More on the application of one's energies

If one devotes his life to a cause, must he choose between: a) living body and soul in a way that allows him to move toward his goal with every action he undertakes (if this is even possible), or b) divide his energies and live his life with an awareness of his tendency to repeatedly distract himself from his goal, and thus live with the guilt that he inflicts upon himself as a result of the faltering nature of his attention and work-ethic, or c) recognizing that even those actions that are seemingly ineffective - with regard to the attainment of his goal - may actually cause him to work more effectively when he is working directly toward his goal, because such "distractions" improve his mind, by supplying it with a diversity of stimulus on which to fixate, and refresh his attention-span by way of providing his mind with breaks that may keep the information and thoughts required in the process of working towards his specific end from becoming dull and from being abandoned altogether.

If the latter is the case (that is, if distraction is actually beneficial), then should distraction be sought out in extremes, or in ways that are purely mental, or in small quantities? Would huge distractions lead to huge amounts of mental rejuvenation, or must a balance be sought? Should distraction only be sought in the mind, and should every kinetic or tactual activity pertain only to the desired end? Or do activities and undertakings that extend beyond the mind, and subsequently to the body and one's actions, provide the mind with more inadvertent inspiration than thoughts alone? Can any of this be known, or must it be guessed at? And is trial-and-error even an option here, or will it create a pattern that may or may not allow for the greatest amount of productivity and may or may not be able to be altered or broken? As with most things, it seems that balance is probably best, although I must admit that I constantly wonder whether I should eliminate friendships that do not directly inspire me or aid in my work, even if the notion of doing so seems brutal and unkind.

Furthermore, if one's goals may (potentially) do any good for large numbers of people, or have any kind of positive effect on the world that might be more beneficial than friendship itself in some way, then doesn't one owe it to the world to pursue these goals instead of fleeting friendships, just because of the chance that they may be able to, in achieving or pursuing their goals, maximize their potential for positive influence on the world? Is the risk worth it? What if one fails in one's goals and also isolates his or her self? Then he or she has had no influence on others in a positive way at all.

Perhaps some people don't have much of a choice, and can only be pleasant company beyond a certain casual degree if they are simultaneously pursuing larger goals with potentially larger influence on mankind, because their disposition is such that they are unhappy or grumpy when not pursuing such things.

On an (almost) unrelated note, does prejudice stifle or feed the human will to produce or create? In a Darwinian sense, it seems that those who are persecuted are likely to want to reproduce in abundance (sometimes regardless of whether they can realistically support their children). Does the same happen with regard to ideas or creative/mental/philosophical endeavors, or does biology overshadow such "luxuries" as art and thought? Also, if injustice does encourage mental and creative progress, which in turn encourages cultural and political progress, then perhaps it is a positive thing in some way. I'm not saying that huge injustices or prejudices should be condoned or even tolerated, but this is still interesting to consider.

On the pursuit of knowledge, possible worlds, and ideal worlds

Might the attainment of knowledge be potentially precluded by the search itself? It seems possible to me that knowledge - true knowledge - can only be arrived at by way of accident (although accident of the kind that has probability on its side and will most likely occur, unless it is actively sought out). It seems likely, too, that this knowledge, which is stumbled upon by the non-seeker, can only be stumbled upon as such if information uncovered by those who do seek is made available to them. Then another question surfaces: Must this knowledge be presented in a disguised form? I ask this because it is a known fact that the degree to which human pride keeps the common individual from being receptive to knowledge attained from others is quite extensive.

If this is the case, then a) knowledge, as an end-product, must be comprised of parts, and that b) these parts must be supplied by those who actively seek knowledge (perhaps aware of the futility of this search) and presented perhaps in a disguised form, and that these parts must be stumbled upon by someone who is inactive in the search for knowledge and subsequently, only by accident, and only by those who do not seek it out, can knowledge be obtained.

Another question that might be raised as an aside: If the seeker does not seek knowledge, per se, but rather scattered information, can he come to attain knowledge? My answer would be no, for if the seeker takes the time to think, "Why, I will not attain knowledge by looking for it, so I will look for it in pieces," then he is still consciously searching for knowledge and only succeeds in redirecting this process and, in doing so, masking his ultimate end. The seeker cannot work backwards: If he has begun his searching with a desire for knowledge, then he has already affirmed the fact that every action taken thereafter, however disguised, is in some way an effort meant to actualize this goal. These pieces, from which the mentally lazy may accidentally benefit, can only be produced as excrement forged in the process of seeking knowledge: Not knowledge as may be found in small pieces, but the grandiose, ever-discussed Knowledge, with a capital K.

The seeker, then, is able to continue this process of seeking only by telling himself one of two things (and if he does not, he will have a hard time justifying to himself the seemingly-pointless way in which he passes his time, and will, in finding that he cannot shut off his mind and halt its progress - however slow or misdirected this progress may be - wish himself peace in the form of mental quietude, or death, but will likely choose neither): a) that he will defy the odds presented by case-studies of brooders from the past, and be the first to come to some kind of end-point in this quest for knowledge, not through managing to stop his thoughts, but rather through the process of cognising itself, or b) that it is noble and altruistic to seek out knowledge and produce information that may subsequently be useful to those who do not yearn for the attainment of what it may give them (that is, some kind of epiphany), and that it is either his contribution to society and culture, or his obligation, or his destiny. It is almost impossible for a thinker in the truest sense (that is, the thinker who makes not only habit but also past-time or career out of such mental searching) to be ambivalent regarding the fate of his world, for it is only natural for one who spends so much time thinking about the intricacies of his surroundings to become inextricably attached, emotionally and mentally, to said surroundings. Furthermore, the thinker, through the process of considering all possible worlds, cannot help but imagine the best-possible-world of all of these, and he will make it his task to figure out how to make this world exist. Furthermore, he will be unable to imagine that this best-possible-world might only benefit himself (i.e., a tropical paradise in which food is plentiful and work is unnecessary, but only for him) because his thought-processes will inform him that the potential for the absence of guilt is, in itself, enough reason for him to wish such a paradise on all of his peers and cohorts, inferior or superior (or obliterating such concepts altogether) and thus he will idealize a world that is best for all, even if such a world might be possible only in lowering its perfection for him as an individual (for it seems there must be some limits on happiness for one if happiness must be had for all, just due to personal differences that exist between people and the need for compromise that such differences presents).

The philosopher may be further pained in realizing that the best possible world is not one that provides maximum happiness to everybody, and that the concept of love alone (and the subjectivity of its nature) is enough to keep the highest degrees of happiness from ever coming to exist, and furthermore he may be pained in coming to realize that the only recipe for an ideal worlds seem to be either: a) A world in which everyone has an equal level of happiness and responsibility, in which this level of happiness is as high as it can possibly be without infringing upon the happiness levels of others, or b) a world in which everyone reaches their peaks of happiness at different times, in perfect increments, so that the same number of individuals are happy all the time, and happy to the highest degree, and then later becoming less joyous so as to allow others to be their happiest for some time, in a cyclical manner. It is human nature to need some kind of occasional dominance or superiority to be happy, especially if they see others with power or superiority. Since we are already aware of such a concept as superiority, we as individuals will crave it, and we will not be content never experiencing it, and thus the second possibility for an ideal world (that supplies maximum happiness to individuals in various increments) most likely and realistic and applicable.

If we could all wake up in our respective time-zones one day and have no concept of inferiority or superiority, then we would never crave to experience the latter, but since the presence of human memory keeps this from being possible, we are left with no possible utopia except one that allows for rotating shifts of inferiority/superiority or dominance/submission, or we must create a world in which people truly feel that their lives are more meaningful if they are the underdog in either of these realms.

If I were to not write these things (or take part in some equivalent: a discussion, or a stint of painting, or the writing of a song, or the writing of something else), then I would, to some degree, hate myself and hate everything around me. The constant processing of things is all that allows me to be slightly at peace with things, not because things are necessarily worthy of dislike, but because they are constantly crying out for analysis and interpretation and transformation. It is the responsibility of every individual to do his part in reflecting back the world to itself, for his own sake and for the sake of all things.

giant machine and persecuted conscience

My own realizations shock me sometimes. The topic that my thoughts always come back to is the topic of solitude, not in a general sense but with respect to its importance as a catalyst for creative endeavors. I know that there exists some kind of a balance between interaction with others and solitude, and I know that both are equally essential in their own right for the creative individual, but something about the former leaves me nauseous at times, and longing for time alone, and this longing for time alone is a thinly-veiled longing for creative output and intellectual input. Interactions with others leave me hungry for something, and this something makes itself known in a fierce way that keeps me up at night stressing over nothing in particular, but everything at once.

Does being a creative individual (and i mean this in a broad sense that encapsulates all mediums and art forms and that counts intellectual pursuits as creative pursuits, for the soul of the artist and the soul of the intellectual are, in my opinion, necessarily inseparable) require a degree of self-loathing in order for the creator to be productive? If I find myself in a place where I feel too much comfort, I begin to despise myself, for in this comfort I am not driven to write, and I am not driven to learn, or compete, or to make music, or to move forward in the career world with the kind of passion that I want to possess. I crave this kind of unsettledness, and I crave this sense of urgency. I crave this sense of "something is not right" and "something needs to be done". for this is the drive that causes me to create, and to write' and this is the drive that gives birth to passion in the soul. I feel more lost when I do not feel this drive, for when I feel content, I forget where I am on the path of my life, and where I am becomes more of a point surrounded by nothingness than a specific point on a line, or a ray, that links my past to my future. I cannot exist as a point, no matter how euphoric the nature of that point is. Rather, I need to exist as a ray, constantly looking toward the future and, somehow, constantly fearful of the future (although not in a way that overwhelms me and renders me stagnant). I need to exist as a ray pointing toward the future, fearful of the future in a way that makes me constantly aware of the importance of doing those things about which I am passionate. I cannot exist in a way that allows me to forget about my reasons for educating myself and writing and making music. I need to constantly, or at least sporadically, feel ill at ease and uncomfortable, for in this uncomfortableness I am reminded of the need to push on, and continuously work on things, and continuously search within my own mind for truth, and continuously create. I need to constantly or sporadically hate where I stand with regard to myself and my peers, so that I constantly feel inclined to work harder. I must keep doing this in order to feel happy, even whilst knowing that I will never reach a point at which I will feel proud of my work, or satisfied with my work; at least not for long. It is strange that the artistic and intellectual drive is such: Even while fully aware that that which is created will never be satisfactory for the individual who creates it, the individual himself cannot help but continue to try to make something that satisfies his own judgment. Logically he is aware that this is impossible, yet he fools himself into thinking that he could be wrong, and subsequently presses on again and again, always dissatisfied, and always eager to try to make something better, or to do more, or to work harder, not because he thinks he can ever be content (for he does not want to be content: as an artist, contentedness is the equivalent of death), but because he hates himself when he is not working, and because he loathes his past creations, and only in working does he feel he is moving beyond this level of productivity and quality that he so despises. In seeing end products of new projects, he does not find contentedness or peace of mind. Only in the act of working itself does he find any sort of solace or quietude of his inner-voice.

The artist and the intellectual know this, and if they are one and the same they know this all too well. This individual, an embodiment of the mind and the soul and the heart, and the desire of all three to break free from something that they know they are forever trapped inside (perhaps this thing is he body itself), is fully aware of the futility of all of his efforts, not in the minds of others but in his own mind, for he will never create something that will render him content enough to cease his efforts. He is aware of this, yet he continues, for he knows that not attempting is worse than seeing a series of failed attempts forever until his death, and he cannot bear not to attempt to defy the limitations of his own body and mind any more than he can bear not to sleep or eat. In fact, sleeping and eating sometimes come secondary to the artistic drive.

The artist/intellectual has within his soul an infinite well of creative energy, despite his body's finite supply of physical energy, and the two are constantly at odds. The individual hates these limitations. Just as art in general is perhaps an attempt to defy one's own mortality, the daily acts of creation and thought and analysis are each respective attempts at defying the body's own needs for rest and sleep and quietude. In this day and age, these acts become not only attempts to defy the body, but attempts to defy the structure of society, and the conventions of how one is supposed to live.

The artist reflects upon the large machine that is the economy, the political world, the media, the world of pop culture, and collective conscious, the world of science, and the world of religion, and the world of technology (and so on in this fashion) in such a way that is unpleasant in the eyes of that which it depicts. It shows a side of things that are perhaps otherwise hidden, and it often shows a negative side of things. This is as necessary for the advancement of the sciences and culture as institutions themselves, but despite the necessity of such a process, it is hated by those who see themselves reflected as a result of the process. The artist and the intellectual fight each day for survival, emotionally and physically, and constantly run the risk of being exterminated. The artist and the intellectual must fight many fights: the fight to stay alive and afford to eat (a fight imposed by the difficulty of finding work and simultaneously making art), the fight against the monotony of the job required in order to do so, the fight against the inner-critic and his hatred of the self, and his hatred of the self's work, and his hatred of the self's lack of productivity (often due to previously mentioned job and the need for such in order to survive), the fight against the rest of society's persecution. Much of society hates the artist and hates the intellectual, for he represents something uncomfortable (which makes sense, for his very existence is the result of discomfort and the tendency to create this discomfort for himself on purpose), and also because the artist and the intellectual expose to the rest of the world truths about their own nature that they themselves where unable to see for themselves. This is the ultimate slap in the fact, for it shows those who are content to be stagnant and comfortable that they should not necessarily be so content to be as they are.

all at once, fearful and bold

The trees against the night seem to form a wall around a nest, like spires atop a castle wall, and I am sure we are not the first to lie near each other as we fly;
to sleep, and to wake, on the wind. You are downy and, all at once, in mind and in flame, I am fearful and I am bold.

I would like to treat every day as if it were a vision quest. The people who cross my path will have wisdom for me, if I a can be careful enough to listen. There will be wisdom found within myself, if I can stop and look around long enough to find it. And there will be beauty all around me if I do not try to shape it with my own hands and if I let it approach me like a rainstorm. The ideas and people and notions and adventures that will enter my life will do so if I let them, and if I am open enough to the world around me, they will become a part of me.

That which is honest is beautiful, and that which is inspiring is simultaneously new and familiar.

I'm sitting in my room at this stolen hour - one that should belong to my sleeping self but which I am hijacking so that I might us it as time for meditation - and I'm thinking about the images of the seasons, and the unstoppable energy of life, and I'm listening to Bonnie "Prince" Billy and recognizing that some of the most beautiful music comes with the juxtaposition of utter sadness and utter joy. And are they really so different? I think perhaps not. And this is beautiful.

to drown the soul in a mountain of work? some days this sounds quite perfect. to stay busy is to pass the colder months and the colder times with more efficiency. what is it in the world that makes me more capable of loving with every let-down? what is it about colder days that fills my heart with more determined love and seriousness?

some mornings make me want to go adventuring, and take in paintings through my eyes, and galavant around with hot tea in my mittened hand, and look at people and look at parks covered in frost. i can wake up feeling blue and turn it into fuel for my fight for a real and full life.

i'm trying to detach myself from notions, and from people, and from memories, and from a need for anything. i'm trying to be as wild as an african lion.

just some brainstorming at 6 a.m. the other night...

Darkness seeps in through the walls, and you become aware of it, as much as you know that darkness cannot seep through anything, for it is already there when everything else is shut out. It is the other things – everything else – that seep into its domain, and sometimes the darkness is hospitable and other times it is not. Darkness is that which forces us to decide whether we must dig things up from the back of our brains that we have tried not to think about, or whether to shut off the brain completely. Sleep is the decision to shut off the brain. Insomnia is too much of the act of dredging, and the results thereby caused. It self-perpetuates. Lateness to work is that which results from the sleeping realization that shutting off the conscious brain is not such a bad thing, and that it is, in fact, preferable to the contrary (wakefulness).

Nighttime is “Oh, God, I’ve not wanted to be alive even once today until just now, and now the unfortunate truth of the matter is that my being awake at such a late hour will cause me to be late for work tomorrow, or absent at work tomorrow, or just mentally absent at work tomorrow, or absent at every part of work except for the three-foot-radius area that surrounds the espresso machine.”

Dreaming is the act of addressing a pressing matter (or sometimes multiples of such) that has not yet been fully explained or presented. The pressing matter is certainly pressing, and the urgency real, but the details are missing prior to action. The ardency with which the matter is addressed is admirable, and since there is no concrete way in which to address the matter due to its absence, most of the addressing is, by necessity, hypothetical, and therefore as perfect and efficient as can be imagined. For that which is only imagined might as well be imagined to be the best there isn’t (but could be, if efforts were worthy and sufficient).

Day is the distraction of the brain by way of little tasks that claim to be pieces of bigger tasks, but which for the most part seem to just be distractions. Consciousness and wakefulness are forums in which one undergoes the replacement of these little tasks with other little tasks, sometimes because certain replacement-tasks are deemed more worthy, and other times because one grows tired of a task and seeks a change, even if this change takes on the form of regression.

Work is getting to your espresso machine on time, and becoming familiar with the rate of the second-hand and minute-hand and the fonts used on the various clocks around the office. Work is not being allowed to replace tasks with other tasks. Work is wanting only to replace tasks with more-worthy tasks but having to settle for web-surfing or computer solitaire. Work is the plugging-in of a tube to your heart and slowly draining fluid from it, in such a way that you don’t notice it being done until, at a later point in time, you call upon the powers of the heart and find them gone.

Love is the discovery of reserves of heart powers that one didn’t know still existed. Love is the state of being thrilled over the discovery of such powers, and as a result wielding them recklessly and all-too-quickly, just because they feel so good when held in the palm of the hand. Love is the tears shed when such powers are exhausted, because the weeper has just witnessed the beauty and glory of his own might, and sees that, in the end, this beauty and glory existed only for its own sake. And love is the realization that beauty and glory, existing only for their own sake, are amazing things in and of themselves. Love is the willingness to wield things recklessly even if there is no possible gain. Love is not directed at a person, but instead at the world, and often through somebody who embodies some aspect of that world. Love is preferring to be in the arms of somebody that you hate, but love, than someone you like, but don’t. Love is a silver tiger with iron teeth and a beautiful arched neck that is bleeding. Love is the tiger gnashing his teeth despite the pain and refusing to sleep it off. Love is the willingness to respect the fight, and yet recognize what is lost in the death. Love is the act of mourning what can never be born, yet what might have been possible. Love is idealism, and idealism is art, and art is love. Love is the deepest, most sorrowful cry whose cause is not realized; whose parent is appalled.

7.31.07

i'm learning a couple things pretty brutally at the moment:

1) if you care about someone, let go of them completely
2) strive be happy, even despite reasons not to be

in other words, become cold and complacent. stoic in the face of all things. kind and loving, yet in need of nothing and desiring nothing. it's hard to let full-fledged joy in without letting in the hurt to an equal degree.

the greek stoics believed in a natural order to things. they emphasized the fact that personal hardship does not matter and should be taken in stride, since there is a larger order to things: one that is right and just, and bigger then ourselves, and one that we cannot begin to understand. we should strive to understand that negative and positive impetus are not to be responded to with joy or despair. we should trust in the order of things and know that we are a part of something that we cannot understand, and bear this duty and this place in the world with pride.

i'm good at showing bitterness, and i'm good at showing joy. i'm worse at expressing love or compassion. and i'm bad at showing people that i need them, or that i'm willing to open up to them, or that i'm willing to risk something for them or become vulnerable for them. i'm so closed off, yet so willingly affected by things all around me. i love letting things in to my core so that they might inspire or meld or shape or influence me. so that i might be stronger, or wiser. i am bad at letting things out of my soul. so i have so much brewing in me of such amazing proportions, and i cannot let such things loose and share them with the people that i want to share things with. i can know and sense what i have to offer someone, yet i have a hard time letting myself truly give that to them, for fear of losing that bit of my soul altogether. it's strange: i can't gain someone in my life without leting them in, but i can't let them in if there is a chance that they won't ever really be a part of my life. so i keep them in a strange middle-ground, when perhaps what i need to do is tell them to leave my life entirely, or tell them to respect boundaries or what-have-you.

but this goes against my philosophical and ethical beliefs. i think that there is so much grey area and so much legitimate feeling that nevertheless should be given credit and attention. some of the most fleeting and elusive things can also be some of the most beautiful. think of a mirage, for example. or a rainbow. or a beautiful dream that cannot be fully remembered upon waking. why is the intangible so incredible?

i've felt the intangible become tangible. i've felt the elusive become close-at-hand. and it's something like grabbing stars out of the sky. it feels like it should be illegal or physically impossible. yet there it is. and yet the sky misses its stars, and sometimes i wonder if i should leave the sky alone in the first place.

7.30.07

reading through old entries, i realize that i speak so often in terms of ultimates; things that are quantified; things that are finite, things that possess more of some quality than any other thing i have previously encountered, whether it be a quality of impactfulness or amazingness or any other similar such thing.

foolish, i say. i have felt awe before, and i will feel it again. i have felt magic and love before, and i have felt the need to be alone before, and i have felt sickness and health and anger and all of it. i can only write about the different forms of sadness or the different uses of isolation for so long before it seems that i am running in circles and getting nowhere.

here's what i want to write about:

things can be replaced. never verbatim as they were, but close approximations. friends are lost and friends are gained. wounds heal and gaps are filled. nothing is the same, but why would we want it to be? happiness goes and returns. old loves return with the seasons and with the holidays. things lost are never lost, even if they are never again seen.

despite this, i am willing to give new things in my life a chance; willing to place them above memories, since memories are just that, and since the things that created the memories are gone. i'm willing to attempt to live for the now. not for the now alone, but for the now more than for the past.

things are so simple sometimes.

7.12.07

just had the most amazing few-days' worth of conversation with my buddies in spider friends. took dean and justin to chipotle yesterday night and bought them a communal burrito, and we talked about music and life and, most particularly, the symbiotic nature of those individuals involved in the world of music, and the willingness of people to help one another out when they see that the cause of the other individual is true and sincere, and the "fake it till you make it" policy and the truth behind it.

played a show tonight and then had to literally run off-stage and out of my house afterwards in order to do a training closing shift at armadillo. came back after work and had a pabst, courtesy of spider friends, and discussed the same sorts of things some more. tentative plans for touring, and the following phenomenon: the universe seems willing to provide to those who care about something and those who are willing to make sacrifices and put in a lot of work for that which they care about. if the cause is legitimate, and if the motives are real, it almost takes effort to fail at anything.

dean says, "hit by a car in a few hours and dead today? stoked." because he knows he's gone out there and really put his all into what he cares about, and because he's given up all the filler in life in order to do so.

you know what? i agree. dead tomorrow? stoked. because i've been honest with myself and with others. those that i've cared about have known, and that's all i can ask of anyone. those things that i've wanted to do, i've begun to do. and i'm even more stoked if i do have a full life ahead of me, because there's an infinite number of experiences to be had and people to know and places to see. i fully condone those who pursue the arts and who live exactly the way they feel one should live, even if it means bypassing offers for money or lucrative jobs or security or comfortability. giving something that really matters to the self is worth so much more than dollar bills when the individual is lying on his death bed. man on his deathbed cannot quantify his millions of dollars, but man on his deathbed can feel good knowing that he has not given up on the things that he has cared about, and knowing that he has put real, solid effort into his endeavors.

dean told me he thinks i need more people to try to pull me over to the dark-side. by "dark-side", he means the world of expression and creation and full-blown pursuit of music and artistic expression. i told him i think i've lived my life for a long time now hoping more people would try to convince me to do so.

7.11.07

3. (By Swedish poet Lars Forssell)


And tomorrow we will awaken
A whistle from the street
The charwoman who shouts

And you will wash yourself behind the curtain
And when we go out we will have won

7.11.07

i used to view my days as installments in a long period of waiting. waiting for what? i was never sure. but i was sure that it would be something. perhaps i thought it would even be something remarkable.

what is not remarkable? i can't imagine my life going in any direction that is not interesting, or strange, or surprising, and i think the same might be said of anyone. even the prospect of utter failure is interesting. but i think that failure is harder to achieve than some manner of success, and the kind of success that i am aiming for, namely spiritual peace and a general sense of freedom and happiness, is something for which the search seems to be as gratifying as the attainment.

anyhow, the longer i waited, the less it felt like waiting, and eventually the waiting became somehow the opposite of that. instead of anticipating the future and doing so by way of the present moment, i found myself upheaving the past, by way of the present moment. soon i exhausted this activity, too, and i reached a place wherein i was neither channeling the past nor the present, but some handshake that existed between the two. the present, i suppose, but not just the present as it existed on a linear plane. rather, the present as it existed in more dimensions than i could count or fathom. deja vu became, by its very definition, a recurring theme in my life, and i began to dream dreams of epic proportions, about war and love and loss and journeys through the woods and along the banks of rivers. the people were always familiar, and the laughs were always identifiable.

anger became an easier alternative to sadness or loneliness, and then eventually productivity became an easier cure for anger and angst than anything else. and thus sadness was transormed into anger, which was transformed into anxiousness, which was transformed into a sense of urgency, which, on better days, was transformed into productivity. perhaps the order of these is off, but the gist is there.

if i view myself as being where i am for my own sake, and if i experience what comes as it comes, then what comes is sort of a bonus feature tacked on to the end of something that cannot end, and that is in and of itself already gratifying.

i've stopped waiting for things to become easier, because they're never easy, and god knows they never will be, and i've started understanding how to use that which is difficult and how to deal with it and how to turn it into something that is beautiful or laughter-inducing or enjoyable in some regard. and when there is nothing outside of my room to spark my interest, there is always the imagination, from which things can be drawn and manifested outside of their prior constraints, so that they may suddenly exist and take form in the tangible world outside my mind.

and amidst all of this there is love, a kind that i just keep discovering within me and keep finding all over my figurative hands as i realize how much certain people in my life mean to me. and i love them for their flaws and for how difficult they are and for the fact that they don't know what they are doing any more than i know what i am doing, so long as they are doing things or attempting to do things with their days and with their actions. those that enter my life may floor me or win me over or stun me or gradually, over time, make me fall in love with them. who knows. and those who leave my life are gone for a reason, even if it is a reason that i cannot have the ability to understand, and that is what it is and although i may miss them, i will have known them for a time, and that is something to be glad for.

i recorded a song this evening (late-night, to be more accurate), and then felt a sudden need to go outside and walk about. i left my house in heeled boots that elevated me and made me feel light and nimble. i walked several blocks, and it began to sprinkle rain, and as much as i liked the idea of forcing myself to walk miles in the rain just for the spiritual test or some-such that such an undertaking might turn out to be, i convinced myself that it could wait for another night, and i went back home. i enjoyed that rain-smell, though, maybe not for what it is but for the fact that it is so familiar.

how is it that people who are so new can seem so familiar? how is it that people who are not so new can seem foreign and then suddenly familiar? how is it that talking to an old friend can feel like meeting someone for the first time, and being excited about such a meeting? the world presents me with things that are bigger than my scope of understanding, and although this should terrify me, it somehow instead fills me with a sense of comfort. my only fear is that i will never find the words to express the things that i feel at the times that i should. and so this translates to the following: my only fear is that people will never understand how much i care, in whatever way i care. but perhaps these things are not meant to be articulated, since they cannot be pinned down, since they are constantly changing. and this is both a beautiful and a tragic thing.

it's still raining outside, and the rain has filled the air with a kind of energy much like that which occurs when the last of one's lungs are drained of their air due to some kind of excitement that does not allow the individual to take the time inhale before he exhales, in laughter or in gasp. the entire outdoors is on a last gasp that will be followed by the intake of air and the intake of something else. things feel as though they are changing, and the notion of change seems more promising than the notion of constancy. the outdoor air sits wet and heavy and positions itself outside my door with bated breath.

i learned today that the word "nothing" came from the two words "not hing". "hing" was another word for "atom"; a word used to describe small parts that made up the universe, particularly in the writings of early philosophers who were considered pluralists or atomists. "nothing" was considered that which existed where atoms did not; or where "hings" did not. something that was empty was "not a hing". it was nothing. i love words.

7.8.07

i know that love exists because i feel it every day, as joy or as pain or as a feeling of peacefulness. i feel it when i watch artists perform. i feel it when i see a close friend contort his face because of shyness.

i remember a moment from my distant past. it was a moment where i cried harder than i ever had before or ever did afterwards. i don't remember why. but i remember that it was anger and despair. i think it was a response to some kind of family dynamic that just wasn't positive. the main reason that this stands out in my memory is the fact that, when i cried at this specific time, i put on sgt. pepper's lonely heart's club band and screamed every lyric to every song as tears drained into my open mouth. i think i shook because i was so angry. yet listening to that album was the only thing i could do. it was a strange thing to listen to an album that brought me so much joy, yet to do so at a time when i felt everything opposite of that joy. so i felt all things all at once.

that's how i feel often... all things all at once. lately i've felt simultaneous senses of calmness and urgency, love and anger, desire for connection and desire for solitude. it feels natural, as if this is how things are supposed to be felt: in conjunction with their opposites. heraclitus says that the universe relies on the unity of opposites and a symbiotic relationship between harmony and strife, each as important as the other.

i've been feeling a lot of love for the people around me, but i don't know where to channel it. into music, i suppose. music channeled it into me at some of my worst moments as a kid, so maybe i can channel it back. it's nice to think of things as cycles.