I am wanderer and now bedridden,solemnly staking claim to spiritual journey that I undertake everyday talking to self.There is passion for the self searching,finding true meaning of life.Like all passions it happens with a burning desire to be spiritually closer to what the nature has bestowed upon man a soulful communion with the mountains if man wants to be in the company of immortals.Nature is a breeze for men who are compassionate with themselves.There is no middle man lurching in somewhere who has introduced oneself to modern contraption of what man calls God.Along came love with soul that is a mark of generations’ toil with the spiritual content of man.To be bold is a sign of recognizing oneself to undertake all the tough tasks of knowing thy self unless you know yourself there is nothing else matters.A journey of logic and comprehension could mean putting logic aside and facing the urgency of self fulfilment. I am amazed at the idea of man being in principles higher than any ideals that are self consoling.I hear the stories of man being rising to fulfil the promises with higher moral grounds than what is permissible in this life.A claim to ideal life is lived with principles and experiment with the truth.He is lustful to be spiritual master of his soul.There could not be nothing endearing than the soulful promise of fulfilment of higher ideals.The ideal of a man would again be a man and his search never ends in finding the rightful place in the history.The only ordeals that are lead by a man are to belong to higher ideals and better historical rapport that he establishes with his fellow men.A principle, a higher ideal and a spiritual conquest of oneself his what is sought in this world.The materialistic side of existence is never in question for man finds more in the ideals and spiritual love.The spiritual love is a binding with the class of men that never yield to lust for life but in accordance with their right to follow spiritually often the other duties that go beyond the materialistic control of life.In the end what measures up is his love with the fellow brothers and continuance with spiritual ideals.
In her attempts to understand the octopus, a creature that for a variety of reasons has caught her eye, Montgomery, author of The Good Good Pig, befriends the men and women of the New England Aquarium, and while there she develops what can only be called a relationship with its various octopus inhabitants. The book is sort of three in one. It is in part an attempt to grapple with animal consciousness as it relates to the octopus. It is part grab-bag of interesting factoids about this incredible species. And it is also a memoir, as Montgomery is very much a part of the story—it follows her relations with fellow enthusiasts, her struggles with scuba diving, and her own emotional connection to the creatures.
“The commonest of sea creatures are miracles,” writes Montgomery, and the octopus is a prime example.
Octopuses (not octopi) are fascinating enough to fill a whole book. Most of the book focuses on the giant Pacific octopus. One of these creatures can have 1,600 suckers, each of which can lift 30 pounds. Each individual sucker can work like our finger and opposable thumb, allowing it to pinch and grab things. They can taste with their entire bodies, but their suckers are especially powerful and attuned to chemicals. Their blood is actually blue, as it uses copper to carry oxygen, whereas we use iron. It also has three hearts and is literally mind-bending as its brain is found around its throat.
We may imagine that the octopus feeding itself tentacle to mouth, but as Montgomery points out, it actually runs its food along its suckers like a conveyer belt so as to enjoy and taste it. They can regrow limbs that are just as good as the one that was lost. They also sometimes mate at a distance because they might kill one another.
They are also incredibly slippery, and not just because they are covered in slime. One of the foremost problems with keeping octopuses in captivity is that they are excellent at escaping, and through holes that are tiny fractions of their regular size. “Any hole, they’re going right through it,” one expert tells Montgomery.
The more difficult part of the book for the author is trying to grapple with the level of “consciousness” octopuses have—do they feel? Think? Love? Experience complex emotions? Have free will?
“Of all the creatures on the planet who imagine what is in another creature’s mind, the one that must do so best might well be the octopus.”
While Montgomery admits she comes up short in this department, largely due to the lack of existing science, what she does manage to write about convincingly is the degree to which octopuses are far more complex and intelligent than I ever fathomed.
Octopuses are invertebrates, creatures generally considered on the dumber side. And yet workers at aquariums across the country find themselves constantly coming up with ways to entertain octopuses. One aquarium has given its octopus tools for it to paint. Another gave its octopus a ball to play with, only to find the octopus unscrewing and screwing it back together.
They are one of a select number of species that can follow a human pointing at something. Octopuses also can adopt anywhere from 30 to 50 patterns that allow it to camouflage itself, and can do so “in seven tenths of a second.” Oh, and they somehow manage to do this while being colorblind. One at the Seattle Aquarium famously picked off dogfish sharks in its tanks.
While that certainly makes the octopus interesting, and certainly much more complex than a clam, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a self-aware being. If one even accepts that free will exists for human beings, how does one measure it for an animal?
One way Montgomery looks to is something called theory of mind, or the “ability to ascribe thoughts to others, thoughts that might differ from our own.” She argues that the octopus succeeds at this test because in order to hide from predators, and to hunt its prey, it must command an astonishing array of methods that require understanding the motives of other creatures. “Of all the creatures on the planet who imagine what is in another creature’s mind, the one that must do so best might well be the octopus,” writes Montgomery, “because without this ability, the octopus could not perpetrate its many self-preserving deceptions.”
Prominent scientists, including Stephen Hawking, signed a statement in 2012 claiming “humans are not unique in possessing the neurological substrates that generate consciousness” and included octopuses on this list.
Yet with octopuses this is especially tough, as so much of their “self” is spread out across its body, such as the neurons in its arms. As one philosopher who also is an expert diver, Peter Godfrey-Smith, posits to Montgomery, thinking about the octopus in terms of consciousness could mean using different criteria. Instead of a central consciousness, could it have a “collaborative, cooperative, but distributed mind” or even multiple “selves”?
The third component of the book, the memoir part, is actually incredibly sad. Octopuses live very short lives of only a few years. Montgomery finds herself building up a close attachment to these wonderful creatures, only to suffer heartbreak after heartbreak. But this personal aspect means that after reading the book, you will likely think the unthinkable and want to experience an octopus latching on to your arms and tasting you. But the creatures also die in a very tragic way. They become senescent, and act similar to a human with Alzheimer’s in that they seem lost at times, as if their mind is somewhere else.
The animal-consciousness debate is far from over, but its impact on subjects ranging from what we eat to conservation efforts is hard to overstate. What informative but entertaining books like The Soul of an Octopus do in the meantime is remind us of just how much we not only have to learn from fellow creatures, but that they can have a positive impact on our lives.
In this loveless world
I blink and hesitate
to see the ends permuting
into a beginning again
of myself and the gaze
I happen to see the frigid women
in the cold freeze of winter
All are silent except me
I gaze around and again I hope
the love rest is fit for the ghouls
and love could never unfold
the dreams of the lost men
in this tiny url world of internet
Love falls apart on its own accord
and I become silent once more.
Life up the soul and see the gleam
rest a little bit and may you dream
about the hills in taboo
and streams in flourish of the lands
I hear nonetheless a retort from my
bitter winter.Shall we sleep again!
We re-examine ourselves every time we commit errors, there was perhaps an illusion that worked up the faith and nothing else matters.Faith could be blind arousing passion while knowledge is a key to imagination that propels science and improves our world view.Having faith, we establish Frankenstein that challenges himself as God which again is illusory abstraction. Man’s centuries old faith in the idea of God is an obsession with one man that is Christ. There is no knowledge in knowing the Christ because he is already known by the virtue of his edifice which was a product of the state and state machinery about two thousand years ago.I am not believing in the idea of God which is basically a slumber to presence of something in this world.Something happens in the world and would always be happening which I treat as reality that seeks every one among the intelligent people to term as deviation and yield from their creative force a critique of something not happening.What doesn’t happen is not falsehood but mimicry of something not happening.In the religion there is an intelligent agent helping on the way to look for God and hence find meaning to existence.The something not happening is in principle like meditation where we concentrate upon ourselves to seek the divinity.What something is not happening is the establishment of religion and its corpus agenda.All in the religion,nothing happens and what happens is the intellectualism of will.We tend to come up with the abstractions to convince ourselves the essence of divinity.All the divine obscures knowledge and all the spirituality bases itself upon faith that is illusory in nature and puts as at crossroads of reason.
Things and plenty of things is a sure sign of existence but why then pessimism dominates our world order view ?Simply because we want huge many of things.Kant described the thing as thing-in-itself as things exist independent of perception and are unknowable as such.The only knowledge that is possible in such a case is without experience,So massive scheme of things that exist for us is not only huge but unmeasurable to the extent that experience could alone cannot help us in knowing the things. Hence how do I know ? I know but with impressions on mind rendered by the structure of things that is possible to know with a knowledge of language.The language helps us in forming concepts about things.Such a knowledge could be redundant when conceiving the things as that is usually used for scientific purposes to fulfil the need of utility of things.Once the utilitarian perception is overcome, we are left in the lurch by unfathomable ocean of existence.I exist therefore things exist ultimately as having an order which is principally of experience.Beyond experience I must transcend the order in which things are established in the world of cosmic significance through meditation or any ultra sensory methods.Concentrating upon the soul is beginning of knowledge of things perceptible which one gathers by conscious awakening of soul.Once my inner world is wild awake I could proceed to know what is outside of things other than me.I concentrate upon vortex of truth that germinal seed of creation that is present in every thing conceivable in the universe.Out of humble beginning as a knower of things perceptible one could focus on all the energy there is with held deep within oneself.What is knowable is oneself and the enlightenment of being in the universe thus one sees all the light of the universe in oneself.
I bend and pick up the sea shells
No more dilemma about the sea
the sea is locked between the horns
of a bull and a centaur
My sea shells conform with the seaweed
equally important is the fish
that lounged in the tides
I am coming home to see my mother
there is a rickety gate that
cringes upon its hinges.The gate opened
I walk into the garden, there is love
and there is haste,My seashells have
grown in number but I am unhappy
to display in the sun and make
the canopies of the sea weed
There I am walking into the garden
and I have met my mother, there is silence
and all my friends have left for picnic
Could I have a sight of her,now in the garden!
She is been dead a decade ago,
my unusual suspicion of rebirth has waned
and now I contend my self with a cup of coffee
in the morning,The church bell chimes evening
the wind is light and air thin
It is June in the winter,like last June
it is annoying to see so much pollution
She was kind but ill of luck struck nine
and the potpourri melted and now is dead.
I know the roses smell for heaven’s sake exotic and bold.I know love denied is love revived.I embark on the path of love as a sufi saint whose ultimate concern is the cosmos.There is no illusion about who the lover is in this case, a affirmative for the God.To perceive love is not like watching a romantic movie or reading a fantasy novel, its pretty dark and straight to learn the lessons of love.I am waiting for something to happen,something desirable, something beautiful.Now I am challenging myself to receive love in its full bloom.There is a scent usually of a woman lingering in the room where everything is sensual from bath to toga besides a deodorant or perfume.But she is not fulfilling the need to share, share with a stranger is never on the agenda but yet there is some destination to which I yearn to reach but there is something in the way.A rejection slip from my supposed to be lover than anyone else.I look out of the window,its pretty dark and evening has baled the world into another uncertain night.No riders in the night.My lover is not complaining about anything.I have taken for granted that the rejection would subside and I would be in the arms of a pretty stranger.The world is obsessive about itself.There is no intellectual preference and what comes to fancy is that what happens in immediate reality.Its absurd to make sense out of reality.The effort goes into living the reality is burden on the soul.There is not anyone out there let alone caring.All the sense comes from one’s parents who stick to in all times.So besides parents there is hardly anyone worth of salt and grain.