Adding yet more confusion to the universe
Here's what's been on my mind lately.
First off, order is for lunatics who think they can manufacture clarity. I am no such lunatic: see below.
It's only the artists who truly understand anything. Yesterday I was looking at a book Rouse and a few others had suggested to me, Blindness by Jose Saramango, and all I could think was that this is what it's all supposed to be about. We, as a collective body, fill up so much of our time with mass cultural inventions--religion, money, power--but in the end they only amount to distractions. I can go to church every sunday and I can become a CEO and I can spend all of my life seeking the next thing, but what will it all amount to in the end? I could live on so much less: 5% of my closet, 50% of my meals, 0% of the stupid toys and diversions I devote so much of my time to. Yes, I am talking about hermitage. No, seriously. I want to Walden for a year. I don't know when; I figure one day I'll just decide to do it. A year spent with no disturbance other than the basic necessities of living. Maybe this is just some sort of existential quarter-life crisis; but I also think that, after a year spent without seeing another human face, I'll actually be able to see them. It all comes back to the possibility I've been continually circling back to for the past year, that maybe the point isn't God or fame or any purpose at all; it's about common humanity. It's about fallibility and brokenness. It's about living in a hostile environment, and just trying to get everyone through. It's about connections; my God is it about connections.
For me, it's about realizing that I'm trying to enact a change in a system that is far too heavy and far too ancient for me to be able to move. I fully recognize that I have nothing to do that can help. So what if I write? Who will read it? Will those who do read even understand it? Will they internalize it? In my more nihilistic moments, I tend to think that if anyone gets it, it's because they must be writing something similar of their own...ha, this 0.0001% of the literate population can converse across published lines, and it'll never break free except for those who join the circle itself..."0.000103%, our numbers sure skyrocketed this season!"
A few days ago I let out something similar to this to Rouse (who is, not surprisingly, writing almost a non-fiction derivative of my work...he can join the Lonely Literates Club too), complaining about how well-meaning people have told me that I need to basically dumb down my own work so that my message can be conveyed. Understand that that is heresy of the worst sort; I don't think I could commit a more degrading sin in the sight of God. That becomes propaganda: taking The Communist Manifesto from Das Capital, reducing Guernica to a few unhappy crayola stick figures, CliffNotes for existence itself. Rouse cited the Camus argument to me: yes, it'll probably be a largely futile effort--certainly the gains won't equal the effort I put into it--but if I don't put it out there, then what? Then not even the O.OOO103% can be reached. Then I've allowed nothing to happen.
I should explain that I'm not actually in much danger from these worries. I still do believe in purpose, and I'm continually fed just enough hope to keep me trudging forward. What really needs to be considered is to what extent I am going to be present in this unmovable societal system; and that is why I'm going into the wilderness. I have to learn how much I really need to live. I have to be able to examine myself, away from all the white noise, and get a feel for my own life. I have to be able to come back ready to push the boulder.
First off, order is for lunatics who think they can manufacture clarity. I am no such lunatic: see below.
It's only the artists who truly understand anything. Yesterday I was looking at a book Rouse and a few others had suggested to me, Blindness by Jose Saramango, and all I could think was that this is what it's all supposed to be about. We, as a collective body, fill up so much of our time with mass cultural inventions--religion, money, power--but in the end they only amount to distractions. I can go to church every sunday and I can become a CEO and I can spend all of my life seeking the next thing, but what will it all amount to in the end? I could live on so much less: 5% of my closet, 50% of my meals, 0% of the stupid toys and diversions I devote so much of my time to. Yes, I am talking about hermitage. No, seriously. I want to Walden for a year. I don't know when; I figure one day I'll just decide to do it. A year spent with no disturbance other than the basic necessities of living. Maybe this is just some sort of existential quarter-life crisis; but I also think that, after a year spent without seeing another human face, I'll actually be able to see them. It all comes back to the possibility I've been continually circling back to for the past year, that maybe the point isn't God or fame or any purpose at all; it's about common humanity. It's about fallibility and brokenness. It's about living in a hostile environment, and just trying to get everyone through. It's about connections; my God is it about connections.
For me, it's about realizing that I'm trying to enact a change in a system that is far too heavy and far too ancient for me to be able to move. I fully recognize that I have nothing to do that can help. So what if I write? Who will read it? Will those who do read even understand it? Will they internalize it? In my more nihilistic moments, I tend to think that if anyone gets it, it's because they must be writing something similar of their own...ha, this 0.0001% of the literate population can converse across published lines, and it'll never break free except for those who join the circle itself..."0.000103%, our numbers sure skyrocketed this season!"
A few days ago I let out something similar to this to Rouse (who is, not surprisingly, writing almost a non-fiction derivative of my work...he can join the Lonely Literates Club too), complaining about how well-meaning people have told me that I need to basically dumb down my own work so that my message can be conveyed. Understand that that is heresy of the worst sort; I don't think I could commit a more degrading sin in the sight of God. That becomes propaganda: taking The Communist Manifesto from Das Capital, reducing Guernica to a few unhappy crayola stick figures, CliffNotes for existence itself. Rouse cited the Camus argument to me: yes, it'll probably be a largely futile effort--certainly the gains won't equal the effort I put into it--but if I don't put it out there, then what? Then not even the O.OOO103% can be reached. Then I've allowed nothing to happen.
I should explain that I'm not actually in much danger from these worries. I still do believe in purpose, and I'm continually fed just enough hope to keep me trudging forward. What really needs to be considered is to what extent I am going to be present in this unmovable societal system; and that is why I'm going into the wilderness. I have to learn how much I really need to live. I have to be able to examine myself, away from all the white noise, and get a feel for my own life. I have to be able to come back ready to push the boulder.