Passion
I was having a massive wibble thing at a friend the other evening, 'cos I felt empty.
I lack qualifications, expertise, skills in both work and pastimes. A lot of the things I'd learnt/read have been sucked into a 5-8 year memory blur, and I was feeling pretty crummy about that.
There are a lot of things that I am interested in, but I don't have pursuits, passions; things that I'm regularly involved in and feel competent at. Partly it's deliberate, 'cos a lot of things I want to do require solitude and I'd rather be sociable atm.
I am an unprofessional dilettante.
Then yesterday, it hit me. There is something I feel passionate about and feel I need in my life. It's dull, but I have to own books. I want to have the space for a private library, all polished wood and papery. (Some sort of shrine to killed/killing trees, if you look at things that way.) If I read a really good book I have a craving to own a copy, to be able to rediscover its ideas and imagery, re-experience whatever it evoked in me, reassess it, share it at will, at leisure.
I love words-on-paper as objects (though I didn't realise it in these terms before). THis is strong enough tat I find it hard to throw away newspaper articles I found particularly insightful or vital. (I don't mean necessary but a useful summary of a viewpoint or of information on something I consider socially, intellectually or politically 'important'.) I am a dedicated bluestocking.
This actually made me feel really good because, tho it's not large enough, I'm actually really pleased by many of the books I've managed to collect so far (despite them being paperbacks - you can fit more on your shelves).
More importantly - I felt relieved to find I felt passionate about anything - I'd been experiencing an unreal, hollow feeling. Was I really not involved with anything in life, with life?:
I might not know enough about gardening, music, mythology, language, literature, Kurosawa films; might not have been able to write anything (even when I tried) in the recent past; not had talent or inspiration for drawing or clayworking (tho I really want to finish those models); am a half-wit web-user; am not the person to go to for career advice; lack charm and the diplomacy I'd love to have; am not properly trained at massage, acupressure or reflexology; abandoned my dabbling briefly with sociology (aarrgh, the stats, the stats), gig reviews, sul ki do, jewelery making; on the polymath scale I rank as insignificant; but, at least, there is something I'm constructing in my life - a collection of sorts, even if it's only accumulating dust and dog-ears.
It's just a starting point.
But at least I've got one.
I lack qualifications, expertise, skills in both work and pastimes. A lot of the things I'd learnt/read have been sucked into a 5-8 year memory blur, and I was feeling pretty crummy about that.
There are a lot of things that I am interested in, but I don't have pursuits, passions; things that I'm regularly involved in and feel competent at. Partly it's deliberate, 'cos a lot of things I want to do require solitude and I'd rather be sociable atm.
I am an unprofessional dilettante.
Then yesterday, it hit me. There is something I feel passionate about and feel I need in my life. It's dull, but I have to own books. I want to have the space for a private library, all polished wood and papery. (Some sort of shrine to killed/killing trees, if you look at things that way.) If I read a really good book I have a craving to own a copy, to be able to rediscover its ideas and imagery, re-experience whatever it evoked in me, reassess it, share it at will, at leisure.
I love words-on-paper as objects (though I didn't realise it in these terms before). THis is strong enough tat I find it hard to throw away newspaper articles I found particularly insightful or vital. (I don't mean necessary but a useful summary of a viewpoint or of information on something I consider socially, intellectually or politically 'important'.) I am a dedicated bluestocking.
This actually made me feel really good because, tho it's not large enough, I'm actually really pleased by many of the books I've managed to collect so far (despite them being paperbacks - you can fit more on your shelves).
More importantly - I felt relieved to find I felt passionate about anything - I'd been experiencing an unreal, hollow feeling. Was I really not involved with anything in life, with life?:
I might not know enough about gardening, music, mythology, language, literature, Kurosawa films; might not have been able to write anything (even when I tried) in the recent past; not had talent or inspiration for drawing or clayworking (tho I really want to finish those models); am a half-wit web-user; am not the person to go to for career advice; lack charm and the diplomacy I'd love to have; am not properly trained at massage, acupressure or reflexology; abandoned my dabbling briefly with sociology (aarrgh, the stats, the stats), gig reviews, sul ki do, jewelery making; on the polymath scale I rank as insignificant; but, at least, there is something I'm constructing in my life - a collection of sorts, even if it's only accumulating dust and dog-ears.
It's just a starting point.
But at least I've got one.