Heat.

Bus 66 is without air conditioning. At the very least, it's not on.

"So many things that we will never undo, I know you're sorry, I'm sorry too." The song sets the mood. "Only one thing that I did wrong, stayed in Mississippi a day too long."

With these words I am in two places at once: my car at the end of a park district summer, and here, aboard bus number 66 with no AC.

Israel is beginning to sweat. Like the occupants of this bus who make it their dwelling place from point A to point B, like the orthodox teen with pasty white tights and beads of sweat on her shapely nose, the summer in Tel Aviv expresses itself in unrelenting saturation.

It doesn't rain, but the sea wets the air.

It has been hot, but now it is more hot. Even the nights are building their threshold of burden, all in terms of humidity. My strategy for this nighttime oppression: get out of the house, or lay perfectly still, wearing as little as possible. Oh, and there is always a cold shower. Inspiring, no?

Politically, the heat is on and quiet spells are broken by stupidity (in my opinion). Tel Aviv is a self-made bubble. 'There is no conflict here,' someone might say to you. 'This is why we come. To get away from it. To party. To live life.' But by the very nature of an escape, by revelling in difference, a population defines the inescapable nature of their situation.

This is a world of oppositions. In Composing Postmodern Subjectivities, Bruce Mccomiskey presents the problematic tendency of constructing identity on the basis of cognitive and emotional oppositions. History, culture, and tradition set a general context, yet dichotomous labels such as 'good v. bad,' 'right v. wrong,' or 'black v. white,' reveal a overbearing tendency to define in terms of oppositional forces. In this sense, the response of Tel Aviv'ans to the question 'why they are here' is 'because they don't want to be there.'

A postmodern subjectivity would have it that a willingness to find a negotiable middle ground in communication can open channels for a healthy, holistic, and empathetic approach to diversity in all its forms (racial, ethnic, cultural, moral, etc.). Yet such analysis is not natural. Perhaps it can be taught, but it is not naturally assumed.

In The Clash of Civilizations, Samuel Huntington posits a related paradigm: that identity is the source of conflict, and we war to destroy difference.

On a more personal note, I question my own identity. From Christianity, to agnosticism, to I-don't-know-what.

On what might seem like a random note (but I trust you to make the connection), yesterday, I had the most pleasant date since I have been here. Blue eyes and blonde hair met green eyes and dark hair. 5' 11" met 5' 3". The son of a conservative Christian family met the daughter of a conservative Muslim family. Among other things, we talked of family and we laughed.

A quote to get me going.

My mind is saturated with words and opinions, but I am lacking direction. I want to scatter thoughts across the page, but realize that a blog is for an audience in part. I have to bow, not because I am deep but because I can be confusing. So today I will let someone else speak for me.

In Political Economy, Rousseau questions the nature of patriotism. With the rise of "transnational interests" and evaporation of the borders between nations through rising globalization, "[h]ow among so many other interests, can patriotism grow?" This is his response:

"If children are brought up in common in the bosom of equality; if

they are imbued with the laws of the State and the precepts of the

general will; if they are taught to respect these above all things; if

they are surrounded by examples and objects which constantly re-

mind them of the tender mother who nourishes them, of the love

she bears them, of the inestimable benefits they receive from her,

and of the return they owe her, we cannot doubt that they will learn

to cherish one another mutually as brothers, to will nothing con-

trary to the will of society, to substitute the actions of men and citi-

zens for the futile and vain babbling of sophists, and to become in

time defenders and fathers of the country of which they will have

been so long the children."

Children and brothers and mothers. The elementary components of society in a way determine its manner and sense of existence.

Links.

I probably should have clarified this a long time ago, but wherever there is text in bold, please know that this is an external link I have purposefully chosen.

(Except in this post).

Examples from my last post: Nash's embedding theorem, idleness.

Theoretically, using these might connect the dots.

-Seth

The posture of success.

My younger brothers have taught me a lot.

I do believe that belief is tied to perception, and sometimes in order for perception to become reality it must be grounded beyond it. The miracle of the self-fulfilling prophecy? A pathway to identity beyond self?

Probability tells me that my youngest brother will fail; he will miss the hoop on his very first attempt shoving a basketball through the air. Though 'failure' is a strong word, its connotation is representative of our humanly insufficient capacities, without persistence and without another element. Though I am most certain Aaron will fail the first time, do I encourage him any less? No! In fact, it is the opposite. There is a positive correlation between my "faith" and his real, measurable progress.

I am most likely to fail in my explanation of Nash's embedding theorem in my first attempt. Without serious devotion it is probable that I will fail completely in all attempts, but is it impossible? Maybe. Do I doubt myself all the more? No, I will posture myself for success.

You understand that I am an idealist when I make such statements, but certainly, encouragement and faith with intention, (if faith can exist without intention), will increase my propensity for success.

Aaron (11 years old), who can now move with the best of them on our backyard court, must receive belief until he can sufficiently believe in himself. And even this, is not enough. There are abilities yet to be discovered. Blank canvases to paint, the perfect coffee to brew, philosophy to ponder, photographs to take, motorcycles to understand, boroughs to explore, and journals to fill. All is progress through intention and belief beyond the present state.

Like other personal pronouns, the prefix 'self' often laughs at me with its inescapable banality, but in the context of a 'self-edifying community,' perhaps we find a more pleasurable use. Such a community takes on a singularity, composed of many and perpetuated by belief that exists apart from present reality. The evolution of ideas and action within reality.

As a whole, this is an argument not for evolution itself, but for the necessity of something more. A loose connection at the moment, but we will work on it.

Questions of existence are not easily settled as cornerstone. I may ask "why?" until my death. Yet this idea of belief beyond reality at hand is perhaps the furthest I can get my mind outside the linear moment in which I write, to a multiplicity of potential in future consequences.

Standing there in the driveway, watching Aaron with the ball in his hands and a basket towering 3 meters above, I get a sense of present reality: the weight of my upcoming words (if any), and the prophecy of intention in language; language not only in speech but through the sheen in my eyes and the focus of my faith.

In sickness and in health (and in being).

I am becoming a subscriber to Bertrand Russell's idea of idleness.

Speaking of my generation, I feel that we have forgotten how to do nothing at all. This is not to be confused with sloth. This is my rant, straying on a slight tangent from Russell's advocacy for idleness to its relationship with being. My advocacy for doing nothing at all, which surely is an art.

Somewhere along our journey, some of us, have became obsessed with the absolute marriage of ideas and utility; the practice of only practical knowledge, and only as a span to some working man's definition of production. Having spilled into relationships, we forget that friendship, and even marriage itself, is not a means to an end; not merely a means of reproduction so that race is carried on. In sickness and in health is more than a simple forecast of physical condition, it is a matter of being.

We are losing touch with knowing for knowing's sake; being as a means of existence. We neglect our potential. As this philosophy of neglect spills into academia, knowledge takes second stage, and information assumes the lead. I am surrounded by students who seem to care more about a rigid definition of graded advancement than about where they are today. Creativity becomes the orphan of a so-called progress.

Watching, I find myself in a state of depression. This will continue to be a theme.

Children are the epitome of creative essence. They are the saplings of true knowledge. Their inquisitive nature and natural willingness to fail, an expression of wonder and existence. In early years, a lack of inhibition is rarely passed off as an impediment to a child's nature. Instruction does vary and at times is left to chance. Sadly, some roots only spread across the ground.

It is a rare adult who can stroke a cold, moss-covered stone for minutes upon end and then clench it in a fist as a prize, but a child will. In youth, a stick is worthy of affection. The adoration of an ant hill, worthy of a crouching stare and rust-colored knees.

The world becomes worthy of full intention, and dirty knees, a necessary ingredient.

With speech, expression becomes vocal, and the questions are asked: why and how? How do I live? Why do I sneeze? How does it work? Why do birds fly, and why can't I? Why does the sun set? Why can't I stay up? Why are you crying? Why?

At some point, we stop asking questions. Part of it is balance; contemplation before a fall. Yet often 'because' becomes good enough for the grown. Time is also an excuse, though in many cases I reflect on, unworthy.

We have pigeon-holed the world, defined it, if not by our words than by our actions. There is often more revelation in what is done than what is said. If this is true, if we cannot exist in a balance of action with still 'contemplative thought,' then sadly our self-created schedule becomes a prison; endless toil, a pathetic ball and chain.

Rather than sit in what meaning is, we create meaning to fill a void; action to make ourselves comfortable with reality.

I used to work with a man named Pete. We fought fires together, and in rare moments of solitude, sat in the dust of empty deer trails. The forest was silent, crusted with burnt wood, the aroma of smoke, and stray sunlight turning ashen crust into obsidian. When the season ended Pete disappeared to a lonely ranch somewhere in middle-of-nowhere, Idaho. The crew joked loud enough so that he could hear: teased him about being out of touch through the winter. Pete never replied. He left that autumn.

I smile just thinking about it. Pete, one of the hardest workers I have known, was okay with silence, with rest, and idleness. I imagine him out there, splitting firewood, snowshoeing the hills, white from horizon to horizon, and sitting.

Everything in balance.

Being is elusive, silence taught to be awkward. But stop and feel the air about your fingers. Listen to your own breath. This is a beginning.

"The day is real;

the sky clicks securely into place over the mountains,

locks round the islands, snaps slap on the bay.

Air fits flush on farm roofs;

it rises inside the doors of barns and rubs at yellow barn windows.

Air clicks up my hand cloven into fingers and wells in my ears' holes,

whole and entire.

I call it simplicity,

the way matter is smooth and alone."

- Annie Dillard

The case for my hands. (incomplete)

Waiting (1)., originally uploaded by sethwyncott.

When I was five, or small enough to process with 'kid logic', I aspired to be a garbage man. "Trash man," "rubbish man," "waste management," call it what you want. It is all the same. I remember watching a large truck swing to a rocking halt at the side of our house in suburban Lockport, Illinois. It roared to a stop and a man jumped off the back from his perch. Overalls, a t-shirt, and gloves. To me this was glory.

I was a simple child.

From the driveway, I dreamed of wearing those gloves and overalls. In my five year old mind, the most essential work was performed with gloves on. I dreamed of holding onto the back of that truck and riding through the neighborhood. I would see everyone, and they would see me; standing in the open air, perched on a moving vehicle.

Was there a degree of predictability in this choice?

Though I never made it to the herald of garbage men, I have pursued labor jobs and have been grateful for them. I believe they complement everything I have done.

All of us go through a process of socialization. Action and reaction based on upbringing and an infinite number of other factors. My father was a laborer; a diesel mechanic, a carpenter, an engineer, a technician, and now a manager. His father, a soldier in Guadacanal. My mother, a stay-at-home mom and homecare nurse; proud of both jobs. I, in turn, am thankful. Both parents educated me in their ways; indirectly through their actions, and directly through their words. Or maybe that works both ways. Neither of them were academics in the strict sense. But the fact that I exist here at Tel Aviv University is surely connected to their prodding and instruction.

Of my generation, I am the first in my extended family to finish a bachelor's degree. I am the first to join an M.A. program. And maybe, I will be the first to finish. This first of education does not add to my inherent worth, or take away from anyone else's. I approach it only from a point of socialization.

Looking at my family history I can see why I would dream of labor. Becoming a garbageman, a fireman, or even a mechanic. Not everyone looks at grease with attraction, or can become absorbed with the smell of sawdust, but sometimes I do. Matthew B. Crawford argues for the beauty and intelligence of working hands.

There is intelligence in the labor of hands.

I found this in firefighting. Processing on the go. Watching the sky for falling ash. Or casting an upwards glance at dropping limbs; slow rocking widowmakers. Action: deliberate, measurable action. Once I overcame the first couple months of muscle strains, blisters and exhaustion, I took my place and loved the work. It grew on me progressively. Waking at 5AM to string my boot laces through golden hooks. Smelling smoke on my shirt. Stuffing food in my mouth, and pushing line all day long. Digging, moving through the forest at 7,000 feet. Becoming comfortable enough to chew sunflower seeds, while spitting the shells between swings, and still remembering to breathe.

I will always have a connection to the fire world.

In a way, this past year I returned to the labor of my hands. Looking for cash and a comfortable schedule, I found a simple summer job--park district maintenance. I was utility man. I did anything. Cleaning lawnmowers, fixing fences, dragging baseball diamonds, weeding flowerbeds, trimming tree limbs, basic PVC plumbing, painting field markers (I paint a crooked line), digging random trenches, and even boating across placid subdivision ponds and throwing dust in the air. I laughed a lot this summer, and even made some friends.

Today I am physically far from these worlds. As much as I loved the demanding simplicity, I needed more. And this is why I'm a student? "Give it time," I tell myself. I have a unique opportunity and I carry it with responsibility. For now, I exercise my mind, yet I hope to someday return to my hands, at least in part.

I have not lost the calluses yet.

I hope you don't give up.

I have been reluctant to write. Searching for thoughts worth sharing; those I feel comfortable revealing.

Cold rain is falling outside. This morning, thunder woke me from the couch. A friend from the fireline is staying with me. I took the sofa, and gave him my bed.

It would be a good day to sleep in, with gray skies and chilling rain, but now I am one floor below the ground, at the library. Preparing for class, but not really. Maybe just escaping into silence by myself, before I excitedly and reluctantly enter the classroom.

International Development people are strange folk. I grow tired of their postmodern drudgery. Empty words without definition. "But we want to change the world," they say. "To benefit humankind; to bring light to those in darkness."

But in the quiet of my mind I ask, "where does the dark come from? And from where do you gain your concept of light?"

Goodness must have a source, and I know that it is not 'I'. With my great human potential for evil, change for my sake alone is worth nothing to me. The world is not subjective; "rightness" is not "rightness" when and where I say it is. There is something greater, and I will find it.

I am weary.