Dustbin treasure?

Cleaning out the dustbin, I found this from 2007; however, the date must be earlier, around 2000, for that is when I was associated with Learnability. I put it here as a reference for myself to check to see if what I thought/did in the past still has relevance in light of today's re-newed need for "distance learning."

Let's see.

Conversion Services

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Why I am not a writer

The answer is complicated of course. In short, I'm a coward. Or perhaps more sensitively stated: I'm a co-operator, a conflict avoider, shy or reticent (either will do), chicken shit (marketing averse), people-pleaser, diaphanous jelly fish without poison to offend or defend, lacking in ego/testosterone and over flavorous edible fodder for alpha-types and competition freaks. Or maybe, just maybe, as one who loves to write and has lots of ideas on the burners or descriptive voyages under sail, too busy to pursue all of what it means to be a writer today, especially disagreement with what or how I have said/written something, which in the end is fluff . . . I don't have time or care.

So much self promotion, at least from my view as an expatriate living abroad, one who observes the pursuit of greed and gold and glory by those who write . . . mostly crap for a populist audience with little attention span beyond 140 characters, or some such byte for like and mis-quotation. Do I sound like a sore loser, or miscreant? I beg, rather claim decidedly not.

Writing first, if you must from some inner devil that won't let you have a complete and fully-satisfying day if no words have been recorded somewhere in or on a notebook, is a thankless pursuit. No one other than you must read you or what you have to say, which is the same thing. Paul Auster got it right--more than once--when he said no one is obligated to pick up and read your stuff. Therefore I write for no audience.

•  What is it like to write for no audience, not even apparently for me? Paradox again--this piece is for some reader, I suspect, although it appears here as one entry in a storage place for almost finished pieces of my puzzle(-ment).
• Writing for no audience is writing what is in consciousness now. Look neither forward nor back. It is a process, a self description--with all the voices, all possible topics--no inhibitions, no intent other than itself, a kind of being through what looks like a doing.
• It could be stream of consciousness, a label. But labels are applied to something after having looked at it, a kind of analytical post scriptum, or description of what we have come to see or know as it is on its own. But writing for no audience is not intended or a purposeful art. It is more like art for art's sake, sans even that label. It may be what is done. But who knows or cares if process-now writing has no audience?
• Writing for an audience is to have something to say to share. Writing for no audience is therapy? recreation? re-creation? an outlet for what un-articulated things may be brewing in the great stew of the soul's manifesting? a way to let me become? the playground of conflicting selves where we can work through and then stop and move beyond. So with nothing but all of that license, there is no audience, no aim I want you--you, you, and you-me--to get.
• Does this writing matter? Silly question. Only to do it when the up-welling needs to have a place to go--and then that purpose may be too Western, too serious, too task driven, obligatory.
• When does it take place? Anytime, anywhere. But empty Chinese restaurants in towns I visit--where I am unknown--are my favored places. (You-other will have to sort out your where.) I like it when the family is eating and talking at their own table before other guests arrive.
• What is it like? It is pleasure. It is affirmingly being, my being alive and here. It is flexing and discovering. It is asking questions and writing to learn the answers. It is filling a notebook, a record of the good times and bad, where I have been and when. For asking and trying to answer why questions.
• Will I read all that stuff? Maybe. When I am old and wear purple and sit in front of the fire, scanning then burning--so no one will have evidence of my having been here--except their memories should they have at some time met me of spent a little time "trying to get to know".
• Writing for no audience with only what flows out as the something-to-say is like touching my self to make sure--to pinch myself and respond. It is for no other--not him or her or them, not for me sometime-when. But for now. Moments to hold before they're all gone. Moments to treasure and count up the riches now. Moments to let go of--after their clear acknowledgment. Moments to hope for should life surprise me with being as I would have it. We are such stuff as dreams are made of--you know the rest.
• And when I put my pen down, I close my notebook and relish that home cooked meal in silence, wondering if the Chinese food is so beloved because of nature or nurture. If my writing for no audience were to speak aloud, s/he would say the answer is like all things--apparently, probably, sometimes, mostly--it is a little of all. And that as answer will have to suffice until the next time I think about and want to sort through the dustbin of my living.
• My writing is about what it says it is about, that as ambiguous as that is and then some. I suspect the sum is a whole, of a piece, and nothing. It is about a life trying to affirm itself as it tries to erase the trace of self which is of little account in the world of measured things. It is every time with every word the flicker of that flame before it goes out, or is given another moment to shine its light for someone, somewhere, somehow . . . if even that. Silence.

Well, well enough said. That, most of the above, was true in 2000. Except the coward part. That has its first articulation here. I'm not sure the rest is as true today. Consider this imperfect draft of things as they are or appear to be, which is the same thing.

The act of writing--your pen moving on paper, fingers performing  QWERTY sonatas--AND all the other stuff, not limited to querying publishers, paying agents, membering in associations, pitching, forcing excretion of hype copy, contracting for cover designs . . . I land on the first side of the equation, all the stuff you do to get to there, I have said it without any interruptions or distractions, most importantly the distractions of getting others to read your stuff. That is not where it is at, for me doing the essential task--producing words in sequence to produce unified and coherent wholes to fix 'em still so's I can contemplate true or not, or to just let them out 'cause the world as participation in physical realities is just too tragic and malevolent to spend much time there, except in a Chinese restaurant with crunchy fortune cookies, at least two, with uplifting bytes you know will never come true but bring smiles or a nod of assent and you say, "Yeah, that one's got it pretty much right."

Now back to work.

Addendum (15.08.20)

Dated 09/01/2014

Honesty in writing.

I write safely. That is, I do not reveal in journals or other places what I truly feel, have thought or done. I steer clear of things that "accidental" readers might judge me for, things like indiscretions, how I really feel about so-called sins or things not in accord with major views, etc. So, what you get, if there is a you, is something akin to how I would like to be seen. There are secrets of the heart and past deeds I would rather people not know about. This might change . . . the nature of a subject might dictate otherwise at some point, or "the truth" might be hidden in fiction's coverlets.

Addendum (15.08.20)

From 28 January 2014

Before this day is done, I note that writing so-called fiction absorbs me--now that I have started from a singular image and then let 'er rip. The other way was to fully visualize the story and scenes and characters, etc., whatever etc. happened to be. This time the story unfolds on its own. I don't know where it is going. The fully conceptualized and visualized was exciting for just these two processes, but then writing it out took away the fun, the involvement. I knew where it all was supposed to go and how. This latter approach has me in the story as if I am reading and discovering the plot, conflicts, characters, and so forth. I seem to have more energy and interest in proceeding, because I don't know what is going to happen or where it will end up. Fascinating. I hope the evolutionary will be revolutionary, to take me to another level and restore my confidence in what is inside and what I can uncover and/or create.

Addendum (15.08.20)

From 03 February 2014

so i will do what i can to put myself in a place where no one can hurt me...into my writing, it is happy and safe there, a different world to live in...that is why i like it, a place to forget the pain

Phenomenon of It--DRAFT

I

Cast thine attention to what is important
to see, not understand, clearly for what it is
in your experience--without bias, your own included.

Choose the words to describe that perception.
Almost clarity's the result, if not comprehension,
comprising the what and how exclusive of all you or others
think, or believed or said about, now, the It.

Phenomenology's the process, not the product.

If you talk about it or It and how others experience,
that's a discussion of a subject or synthesis of views
of it and some how of it. Greater clarity perhaps,
and infused with understandings important about
an elusive object, or subject, of our attention.

Descriptive analysis is not phenomenology.

II

Round and round the circle goes,
up and down till it gives you woes.

Now the gyre with the It I would
narrows and points to see the very what it could.

At its center the still clothed stands
to be unfrocked before my truth can land.

Seeming tall and straight--naked now she sits--
with I along to see everything s/he it fits.

What is ever changes it it stays the same,
as I from inside out the circle game.

A game with rules simple strict, to wit--
to the thing itself no foreign nit.

No conceit conceive except to pre-perceive,
tentative hold, 'sans bias' what we re-ceive.

Take not for granted what now you see,
for it is is and not its elusive be.

I would its essence comprehend,
but to describe? it moveth round the bend.

I would put me first and what I saw,
but now the circle's the great big maw.

Before it eats me my mind all up,
Time for dinner. Better pause and sup.

Or do all else while the wine ferments,
you can your gaze from it 'fore relents,

till all is clear as clear it must,
for in study and reflection I verily trust.

And once the gyre turns and says its said I say,
then another sparkly thing can draw all well away.

Addendum to previous post

We rarely understand what people mean until we ask them. Moreover, they may not know themselves what they mean until they’re asked. This is why, on subjects of any depth and complexity, the dialogue, rather than the sermon, is the model for intellectual engagement. The sermon may preach humility, but only the dialogue puts it into practice. For only the dialogue embodies what Emerson called “the secret of the true scholar,” which is that “[e]very man I meet is my master in some point, and in that I learn of him.” What the true scholar learns is not just “some point” on which he had been ignorant. He learns from that particular instruction the larger lesson of his own ongoing dependency on others, [and] the limits of his own experience.*

I believe the previous post was an attempt to say just this and about that subject. I am a prisoner of my own experience, and without dialogue, a conversation attempting to go somewhere, why should I be the one to initiate by broadcasting. Some have seen through my sermons or lectures and taken up a point or two and commented, or they have asked for the background, what I meant, etc.

But because of my insignificant voice, I have brought myself up short and said, "Stop it. In form and content you are discouraging people from their rightful place in the world and in your life. Stop disrespecting others. Be quiet. Listen. Ask questions. And so I shall try, harder."

Thus my dialogues appear here and elsewhere.

Of course this blog is a performative contradiction . . . except no one reads this blog. It's just about sorting me out so that I can get straight on some things. Audience of one, no apologies.

_____
* From "The American Scholar: Low Definition In Higher Education - Lyell Asher". 2016. Theamericanscholar.Org. Accessed December 28 2016. https://theamericanscholar.org/low-definition-in-higher-education/#.WGNhSvkrLIV.

I don't believe*

Higgs boson

"Do you think that beyond the edge of the cosmos or the other side of the smallest particle or wave, there we'll discover what many believe is there but has no name, no concept, no evidence thus far other than the absence of all sens-I-able things?"

"Isn't this to say that the micro- and macro- material universes have their ground in non-materiality--see, we don't even have the words."

"Oh, dear. Now we've got a problem. No words to talk about what we don't even know is there, God or nothing."

"That's nonsense. There aren't just two options."

"Whadayamean? There are only those two."

"What about some other reality? Like in string theory. They have quantum explanations and then there are string interpretations, but no one has ever seen a string, not that I know anything about it. Except, a theory is a theory based on ideas. Could be the same for the ends of things as we know them."

"You mean a theory other than the so-called theory of God or the theory of nothing."

"Right. And basically we made all this up. God and nothing. Realities we never dreamed of come into our awareness through science every day. Why not something we've never even dreamed of?"

"I guess that's possible. When you look at it, the god most people talk about looks pretty much like a larger people-like person. Pretty much. And he or she has changed costumes over the years."

"If you want to go crazy with this, then a people-made god all powerful and all of that, well, s/he could be in, around, and through, be the very essence of anything and everything. Doesn't sound so much like a god as a condition of the reality we already know. Look at that beetle there. He's god, and the space between him and you is god, and you are god. I am sure this is heresy to someone."

"You can be sure."

"And that leaves us where? I don't think we know, in spite of testimonies to the contrary from reputable voices throughout the ages."

"Something bothers me. Nothing I get. Like no thing, which is hard to imagine, because you can't even label or describe that for there's nothing there, not even nothing. It's a paradox and I can't hold it in my head, no one can in fact. Then there's the assumption that there is a god or spirit on the other side. We can't by definition--because of omini-everything--imagine him, her, it, other."

"But we have tradition and theologians and people like that. People who contemplate and study . . . "

"Yes, and again, everything is a font from them. Don't tell me about books written in chosen languages by chosen peoples and all of that. What about the rest of us? God prefers one group over another? Doesn't sound like god. We are constrained with who we are, where we come from, our traditions, granted, and all manner of physical things and phenomena. You'd have to step outside of all of that to see what was really there, and no one has done that except one, reportedly, and he didn't stick around long enough to tell us much."

"So why do we study the stars and the Higgs boson and keep on going with all of that?"

"To get more questions to answer. If we had no questions, what'd we do with ourselves."

"Questions about?"

"Nothingness or realities beyond all sensory comprehension. Or, that which we can conceive of as immaterial realities embracing and permeating all of that which can be sensed directly."

_____
* I don't believe I wrote this, but it comes from my working-writings file and is in the style of dialogues  I have written frequently. The piece also reflects some of my thinking and the ways I have expressed myself about such things. But all the same, I have some doubt about how well this is constructed and said. I wrote this?

If I am repeating something someone else has written in whole or in part, please excuse AND inform me.

Her remaining days

Her daytime attendant would arrive early in the morning and help her dress. They then would exit the apartment as her parents felt relief and respite from the fitful night. The attendant would open the car door and she would sit quietly in the back seat. She liked riding in the car. And off they would go to the care center as they did yesterday and all days before since she was two. There her days would each be the same, but from appearances she would experience them as first and new; and the routine, the predictability, would embrace her all the days of her life, as the days embraced her parents and the silent attendant. No one knew what went on inside, or if.

Grandfather sleeps

Grandfather sat on the tree stump on the small rise above the family's sumptuous vegetable garden and looked first at it and then into the distance. His work was done. July's harvest had led to August's, and now September would come in three days. He knew he would not see it, nor the bounty that was always September and early October. Others would reap what he had sown, and that was good. With a hand slowly rising to his heart and lowering his head to look at his chest, he exhaled uttering one word that no one would hear. "Love." Then he slowly listed to the right and fell off the stump and onto the ground. He lay there, lifeless in a fetal position with a modest smile for his family, his eyes closed for eternal sleep.