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b2mem2012-03-17 11:36 am
huinare.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2012-03-17 11:36 am
B15 | Philosophy on the Mitheithel
B2MeM Challenge: “Toad” (Beasts), “Immortality” (Deep Thoughts), “Glacier” (Landscape), “I am the swift uplifting rush..” -attrib. M.E. Frye (Snippets of Verse), “Rough” (Textures), “Hot” (Weather).
Format: Overgrown ficlet
Genre: General
Rating: G
Warnings: Metaphysics
Characters: Gandalf, Saruman
Summary: Obviously, when it's too hot to move, the thing to do is discuss metaphysics.
The boat sat at anchor in the shade of overhanging trees, for the Istari deemed it too hot to ponder rowing. On board, Alatar and Pallando cast fishing lines into the river and waited, talking idly. They periodically splashed water on their necks and faces. Aiwendil had wandered off into the woods to forage for edible plant matter; he did not eat any flesh unless at great need. Curumo sat with his back against a boulder in the shade near the river’s edge, trying to absorb whatever of the night’s coolness might still lie within the stone. Olórin, who had stripped down to breeches, lounged on another boulder in the sun, evidently the only member of the party enjoying the unseasonable heat.
It was the last day of spring by the reckoning of the Dúnedain, and it had arrived with undue heat after a pleasant night. The afternoon was sweltering, the sun beaming down smugly with no clouds to contest it. Meanwhile, the Mitheithel helpfully added humidity to the already uncomfortable situation.
Curumo rather wished for subterranean caves, geologically diverting and pleasantly moderate places aloof from excessive heat and cold–or perhaps, for deep stone buildings whose innards lay in perpetual shade. He was growing impatient with dirt and sweat and mold. He regarded the river with hooded eyes until something hopped across his line of vision.
Curumo cared little enough for most animals, but watching this one was a diversion from the lethargic boredom of the hour. He arose to follow it along the bank, pushing himself up with his palms on the boulder behind him, which rasped on his skin; the region’s geomorphic content was chiefly rough, malleable sedimentary rock. He paced slowly along behind the toad, watching its small flanks moving in and out.
A small breath, to a much larger observer; yet, to the creature itself, everything.
Olórin, on his boulder a couple yards out in the shallows, glanced over. “What are you doing creeping along there?”
Curumo looked briefly embarrassed before explaining with dignity and mild annoyance, “Observing this toad.”
Olórin sat up to see the animal for himself. “What about it?”
“What do you think its perception must be like? Its life is exceedingly brief. What is a moment to this creature?”
“What is a moment to the Secondborn, versus the Firstborn?”
Curumo nodded almost imperceptibly, approvingly. “I suppose one must answer that, before even addressing such a brief life as this.”
“Well. I should think that, the shorter the life, the greater the value placed upon a moment.”
“One might think so, but have we seen any evidence of this? Certainly Men are more aware of death’s imminence in a practical sense, but do they use their moments any more wisely or fully than do the Firstborn? Elves speak more often now of the changing and waning of things, of diminishing. They seem almost painfully aware of the passing of each moment.”
Olórin considered. “Perhaps one values existence more, then, the longer one exists? The Eldar seem more stricken by death, when it does come among them. If the Ainur could ‘die,’ how poorly would we handle that?”
The toad veered into the brush along the riverbank; more interested now in his conversation, Curumo glanced after it for a moment, and then back to Olórin. “The extinguishing of a personality containing billions of years’ worth of thoughts, experiences, memories–Quite poorly indeed, one might imagine.”
Olórin nodded, and queried suddenly, “What is the first thing you remember?”
Curumo shrugged. “The same thing all of us remember. Emerging from oblivion into awareness.”
“What of it?”
A peculiarly guarded look came into Curumo’s eyes. “What words are there for that? If you have some, you tell me.”
Olórin looked eastward to where the distant peaks of the Hithaeglir reared above the hills and woods of Rhudaur, seemed to depart for a few moments into thought and memory, and came back with a faint smile. “I remember some sense of a vast presence that wished me well, and an awareness that there were many others there with me. I felt an overbearing, nearly painful goodwill toward everyone.”
“That explains much.”
Olórin raised his eyebrows suspiciously.
Curumo elaborated, “Your goodwill remains overbearing and painful.”
His reminiscences interrupted, Olórin thought to avenge himself by openly goading the other about his obvious discomfort with the subject of first awareness. But Curumo did not quickly forgive such things. So Olórin instead lobbed an apple core at him, which he sidestepped hastily.
“Well,” resumed Olórin, “what about the first time you physically manifested? Everyone has a good story about that, some rather humorous. Did you ever hear Tilion’s? There was a geyser involved.”
“I was in a cavern. There was no light.”
“And?”
“I was well clear of any geysers. I am sorry to disappoint you, Olórin.”
“But what did you feel?”
“Rough stone.”
“Blast. Describe the manner and nature of your experience within this cavern, Curumo.”
“I assure you it was pleasant, after the initial shock of breathing wore off.” Curumo was scanning the shore, perhaps regretting that he’d lost track of his toad and gotten involved in a conversation for which he had little relish. He talked readily of theory and abstraction, but not of his own experiences.
Seeing this, Olórin changed course. “I’ve been meaning to ask, is that what I think it is?” He pointed eastward.
Curumo glanced round. Between two peaks, far off and barely visible, a whitish object incurred. “So long as you think it’s a glacier, yes.”
“I hadn’t realized there were any left in this age.”
“Very few, I should think. It’s no longer cold enough for one like that to grow. I imagine it’s been stagnant for millennia, if not actually shrinking.”
“It’s peculiar looking at a colossal wedge of ice in this heat. Once, could we not have covered the distance between it and us in a matter of minutes?–gone from heat to cold almost instantaneously? Now it would take us, what, at least a week at a brisk march. What we took once for granted seems rather profound now.”
“That is so.” Curumo sat down on another rock in the shade of the trees. The heat seemed almost to physically weigh on him, but no amount of discomfort would convince him to part company with his shirt. “I’ve been considering, since we began this talk, an issue of immortality and time.”
“Yes?”
“Say there is an independent universe, here.” Curumo raised his bony hands as though holding a small, spherical object, into which he proceeded to look while he spoke. “This universe holds both mortal and immortal beings, the immortal of course persisting for the duration of its existence. What if this universe lasts only for ten years?”
“Their years, or ours?”
“Ours. So, if this universe comes and goes in so brief a time, its immortal beings will have lasted not even one quarter of the lifespan of our short-lived Secondborn. One could hypothesize another universe, lasting only a minute, and the same situation. Yet, it cannot be contested that the immortals in these situations are not immortal.”
“Perhaps it could. You’re saying they cease to exist when their universe ceases to exist.”
“But that is not akin to a mortal death. What would become of the Ainur, of we who call ourselves immortal, if all of this ceased?” Curumo gestured vaguely at the world in general with one hand.
“You just dropped your hypothetical universe on the toad,” said Olórin. Both Istari paused to watch the toad, which had reemerged, as it hopped past Curumo’s feet. “But anyway, if our universe ceased I suppose we’d return to the Timeless Halls.”
“Who said the Timeless Halls aren’t part of our universe?”
“Who said they are?”
“They are outside of time and space. But does not the universe contain more than time and space?”
“I suppose, but that doesn’t mean it contains the Timeless Halls. Why are you even speaking of things like the universe ending, Curumo? That seems unlikely, and a bit dark for a bright day such as this.”
Curumo shrugged. “The end, if it comes, shall make no more distinction between bright and dark than the beginning did. Both assert only: ‘I am the swift uplifting rush that assembles or disassembles a consciousness.’” He slid off the rock and resumed trailing after the small toad on the riverbank.
Format: Overgrown ficlet
Genre: General
Rating: G
Warnings: Metaphysics
Characters: Gandalf, Saruman
Summary: Obviously, when it's too hot to move, the thing to do is discuss metaphysics.
The boat sat at anchor in the shade of overhanging trees, for the Istari deemed it too hot to ponder rowing. On board, Alatar and Pallando cast fishing lines into the river and waited, talking idly. They periodically splashed water on their necks and faces. Aiwendil had wandered off into the woods to forage for edible plant matter; he did not eat any flesh unless at great need. Curumo sat with his back against a boulder in the shade near the river’s edge, trying to absorb whatever of the night’s coolness might still lie within the stone. Olórin, who had stripped down to breeches, lounged on another boulder in the sun, evidently the only member of the party enjoying the unseasonable heat.
It was the last day of spring by the reckoning of the Dúnedain, and it had arrived with undue heat after a pleasant night. The afternoon was sweltering, the sun beaming down smugly with no clouds to contest it. Meanwhile, the Mitheithel helpfully added humidity to the already uncomfortable situation.
Curumo rather wished for subterranean caves, geologically diverting and pleasantly moderate places aloof from excessive heat and cold–or perhaps, for deep stone buildings whose innards lay in perpetual shade. He was growing impatient with dirt and sweat and mold. He regarded the river with hooded eyes until something hopped across his line of vision.
Curumo cared little enough for most animals, but watching this one was a diversion from the lethargic boredom of the hour. He arose to follow it along the bank, pushing himself up with his palms on the boulder behind him, which rasped on his skin; the region’s geomorphic content was chiefly rough, malleable sedimentary rock. He paced slowly along behind the toad, watching its small flanks moving in and out.
A small breath, to a much larger observer; yet, to the creature itself, everything.
Olórin, on his boulder a couple yards out in the shallows, glanced over. “What are you doing creeping along there?”
Curumo looked briefly embarrassed before explaining with dignity and mild annoyance, “Observing this toad.”
Olórin sat up to see the animal for himself. “What about it?”
“What do you think its perception must be like? Its life is exceedingly brief. What is a moment to this creature?”
“What is a moment to the Secondborn, versus the Firstborn?”
Curumo nodded almost imperceptibly, approvingly. “I suppose one must answer that, before even addressing such a brief life as this.”
“Well. I should think that, the shorter the life, the greater the value placed upon a moment.”
“One might think so, but have we seen any evidence of this? Certainly Men are more aware of death’s imminence in a practical sense, but do they use their moments any more wisely or fully than do the Firstborn? Elves speak more often now of the changing and waning of things, of diminishing. They seem almost painfully aware of the passing of each moment.”
Olórin considered. “Perhaps one values existence more, then, the longer one exists? The Eldar seem more stricken by death, when it does come among them. If the Ainur could ‘die,’ how poorly would we handle that?”
The toad veered into the brush along the riverbank; more interested now in his conversation, Curumo glanced after it for a moment, and then back to Olórin. “The extinguishing of a personality containing billions of years’ worth of thoughts, experiences, memories–Quite poorly indeed, one might imagine.”
Olórin nodded, and queried suddenly, “What is the first thing you remember?”
Curumo shrugged. “The same thing all of us remember. Emerging from oblivion into awareness.”
“What of it?”
A peculiarly guarded look came into Curumo’s eyes. “What words are there for that? If you have some, you tell me.”
Olórin looked eastward to where the distant peaks of the Hithaeglir reared above the hills and woods of Rhudaur, seemed to depart for a few moments into thought and memory, and came back with a faint smile. “I remember some sense of a vast presence that wished me well, and an awareness that there were many others there with me. I felt an overbearing, nearly painful goodwill toward everyone.”
“That explains much.”
Olórin raised his eyebrows suspiciously.
Curumo elaborated, “Your goodwill remains overbearing and painful.”
His reminiscences interrupted, Olórin thought to avenge himself by openly goading the other about his obvious discomfort with the subject of first awareness. But Curumo did not quickly forgive such things. So Olórin instead lobbed an apple core at him, which he sidestepped hastily.
“Well,” resumed Olórin, “what about the first time you physically manifested? Everyone has a good story about that, some rather humorous. Did you ever hear Tilion’s? There was a geyser involved.”
“I was in a cavern. There was no light.”
“And?”
“I was well clear of any geysers. I am sorry to disappoint you, Olórin.”
“But what did you feel?”
“Rough stone.”
“Blast. Describe the manner and nature of your experience within this cavern, Curumo.”
“I assure you it was pleasant, after the initial shock of breathing wore off.” Curumo was scanning the shore, perhaps regretting that he’d lost track of his toad and gotten involved in a conversation for which he had little relish. He talked readily of theory and abstraction, but not of his own experiences.
Seeing this, Olórin changed course. “I’ve been meaning to ask, is that what I think it is?” He pointed eastward.
Curumo glanced round. Between two peaks, far off and barely visible, a whitish object incurred. “So long as you think it’s a glacier, yes.”
“I hadn’t realized there were any left in this age.”
“Very few, I should think. It’s no longer cold enough for one like that to grow. I imagine it’s been stagnant for millennia, if not actually shrinking.”
“It’s peculiar looking at a colossal wedge of ice in this heat. Once, could we not have covered the distance between it and us in a matter of minutes?–gone from heat to cold almost instantaneously? Now it would take us, what, at least a week at a brisk march. What we took once for granted seems rather profound now.”
“That is so.” Curumo sat down on another rock in the shade of the trees. The heat seemed almost to physically weigh on him, but no amount of discomfort would convince him to part company with his shirt. “I’ve been considering, since we began this talk, an issue of immortality and time.”
“Yes?”
“Say there is an independent universe, here.” Curumo raised his bony hands as though holding a small, spherical object, into which he proceeded to look while he spoke. “This universe holds both mortal and immortal beings, the immortal of course persisting for the duration of its existence. What if this universe lasts only for ten years?”
“Their years, or ours?”
“Ours. So, if this universe comes and goes in so brief a time, its immortal beings will have lasted not even one quarter of the lifespan of our short-lived Secondborn. One could hypothesize another universe, lasting only a minute, and the same situation. Yet, it cannot be contested that the immortals in these situations are not immortal.”
“Perhaps it could. You’re saying they cease to exist when their universe ceases to exist.”
“But that is not akin to a mortal death. What would become of the Ainur, of we who call ourselves immortal, if all of this ceased?” Curumo gestured vaguely at the world in general with one hand.
“You just dropped your hypothetical universe on the toad,” said Olórin. Both Istari paused to watch the toad, which had reemerged, as it hopped past Curumo’s feet. “But anyway, if our universe ceased I suppose we’d return to the Timeless Halls.”
“Who said the Timeless Halls aren’t part of our universe?”
“Who said they are?”
“They are outside of time and space. But does not the universe contain more than time and space?”
“I suppose, but that doesn’t mean it contains the Timeless Halls. Why are you even speaking of things like the universe ending, Curumo? That seems unlikely, and a bit dark for a bright day such as this.”
Curumo shrugged. “The end, if it comes, shall make no more distinction between bright and dark than the beginning did. Both assert only: ‘I am the swift uplifting rush that assembles or disassembles a consciousness.’” He slid off the rock and resumed trailing after the small toad on the riverbank.