I get the slight feeling that if I do not spend a moment to write then I am prone to wasting so much time on the internet doing unproductive things (or what I would justify as research / oh how much research is done on youtube and netflix and other mundane places (well they are not so mundane as they are unproductive or, really, they are the epitome of consumerism)). but what is writing really. I have been struggling with this ever since I began my endeavor. It feels to me unproductive (although there are productive acts of writing, I suppose, and so ) perhaps I am interested in finding a productivity that I can contribute to. I suppose that I don't find deconstruction productive, but in all reality it is. it's a method of cleaning, a method of clearing space. I suppose that I can take a space and pull it apart.
I overheard someone say that they put something in brackets to pay attention to it. It seems to me that there is a certain idea there, in that the person finds that the best way to call attention to a detail is to damper it or to quiet it. Is it the quiet things that grab people's attention in a way that loud things can't. I imagine myself whispering in a room full of people and I wonder if I would get more attention than someone who was yelling. and I feel that this is a little mundane myself. and my worry, my worry is that I haven’t produced anything that is actually captivating, that is actually worth spending time with. at least, I’d like to develop something. but maybe I am interested in more play.
I want to be more playful.
I think what is most entertaining is not the subject matter. I don’t think we care much for forms or for content. I think what we really care about, what we really like to see it spirit, geist, ghosts. I think we like the animated, the passionate individual. I think we like the confident people, those who have a strong spirit. This might explain people like Hitler, or people like Jesus, or people like Donald Trump (yes I put those three in the same sentence, well aware of the disparate meanings they each call forth). Even people like Bob Dylan, who feign a disinterest, or a sort of anti-passion, but by the volume the prolific production of music and the soul that he puts in his music, there is a deep level of passion in his work. This may explain why Steve Jobs said do whatever you want but do it passionately. But the thing that
I am worried about is the passion, or rather the selection of passion. I don’t know what thing I should select, mostly because I am afraid of committing to that thing. But here lies the problem, here is what Jony Ive highlights as Jobs greatest virtue. It was his ability to focus and stay focused on one thing and doing it so amazingly well. But really, what can I commit to? I feel like I can’t commit to a craft. I could, I very well could commit to something. But my moral sense prevents me from overly committing to something. I want to say that I’d like to commit to Jesus or to Poetry or to my wife or my family, or to some business or to some project or towards some meaning or to the homeless. Perhaps I could spend some time and write down all the things that I would like to commit to and then see if I can’t find some strain that connects them all.
and then I think of … power and I think of god and I think that god gets sad too, that god gets angry, maybe goes mad with his anger some times, and I think that he has a body, that he has emotions, that he had tear ducts that he uses just like me. I don’t think god’s life is much different than my life. I don’t think that god ceases to use his bowels, that he ceases to have errands to run, that he doesn’t come home at night and sit down in his house and think in a daze with a cup of water in his hand that he sips slowly and lets his mouth hang open. and in that moment he thinks of your grandmother who is dead, and her spirit body is walking around new york city, a place she would never go when she was alive, and god worries that she might be mugged and raped by other spirit bodies (plot-twist, by people who were her great-great grandparents) and god shakes his head and dumps the rest of the water in his cup out on a small plant that he dug up and brought home from the forest because it caught his fancy one morning earlier that week.