on pain...

I wish to comment briefly on how much it hurts to be human. This may seem like a particularly self-pitying wish, however the thought I would express may only be arrived at through personal experience thus is inevitably seen through the self.

In the summer a friend brought an essay by Ursula K. Le Guin to my attention which had a pretty deep impact upon some areas of my thinking. One sentence springs to mind now:

"People crave objectivity because to be subjective is to be embodied, to be a body, vulnerable, violable."

I crave objectivity, admittedly less than I used to but every now and again I experience emotion that I would rather escape. At one point in my life I began to idolise the concept that could cut emotion right out of the picture; to never have the risk of painful emotion would be ideal. I regarded objectivity as that concept- beautiful, unreachable. I soon realised however that if I were objective I would be unable to appreciate it; it is not possible for one emotion to exist without a contrast.

In happier times I re-evaluated my decision acknowledging the rich experience that being subjective, being a body, may offer. Someone once told me that joy may co-exist with any other emotion...

these are things we must remember.

When faced with the pain of rejection or of loneliness, we can still recognise the fact that we exist and that that alone is a wonderful thing. If we can just take a step back to remember the world that we are part of we may be able to place our pain in perspective. I don't believe that we are completely helpless.

To end with a rather cryptic metaphor I settled on in a moment of melancholy:

There is more to this life than myself. I must accept that I cannot carry, within my pockets, every pebble I spy on the path- some of them are special in the moment only and must be left behind...

the worm in the apple...

This is a simplification of something that has probably been studied by sociologists, anthropologists and cultural philosophers. My contemplations may be amateur but I can't help but let them overflow onto the page, I remain convinced that there is some truth in what follows.

Yesterday I was explaining to a friend how throughout my life I have been looking for refuges from the problems caused by humanity's subjectivity. I have been looking for the crispest, sweetest apple. However, everything I have ever viewed as a refuge in one light has eventually been revealed to me in another as corrupt- a construct of society that has been misused and abused. Philosophy is one of these things. Finally, after 2 years of study I have decided to stop cultivating reverence for the 'greatest' philosophers, the big names.

Philosophy was once, for me, the beautiful objective, the logical, moral, rational answer to all the problems caused by the ego-centric, self-centred subjective. But of course I was deluding myself- philosophy has been abused as much as religion has, as much as tradition has, as much as art and literature and science .... there is no human construct morally pure or purely moral that lives and breathes. Even abstract theories can be misused in their utter dependence upon our fickle language. Even words laid out with the most honest of intentions will be manipulated by corruption eventually. On paper we create the ideal which crumbles when we try to grasp it.

It occurred to me then that the ideal is no more than a concept, and in raising it up and reaching out for it we are in danger of constant disillusionment and disappointment.

I wish so much that humanity was less flawed. That the ideal was attainable. That I could eat an apple without finding a worm in the core...

blogging...an alien form.

I don't think I'm doing very well at this. I haven't settled in. Where I once had plenty of thoughts to share I now have none. It's as if the opportunity to vocalise has drained me.

Or perhaps I began in the wrong tone and that is stopping me from speaking. I have to make another jump. I have to break out of that which I began in. I have to begin again and make sure that this time I keep thinking, keep talking.

I was hoping that this would be a scrapbook. But there is a beauty in the physicality of sticking images to the page, of writing words, that I cannot find in the tapping of keys.

I shall persevere but you'll have to bear with me.

Perspectives

I'm writing my diary, mentioning people. Those I know now but may not know in 10 years time, 2 years time. It fascinates me, pen in hand, remembering last week and the angst of a single day, a single time, just how small each moment is and just how each action, each thought or utterance may be hugely significant or may pass unnoticed. I am suddenly aware of a perspective.
The broadness of time.

In easy conversation, over tea, a friend observes how I, unconsciously, refer to Quakerism in my speech. My anecdotes, metaphors, comparisons are littered with religion, faith in practice. And with that SNAP! I'm out of myself and wondering what I look like, what I sound like, from your perspective. Amongst the rolling waves of worry, I realise.

We don't see what we become.

Beginning

This is not the beginning. The idea of blogging has been growing in me for some time. So here I am finally. I jumped the first brook- I created the blog. Now I'm bounding over the second brook- I'm posting. Who knows how many streams I'll skip over, how many thoughts I'll catch in the air, how long this note will linger.

Let's wait and see...