We really need more of this stuff.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
My God's Right Here
Happy Easter! I'd like to celebrate with a Christian inversion of the challenge, "Where is your God now?"
We really need more of this stuff.
We really need more of this stuff.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday, Earth!
Today is both Earth Day and Good Friday. You'd think restraunts would take advantage of this and advertize, "Go green and meat-free with salads for 50¢!"
Tell me if they are. I'll be surprised.
Have a holy Good Friday, everyone.
Tell me if they are. I'll be surprised.
Have a holy Good Friday, everyone.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Don't Explain, Just Repeat (Hoot!)
I often find writing to be most limited in that I cannot be certain a reader will understand my present discourse before I go further. When conversing, I can tell firsthand if someone follows my point, and I can approach it in another fashion as necessary. With writing I can only try my best and follow guidelines, but at certain points I simply need feedback. If I never wanted to rewrite anything, the best I could do would be to vainly pepper my ideas with the phrase, "With me so far?"
It would be superfluous to write the same thing multiple times with different phrasing. If I knew what was understandable, I would only need to write that. Asking the reader if they were with me could provoke little other than rereading the part they didn't get. Last night I was revising a particularly loaded post (I'll let you know when it's done) when this fact gave me an idea.
I want to make some sort of HTML tool that you could stick in your posts just to tease this. The owl from Zelda, Kaepora Gaebora, would sit rotating his head and asking you if he should repeat himself. If you click "Yes" the page would scroll to the last spot where you placed some kind of starter point; you could have multiple owls in one post. Thus would the character famous for identical reiterations of info get his share of loving humor in reference instead of merely annoyed memories.
Unless you scrolled through a post too fast and accidentally passed him, which would automatically hit "Yes." No, I'm kidding.
It would be superfluous to write the same thing multiple times with different phrasing. If I knew what was understandable, I would only need to write that. Asking the reader if they were with me could provoke little other than rereading the part they didn't get. Last night I was revising a particularly loaded post (I'll let you know when it's done) when this fact gave me an idea.
I want to make some sort of HTML tool that you could stick in your posts just to tease this. The owl from Zelda, Kaepora Gaebora, would sit rotating his head and asking you if he should repeat himself. If you click "Yes" the page would scroll to the last spot where you placed some kind of starter point; you could have multiple owls in one post. Thus would the character famous for identical reiterations of info get his share of loving humor in reference instead of merely annoyed memories.
Unless you scrolled through a post too fast and accidentally passed him, which would automatically hit "Yes." No, I'm kidding.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Redemption Creamer
Easter is a pretty universal Christian celebration, but what Christ did for us is not universally agreed upon. As a Catholic, I believe He made us new by washing away our sins with his blood. Protestants (at least some) disagree. I do not know how many different ideas may exist in the various Protestant communities; but the comparison I've heard goes something like, "Protestants think we are dung heaps, and Christ's sacrifice did not change us to glittering snow, but rather covered the dung with it so you can't see what's underneath."
Dung heaps, eh? It's a pretty evocative image. It also works well when you say explicitly what Catholics believe. But why not bring the analogy up to modern times? For I thought of one that gains humor and firsthand experience while still getting the point across perfectly:
"Protestants think that we are coffee, and Christ gives us sugar and cream; but no matter how much sugar and cream you put into coffee, it never stops tasting like coffee. Eventually you're just willing to ignore the coffee taste because of the sugar and cream taste."
Granted, most people won't back this comparison because they actually like coffee. And the monks probably wouldn't have appreciated their craft being used as such a symbol. I doubt they ever applied theology to roasting beans.
Darn monks.
Dung heaps, eh? It's a pretty evocative image. It also works well when you say explicitly what Catholics believe. But why not bring the analogy up to modern times? For I thought of one that gains humor and firsthand experience while still getting the point across perfectly:
"Protestants think that we are coffee, and Christ gives us sugar and cream; but no matter how much sugar and cream you put into coffee, it never stops tasting like coffee. Eventually you're just willing to ignore the coffee taste because of the sugar and cream taste."
Granted, most people won't back this comparison because they actually like coffee. And the monks probably wouldn't have appreciated their craft being used as such a symbol. I doubt they ever applied theology to roasting beans.
Darn monks.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Fruits of Simplicity and the Importance of the Undefined
There is a famous computer simulation called "Conway's Game of Life," in which dots in a grid appear and disappear according to a certain set of criteria. The dots create more, go away, or maintain their existence based on how many others surround them. Such a simple system is capable of creating incredibly complex visuals. The interesting thing is these visuals tend to become less entertaining the more complex the base system, especially the grid, is. The patterns in a hex-based system, as opposed to the standard square one, are of a more or less predictable nature next to the latter. Many cool designs can appear, but the variation on the general result has enough limit to make a user defining the rules and initial positions lose interest. The basic four-sided system is much more fun to tinker with, as I can personally attest having spent unknown hours playing with a colorful version from an old "After Dark" screen saver program.
This simulation is the best example I can find to demonstrate a fact of nature: simplicity produces complexity.
If the atom were not such a simple structure, it could not as effectively form the many myriads of physical matter we observe day-to-day. If mathematics did not begin with the smallest unit, it could not calculate everything it needs to. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious. A function is naturally limited by the size, as it were, of its parts: given a finite space in which to build a structure, Legos will allow more variation than Duplos. Also, the more complicated the parts, the more specifically they must work together and hence the easier it is for them not to (consider exclusive Lego pieces tailored to their specific sets; they are hard to use in an original work). In effect, there is an inverse relationship between the complexity of interacting parts and that of their results.
Unfortunately, a creator often destroys true simplicity when he tries to design it. If a unit is too individual it will broaden the entire construction to maintain its individuality. If it is too specialized it will need more specific parts with which to interact. In both cases the unit adds to the total complexity of the parts in an effort to be simple in itself. This makes the results of the parts' interplay with each other more limited. A unit that is only simple in itself has a false simplicity.
Being a nerd, I shall illustrate with a comparison of Super Mario 64 (the original, mind you) and Super Mario Galaxy. For gameplay purposes, consider Mario as a single unit. Powerups are external units that become part of his unit to alter him; and in-stage devices are separate units that direct his actions, respond to them, or perform some degree of action in conjunction with him.
In SM64 Mario has a wide range of moves with which he can conquer the entire game, save for some circumstances that require him to attain one of three powerups. These give him additional attributes, such as flying or sinking in water, without changing his native ability. By contrast, SMG's Mario has only a few moves which are quite limited in themselves; what really perform most actions are in-stage devices that he must trigger, and likewise his mobility is largely directed by other units. There are lots of powerups, almost all of which change his very essence by making him geared toward one thing.
In himself, Mario is apparently a simpler unit in SMG (but what good is it to abstract him from his world?). If both Marios could accomplish all the same things in a game like SM64, the Mario with more moves would seem superfluous. Yet that is part of SM64's beauty: Mario can meet a goal with a variety of methods, and this places power into the hands of the player---a defining quality of good video games. But what's important is that SM64-Mario's more numerous moves do not complicate the structure of the game. As long as the many moves do not exist for their own unique ends, they are not complicating the unit's mode of interaction, just adding to the versatility within that mode.
In SMG, however, Mario's "many moves" are each designed for one-dimensional circumstances and are furthermore removed from Mario himself as they take the forms of powerups and devices. Mario has many things to do only in the form of many individual roads he can take, which ultimately do their own things as he goes through them. Here we see the complex sum of parts producing limited results: everything in SMG, not just Mario, boasts a false simplicity leading to stifled gameplay. SM64 instead provides lots to do by laying all the simple nuances before you, constructing entire worlds from their combinations and leaving you to interact with them as you please. Ultimately, fewer units with wider interplay are better than more units with specific interaction.
All this brings me to my second topic, which is responsible for the falseness of self-simplicity among other things. Not too distant from the "Principle of Simplicity" is the balance of definition, or the degree of fixity in a construction.
As a rule, something should have a sufficient level of establishment to achieve its goal and no more, lest it become restrictive. In the examples above, Mario's powerups, the world design, and the tasks required of the player---that is, the actions he must perform to achieve certain results---are firmly set in SMG. To say they are predetermined would be a misnomer, for everything in a video game, to the extent that it presents and allows a finite amount of material, is so. The real problem is the forced nature of the situation. Mario can accomplish X by Y and Y only. It is merely left to the player to actually perform the action (and overcome any challenge in doing so). This is precisely how Nintendo's aim for increased interaction backfires: they provide so many keys and keyholes that the player has no freedom.
Aiming for the other end of the spectrum is the motion control craze. Consider the hands-free Xbox peripheral, the Kinect sensor. Direct, full-bodied interaction with games is a noble endeavor, but the goal of transcending the barrier between games and reality is flawed. Short of using Inception's dream construction, games will never achieve the limitlessness of real life, just as computers will never be capable of independent thought. The ultimate struggle Kinect will face is a faulty attempt to make interaction unfixed, to remove definition. The premise that you are freed from the constraints of buttons is overridden by the reality that you can still only do a set amount of things a game will understand, though the medium would suggest otherwise. No motion control will completely eliminate defined functions, which is why standard controllers aren't going anywhere. And the sooner developers and consumers recognize this, the less danger there will be of jolting the player out of an experience that was supposed to be immersive.
Between these two extremes is the balance, where definition is welcomed as essential but not allowed to become totalitarian. And the importance of this balance is esthetic as well as practical.
To go beyond the realm of video games, the merits of incomplete definition are perhaps best exemplified in visual art. I don't know if Monet or anyone else said as much, but the best realism is not devoid of impressionism. Reality is heterogeneous: the "natural" look of any object, particularly those occurring in nature themselves and especially in forms of life, comes from a sort of imperfection. The grain in wood is not uniform, and the dancing of fire is unpredictable. One slice of bread is not the same as the next. So it follows that a good painter can replicate a scene with a brush to the point of photo-realism for someone standing at the right distance. The brush's chaos meets the chaos of reality.
This chaos becomes infinitely more significant when compared with graphic art. It is hard to simulate fire and water for a reason. If you'll excuse my quick return to video games, observe this painting.
No remake of Donkey Kong Country would ever look so spectacular, for the brush lends an organic feel that computers, somewhere along the line, are practically incapable of reproducing.
Within graphic art there comes a peculiar application of this "Principle of Undefinition." The resolution of an image is not unlike the example I gave early on of Legos and Duplos. The more pixels, the smaller (and simpler) the units, the more complex the result can be. When representing, say, a rocky terrain with graphics, greater resolution (if utilized correctly) will result in a more realistic image. As a rule; but if you compare the earth of planet Zebes in Super Metroid and in Metroid: Zero Mission, the former will appear more organic despite possessing half the resolution. In comes the Principle of Undefinition to override the Principle of Simplicity. In Super Metroid less of the terrain is clearly established due to the limitations of its pixelation; but those stray pixels and colors that suggest a heterogeneous soil are more effective when the mind interprets the visual and fills in the gaps. A sense of vagueness is pleasing because the imagination sees vagueness in its own clarity.
All these observations suggest to me that our present determination to continuously expand and refine our crafts and technologies is in the end rather self-defeating. We should push forward, indeed; but to do so for its own sake falls to the fallacy that more is better. Nature has it that there is a balance in everything, and at some point we must be willing to retreat in order to achieve the proper equilibrium. Until then, I watch as the world mistakes mass for depth, and wonder how far it will go.
[Image by Orioto from DeviantArt.com]
This simulation is the best example I can find to demonstrate a fact of nature: simplicity produces complexity.
If the atom were not such a simple structure, it could not as effectively form the many myriads of physical matter we observe day-to-day. If mathematics did not begin with the smallest unit, it could not calculate everything it needs to. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious. A function is naturally limited by the size, as it were, of its parts: given a finite space in which to build a structure, Legos will allow more variation than Duplos. Also, the more complicated the parts, the more specifically they must work together and hence the easier it is for them not to (consider exclusive Lego pieces tailored to their specific sets; they are hard to use in an original work). In effect, there is an inverse relationship between the complexity of interacting parts and that of their results.
Unfortunately, a creator often destroys true simplicity when he tries to design it. If a unit is too individual it will broaden the entire construction to maintain its individuality. If it is too specialized it will need more specific parts with which to interact. In both cases the unit adds to the total complexity of the parts in an effort to be simple in itself. This makes the results of the parts' interplay with each other more limited. A unit that is only simple in itself has a false simplicity.
Being a nerd, I shall illustrate with a comparison of Super Mario 64 (the original, mind you) and Super Mario Galaxy. For gameplay purposes, consider Mario as a single unit. Powerups are external units that become part of his unit to alter him; and in-stage devices are separate units that direct his actions, respond to them, or perform some degree of action in conjunction with him.
In SM64 Mario has a wide range of moves with which he can conquer the entire game, save for some circumstances that require him to attain one of three powerups. These give him additional attributes, such as flying or sinking in water, without changing his native ability. By contrast, SMG's Mario has only a few moves which are quite limited in themselves; what really perform most actions are in-stage devices that he must trigger, and likewise his mobility is largely directed by other units. There are lots of powerups, almost all of which change his very essence by making him geared toward one thing.
In himself, Mario is apparently a simpler unit in SMG (but what good is it to abstract him from his world?). If both Marios could accomplish all the same things in a game like SM64, the Mario with more moves would seem superfluous. Yet that is part of SM64's beauty: Mario can meet a goal with a variety of methods, and this places power into the hands of the player---a defining quality of good video games. But what's important is that SM64-Mario's more numerous moves do not complicate the structure of the game. As long as the many moves do not exist for their own unique ends, they are not complicating the unit's mode of interaction, just adding to the versatility within that mode.
In SMG, however, Mario's "many moves" are each designed for one-dimensional circumstances and are furthermore removed from Mario himself as they take the forms of powerups and devices. Mario has many things to do only in the form of many individual roads he can take, which ultimately do their own things as he goes through them. Here we see the complex sum of parts producing limited results: everything in SMG, not just Mario, boasts a false simplicity leading to stifled gameplay. SM64 instead provides lots to do by laying all the simple nuances before you, constructing entire worlds from their combinations and leaving you to interact with them as you please. Ultimately, fewer units with wider interplay are better than more units with specific interaction.
All this brings me to my second topic, which is responsible for the falseness of self-simplicity among other things. Not too distant from the "Principle of Simplicity" is the balance of definition, or the degree of fixity in a construction.
As a rule, something should have a sufficient level of establishment to achieve its goal and no more, lest it become restrictive. In the examples above, Mario's powerups, the world design, and the tasks required of the player---that is, the actions he must perform to achieve certain results---are firmly set in SMG. To say they are predetermined would be a misnomer, for everything in a video game, to the extent that it presents and allows a finite amount of material, is so. The real problem is the forced nature of the situation. Mario can accomplish X by Y and Y only. It is merely left to the player to actually perform the action (and overcome any challenge in doing so). This is precisely how Nintendo's aim for increased interaction backfires: they provide so many keys and keyholes that the player has no freedom.
Aiming for the other end of the spectrum is the motion control craze. Consider the hands-free Xbox peripheral, the Kinect sensor. Direct, full-bodied interaction with games is a noble endeavor, but the goal of transcending the barrier between games and reality is flawed. Short of using Inception's dream construction, games will never achieve the limitlessness of real life, just as computers will never be capable of independent thought. The ultimate struggle Kinect will face is a faulty attempt to make interaction unfixed, to remove definition. The premise that you are freed from the constraints of buttons is overridden by the reality that you can still only do a set amount of things a game will understand, though the medium would suggest otherwise. No motion control will completely eliminate defined functions, which is why standard controllers aren't going anywhere. And the sooner developers and consumers recognize this, the less danger there will be of jolting the player out of an experience that was supposed to be immersive.
Between these two extremes is the balance, where definition is welcomed as essential but not allowed to become totalitarian. And the importance of this balance is esthetic as well as practical.
To go beyond the realm of video games, the merits of incomplete definition are perhaps best exemplified in visual art. I don't know if Monet or anyone else said as much, but the best realism is not devoid of impressionism. Reality is heterogeneous: the "natural" look of any object, particularly those occurring in nature themselves and especially in forms of life, comes from a sort of imperfection. The grain in wood is not uniform, and the dancing of fire is unpredictable. One slice of bread is not the same as the next. So it follows that a good painter can replicate a scene with a brush to the point of photo-realism for someone standing at the right distance. The brush's chaos meets the chaos of reality.
This chaos becomes infinitely more significant when compared with graphic art. It is hard to simulate fire and water for a reason. If you'll excuse my quick return to video games, observe this painting.
No remake of Donkey Kong Country would ever look so spectacular, for the brush lends an organic feel that computers, somewhere along the line, are practically incapable of reproducing.Within graphic art there comes a peculiar application of this "Principle of Undefinition." The resolution of an image is not unlike the example I gave early on of Legos and Duplos. The more pixels, the smaller (and simpler) the units, the more complex the result can be. When representing, say, a rocky terrain with graphics, greater resolution (if utilized correctly) will result in a more realistic image. As a rule; but if you compare the earth of planet Zebes in Super Metroid and in Metroid: Zero Mission, the former will appear more organic despite possessing half the resolution. In comes the Principle of Undefinition to override the Principle of Simplicity. In Super Metroid less of the terrain is clearly established due to the limitations of its pixelation; but those stray pixels and colors that suggest a heterogeneous soil are more effective when the mind interprets the visual and fills in the gaps. A sense of vagueness is pleasing because the imagination sees vagueness in its own clarity.
All these observations suggest to me that our present determination to continuously expand and refine our crafts and technologies is in the end rather self-defeating. We should push forward, indeed; but to do so for its own sake falls to the fallacy that more is better. Nature has it that there is a balance in everything, and at some point we must be willing to retreat in order to achieve the proper equilibrium. Until then, I watch as the world mistakes mass for depth, and wonder how far it will go.
[Image by Orioto from DeviantArt.com]
Monday, December 20, 2010
Symbols of Purity
My mom used baking soda for some cooking yesterday, and the bag was left on the kitchen island. Looking at the logo, I chuckled again at the statement made by the "Arm & Hammer" slogan: "[This is] the standard of purity."
My first reaction to this is always a smirk at the "manliness" factor, and wonder if a brute stereotype for masculinity is being labeled as "pure." I was joking about the traditional symbol of purity, the lily, pitted against a dude with a mallet, when something struck me (not for the first time, come to think of it).
Joseph was a carpenter.
Unwittingly, the baking soda folks have got it right. Perhaps the idea is that the mechanical use of a hammer is more pure than the assistance of machines, maybe they want you to think of such rawness with regard to the soda because of such a branding; but however true these notions are, the message becomes exponential when applied to the saintly craftsman of the Holy Family. Here was a man pure in every sense of the word, in his labor, in his faith, in his chastity.
So for guys who consider a lily too feminine, an arm and hammer (or carpentering tools of some sort) can indeed serve as the masculine variety. This is not to say the lily is weak, nor that the hammer or saw must be toilsome. As symbols, the analogy is what matters. And here are two symbols for the perfectly pure parents of Christ: the flower of Mary and the tools of Joseph.
It would be awesome if the latter became officially recognized as such.
My first reaction to this is always a smirk at the "manliness" factor, and wonder if a brute stereotype for masculinity is being labeled as "pure." I was joking about the traditional symbol of purity, the lily, pitted against a dude with a mallet, when something struck me (not for the first time, come to think of it).
Joseph was a carpenter.
Unwittingly, the baking soda folks have got it right. Perhaps the idea is that the mechanical use of a hammer is more pure than the assistance of machines, maybe they want you to think of such rawness with regard to the soda because of such a branding; but however true these notions are, the message becomes exponential when applied to the saintly craftsman of the Holy Family. Here was a man pure in every sense of the word, in his labor, in his faith, in his chastity.
So for guys who consider a lily too feminine, an arm and hammer (or carpentering tools of some sort) can indeed serve as the masculine variety. This is not to say the lily is weak, nor that the hammer or saw must be toilsome. As symbols, the analogy is what matters. And here are two symbols for the perfectly pure parents of Christ: the flower of Mary and the tools of Joseph.
It would be awesome if the latter became officially recognized as such.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wanderings of the Open Mind (or I Don't Have Any Good Tags For This)
Weak understanding is a poisonous thing.
Whenever I try to discuss a subject with somebody of a different mindset, I come away feeling defeated. Not because I lost or was proven wrong, but because I know I inadequately argued my views, which led to an anticlimactic end to the topic as a mutual act of leaving the tug-of-war rope draped haphazardly over the mud pit.
I often find myself musing over the matter for ages afterward, trying to understand both the argument and the truth of the subject in question. On one hand, there's the constant obstacle of articulation, a shortcoming of my mind to give form to a complex issue outside of my head, no matter how thoroughly understood it may be (or have been thought out in the past) on the inside. But there's more than that. The other hand holds my stripping the issue down, trying to probe it from an assumptionless angle to find why what I always held as true is really the truth and how it might be recognized from the opposing side. Eventually I question the truth of my own beliefs, because I look so long and hard through the other person's lens.
I've always come back to my knowledge of the truth, usually through the help of discussion with peers such as S.Cobbler. When my own grappling with a question leads to uncertainty, a sure course of action is to pose it bluntly to another and get a lecture. I then return to the understanding I had beforehand, reassured and affirmed in my knowledge, which may be deeper or stronger than before.
This path has struck me as somewhat dangerous, perhaps humiliating or revelatory of my own intellectual instability. Any way I cut it, it has a bothersome element to it. But when I look at my comebacks, my ability to perceive the truth in the end when it is re-presented to me, I know the problem isn't my smarts. In fact, I credit no deficiency for my forays into confusion and uncertainty; rather, I blame what is most properly a virtue on my part. In a natural effort to avoid dismissal of the other side, I try to understand why they don't see my point. Empathetically, you could say, I put myself in their shoes because I want them to fit mine.
Virtues can be excessive, and I don't doubt that is to fault when I lose my way in these situations. I become like my opponents, to a point, rejecting what they would reject, following their prerogatives for finding the truth. Yet I know something inside that screams I---they---are missing a key point, but it often takes a friend to uncover it for me at that stage. I never truly stop believing what I held true, but I can't figure it out from the perspective of the other person. That, of course, is why they hold a different opinion, why they fail to grasp my argument, why I cannot make my belief acceptable to them.
I have felt, in a childlike foolishness, that the truth should be visible---to the point of being obvious---to everyone. The fact that one man can see it means others should be just as capable. If the truth is there, logical and understandable, one should recognize it as the truth, right? And yet some people can have the truth staring them in the face and they completely disregard it. Maddening as this is, I must realize it is not my fault. Yes, I could do a better job of explaining things at times, but ultimately the choice is theirs, whether or not to believe anything. It would be machinelike to always follow the path of the most truth. It would mean no free will.
Granted, it stings to find good arguments after the discussion is over. That fuller, renewed grasp of the subject makes me wish I could challenge my opponent anew, to start the debate from the beginning. Whatever tools I was missing before would at the very least let my points be complete and well-defended, so I would not feel that defeat of inadequacy when they remained unconvinced. At most, I could say what I should have said before had my approach or articulation not failed me, squashing the rebuttals that are obviously flawed, putting them down as easily as I should have. Alas, my best arguments are not won in the presence of others, for better or worse.
I'm not dumb. I just tend to lose my grip on my sword because I face my opponents without gloves. Sure, it's a lack of armor; but with gloves I couldn't feel the warmth of their hands when I shake them. The cons: I am more vulnerable and less effective in my duels. The pros: I can be certain that I'm not the "closed-minded" party; I can honestly say "yes" to those who ask if I've ever really stepped back and thought about my beliefs. I have more than they could realize.
Whenever I try to discuss a subject with somebody of a different mindset, I come away feeling defeated. Not because I lost or was proven wrong, but because I know I inadequately argued my views, which led to an anticlimactic end to the topic as a mutual act of leaving the tug-of-war rope draped haphazardly over the mud pit.
I often find myself musing over the matter for ages afterward, trying to understand both the argument and the truth of the subject in question. On one hand, there's the constant obstacle of articulation, a shortcoming of my mind to give form to a complex issue outside of my head, no matter how thoroughly understood it may be (or have been thought out in the past) on the inside. But there's more than that. The other hand holds my stripping the issue down, trying to probe it from an assumptionless angle to find why what I always held as true is really the truth and how it might be recognized from the opposing side. Eventually I question the truth of my own beliefs, because I look so long and hard through the other person's lens.
I've always come back to my knowledge of the truth, usually through the help of discussion with peers such as S.Cobbler. When my own grappling with a question leads to uncertainty, a sure course of action is to pose it bluntly to another and get a lecture. I then return to the understanding I had beforehand, reassured and affirmed in my knowledge, which may be deeper or stronger than before.
This path has struck me as somewhat dangerous, perhaps humiliating or revelatory of my own intellectual instability. Any way I cut it, it has a bothersome element to it. But when I look at my comebacks, my ability to perceive the truth in the end when it is re-presented to me, I know the problem isn't my smarts. In fact, I credit no deficiency for my forays into confusion and uncertainty; rather, I blame what is most properly a virtue on my part. In a natural effort to avoid dismissal of the other side, I try to understand why they don't see my point. Empathetically, you could say, I put myself in their shoes because I want them to fit mine.
Virtues can be excessive, and I don't doubt that is to fault when I lose my way in these situations. I become like my opponents, to a point, rejecting what they would reject, following their prerogatives for finding the truth. Yet I know something inside that screams I---they---are missing a key point, but it often takes a friend to uncover it for me at that stage. I never truly stop believing what I held true, but I can't figure it out from the perspective of the other person. That, of course, is why they hold a different opinion, why they fail to grasp my argument, why I cannot make my belief acceptable to them.
I have felt, in a childlike foolishness, that the truth should be visible---to the point of being obvious---to everyone. The fact that one man can see it means others should be just as capable. If the truth is there, logical and understandable, one should recognize it as the truth, right? And yet some people can have the truth staring them in the face and they completely disregard it. Maddening as this is, I must realize it is not my fault. Yes, I could do a better job of explaining things at times, but ultimately the choice is theirs, whether or not to believe anything. It would be machinelike to always follow the path of the most truth. It would mean no free will.
Granted, it stings to find good arguments after the discussion is over. That fuller, renewed grasp of the subject makes me wish I could challenge my opponent anew, to start the debate from the beginning. Whatever tools I was missing before would at the very least let my points be complete and well-defended, so I would not feel that defeat of inadequacy when they remained unconvinced. At most, I could say what I should have said before had my approach or articulation not failed me, squashing the rebuttals that are obviously flawed, putting them down as easily as I should have. Alas, my best arguments are not won in the presence of others, for better or worse.
I'm not dumb. I just tend to lose my grip on my sword because I face my opponents without gloves. Sure, it's a lack of armor; but with gloves I couldn't feel the warmth of their hands when I shake them. The cons: I am more vulnerable and less effective in my duels. The pros: I can be certain that I'm not the "closed-minded" party; I can honestly say "yes" to those who ask if I've ever really stepped back and thought about my beliefs. I have more than they could realize.
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