ting.’ Aonghus tapped his chalice with a spoon seated at the opposite head of the table drawing the attention of the comrades. “‘Renegades!’ Let us commence without fear, to speak our hearts and minds.”  The room fell silent. ”Now, we all know why we are here. We are here because we have been united by a common cause, a grief imposed on us by the ‘Freedom Enforcers’ and we are here too, to unite against it. This is a braw day my fellow ‘Renegades’.  We are stoners, hard and strong.  And we will fight fire with fire, weapon to weapon, fist to fist. Listen carefully, we have tholed the dule , but they too will feel the consequences of their own evils. Tonight, at midnight, I will lead those who wish to be lead to blow up the ‘Freedom Enforcers Headquarters’ with the some good old Scottish explosives.

The comrades cheered and seemed, except for a few, more than willing to commit such an act upon those that had been inflicted upon them.  Cailean was ready, he wanted revenge for his dead mother and father and sisters and brothers and for every other person that had been a victim of the ‘Freedom Enforcers’ ‘Just War’.  “Who will go first?” Aonghus asked, “Who will be the first to be a martyr and a hero?” Cailean, without a second thought jumped up onto the table flinging his hands up, “I will kill!” he triumphantly announced. “No!” Greudach cried, “Bubba get down from there!”

 But the crowd cheered him, exalting Cailean in their merry state.

 Barabel at the head of the table shouted over the commotion in an assertive tone, “Renegades! Let the girl speak. As Aonghus said, speak your hearts and minds and I will say, listen to those who do.”  Greudach proceeded as the crowd fell silent.  “My brother, the last living relative I have, been born into a good family and the son of Artair, should not go against his father’s teaching.  Our father was a wise man who taught us to not fight fire with fire, as fire begets more fire. If we fight to gain freedom we will be committing the same irrational acts as they do.  Violence does nor beget freedom.”

 “Greudach, you speak of our father and his wise words, but if our father was so wise he would not have been murdered. He is dead Greudach, dead!” Cailean argued in anger.

 “But you are not Cailean!” Greudach shouted “And I beg you, all of you, to use your head about such matters.  How is this regressive logic going to solve anything?  An eye for an eye for an eye; forever aye? When will it end?”

“What else are we meant to do?” A voice bellowed from the crowd. “Roll over,? Heather lamp the streets with pretty banners? Occupy  buildings? Do you think the ‘Freedom Enforcers’,  who strip our land of all life and resources care. Who keep us alive merely to retrieve valuables so they might gain more wealth?  Don’t be so naive young girl. We will be murdered too. So the only logic we can follow is to fight tooth and nail.” “Aye!” The crowd cheered.

“No!” Greudach replied, “We must only fight with reason, with our heads.”

But then Aonghus proclaimed “No my young comrade.  We must fight until reason reigns! “Aye!”

And the crowd broke out with the verve of vengeance, their hearts racing, gathering weapons and artillery to blow up the ‘Freedom Enforcers Headquarters’.  Their plans were confirmed; Cailien would march into the gates disguised as an ‘Enforcer’ and blow the place into smithereens, followed by the other ‘Renegades’.  It was twenty three hundred hours and Cailean did not even wave goodbye to his sister, his mind possessed with revenge.” We are the Renagade Sons and we will fight until reason reigns!” Aonghus declared as they charged out of Barabel’s house and poured into the street.

“Arggghhhhh! Bang ! Bang! Bang! 'Rat atatatatatatat! Bang! “Arrggghhhhh” Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The ‘Backlash Unit’ had located the underground meeting. The Renegade Sons lay dead on the gravel and the ‘Just War’ continued.

The End. 

By Ellese Elliott

Dedicated to Tom Palmer