Jul 09

The world around us makes sense if we look at it-but the question arises, did it make sense before we examined its parts and whole? We know the stories of stars, how they came to be born and how they will die. All determined by our exquisite mathematics in linear progression but there are always surprises and thus new iterations of the same old story.

Our lives no less than this. We find tales within ourselves, a meaning inside of events that on the face of themselves are a fusion of design and circumstance. I learned a long time ago that humanity remembers mythology but not history. Are our own lives, history in the personal, events in the small, no less? It is a difficult thing to extract narrative from event and to look at what has happened, is happening, will happen without our own projections, to stand aside and not only see matters from another’s view, but impartial, outside, like a Deist’s divine watchmaker who observes events without precipitating cause or outcome. Perhaps what happens in our lives, the world and the universe is both of a personal and impersonal nature. An extreme causes the appearance of its opposite. Things happen by accident but everthing happens for a reason. We foist meaning upon life when there is no inherent value aside from what we choose to see-but upon observing, the witness causes a shift, a change occurs and suddenly it is full of meaning. It means something to us, and that is of the greatest importance.

Everyone carries a universe inside of themselves, a personal reality shared when it is spoken of, written about, its likeness painted on canvas. The shared efforts converge and become a common reality, one in which we see ourselves and everyone else reflected-not always acurately, sometimes as though in a fun house mirror-and from this the world is made. Given this, surely the most important thing in the universe is each other-by knowing others we can know ourselves, a greater story of who we are because it is written by another, even distortions give insight and pause for reflection.  And so, everything is interconnected by our thoughts and our words.

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Leaves Rustling In The Wind

Jun 02

My blog is a narrative of things I’ve done, seen, thought or experienced. I think it’s important to be sincere in expression. It makes the words flow in the order of their experience-which may or may not be linear. Memory and events are cut up some times, a montage of events because we think that way, connecting songs to memories or smells to experiences. It’s not in order of occurrence at all, but in order of impact with the foundations things that we may or may not, in fact, recall. And then we interface with other matters of our stories, myths and fables and secret identities (not just Clark Kent, but the Prince disguised as the pauper, the Princess enchanted into something else), destinies and callings. A fish brings a ring to us at the shore of  a lake, speaking clearly it lays whopping fates on us. We’re kind to old ladies who reveal that they are beings of great power. These matters are equal in value, and their memories overlap, whether they happened that way or not isn’t important, it’s what they mean to us.

But there are times we find not fit to blog. Omissions are made to spare the living, to spare the dead. There are so many things I would like to write about but decorum prevents me. The tragedies of others are unfit for strangers to bear in the pages of their texts. When someone anonymous dies, should we, in fact, try to make it pertinent and relate ourselves to it? When Memorial Day came and went, I wanted to scribe my own feelings on war, to say what I think about current conflicts and about the sordid past of man. But it seems a small thing to me-my own views, that is-I’ve never fought in a war. There’s nothing wrong with having an opinion and voicing it, in fact, it is admirable when people do. But I’ve read old essays and articles, editorials from before and after the fact. The men and women who have thought actions against other human beings were justified, only to find later that their words collapsed under their own weight.

The same holds true for other affairs. To be critical of the world means, all to often, that we spare ourselves subjection to the microscope, like a photo taken up too close where everything that is out of sort is there to see. Only-everyone looks that way through that lens. To that end, rather than engage in a matter offensively, I’ve often tried to keep a cool head and stick to the facts, to not let emotion bleed in and remain inviolate. Certain core positions are unassailable: the sanctity of human life, the transcendence of nature, the highest expression of love. And so, instead of throwing out my political views or religious beliefs (they’re mine, not anyone else’s after all, and surely everyone is entitled to their own) I want to share things that make the continuum of being, a common language that, being the property of all, is poetic in nature: a gibbous moon, the language of birds, leaves rustling in the wind…

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