(no subject)

Sanity is a multivalenced thing.

What's important now is not important an hour from now; what's important yesterday is irrelevant today but critical tomorrow. We meat-things are caught up in the play of everyday, suspended by a network of strings hitched to our limbs. We are our puppetteers, and we are the makers of we-the-marionette, but we the puppets can only move in accordance with our strings.

We cultivate our reactions in the garden we call 'reasonable'. We dig channels for our impulses to travel. Too many reasons to enumerate why we do it way we do it, too individualistic, too customized, too accustomed. But we do it, for fear, and sometimes even for joy.

Fear will keep the local systems in line. Fear of this battle station. Like it keeps us in line with ourselves, behaving as we believe we ought, like we want to believe we want... The longer I look at a person, have the chance to pick their pieces together, the more clearly I can see the wounds, and how those wounds compel us, individually.

And even as I come to understand any individual phenomenon, a moment's separation from the phenomenon stirs me to realize I know next to nothing. This must be the fear of God of Ecclesiastes! This must be the gift-giving impulse that urges us to return in kind what has been bestowed to us.

How frightening! How wonderful!

(no subject)

The more I continue to live, the more I find myself glad that among my core convictions is the notion that nothing is sacred, everything is permitted.

On the face of it, you'd say: what the hell, Box, you hold some things sacred, right? And I do. Probably. But I think that what I do keep sacred is held also in the light that it is not guaranteed. The light that says "This too shall pass", the light that shines on my suffering and my bliss alike. The light that gave me comfort, that I could never screw things up so badly that I would leave the universe a wound and net negative by my continued existence. The light that says my continued existence is about as immediately relevant as a wave to the ocean, or a mote of helium in the consuming fire of a star.

Either way, the wave drops. Either way, the helium is fused.

It is a light, and a knowledge, and a relative certainty, that I am thus free to pursue whatever engages me.

(no subject)

Some few years of 'being-an-adult' have taught me that being an adult is an art. The art involves securely tying together a bunch of squirming, writhing joys, fears, angers, confusions, and gladness together with a long length of twine, closely-fit enough that it all seems to vibrate together to the same beat. This beat is the beat life is lived to.

Don't like the beat? Change how things are tied together. Juggle what you keep in your bundle. It is important, for one's psychospiritual health, that they be willing to alter how the bundle is kept, because the arrangement and thus the beat of the bundle is not solely under your own control. Life happens, and life is not tremendously concerned with however perfect you may seem to think your adultness is. Life will bungle your bundle, and then this life that was so flawlessly brilliant to dance to has suddenly started outdoing Dream Theater with time signature changes.

To be an artist, one must practice art-making. It is the same with being-an-adult: always a work in progress.

(no subject)

Surfacing for a breath.

Things have been happening. (Things are always happening!) I'm not terribly sure how to relate them to people who haven't been part of them, though-- it's been one part rolling around in the ashes around a firepit, one part cultivating certain thought patterns, one part coiling the resolve to be Elsewhere.

I've been out of the habit of putting things up here for months now. (I've been out of the habit of putting things up anywhere!) This most recent September-December absence isn't much longer than the previous July-September absence, but it -feels- palpably longer when I look at it. What was supposed to be a great rest turned into, at some point, into self-indulgent navel-gazing. I'm not sure it could have gone any other way, though, which is probably okay. I'll never get that time back, ~but~ it was never ~mine~ to begin with.

That's always the fun part, y'see.

(no subject)

This is an experiment, wherein the first thing I do when I roll out of bed is do some writing: specifically, a dialogue between the weirder function-wholes of my understanding. I give them a thing to talk about, and theoretically they will do so. Sometimes they may say the same thing. They will more often have different valuations.

That's the fun part. I'm liable to revisit a thing so whatever happens happens.

Collapse )

(no subject)

I roll between categories. This is not my wish, but my will; I defy continuous classification even to myself, and this seldom bothers me save when it truly disturbs others (and in such cases I either provoke, ignore, or clarify as best I can). It's too much to stay still long enough to be understandable to any conscious mind. Described, but never declined as one might decline a series of verb tenses.

The grammar is distinguishable only in the past tense.

I look backwards on the synergy that has been ascribed (attained) to my understanding, and I wonder: how could this be? I see scraps and bits, but never wholes or truths that are universal. Everything I seem to understand, however limited, seems to work for me, but I can't fathom how to do anything for others but point to the words and say, "No, not with your eyes: with your will, your kharma-in-motion. Use it against itself, the bowstring that becomes taut and propels itself higher and higher until you reach the point where there is no propelling-to, and no propelling-from." Someday I think I might attain such a place myself, because I know I amn't there.

Am I chasing nirvana? Am I chasing revelation? It's too narrow to see. The line doesn't divide, it blurs between things, and all that's left is the reminder: chop wood, carry water. THAT can be my revelation, if I'm ready for it.

What a burden!

What a marvel!

(no subject)

Two major items.

One: new phone number. Two: graduation invitations.

If you desire either, leave a comment (they are screened!) with either of which you prefer, and an address. Yes, I'm inviting Internet to come if they so please.


(no subject)

What is good in life?

Not having any more furniture to move.

What is not so good?

Still more to gooooooo and something ticking madly in the fuse box that depletes the battery to undriveability.

Very sad, the latter. Hopefully a quick fix and all that.

The feng shui of this place still needs to be considered. Bed's probably going to get moved to the corner opposite the door again, just need the time and the spaces... and the papers, and the presentation, and oh god nothing ever ends yaaaay