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pai mei · 02-17-2009, 11:35 PM

I feel like I'm talking to some wall here. Please all read some books by Daniel Quinn. There was a world before agriculture and before money. Look at the Arawak indians. Look at the North American indians. Of course there is nothing to see, we killed them all they were savages, not like us...

You say that if people are not rewarded there will be no progress ? People who work for progress like Einstein for example need no reward. Their work is their reward and I am sure they don't even see it as work, when you do what you like it' not work.

What you mean is "if people are not forced to fit and maintain this system there will be no progress". That is not progress for me. There's all this talk, all this philosophy about not caring about material things, but you think people need "rewards like money and status" to progress ? People who need those things are weak people and there is no progress in following them. Look at all the geniuses and whatever - did they require money and "status" ? They were far beyond those, even if other gave those things to them I am sure that was not the motivation.

In my system people would be really free. Imagine you wake up and know you have nothing to do and will never have. You improve your home, improve your street, then you gather with others and say "let's do this", and start building a monument to last for many centuries, not because you are forced or rewarded, just because you have nothing to do, and you like it. Your result is your reward. Like children do when they play, of course adults say "a just children, they do nothing", and in fact they are real creators.
Anybody does what he likes. You are interested in science, gather together with others and do research. You do it because you like it and want to make life for everybody better. Look at the art work of the American Indians. I am sure nobody forced or paid them for it. They did it, they had more "free time" then we the "Advanced" have today. All their time was "free" and they did not "work" or "not work" they just lived.

The lack of money and the free food and housing means - no crazy glory seeking madman will ever rise. He will have no means to lure or to threaten others to work for his plan. If some people gather and do a thing they will do it out of their own will, quitting anytime they want, and never able to impose their will on others.

Alone in a Crowd

Quote:

We don't really need each other. Contemporary parties, for example, are almost always based on consumption—of food, drink, drugs, sports, or other forms of entertainment. We recognize them as frivolous. This sort of fun really doesn't matter, and neither do the friendships based on fun. Does anybody ever become close by partying together?

Actually, I don't think that joint consumption is even fun. It only passes the time painlessly by covering up a lack, and leaves us feeling all the more empty. The significance of the superficiality of our social leisure becomes apparent when we contrast that sort of "fun" with a very different activity, play. Unlike joint consumption, play is by nature creative. Joint creativity fosters relationships that are anything but superficial. But when our fun, our entertainment, is itself the object of purchase, and is created by distant and anonymous specialists for our consumption (movies, sports contests, music), then we become consumers and not producers of fun. We are no longer play-ers.

Play is the production of fun; entertainment is the consumption of fun. When the neighbors watch the Superbowl together they are consumers; when they organize a game of touch football (alas, the parks are empty these days) they are producers. When they watch music videos together they consume; when they play in a band they produce. Only through the latter activity is there the possibility of getting to know each other's strengths and limitations, character and inner resources. In contrast, the typical cocktail party, dinner party, or Superbowl party affords little opportunity to share much of oneself, because there is nothing to do. (And have you noticed how any attempt to share oneself in such settings seems contrived, uncomfortable, awkward, inappropriate, or embarrassing?) Besides, real intimacy comes not from telling about yourself—your childhood, your relationships, your health problems, etc.—but from joint creativity, which brings out your true qualities, invites you to show that aspect of yourself needed for the task at hand. Later, when intimacy has developed, telling about oneself may come naturally—or it may not even be necessary.

Have you ever wondered why your childhood friendships were closer, more intimate, more bonded than those of adulthood? At least that's how I remember mine. It wasn't because we had heart-to-heart conversations about our feelings. With our childhood friends we felt a closeness that probably wasn't communicated in words. We did things together and created things together. From an adult's perspective our creativity was nothing but games: our play forts and cardboard box houses and pretend tea parties and imaginary sports teams and teddy bear families were not real. As children, though, these activities were very real to us indeed; we were absolutely in earnest and invested no less a degree of emotion in our make-believe than adults do in theirs.

Yes, the adult world is make-believe too. Roles and costumes, games and pretenses contribute to a vast story. When we become aware of it, we sense the artificiality of it all and feel, perhaps, like a child playing grown-up. The entire edifice of culture and technology is built on stories, composed of symbols, about how the world is. Usually we don't notice; we think it is all "for real". Our stories are mostly unconscious. But the new edifice that will rise from the ruins of the old will be built on very different stories of self and world, and these stories will be consciously told. We will go back to play.

As children the things we did together mattered to us. To us they were real; we cared about them intensely and they evoked our full being. In contrast, most of the things we do together as adults for the sake of fun and friendship do not matter. We recognize them as frivolous, unnecessary, and relegate them to our "spare time". A child does not relegate play to spare time, unless forced to.

I remember the long afternoons of childhood when my friends and I would get totally involved in some project or other, which became for that time the most important thing in the universe. We were completely immersed, in our project and in our group. Our union was greater than our mere sum as individuals; the whole was greater than the sum of the parts. The friendships that satisfy our need for connection are those that make each person more than themselves. That extra dimension belongs to both partners and to neither, akin to the "fifth voice" that emerges in a barbershop quartet out of the harmonics of the four. In many of my adult relationships I feel diminished, not enlarged. I don't feel like I've let go of boundaries to become part of something greater than my self; instead I find myself tightly guarding my boundaries and doling out only that little bit of myself that is safe or likeable or proper. Others do the same. We are reserved. We are restrained.

Our reservedness should not be too surprising, because there is little in our adult friendships that compels us to be together. We can get together and talk, we can get together and eat and talk, we can get together and drink and talk. We can watch a movie or a concert together and be entertained. There are many opportunities for joint consumption but few for joint creativity, or for doing things together about which we care intensely. At most we might go sailing or play sports with friends, and at least we are working together toward a common purpose, but even so we recognize it as a game, a pastime. The reason adult friendships seem so superficial is that they are superficial. The reason we can find little to do besides getting together and talking, or getting together to be entertained, is that our society's specialization has left us with little else to do. Thus the teenager's constant refrain: "There's nothing to do." He is right. As we move into adulthood, in place of play we are offered consumption, in place of joint creativity, competition, and in place of playmates, the professional colleague.