Million Dollar Baby

I started writing some bullshit about the nature of the firm and Ronald Coase and its relationship to digital goods. Then I looked into myself and said: what the hell am I doing? And so I closed Microsoft Word and connected to Blogger.

Today I watched Million Dollar Baby, by Clint Eastwood. As usual (just look at this) I got out of the cinema pretty unsatisfied. As usual, I thought the movie was OK but that something was lacking. I talked to croissant and torjman, and little by little, through a converstation in which I said really stupid things (I admitted the stupidity instantly, that said) I started to appreciate more and more elements of the movie, and in the end I was convinced it was quite a great movie.

Million Dollar Baby is about believing in something and wanting to get it. Is it possible? Is it worth it? That's the problem of my life. Not whether I will be committed to getting what I want or not, but whether I know what I want to achieve at all. I do not, I talked about it here on other posts. But I should be able to frame the problem differently, for this is the only way knowledge increases. Same problem, different frames.

So here's the problem: the more I think, the older I get and the less I know. The older I get, the more problems I have, and so the less I am able to decide. I suppose that's the lesson my father tried to teach me once, but I didn't get it (probably he didn't insist too much, or thought I was too clever: quite a problem too, when people think you're smart and you sort of believe it)

It's obvious that I haven't overcome the power of my parents over me. Somehow, I have always thought they were the ones to blame... but to blame for what? I sure cannot blame them for not knowing what to do. I could blame them for not allowing me to do it... but did I ever know what I wanted?

When you read this self-help manuals they usually ask you to focus on what you are better at, just focus on that and forget every external pressure... just think of your dreamed life. But they never tell you how to decide which one is your dreamt life.

One of my relatives has gone literally insane (and I'm not joking here, he's been in hospital) simply because he has realised he doesn't like to work. It's not what job, it's that the guy just doesn't like working. And nowadays, man, if you don't like to work, you're fucked. That's why we start working ever since we are kids. We are trained toughly, but alas, tough ain't enough, as Clint says to Maggie. Like my relative, some people just can't stand the idea of a job, and thus they go crazy.

It's curious how our society is organised such that my relative will have to go crazy. And if you mix that with the thought that you're so snob think about these things when there are people who die cause they can't eat you have it. Nuts, absurd, a vegetable, a machine with a brain to torture it.

Maybe I am like my relative, just that I'm too coward to go crazy (or too smart:)
I suppose art or friendship or a good meal or the look of a girl can still make me thrive sometimes. Even if the thrill comes with more and more days of tedium in between, I still do believe there's something out there, somewhere, to fill me (not the kind of "filling" you might be thinking of, you dirty minds).

Fuck, the post is long. It's common when I use blogging as a threapy. Sometimes you need to empty your mind, and hope that of all the dirty water that goes out, you might be able to calm your thirst with some of it. You expect the answer to come out, and so you write and write because the answer doesn't show up, but you wanna let the answer take its time.

It doesn't show up, you see. You're left with words, your soul maybe a little less painful. But after all more words. Ronald Coase wrote The nature of the firm and 40 years later got his Nobel prize for it. Clint Eastwood made Unforgiven happen. My friend got his PhD. And so what? I blog, and wait. Eventually. Make it an eventually with whisky, waiter. Million Dollar Baby is the title of this post. Did you know what you were doing, Maggie?