28 March 2005

“Their love was great. Most people experience love without becoming aware of the extraordinary nature of this emotion. But to them... the moments when passion visited their doomed human experience like a breath of eternity were moments of revelation of continually new discoveries about themselves and life.”

I think that I despise the commonplace or, instead, the ignorance of the extraordinary nature of the commonplace that is found in most every man... found in myself. When I read about the moments which matter to most, why is it that the most poignant are of moments most common: the blush of a woman’s face, watching a son walk those first toddling steps, the life-breath of a spring wind. Men do not write of momentous elections, or shifts in the momentum of a society -- or rarely do (when discussing the most significant moments of their lives), tending to write of them in the abstract -- of importance, but not ultimate importance. Would I chose a memory of a more singular moment -- perhaps (God forbid!) in the political arena -- over that of a first kiss? Which is more common to man? And, yet, which matters more?

And if this common thing is so very opaline, why do I so seek the singular moment, as if that -- in the end -- will satisfy me? How could it? A man cannot live on but a few meals in a lifetime. It is the common which is truly of value, no matter our poor assessment of value. I so despise this in myself: my assessments are so skewed. What good is the diamond, if common dirt were not there to support me? I wonder if this accounts for the wasting sickness of the rich and famous -- they plant crops in a field of diamonds...

( C: 1 )

26 March 2005

“And do you know why these never-ending preparations are so futile? It’s because these men haven’t any capacities, they are incompetent. Man is born to live, not to prepare to live. Life itself, the phenomenon of life, is so breathtakingly serious...”

( C: 4 )

13 March 2005

I’m resisting the impulse to just shut this damnable site down. It’s tired, run its course. I haven’t the words anymore -- whatever flame I once may have possessed seems to have left me. I really don’t have a purpose here anymore, and there’s enough tripe and ignorant nonsense on the ‘net without my contribution. I grow tired enough wading through the pretense and empty-and-poor-writing-as-good-writing on other’s blogs. I don’t need the weight of finding it on my own. Perhaps I’ve been in the blogosphere for too long and have forgotten the sound of living words. Perhaps I’ve read enough to feel the distinction and can no longer tolerate my personal dissonance.

(My one passion these days is found in my distaste for modern writing, more specifically of the affected kind. Is there nothing new under the sun? Are we only capable of reusing and recycling, incapable of creating? -- it seems that way to me. If I ever read “her sweet lips” or “he stood tall, like a tree” or any innumerable examples of tired writing again, I may conclude that the English language is dead, and never write a jot more so as to avoid rumors of necrophilia.

Language is a beautiful thing -- but culture transforms beauty into kitsch, and soon one finds Da Vinci pieces printed on wallpaper. Is Mona Lisa’s smile so mysterious when she gazes at us from bathroom walls? The mystery, the sacred moment is gone. We destroy the beauty, make it ubiquitous -- commonplace -- because we cannot have the beauty ourselves. Make the beauty commonplace and the commonplace becomes beautiful, eh? Glorious gauche! I cannot tolerate it. -- and these are merely my concerns in regards to style, substance being an entirely different issue.)

I’ll leave the site be. Perhaps I’ll be given words again. We’ll see. Perhaps I’ll redesign it out of sheer boredom, and readers will then have access to the archives. Perhaps I’ll start posting again tomorrow. Perhaps never.

We’ll see.

( C: 11 )

09 March 2005

I’m not sure why I blog.

Some do it for the attention: they have a thirst to get their word out, to write and to influence, to have others see their gifts, to express themselves.

I don’t. Perhaps, once upon a time, that was my desire. I say, “perhaps” to dull the blow: certainly, that was my intention when I clicked “post” for the first time, three years ago. (My, how distressingly little changes.) This was back before blogs became blogs, before mothers used the Internet, before every teenager had a xanga to spread their glorious nonsense.

Now, I’m not sure why I do this. Most of my posts, these days, are verbatim from my journal, as I try to work through problems of my own philosophy. I don’t know the point of those posts, since even I find them pretentious and annoyingly pedantic. And, in all likelihood, of little interest to the blog community in general.

Not that the blog community matters much to me -- I’ve never courted an audience. In fact, mentioning the existence of this blog is an act of discipline on my part. I have little interest in an audience, and what little interest I possess is of a hypothetical nature of the “what if” variety. I have linked other blogs in the past, but I have found the increase in hits unsatisfying, even troublesome.

I don’t know why I do this. I’ve little to contribute to others: my interests are primarily internal at this point. In the future, I hope move outwards and engage the world -- but there is a certain ancient prerequisite.

“Know thyself,” says Socrates. Such a thing seems eminently reasonable to me, which is why my personal studies have increased, so that engagement may be possible. The result is a certain disinterest in external things, and while I may -- and of course, do -- find myself to be utterly fascinating, I doubt many others find my disjointed voice as fascinating. My thoughts are scattered, illogical, and often unreasonable. They hold little weight. They’re fleeting, almost wraithlike, a mist I can never quite grasp.

I don’t know why I’m blogging; neither do I understand why you read.

( C: 3 )

07 March 2005

Much of my stress is the product of belief and reality: I believe that I ought to be wise, yet reality shows that I am not. I know, in truth, so little and my pride is hurt as this is exposed -- I am ripped apart. Perhaps this is necessary; how can one know anything truly when he studies an illusion, a mock up design to disguise and cloak the real thing?

I’ve tried much the opposite: (re: ignorance and wisdom) trying to identify what is true from examining the world... true in myself, of myself. In other words, seeking what I know, rather than to know what I do not know -- reality is, with the amount of information in the world, it is easier (and more prudent) to identify ignorance since every human knows so little compared to the whole.

I say “identify” -- but I mean, identify that ignorance ought to be the assumed starting point, rather than knowledge. “What do I not know?” is much better answered than, “What do I know?” -- “Who am I not” more easily than “Who am I?”

Rather than flailing about, looking for a starting point, and testing the starting point (i.e. “knowing”), I’d be better served acknowledging that I am ignorant of the starting point. Not “I possess this, where is it?” but “I do not possess this, where is it?” -- the first question is obviously foolish: if you possess this, how can you not have it? The very question implies that the true question is the second...

( C: 1 )

06 March 2005

I’ve returned from my brief foray [hm. “brief foray” is a bit redudant, much like round circle] into mid-Michigan. I’ll bet you didn’t even know I was gone.

It doesn’t matter. I’m back.

( C: 2 )

03 March 2005

(I’ve taken to reading bits a pieces of literature before bed and came across this sentiment which mirrors my own. It’s a rather interesting irony that I am now teaching science. I don’t deny its significance. Nor do I claim disinterest or distaste for the thing itself. But science, such as we find today -- and apparently in Poe’s time -- ravenously feasts on the things which give greater life.)

Sonnet -- to Science by Edgar Allen Poe

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

( C: 2 )

Another phrase I dislike: “flying colors”. It fails in writing because it is a metaphor which has lost its savor. Such phrases are only useful because of their powerful visual connection to meaning. We understand the moment through another moment. Yet, here, the second moment is lost. Most of us ascribe a dull meaning (“great success”) to the phrase, and miss the moment that should lead to the morning. What good is the phrase? Might as well use a term that gives precise meaning, rather than a metaphor which has lost its essence, lost its heart.

( C: 2 )

02 March 2005

at Woodman’s:

“How was your vacation?”

“Man, it was great -- tons of R & R...”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, y’know: rest and roleplay.”

( C: 2 )

01 March 2005

Started this poem a while ago. I’m not sure if I’m entirely pleased with the result. Elements are good, but not perfect. I was going through my archives, though, and thought I’d toss it out here.

Hammer falling, slamming down,
Red flame licking,
Flame roars ‘round.

Fire, ash; fire, ash
Sunlight ends, silver lasts
Shimmer’d moon, grey on black
New-forged steel:
Hammer Crash.

( C: 1 )

Remember that day? that street, that sweet night
When we met, fate’s path laid
And as passed our separate ways, I said,
“I hope we meet again.”

And you said, “Hope is a game children play”
I hope for your love in the end
And as the now fades from today
I hope for your love in the end

We met again, to drink, to talk
You smiled and saved
And when time closed on the night, I said,
“I hope for this forever again.”

And you said, “Hope is a game children play”
We hoped for love in the end
And as the now fades from today
We hoped for love in the end

Saw you today, I glanced away
For hidden in anger was great pain
And as your hard eyes looked my way, you said,
“I hope to see you again.”

But you said, “Hope is a game children play”
I hope that I love again.
And as the now fades from today
I hope I love again

I hope I love again.

( C: 4 )