tinkering thoughts
I've come across a boundary I am not sure how to handle. While travelling in Mongolia I kept both paper as well as electronic journals. I believe that the fact that I knew none of it would appear without my prior filtration, changed the very content of what I wrote. It became not only a log of events but also a deep look into my emotions, especially in regard to those around me.
Even though I have kept my blog as open as possible, there have been many things I haven't written about, since I knew it would affect other people's lives, in personal and/or private ways.
I have held on strong to the belief that what I write here should have no further consequence than that of fulfilling a voyeuristic desire to read what is going on in other people's lives, as well as perhaps giving rise to questioning of one's own thoughts and perception of the surrounding world. Yet at the same time I believe that openness and truth are basic precepts to a world based on honesty.
There is a deep split that has kept my written voice silent since I came back home. I do not know which path I should embark upon. Should I divulge decisive details of what happened during my trip to the anonymous, but potentially lethal, public of the Internet? Or should I filter out what needs to be taken out and hence, by this simple act, totally change the moral approach to this blog of mine?
A lot of what I wrote during the trip was forged as a story, as something to be shared with those who care to know. Yet who truly cares to know everything? Aren't we all too busy to live out our own Lives anyway? Much of what I wrote (even the physical format) reeks of a book. But I do not believe I am one to ever output a book. My attention span is too short, my inner strength to sit down and edit is too weak and my belief in any sort of purpose behind such an exercise lacks totally.
A blog is an easy and (essentially) free format that allows those that desire to read read. A book is an investment. It costs the lives of trees and environment as well as demands handing over monetary resources for the sheer entertainment that it provides.
I understand that researchers desire to see their words in print, since it gives them credibility. Yet the abundance of novels and romantic stories, autobiographies and self-centred diaries truly disgust me.
Give me printed words about the state of the world!
Give me printed words about the state of governments, economies, cultures, people, research, biology, psychology, theology, spirituality! Yes!
But spare me the countless millions of personal opinions and private grievances that serve no higher purpose than that of entertaining those who feel they have failed to reach what they silently yearn for.
If it is a truly shaking personal account that informs the world about a potentially revolutionising way of seeing and doing things, fine. But if it is anything less, then let it remain in the realm of the Internet, there where your words move around freely, without boundaries, without direct sacrifice of either trees or personal savings.
As I jotted down words in my notebook, I shook inside with the pleasure that only written words give me. It seemed that I was freezing down insights that I would come to relish once time ripped me away from those lands that make me seep with Joy.
As I turned back the pages and tried to decipher the fine print of the words I had placed on that paper surface, imbued with all the connotations only I can decipher for myself, I silently shivered with excitement and inner space: I had managed to capture the essentials of what I had felt, as if the only public I had written for was the me who would come back to that mixture of words in the future. It felt as if I had been so successful at it that my mind expanded to include both times and spaces into one; the ones that composed the Now of when I jotted down the words, and the ones that formed the Now of when I read them.
I cannot begin to explain how exhilarating it feels to be able to return to the past in such a vivid way. I doubt that this will always be possible, since passing Time and ageing memory do their fair share in removing intimate connotations from universal words, yet I relish every single bit of it as long as possible.
I wish I were able to share this space with everyone, yet am still unable to conceive of a way in which the words I pick could communicate with those outside of my mind as well as they do with... me. If I found such a way, if I became such a great writer, if I were able to move people's inner selves with my choice of words, then, and only then, would I consider spreading those words around in a printed format.
Until then, I will exclusively bind myself to the Internet.
But what then of those things I wrote for my private self?
What then of my desire to share my travels with others?
What then of grand ideals?
What then of my moral obligation to privacy?
What then of the very purpose of everything I do during this insignificantly short Lifetime I have the privilege to spend upon the crust of this Planet?
Would I compromise the career and tranquil Lives of people placed on the other side of the Planet for my private and measly goal of sharing experience?
Or will I give myself the time to rewrite all that I wrote to fit a more public platform?
Yet how would that fit with my desire to be truthful?
Would I be able to rediscover the truth of that Moment if I were to sit down and edit the raw material?
Even though I have kept my blog as open as possible, there have been many things I haven't written about, since I knew it would affect other people's lives, in personal and/or private ways.
I have held on strong to the belief that what I write here should have no further consequence than that of fulfilling a voyeuristic desire to read what is going on in other people's lives, as well as perhaps giving rise to questioning of one's own thoughts and perception of the surrounding world. Yet at the same time I believe that openness and truth are basic precepts to a world based on honesty.
There is a deep split that has kept my written voice silent since I came back home. I do not know which path I should embark upon. Should I divulge decisive details of what happened during my trip to the anonymous, but potentially lethal, public of the Internet? Or should I filter out what needs to be taken out and hence, by this simple act, totally change the moral approach to this blog of mine?
A lot of what I wrote during the trip was forged as a story, as something to be shared with those who care to know. Yet who truly cares to know everything? Aren't we all too busy to live out our own Lives anyway? Much of what I wrote (even the physical format) reeks of a book. But I do not believe I am one to ever output a book. My attention span is too short, my inner strength to sit down and edit is too weak and my belief in any sort of purpose behind such an exercise lacks totally.
A blog is an easy and (essentially) free format that allows those that desire to read read. A book is an investment. It costs the lives of trees and environment as well as demands handing over monetary resources for the sheer entertainment that it provides.
I understand that researchers desire to see their words in print, since it gives them credibility. Yet the abundance of novels and romantic stories, autobiographies and self-centred diaries truly disgust me.
Give me printed words about the state of the world!
Give me printed words about the state of governments, economies, cultures, people, research, biology, psychology, theology, spirituality! Yes!
But spare me the countless millions of personal opinions and private grievances that serve no higher purpose than that of entertaining those who feel they have failed to reach what they silently yearn for.
If it is a truly shaking personal account that informs the world about a potentially revolutionising way of seeing and doing things, fine. But if it is anything less, then let it remain in the realm of the Internet, there where your words move around freely, without boundaries, without direct sacrifice of either trees or personal savings.
As I jotted down words in my notebook, I shook inside with the pleasure that only written words give me. It seemed that I was freezing down insights that I would come to relish once time ripped me away from those lands that make me seep with Joy.
As I turned back the pages and tried to decipher the fine print of the words I had placed on that paper surface, imbued with all the connotations only I can decipher for myself, I silently shivered with excitement and inner space: I had managed to capture the essentials of what I had felt, as if the only public I had written for was the me who would come back to that mixture of words in the future. It felt as if I had been so successful at it that my mind expanded to include both times and spaces into one; the ones that composed the Now of when I jotted down the words, and the ones that formed the Now of when I read them.
I cannot begin to explain how exhilarating it feels to be able to return to the past in such a vivid way. I doubt that this will always be possible, since passing Time and ageing memory do their fair share in removing intimate connotations from universal words, yet I relish every single bit of it as long as possible.
I wish I were able to share this space with everyone, yet am still unable to conceive of a way in which the words I pick could communicate with those outside of my mind as well as they do with... me. If I found such a way, if I became such a great writer, if I were able to move people's inner selves with my choice of words, then, and only then, would I consider spreading those words around in a printed format.
Until then, I will exclusively bind myself to the Internet.
But what then of those things I wrote for my private self?
What then of my desire to share my travels with others?
What then of grand ideals?
What then of my moral obligation to privacy?
What then of the very purpose of everything I do during this insignificantly short Lifetime I have the privilege to spend upon the crust of this Planet?
Would I compromise the career and tranquil Lives of people placed on the other side of the Planet for my private and measly goal of sharing experience?
Or will I give myself the time to rewrite all that I wrote to fit a more public platform?
Yet how would that fit with my desire to be truthful?
Would I be able to rediscover the truth of that Moment if I were to sit down and edit the raw material?