Looks like my last blog entry (of the 5 so far) was in January. So much for discipline about exploring this! It was a year like many others with lots of focus on what’s happening with the kids but starting to give some thought to our lives headed back to a duet. I feel like I did get in a larger amount of reading than usual this year and I’m pretty happy about that. I’d like to keep the thinking process as vibrant as I can. Another year of being a pretty crappy son and sibling though. Not proud about that.
What should I write about? Work? Missed chances at the work I want? Love? Feelings that are love but not love? (where is our Linnaeus for Love?) Music? Children? Broken Families? Vertigo? Why my question is always what I want and how selfish that seems?
I read (need a writing on the variations between reading and skimming. This was a 7 with 10 meaning ‘read, digest, contemplate’ and 1 means look at the section/chapter titles) an article in the NYRB on memory that got me wondering why the particulars of what I do remember. I have a recurring/persistent memory of Gerbil (Jamil) from my god-forsaken fraternity days and a conversation about what we really want. He advocated (as people in the 1980’s did) that everything came down to what you as the individual want for yourself. Charity and Love were sought because they made you feel good about you. I cannot deny that this is logically impossible (as I admitted at the time). But I don’t think it is reality. I chalk that up to faith. The best definition of faith is something that comes in that moment when you know truth but don’t have a definitive argument on your side.
Wondering if the focus that we have on other peoples sometimes has less to do with miss-seeing them than it does having to do with thinking about it as another possibility that we missed. If only I ..
Writing of any kind is always biased toward the kind of mood that produces it. Kind of a tautology. So my 1st ‘sincere’ post here, had a brief thought triggered by weather and a reflective mood. That’s my immediate temptation here as well. It’s the first of September but I want Summer to stay but I’m confronted with Autumn. My thoughts turn to so many Fall-ridden books. It almost makes me cry. Is it because sincerity is so intimately linked with tinctures of sadness? I wonder if the obvious fact that it is easier to critique than to contribute is related to this.
One of my favorite books was a translation of a Japanese book, “Wind in the Rain”. It was ‘about’ poetry, haiku specifically. It was just very prettily written and gave a kind of voyeuristic idea of beauty in a skill that I don’t have myself. Rainy, cold late Mays in the Midwest remind me of that book.
The things that occur to one at 3 AM can be a little unclear in their intent and origins. So here I am.