I've been meditating on subjectivity and objectivity lately, courtesy of an exchange with commenter @barefootwisdom. We're all taught as children that there is such a thing as objective Truth, and that even though we are limited by our subjective senses, the Truth can be discovered through the scientific method. In the last week, though, I've come to think that even a subjective universe can be consistent enough to admit the use of the scientific method; and that if we don't need to resort to the notion of objectivity in order to model the universe, then (by Ockham's Razor) we shouldn't.
(Why, then, is the concept taught? Presumably to propagandize children into an implicit belief in a mechanistic universe in which gods and goddesses have no place.)
That's all good enough for me, but I thought I might be better served by asking someone less bound by a lack of perspective as I am.
I am represented by Cauda Draconis in the the I (a traditional indication that I already know, or think I know, the answer and am shopping for a confirmation), while the concept of objectivity is represented by Amissio (the figure of loss) in the IX (of deep knowledge). The I perfects to the IX by a conjunction through the X (strengthened slightly by company capitular). The I is in planetary company with Rubeus in the II (of things held closely, indicating my prior worldview), while Amissio also occupies the V (of pleasures) and VII (of the being I'm asking my question to). Interestingly, these three figures (Rubeus, Cauda Draconis, and Amissio) also make up the court.
All told, I think this says: "Yes, for whatever it's worth, I agree with you and think that the world is more fun and interesting if you drop the concept altogether. You were misinstructed as a child, but you managed to figure things out for yourself in the end."
You should consider it a success if you can rise above your limits, rather than a failure if you can't.
He who knows what iron is, knows the attributes of Mars.
He who knows Mars, knows the qualities of iron.
(Paracelsus.)
Gold is valuable, but it cannot equal iron in its multiplicity of uses.
(Yoshida Kenko, Tsurezuregusa.)
One must be compelled to wear fetters of iron, and yet many wear the weightier fetters of gold by choice. But note that the pain of iron often compels one to seek release from it, while the delight of gold often buries one ever deeper in chains. Because of this, wise men have said that pain is greater than pleasure, for it induces one to wisdom.
(Porphyry to Marcella.)
I think I finally figured out why life passes so very slowly: not only does "a watched pot never boil," but if the one watching it grows ever hungrier while they wait, it will seem to take longer still.
There was once a dog who so adored her master that, upon seeing Venus one morning, she wished to be human so that she might more completely love him. Venus took pity upon the dog and granted her wish, changing her into a dazzlingly beautiful girl. When her master saw her, he was so smitten with her that they were married at once. That night, however, in the midst of lovemaking, the howling of dogs sent the dog-girl into a frenzy and she ran to the window and began to howl with them. Her master, seeing this, wailed, "Oh, what have I done!? She has the body of a girl, yet she still has the soul of a dog!"
Seeing her master's sorrow, the dog-girl again beseeched Venus, wishing to bring happiness to her master rather than pain. Venus, not knowing what to do, asked Juno for help. Juno went to the master's house and said to him, "It is true that your bride has the soul of a dog, but so also does she have a dog's heart: her love and faithfulness for you are boundless. If you keep your vows to her, then I will bless your marriage with joy." And so the master agreed to try.
The dog-girl never overcame her canine habits, but her master did his best to overlook these, and in time came to love her as much as she loved him; and so Venus and Juno gave them many happy years together.
Nature cannot be changed, but it can be accepted.
The other day one of my spiritual friends said to me, "You shouldn't think of life as being in a prison. It's more like being in a train car: sure, you can't move around as freely as you'd like, but you're certainly going somewhere, and quickly, and for a reason."
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