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The unlearned ignorance


San Agustin said he knew that was the Being if not asked and, by contrast, when asked what he himself or another person's head he became a stage of uncertainty and doubt. The truth is that all we can think of what the philosopher and not only on the Self, but with minor issues mounted, then, in general, our understanding the world is so vague that no one can claim not say I know everything for sure, but even I know something in depth. Anyone can distinguish a person from a dead person alive, but who, strictly speaking, know what life is and what is death?
Our ignorance, however, is not only to extreme problems such as life and death, but for most of what we handle every day: I know I start up my computer and use it as much as 2 percent of its capacity, but I have no idea that a vaguísima its internal workings do not know, well then, how does my car or my cell phone and why I spent the day using them. I look out the window, but do not know why glass is transparent, pat my dog, but do not know why the tail moves, even if that reaction I properly call it a sign of happiness.
not know what's happening in politics: I have my suspicions, but then to be assured that this is a gang of scoundrels is a distance. The same thing happens to me when my classes in University and I am certain that my students have understood and insist I keep my sake of explanation: the day of testing imposed on me the evidence that everyone understood what was given wins, and then I suspect to me: is it true that I could communicate with them, will it be they were my students who understood what they wanted or that I was unable to convey?
Not knowing anything fully is, paradoxical as it may seem, the only truth that story, because even on issues unrelated to know so narrowly as emotional issues: how to know, really, if my pet me want?, "I have, perhaps, a comprehensive questionnaire of questions that applied to my dog's behavior to verify without a doubt his love?
And yet I could live, I mean enough to me how little I understand to have come through relatively unscathed today, but my actions, guided by cognitive dim light I have, I have made pay dearly for the inaccuracy of my knowledge. Is life that requires only vague truths, half-truths? I guess so, because my ancestors, living in caves know unless I and survived, my existence is proof. Yes to life, therefore, you only need a good tuntún truth must be suspect because there really is some truth, or my dog \u200b\u200bif I want and the politicians are scoundrels.
Truths of these I have many, many like everyone else, but I will not take, it is one thing to believe in what I consider real and one that really is true what I believe. I would at least have a full truth even if extremely simple, let's see if I can reach it: I, like everyone else, accept the truth that the wheel rolls, but why roll? The triangle does not roll, not the square, the pentagon can reach it and hexagon succeeds with relative ease. Imagine these figures and put one condition: that they all have the same height, if we comply with this notice that the more expensive figure has its contact surface with the plane is smaller and easier it is rolled, the wheel almost perfect octahedron. The circumference wheel, because the only have a point as contact surfaces with the plane that makes it quite unstable: the wheel rolls because I hardly touch the plane on which wheel. Will this, even a fraction of what you can really know about the wheel?

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Learned Ignorance The Story: Painting Paradise alienated labor

last 5 years, every Sunday I come to the Garden of Art to exhibit my pictures, I say to explain and not to sell, because, first, do not always sell and second-which is the most important - because my relationship with painting is that of Andy Warhol or Botero. I paint because the bizarre parade of all that look, sometimes, I smile a glimpse of a leaf, a feather of an angel, a mane of a unicorn or apple bite primal yet. I want to paint the paradise from which we were expelled and that, despite everything, still surviving here and there a fragment, for I am convinced that neither God with all their fury got annihilated. Paradise is here in snippets, in the light and the hand is in water clarity and the way the clouds are blurred (not in the clouds, but on its dissolution), is in the smell of bread and in flexible assembly experienced by bodies in intercourse, is in the earthy feel of snow in the mouth and the warm weight of the hen that sits to hatch, it is in so much and looks so unexpectedly in many places my work seems to have unity.
Paradise was even here in the Garden of Art, in the space shaded by the branches of this tree and occupying which measured the width of four trestles. Yes, he was a painter, a classmate who came with his work when least expected. And I live stalking occurrences of Paradise did not know him at first. I was busy, as now, explaining to a client my work, trying to make him see that the value of the bread of this painting is not hyper-realistic effect that causes the airbrush, but the fragrance of peace with which he says: "All is well, no matter, is "I was enthralled with my own roll and did not pay attention to the smile that did not depend on short lunula from his lips, but a light that came from within, as light comes from inside of a watermelon pit . Came and mounted their works, I waved hello and I replied with a cold grin. Paradise
But come when you do not wonder then, hiding and for a long time, working in silence his next appearance. And that's what happened to it: the Sunday routine with the camaraderie of fellow bohemians of the disguise, a painter most of all the compas. While our pictures, faced as they were, began a profound dialogue, began exchanging reflections and little by little, as if running on roads asymptotic, became more similar. Neither of us noticed it, because our paintings come from far away, my stroke was without texture and correct (as befits the airbrush), hers was long and trembling, there was no point in common between my air brush and the violence of his knife, and where more plunged the difference was in palettes: mine committed in whites, the stridency of his in a blue and orange and yet, our works were brother and me, at least, were becoming less heavy me on Sundays.
And is that Paradise is traitor crouches and jumps, it is flooding all quiet until one day, suddenly, appears with evidence is undeniable and lightning burst that blinds and stuns. This revelation came the day when the two arrived with a work identical. The reason was the water, a sphere of water against a white background, everything around her was white and the brightness seemed impossible. Install the paintings on easels and on turning to greet me I realized that Paradise was in it. She, as always, gave me a smile of friendship, but to realize the absolute convergence of advanced works to upset me. I wanted to talk about the miracle, it's plagiarism. I was shocked by the surprise and mumbled in her indignation grew with every word and became eloquent. I understood nothing and understand everything she believed. For me it was the first time that Paradise was maintained, it was not a mere flash elusive and the more dilated that presence, I became more incoherent.
Seen from outside, everything was working against me since the failure to answer the charges was only the failure of a summary trial which was summarized in one sentence: You're despicable, he said, and, yet, at that time, I could not understand what that was happening externally. Collected his paintings, easels and left. I was ecstatic seeing, contemplating how he was going, how Paradise away with it, how it was shrinking in perspective, how is concentrated in a last point of light that engulfed the landscape background. Only then reacted: I wanted to reach, explain, tell him what it meant to me. But it was not. There was at the bottom of the landscape, or the right or the left side of the street. I stopped running, what if he had?, What sense it could have for my musings about Paradise? I stopped and let myself be overcome by gently melancholy.
Weeks later, I find, had moved to the other end of the Garden, but it was not her, had returned to his palette knife and her wild screaming. He saw me, turned his face with the same contempt and I stepped back. It was not worth entering into explanations, because if something I know is that Paradise is not recovered, is Pt.

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there a trade today and lost, whose memory allows me to raise my puberty, on moderately absurd while walking aimlessly through the streets of Mexico. Not going from nowhere to nowhere, I went to a meeting and was accompanied by someone. He walked to put down, to stretch your legs to get away from my house to kill time, to think and, above all, because I expected something, not an event off the charts, but "something" means any thing capable of distracting . Invariably arrived at the intersection of avenues and Popo South Coyoacán where he was the bottling Jarritos soft drinks and there, as in cabinet, behind a window, there were three people with their backs to the street that looked over the newly filled bottles. It was an endless parade of helmets and employees had to monitor the liquid level reached the agreed or had not cast any impurity. Behind the soft light was a powerful display and the three spent the day dazzled and, like Sisyphus, chained to the treadmill.
Each Therefore, some stretched out his arm and pulled the offending bottle row. I stood there, watching for hours, until reconciled with my life ended, there was something worse than I am standing in my class in sixth grade, there was something worse than my walks aimlessly. Against this window was found that years later defined as "alienated labor" in Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844 Karl Marx. But since then, even without having the concept, the activity of those employees I was aberrant.
wore a white coat and were part not only of the Quality Control department, but of Marketing, because I was not the only one who watched, but many people stopped to watch and while I was awakened me all kinds of sad thoughts about life that fate, others were pleased and clapped hygiene measures in the bottling and certainly more than happy to buy Jarritos.
Today, many years of my puberty, I'm trying to imagine what those three people thought before the parade of soft drinks, what would happen in the head while the eyes are passing bottles and bottles? I am no longer happy with the explanation he gave me then, and with which I assumed after reading Karl Marx, today not even convince me that offered Chaplin in his film Modern Times: I do not believe they have had a mind blank I'm not so sure my old dogmas, I'm not even sure there was an activity so abhorrent.
That office and the like disappeared planet with the advancement of information technology: my three robots were launched long ago to retirement or the street: electronic sensors became useless one day and away from the endless belt, as they had separated the filled bottles wrong or dirty. One day he found free from what I assumed the worst fate possible job. It was not like there was something worse for them: no longer do even that.
As I write these words I realize that my work and theirs is like: I'm sitting for hours in front of a bright, go look at the words, let they serve, remove those that do not, I do not wear white coats and I'm in a glass case but it may be that, as well as I go through my head stories and ideas, to them has been the same as his hands did nothing.