Life-Altering Mundanity
I am sitting here at the Meat Packer, waiting for updates to run on this machine I am setting up and thinking about writing, Hemingway, literary snobbery, self-appointed gatekeepers of knowledge and art, and also the fact that spending night after night in front of the TV may not be the best use of my time (or our time since I often speak collectively for my marriage).
Last night I was quite bored and could not find many, if any, videos to satisfy my need for stimulation. I knew as I was laying there it was all a huge waste of time. Just because YouTube is not network/cable TV doesn't mean it's not rotting my brain. I still seethe and cringe when I am forced to watch commercials on the platform when using the television. Even as I've managed to deny them some ad revenue by clicking in and out of videos until the initial ad is skipped.
The Hemingway video we watched as interesting, but I questioned some of the info that the content creator likely just skimmed off of Wikipedia. And one of his other videos had a very left-leaning, socialist slant to it so I was left to click away from his content for fear I'd have to endure the brain cell-eating lunacy of leftism.
Should we be spending time at night reading? Or DOING something? I've long since used the excuse that I am so beaten down by the day by 4:00 in the afternoon I can do little else but lay comatose on the sofa. In the summer it might be a little easier to end the day with a lawn mowing or some outside activity, but even then it is only a once-a-week thing. I just shut down after work.
I can't even really blame work either, because we are the same on the weekends. I sometimes think we still operate from our dating mindset. Since we only used to see each other on the weekends, we would just want to be together, and not necessarily make big plans. No work, no tasks or expectations. We just kinda vegged. And I still feel that mindset now. When the Sparrow gets home from work we just kinda shut down.
I've spent a lifetime with great aspirations of self-education and reading but as I said the other day, a slight breeze can screw up my motivation of reading for weeks. My mind is just pathetically fragile in that way. I become adverse to the task because I feel like my mind will just drift away in the process. As it is, I do not think I have the retention I once did when I'd go through a book.
Surely not in comparison to how I used to write about my reading. I was shocked to recall how voracious and moved I was by each book I picked up. How I long to have that mentality again. It seems at once like it'd be so simple to achieve and yet an impossible feat.
As I was sitting here reading through Hemingway's Wikipedia article, I felt that spark within me I haven't in years. That connection I'd feel to other writers. A knowing sense without words that we are somehow connected through time and space itself.
I was then reading about his home in Idaho where he committed suicide and how it fell under the ownership of a nature preserve as well as the local library. I guess the house is used as a "writer's retreat" and is only accessible "by invitation only". I found this all to be very annoying and pretentious. I would ask the question of who these people think they are to make themselves the self-appointed guardians of this part of Hemingway's legacy, but I already know the answer. They're the ones with the money and clout who could afford to put themselves into that position. No doubt enabled by Hemingway's widow.
I wondered about the non-possibility that someone like me would ever be able to visit the house. Surely, without a college degree to pretend I am smarter than everyone else, a person like myself would never have access to such an experience. It then makes me think of Rockwell and how he used to laugh and mock me for considering myself a writer. He did not see my innate talent as anything, but he edited the school newspaper and thought himself on par with the greatest writers of all time.
I do chuckle at the memory now considering my accomplishment in just writing this simple journal at the very least. I don't need the almighty hands of the college "educated" to tell me whether or not I have ability or talent. But, it's pretentious, narcissist snobs like him who take control of the institutions and the history itself and deem themselves the authorities of it all. Only they can dictate who has access.
This train of thought continued on back to Hemingway, and then Kerouac, and the idea of my sitting down just for a day and writing. Writing all day. Writing whatever came to mind. Even when I journal, I never seem to run out of thoughts to put down. I can stay on point and wrap up a single thought or two for an entry, but given the time I know I'd be able to just carry on for hours. Going wherever my thoughts took me. It's fun to contemplate it.
Skimming that Hemingway article my brain was racing with thoughts, contemplations, inspirations, controversies... all manner of topics. This was one of the motivators behind why I began journaling in the first place. I felt within me all these thoughts and words and it was maddening not having an outlet for them. In that way, writing truly helped to calm the ever-blowing storm in my head.
As much as I needed to eat and breath, I needed to write. And it makes me sad that social media and my own misconceptions about my writing turned me away from it for several years. What was I afraid or ashamed of? Frankly, who the fuck cares what people think about it... it was always for me.
Whenever I read great books or about the lives of great writers, I feel inspiration flow through me. I feel the power of their influence, their minds, on me. It makes me want to do more, even if just for myself. I am not sure I care to write the next great American novel. I just want to write for me. If somewhere in the future that translates to something else, then so be it. I wouldn't turn away from the possibility.
As I've gotten older I've felt more and more that everything I've done; writing, living, reading, photography, hiking etc etc etc... was all just about being alive. About understanding life. Questioning it, analyzing it. Experiencing my place in it. Not to find fame or fortune (though I'd take the latter). Life is an incredible thing. And my ordinary, average life is an incredible thing to ME. Not in some arrogant, self-involved way. Simply because my only basis for all my experiences is the fact that they are happening to, and around, me.
I'll never go on an African safari or be a war correspondent or adventurer like Hemingway was. But, there is as much depth and excitement in my ordinary life as in his. I don't fault him for his opportunities or regret any lack of my own. He was a tormented man. I've been tormented myself. I can understand some of his plight and I've understood and grown through much of my own. That is the wonder of this whole thing.
My misery of decades ago gave way to my understanding of now. I couldn't be where I am had I not suffered. And I am sure my suffering isn't over. I may lament about current struggles, but I understand more so now that they are inevitable for everyone. But, in the meantime it is all great fodder to write about.
Months and months ago, when I started writing again, I wondered if I'd have anything to say. It seemed conflict was always my greatest motivator in writing. Contentment is good. But, conflict is where my fingers would often light-up the keyboard the most. Not that I didn't love nature walks and sunrises. But, a year ago I wasn't sure if I'd have anything to say if there was no conflict to talk about, as my life seemed overall quiet and settled at the time.
But, life IS conflict. We are fighting something every day of our lives. Most often ourselves. And how much more conflict do we cause ourselves when we don't seize the opportunities, even in a simple, ordinary life.
Last night I was quite bored and could not find many, if any, videos to satisfy my need for stimulation. I knew as I was laying there it was all a huge waste of time. Just because YouTube is not network/cable TV doesn't mean it's not rotting my brain. I still seethe and cringe when I am forced to watch commercials on the platform when using the television. Even as I've managed to deny them some ad revenue by clicking in and out of videos until the initial ad is skipped.
The Hemingway video we watched as interesting, but I questioned some of the info that the content creator likely just skimmed off of Wikipedia. And one of his other videos had a very left-leaning, socialist slant to it so I was left to click away from his content for fear I'd have to endure the brain cell-eating lunacy of leftism.
Should we be spending time at night reading? Or DOING something? I've long since used the excuse that I am so beaten down by the day by 4:00 in the afternoon I can do little else but lay comatose on the sofa. In the summer it might be a little easier to end the day with a lawn mowing or some outside activity, but even then it is only a once-a-week thing. I just shut down after work.
I can't even really blame work either, because we are the same on the weekends. I sometimes think we still operate from our dating mindset. Since we only used to see each other on the weekends, we would just want to be together, and not necessarily make big plans. No work, no tasks or expectations. We just kinda vegged. And I still feel that mindset now. When the Sparrow gets home from work we just kinda shut down.
I've spent a lifetime with great aspirations of self-education and reading but as I said the other day, a slight breeze can screw up my motivation of reading for weeks. My mind is just pathetically fragile in that way. I become adverse to the task because I feel like my mind will just drift away in the process. As it is, I do not think I have the retention I once did when I'd go through a book.
Surely not in comparison to how I used to write about my reading. I was shocked to recall how voracious and moved I was by each book I picked up. How I long to have that mentality again. It seems at once like it'd be so simple to achieve and yet an impossible feat.
As I was sitting here reading through Hemingway's Wikipedia article, I felt that spark within me I haven't in years. That connection I'd feel to other writers. A knowing sense without words that we are somehow connected through time and space itself.
I was then reading about his home in Idaho where he committed suicide and how it fell under the ownership of a nature preserve as well as the local library. I guess the house is used as a "writer's retreat" and is only accessible "by invitation only". I found this all to be very annoying and pretentious. I would ask the question of who these people think they are to make themselves the self-appointed guardians of this part of Hemingway's legacy, but I already know the answer. They're the ones with the money and clout who could afford to put themselves into that position. No doubt enabled by Hemingway's widow.
I wondered about the non-possibility that someone like me would ever be able to visit the house. Surely, without a college degree to pretend I am smarter than everyone else, a person like myself would never have access to such an experience. It then makes me think of Rockwell and how he used to laugh and mock me for considering myself a writer. He did not see my innate talent as anything, but he edited the school newspaper and thought himself on par with the greatest writers of all time.
I do chuckle at the memory now considering my accomplishment in just writing this simple journal at the very least. I don't need the almighty hands of the college "educated" to tell me whether or not I have ability or talent. But, it's pretentious, narcissist snobs like him who take control of the institutions and the history itself and deem themselves the authorities of it all. Only they can dictate who has access.
This train of thought continued on back to Hemingway, and then Kerouac, and the idea of my sitting down just for a day and writing. Writing all day. Writing whatever came to mind. Even when I journal, I never seem to run out of thoughts to put down. I can stay on point and wrap up a single thought or two for an entry, but given the time I know I'd be able to just carry on for hours. Going wherever my thoughts took me. It's fun to contemplate it.
Skimming that Hemingway article my brain was racing with thoughts, contemplations, inspirations, controversies... all manner of topics. This was one of the motivators behind why I began journaling in the first place. I felt within me all these thoughts and words and it was maddening not having an outlet for them. In that way, writing truly helped to calm the ever-blowing storm in my head.
As much as I needed to eat and breath, I needed to write. And it makes me sad that social media and my own misconceptions about my writing turned me away from it for several years. What was I afraid or ashamed of? Frankly, who the fuck cares what people think about it... it was always for me.
Whenever I read great books or about the lives of great writers, I feel inspiration flow through me. I feel the power of their influence, their minds, on me. It makes me want to do more, even if just for myself. I am not sure I care to write the next great American novel. I just want to write for me. If somewhere in the future that translates to something else, then so be it. I wouldn't turn away from the possibility.
As I've gotten older I've felt more and more that everything I've done; writing, living, reading, photography, hiking etc etc etc... was all just about being alive. About understanding life. Questioning it, analyzing it. Experiencing my place in it. Not to find fame or fortune (though I'd take the latter). Life is an incredible thing. And my ordinary, average life is an incredible thing to ME. Not in some arrogant, self-involved way. Simply because my only basis for all my experiences is the fact that they are happening to, and around, me.
I'll never go on an African safari or be a war correspondent or adventurer like Hemingway was. But, there is as much depth and excitement in my ordinary life as in his. I don't fault him for his opportunities or regret any lack of my own. He was a tormented man. I've been tormented myself. I can understand some of his plight and I've understood and grown through much of my own. That is the wonder of this whole thing.
My misery of decades ago gave way to my understanding of now. I couldn't be where I am had I not suffered. And I am sure my suffering isn't over. I may lament about current struggles, but I understand more so now that they are inevitable for everyone. But, in the meantime it is all great fodder to write about.
Months and months ago, when I started writing again, I wondered if I'd have anything to say. It seemed conflict was always my greatest motivator in writing. Contentment is good. But, conflict is where my fingers would often light-up the keyboard the most. Not that I didn't love nature walks and sunrises. But, a year ago I wasn't sure if I'd have anything to say if there was no conflict to talk about, as my life seemed overall quiet and settled at the time.
But, life IS conflict. We are fighting something every day of our lives. Most often ourselves. And how much more conflict do we cause ourselves when we don't seize the opportunities, even in a simple, ordinary life.