Rational

I still don't know how to be completely honest with myself on here. This is an internal monologue turned digital and external. I was reading today in a a book about political theories (I cannot recall the title, much to my chagrin) about Vico and Hume. My attention was first turned to Vico through the writings of Isaiah Berlin, so when I saw this chapter I immediately turned to it. When I arrived to the section on Hume, I was particularly interested in Hume's idea about rationality and history. He pits rationality against passion (Kierkegaard?) and says that rational behavior historically is at odds to the passions of man. History and politics are not guided by rational behavior but by the internal burning of the hearts of men, and if this so happens to take the form of rational judgment then this is a rare example. Now I do not know much more about Hume and his philosophical work, but I find that small section particularly noteworthy.

And again.

How do you hear the voice of God? What language does he speak? Are the heavenly realms a whisper in the Cosmos compared to the unbridled power of the words of the Divine? I am convinced that this is jargon, irrational, and extremely important. What power do words hold and to what degree do we surrender ourselves to word and motive? I have no answer. I have no real understanding besides what I have experienced or perceived. Is that enough? What validates my understanding? It may contradict yours and most likely if it has not at this point, it will in the future.

...

We over estimate the rational ability of human beings. I can easily hold two contradicting thoughts in my head and think them not to be at odds. This is existence. How do we reckon with it?

I am starting to think that God speaks. Not in tongues. Not in religious rhetoric. Not in Relevant Christian trends. Its larger than relevancy. It is larger than socio-cultural boundaries. It is larger than religion and religious traditions.

I don't know what this means, to be terribly honest. I don't know what you will think of it and I can't say that I don't care regardless, because I do. I am unsure of the ramifications and logical or illogical conclusions. I am slightly worried that these might be hormonal imbalances. But at the risk of sounding unintelligible and cryptic (this risk is taken and almost guaranteed to have been a loss), I think I hear God (under what guise?).

and it sounds absolutely nothing like they said it would.

There is nothing new under the sun, but today feels different

There is something new for me here. In this place. I know now why monastic orders retreat into the desert and whisper promises over themselves that were originally whispered by something other, something larger, something here but not here, us but not us. This is no contradiction. This is not formal logic. What works logically and formally in an illogical and informal world? I receive both of these. I accept all of it.

Who am I now? Who was I then? Are they not the same person? Am I not the same?

I am both.

I've never been able to own anything. Not a memory, not a moment in time. When I look at old pictures or a pictures owned by someone else. I am filled with longing. Longing first of all to be filled, second of all to own something, to make something mine, to say I know that and it belongs to me. Now this ownership, its not a normative system of ownership. It has more to do with identity than the actual moment I wish to own. I feel like it is intrinsic to my being to let things go, to give them to others, and to let them have them. At this point is where I start to feel anxious. Anxious about life, about college, about what follows after college. I feel anxious about moments that have yet to even come into existence, because I know when they do I will feel as if I cannot fully experience them.

I want to wake up one day and realize that in that waking, in that drawing in of breath, in that space between drowsiness and awareness - that this my waking, that this is my breath, and this is my day, as well as everyone else's.

Dilatory

It all felt soft tonight, driving home through the fog. I'm not trying to be allegorical or to evoke some feeling of mystery or awe. It just simply felt soft.

I don't really know what to do most of the time, so I read, or I think about washing my hair. Tonight, I'll probably do neither. Its interesting to know that eyes might read these words, but I think I'd prefer to think not of eyes scrolling a page, or of fingers typing a phrase, but rather nothingness and the something that springs forth from it. Not because it must, but just because it will, and at times, like this, does. Comma Comma Comma.

I haven't slept well the last few nights. I wake frequently and dream vividly. But I feel, well, I don't know what I feel or even what that means. Take it as you will - the meaninglessness and the obvious meaning both are equally as transparent to all who look. If you don't see the paradox, you aren't really looking.

...or you aren't really alive...

both are possible.


Today I held my nephew; tomorrow I'll hold a book.

Ma'salaama

How do you document the sky?

"He was up all night thinking about wolves, literally."

"you cannot mirror

long individual strands

taller daily grows"

Bo Orr, on hair.

"Do not hurry, Do not rest" - Goethe

I will possess your heart. It is a new year, and I am meticulously trying not to write meticulous. I spell out a word and then realize I am alone. I go crazy if I don't let it all just fall out, line by line, like a marching band of ideas, like brothers learning to love each other, like you and me.

Do you ever get so tired of waiting that your only response is to wait? Its been so long since I have heard that familiar hello or "hey girl." Makes little sense doesn't it? The way sometimes what you thought would spill over, barely makes a mess at all. Sometimes I beg myself to just make a mess. Sometimes I simply clean up whatever is before me, messy or not. These are not allegories, and mere metaphors at that. Its not metaphysical or even practical. Not idiosyncratic. Its the sound of fists hitting the punching bag. Its the screech of tires as they unintentionally take a sharp turn. Its the sounds of cigarettes slowly lighting and flickering as the wind blows on your already chilly face, alone, except for whatever enters and controls your mind. Its the absence of you, but the Presence. I know not its whereabouts. As Dillard said, may your tribe increase. If she were here, I'd ask her, "What tribe?" My face is bloodied, my fists tired.

What tribe? I have no direction, I have only maps. Point and Shoot. Tell me where. I'll begin here, but where shall I end up?


Maybe I'll never leave. Maybe I'll just wait.


Would you?

Speak now because its been 400 years. Or maybe two weeks.