For The Dead Travel Fast
There's an odd vibe amongst my friends here this week. Nearly every casual conversation has reverted to the nuances and dynamics of interpersonal relationships-of personality versus "essence", of personal accountability, of projecting our desires and failures upon others.
And so forth.
The momentum behind this is strong and surreal. I feel like I've nearly lost my voice in answering questions and outlining my own meditations upon what lies beyond the veil of functional social interfaces-beyond the weather, beyond impending layoffs, beyond New Orleans, beyond idle gossip.
We're hardly the first apes to have these delicate, exploratory dances, of course. There are as many past participants as there are headstones to acknowledge their short-lived, yet impassioned explorations into the human condition-a perpetual legacy of loneliness, confusion and occasionally, majesty and wonder. In the present era, the world is no less short of predators and poets, but like teenagers, so much of our life work seems so immediate, so terribly personal.
Not that it isn't personal. Meaning is self-created, self-sustained. And hard-won. That's personal, certainly as personal as certain self-truths are inescapable when your head hits the pillow each night.
Yet, in spite of myself-in spite of all the heart and heat around me-sometimes all I see are the next headstones. Their etchings upon the world seem so tragically faint. In my mind's eye they have a politely cold, nearly indifferent aura about them. After a moment's pause, I walk on, because it's just about time to do something else.
Naval gazing wears thin. We crave action. Doing. Or watching others Do.
And so forth.
The momentum behind this is strong and surreal. I feel like I've nearly lost my voice in answering questions and outlining my own meditations upon what lies beyond the veil of functional social interfaces-beyond the weather, beyond impending layoffs, beyond New Orleans, beyond idle gossip.
We're hardly the first apes to have these delicate, exploratory dances, of course. There are as many past participants as there are headstones to acknowledge their short-lived, yet impassioned explorations into the human condition-a perpetual legacy of loneliness, confusion and occasionally, majesty and wonder. In the present era, the world is no less short of predators and poets, but like teenagers, so much of our life work seems so immediate, so terribly personal.
Not that it isn't personal. Meaning is self-created, self-sustained. And hard-won. That's personal, certainly as personal as certain self-truths are inescapable when your head hits the pillow each night.
Yet, in spite of myself-in spite of all the heart and heat around me-sometimes all I see are the next headstones. Their etchings upon the world seem so tragically faint. In my mind's eye they have a politely cold, nearly indifferent aura about them. After a moment's pause, I walk on, because it's just about time to do something else.
Naval gazing wears thin. We crave action. Doing. Or watching others Do.