I thought the post before this one was going to be my last in this blog. But due to the incredible demand (mostly imagined) for an encore, I have decided to entertain such requests with one, final poem. This was written at Ghost Ranch New Mexico during the YAV Re-entry Retreat. It was intended to sum up the un-summable.
Cincinnati, when I'm batty, I think fondly of thee--
How you took my ideal outlook and turned it into pure-e.
Puree', puree', you say. Oh nay! Though you may be correct,
My time spent in the Natti has been helpful for learned dialect.
I learned some words, quite absurd, and of them I grew fond,
Like Perp and Swag--I don't exag--to them I have a bond.
The word Geeking I heard in speaking, though never understood.
Sometimes it seems excitement it means, sometimes balsa wood.
I liked the youth, though quite uncouth, their behavior became.
The younger kids I tried to mid-igate their use of "lame."
In summary, my vocabulary is like my love of thee,
Oh Cincinnati--you drove me batty, still I love you increasingly.
Peace, Blessings, and Unlimited Salsa,
Ben
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
My last day spent in an official role at Washington United Church of Christ was the Thursday before last. I went with Rob, Robby, Greg, Katie, Ashley, Lorna, and a whole gaggle of youth to King's Island. We had a blast. When pulling up to the guys taking money for parking, Robby told them we didn't have any cash, only credit, so they casually waved through all three of our cars. Thirty bucks saved.
Once inside the park, we all kind of went our separate ways. Lorna and I started out riding the Scooby Doo Haunted House ride. It requires you to shoot at little targets attached to ghosts and other "scary" figures with a laser gun. Because you are concentrating so intensely (at least I was) on hitting the targets, you tend to miss a lot of the scenery. A ghost is only a target, not a neon-green stack of jello with a face like Rodney Dangerfield. I'll let you figure out the the metaphor.
Next, Lorna and I went to ride "The Last Airbender", which was a kids' ride in the Nickelodeon part of the park. The ride was fun. Think roller coaster-lite mixed with a little spinning-teacups flavor. The "Viking's Revenge" (boat) was next, and then "Delirium" (spinning-top + pendulum swing). Mercifully, lunch followed. We ate it in the parking lot.
Lorna and I wandered around for a bit after lunch, then rode "The Racer" (roller coaster) and saw an ice show. We left soon after, as everyone was frazzled and I had promised the youth I'd take them to a 3-on-3 tournament after King's Island.
The tournament was held at Ron's church, and was part of a larger block party. Free food, a talent show, two Port-a-Lets, basketball, and hundreds of people (probably three-quarters of them children). It was a beautiful evening for the party. Low-humidity, clear skies, sunset-drenched trees, and the smellsmellsmell of food.
The youth lost in the second round. They were up by one point with less than 30 seconds left, all they had to do was hold onto the ball, and they lost in overtime. They were pretty heartbroken, as was I, but our moroseness didn't last for that long as Greg performed a beat-boxing tour de force in the talent show.
After it was all over, I took them home, dropping them off at their respective homes one at a time. I said "see you later" to all of them, knowing that it would be quite a while before I saw them again. I didn't say goodbye and neither did they. I suppose we don't have to just yet. Still, there was something indescribably poignant about driving away from the church that final night.
Last night, I dreamed that I was walking barefoot in New York City. I wasn't afraid.
Once inside the park, we all kind of went our separate ways. Lorna and I started out riding the Scooby Doo Haunted House ride. It requires you to shoot at little targets attached to ghosts and other "scary" figures with a laser gun. Because you are concentrating so intensely (at least I was) on hitting the targets, you tend to miss a lot of the scenery. A ghost is only a target, not a neon-green stack of jello with a face like Rodney Dangerfield. I'll let you figure out the the metaphor.
Next, Lorna and I went to ride "The Last Airbender", which was a kids' ride in the Nickelodeon part of the park. The ride was fun. Think roller coaster-lite mixed with a little spinning-teacups flavor. The "Viking's Revenge" (boat) was next, and then "Delirium" (spinning-top + pendulum swing). Mercifully, lunch followed. We ate it in the parking lot.
Lorna and I wandered around for a bit after lunch, then rode "The Racer" (roller coaster) and saw an ice show. We left soon after, as everyone was frazzled and I had promised the youth I'd take them to a 3-on-3 tournament after King's Island.
The tournament was held at Ron's church, and was part of a larger block party. Free food, a talent show, two Port-a-Lets, basketball, and hundreds of people (probably three-quarters of them children). It was a beautiful evening for the party. Low-humidity, clear skies, sunset-drenched trees, and the smellsmellsmell of food.
The youth lost in the second round. They were up by one point with less than 30 seconds left, all they had to do was hold onto the ball, and they lost in overtime. They were pretty heartbroken, as was I, but our moroseness didn't last for that long as Greg performed a beat-boxing tour de force in the talent show.
After it was all over, I took them home, dropping them off at their respective homes one at a time. I said "see you later" to all of them, knowing that it would be quite a while before I saw them again. I didn't say goodbye and neither did they. I suppose we don't have to just yet. Still, there was something indescribably poignant about driving away from the church that final night.
Last night, I dreamed that I was walking barefoot in New York City. I wasn't afraid.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A drawing. I am less than enthusiastic about Apple products on the whole, but I have designed an ad they can use to further convince (brainwash?) their devotees into buying more of their stuff. No offense is meant if you are an Apple devotee. I simply prefer Granny Smiths to over-priced technology.
Peace,
Ben
Monday, August 3, 2009
All competition is not good competition.
In 9th grade Biology, my classmates and I were taught about the theory of evolution. Before Darwin came along, there lived a fellow named Jean-Baptiste Lamarck who proposed the idea that plants and animals were morphotic (their external and internal structures changed, or became refined, over time). This occurred, he claimed, through a process called the inheritance of acquired characteristics. The parents of a plant or animal could pass on certain "characteristics" they had acquired during their lifetimes (ones not already predetermined by their genetic makeup). For example, Lamarck thought that the reason giraffes developed such long necks was because they were constantly stretching them to reach higher and higher leaves. After a good five years of neck-stretching, any given giraffe would naturally develop a slightly longer neck. This longer neck could be passed onto its offspring were it to mate, and the offspring would be born with a longer neck than the parent had at birth.
Then Charles Darwin came along and said Poppycock to Lamarck's idea. Darwin suggested that lifeforms did indeed adapt to their environments, but not through the inheritance of acquired characteristics. Darwin believed that a process he called natural selection could do a better job at explaining the source of biodiversity. In natural selection, plants and animals are always competing for survival. The ones most apt to survive in a given environment are much more likely to live at least to an age where they can reproduce and pass on their characteristics to their offspring. Any variation in the characteristics of a species are caused by genetic mutation. Whether or not certain genetic mutations continue to be seen in a specie depends on whether they prove advantageous to the survival of the individuals exhibiting them.
So, Lamarck thought that lifeforms adapted to their environments in order to become better suited to them. So far, so Darwin. But Darwin's theory is much less fluid than Lamarck's, and therefore quite a bit less romantic. If Lamarck were right, I could simply jump in the air and flap my arms repeatedly all my life, have a child, make sure my child did the same ad inifinitum, and eventually I would singlehandedly bear the honor of creating the first race of flying humans.
I wish Lamarck had been right. The Darwinian notion of life as a constant struggle for survival seems so, uh, primitive to me. But that's what life is, isn't it? Opposing forces; Yin and Yang; suffering. It's not only a Zen Buddhist concept. I'd argue it's fundamental to our American way of life. I don't consider myself an economist, but the underpinnings of capitalism consist of ruthless competition and the almost manic pursuit of ever-increasing efficiency.
Adam Smith believed in the power of the free market to regulate itself. Competitive forces keep each other in check and honest by driving down prices and increasing the quality of goods and services produced. This is the idea that we have based our economy on. Instead of trying to transcend our more primal tendencies, we have attempted to harness them for our own good. And it has done us much good. The current pace of technological innovation is staggering. Medical advancements are happening all the time. Our quality of life has gone up, up , up.
But at what cost? Paul Krugman, a Nobel Prize winning economist, recently wrote an Op-Ed in the New York Times about how unchecked competition is actually a bad thing for the economy and society as a whole. A select few reap exorbitant riches by capitalizing on the relative weaknesses of others. When this happens, everyone, besides maybe the select few, end up suffering.
I'm not saying that Wall Street people are all bad (we all have a little Wall Street in us). I'm saying that the reason why Adam Smith's ideas look so wack today is because we forgot one important thing: we are the free market. If we do not regulate ourselves, the free market certainly won't follow suit. We've given the power to a nameless, faceless entity, and are now blaming it for all our bad luck. Put a face on the free market and we make it human, and maybe, just maybe, we're less likely to profit off of the weaknesses of others.
If we give power to things outside of loving, relational community, we despair when those things seem to turn against us. If money is your master, you are its slave. People with loving families, good friends, and enough to eat have jumped out of windows because money told them to. And I don't think they were trying to learn to fly.
I wish Lamarck had been right. I still think he can be.
Blessings,
Ben
In 9th grade Biology, my classmates and I were taught about the theory of evolution. Before Darwin came along, there lived a fellow named Jean-Baptiste Lamarck who proposed the idea that plants and animals were morphotic (their external and internal structures changed, or became refined, over time). This occurred, he claimed, through a process called the inheritance of acquired characteristics. The parents of a plant or animal could pass on certain "characteristics" they had acquired during their lifetimes (ones not already predetermined by their genetic makeup). For example, Lamarck thought that the reason giraffes developed such long necks was because they were constantly stretching them to reach higher and higher leaves. After a good five years of neck-stretching, any given giraffe would naturally develop a slightly longer neck. This longer neck could be passed onto its offspring were it to mate, and the offspring would be born with a longer neck than the parent had at birth.
Then Charles Darwin came along and said Poppycock to Lamarck's idea. Darwin suggested that lifeforms did indeed adapt to their environments, but not through the inheritance of acquired characteristics. Darwin believed that a process he called natural selection could do a better job at explaining the source of biodiversity. In natural selection, plants and animals are always competing for survival. The ones most apt to survive in a given environment are much more likely to live at least to an age where they can reproduce and pass on their characteristics to their offspring. Any variation in the characteristics of a species are caused by genetic mutation. Whether or not certain genetic mutations continue to be seen in a specie depends on whether they prove advantageous to the survival of the individuals exhibiting them.
So, Lamarck thought that lifeforms adapted to their environments in order to become better suited to them. So far, so Darwin. But Darwin's theory is much less fluid than Lamarck's, and therefore quite a bit less romantic. If Lamarck were right, I could simply jump in the air and flap my arms repeatedly all my life, have a child, make sure my child did the same ad inifinitum, and eventually I would singlehandedly bear the honor of creating the first race of flying humans.
I wish Lamarck had been right. The Darwinian notion of life as a constant struggle for survival seems so, uh, primitive to me. But that's what life is, isn't it? Opposing forces; Yin and Yang; suffering. It's not only a Zen Buddhist concept. I'd argue it's fundamental to our American way of life. I don't consider myself an economist, but the underpinnings of capitalism consist of ruthless competition and the almost manic pursuit of ever-increasing efficiency.
Adam Smith believed in the power of the free market to regulate itself. Competitive forces keep each other in check and honest by driving down prices and increasing the quality of goods and services produced. This is the idea that we have based our economy on. Instead of trying to transcend our more primal tendencies, we have attempted to harness them for our own good. And it has done us much good. The current pace of technological innovation is staggering. Medical advancements are happening all the time. Our quality of life has gone up, up , up.
But at what cost? Paul Krugman, a Nobel Prize winning economist, recently wrote an Op-Ed in the New York Times about how unchecked competition is actually a bad thing for the economy and society as a whole. A select few reap exorbitant riches by capitalizing on the relative weaknesses of others. When this happens, everyone, besides maybe the select few, end up suffering.
I'm not saying that Wall Street people are all bad (we all have a little Wall Street in us). I'm saying that the reason why Adam Smith's ideas look so wack today is because we forgot one important thing: we are the free market. If we do not regulate ourselves, the free market certainly won't follow suit. We've given the power to a nameless, faceless entity, and are now blaming it for all our bad luck. Put a face on the free market and we make it human, and maybe, just maybe, we're less likely to profit off of the weaknesses of others.
If we give power to things outside of loving, relational community, we despair when those things seem to turn against us. If money is your master, you are its slave. People with loving families, good friends, and enough to eat have jumped out of windows because money told them to. And I don't think they were trying to learn to fly.
I wish Lamarck had been right. I still think he can be.
Blessings,
Ben
Saturday, July 25, 2009
I'm sure I don't have to tell you that Walter Cronkite died. News of the famous newsman's death was broadcast nonstop for 2 to 3 days after the fact. Personally, I don't think Walter would have liked all the attention payed to him on his passing. He seemed to me a genuinely humble man--happy in his role, good at what he did, and not suffering from delusions of grandeur. What else can you say of a famous reporter who described his importance to his viewing audience as that of a "comfortable old shoe"? He had a great catchphrase: "That's the way it is," which was not nearly so dramatic as Edward R. Murrow's "Goodnight and good luck". Matter-of-fact might be the best way to describe it and him.
In his early career, Walter covered World War II. He worked primarily in wire dispatches, so his reports were very concise and factual. This style was carried over into his television broadcasts, where he offered an informative, well-presented account of news events. I don't think you can even consider using the word "biased" when talking about Walter Cronkite unless you put an "un" in front of it.
In true Cronkitian fashion, I will seek to channel the spirit of brevity and clearly present the facts of my last two or so months to you. Each nugget of information will be so sparsely related as to invite rampant supposition about its particulars. By subtly employing an allusion here and there, I will increase the totality of information I convey not by officiously listing events, people, and dates, but by inviting the reader to fill in the gaps with speculation.
1. I have read quite a bit of Indian literature recently, including The Yoga Sutra, A River Sutra, The God of Small Things, The Bhagavad Gita, and The Essential Vedanta. I have enjoyed reading these works immensely. I am trying to practice meditation with varying levels of success. It is difficult.
2. Summer Program at the church is now 6 weeks old with only 2 weeks remaining. It has kept me exceedingly busy. I am in charge of leading the "Community Group". In this group, we talk about all things related to the concept of community. We watch videos. We play games. We do community service, raising money for the purchase of livestock for a family or village in a developing country through the Heifer Project. I am enjoying teaching.
3. I have applied and been accepted into a program called Public Allies. It is a program which places its participants in non-profits and gives them training and support. I have been through a total of seven interviews so far with no definite placement yet. I will know by the beginning of August. I am excited get to know the other Allies better.
4. I recently discovered why I like Star Wars so much. It is, I believe, because it combines pseudo-eastern religion/philosophy, technology, and underlying universal mythic themes (a la Joseph Campbell).
5. The end is nigh, and I have no idea how best to wrap up my time as a YAV. I suppose this entire year has been a wrapping up process, as my placement has been for such a short time. The only thing that's left to do is place a bow on my wrapping. I don't want it to be too ostentatious--just nice enough that it will last for a bit and people will say, "Oh, Ben did that. I remember him . . ."
My sign-off line:
May the force be with you,
Ben
In his early career, Walter covered World War II. He worked primarily in wire dispatches, so his reports were very concise and factual. This style was carried over into his television broadcasts, where he offered an informative, well-presented account of news events. I don't think you can even consider using the word "biased" when talking about Walter Cronkite unless you put an "un" in front of it.
In true Cronkitian fashion, I will seek to channel the spirit of brevity and clearly present the facts of my last two or so months to you. Each nugget of information will be so sparsely related as to invite rampant supposition about its particulars. By subtly employing an allusion here and there, I will increase the totality of information I convey not by officiously listing events, people, and dates, but by inviting the reader to fill in the gaps with speculation.
1. I have read quite a bit of Indian literature recently, including The Yoga Sutra, A River Sutra, The God of Small Things, The Bhagavad Gita, and The Essential Vedanta. I have enjoyed reading these works immensely. I am trying to practice meditation with varying levels of success. It is difficult.
2. Summer Program at the church is now 6 weeks old with only 2 weeks remaining. It has kept me exceedingly busy. I am in charge of leading the "Community Group". In this group, we talk about all things related to the concept of community. We watch videos. We play games. We do community service, raising money for the purchase of livestock for a family or village in a developing country through the Heifer Project. I am enjoying teaching.
3. I have applied and been accepted into a program called Public Allies. It is a program which places its participants in non-profits and gives them training and support. I have been through a total of seven interviews so far with no definite placement yet. I will know by the beginning of August. I am excited get to know the other Allies better.
4. I recently discovered why I like Star Wars so much. It is, I believe, because it combines pseudo-eastern religion/philosophy, technology, and underlying universal mythic themes (a la Joseph Campbell).
5. The end is nigh, and I have no idea how best to wrap up my time as a YAV. I suppose this entire year has been a wrapping up process, as my placement has been for such a short time. The only thing that's left to do is place a bow on my wrapping. I don't want it to be too ostentatious--just nice enough that it will last for a bit and people will say, "Oh, Ben did that. I remember him . . ."
My sign-off line:
May the force be with you,
Ben
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I fear I’ve lost my Readership. I went down by the river to look for it today and it wasn’t there. I threw some flowers at a passing barge and thought turtle-slow thoughts.
I’ve missed pretending the patterns my fingers make while dancing over a keyboard are important. I’ve missed the synonym searching; the idea robbing; all things good and grammerful. But what I’ve missed most is the feeling of sincerity that settles over my soul after a good blogging—saying my piece, making my peace, and feeling the yeast of words ferment my thoughts.
There is something oh so sincere in the search for meaning. That’s all this is, right? Maybe it’s better described as a series of unfortunate events in my case. My blunderful stumblings toward meaningful meaning. It’s a process that engages the whole person beyond the immediacy of the most fractional moment. The search for meaning is comprehensive. It requires a time machine. All stages of a person from all times must meet and have an honest conversation. That conversation is called “the search for meaning.”
I suppose I’m an artist. That’s a dirty word to some. Being an artist means not having a reason for doing what one does. It’s completely assailable, non-utilitarian, inefficient, and massively unprofitable (if done right). It’s also the most honest way I can live. Honest in its naturalness. It’s natural for me to respond to beauty by trying to create more beauty. That’s natural. That’s artistry. That’s art.
Can there ever be art with a purpose? What purpose exceeds, or even coexists with, that of artistic creation? Some would argue social/political/spiritual issues. I might agree with those people. Might. But it seems to me that art with a purpose is craft—it’s practically practical. It’s necessarily, by definition, a compromise.
On the whole, I don’t think this blog is a work of art, and if it is, it more resembles a finger-painting than a Renoir. Rather, I think it is craft. It serves a purpose. It is not its own purpose. In this blog, I’ve tried to push against those boundaries separating art from craft. I’ve tried to make the blog artsy craft. Perhaps there have been moments where it has, however briefly, become crafty art. Whatever the case, I’ve enjoyed creating it.
Therefore, I am reopening this blog. It’s back in business. Consider it the laundry line for my mind. I’ll try to arrange my thoughts in aesthetically pleasing patterns of shape and color. While it might appear to you like I am arranging them thusly as an end in itself, I’ll usually be doing it to air them out. My mind as a hamper has become crowded during my hiatus from this blog.
I’ll be stringing my clothesline out next to the river. Hopefully, my Readership will pass by sometime and enjoy the happy little flags of my thoughts as they whistle in the breeze. But if not, at least I’ll have a peaceful mind and an empty hamper.
Febreze Sneeze,
Ben
I’ve missed pretending the patterns my fingers make while dancing over a keyboard are important. I’ve missed the synonym searching; the idea robbing; all things good and grammerful. But what I’ve missed most is the feeling of sincerity that settles over my soul after a good blogging—saying my piece, making my peace, and feeling the yeast of words ferment my thoughts.
There is something oh so sincere in the search for meaning. That’s all this is, right? Maybe it’s better described as a series of unfortunate events in my case. My blunderful stumblings toward meaningful meaning. It’s a process that engages the whole person beyond the immediacy of the most fractional moment. The search for meaning is comprehensive. It requires a time machine. All stages of a person from all times must meet and have an honest conversation. That conversation is called “the search for meaning.”
I suppose I’m an artist. That’s a dirty word to some. Being an artist means not having a reason for doing what one does. It’s completely assailable, non-utilitarian, inefficient, and massively unprofitable (if done right). It’s also the most honest way I can live. Honest in its naturalness. It’s natural for me to respond to beauty by trying to create more beauty. That’s natural. That’s artistry. That’s art.
Can there ever be art with a purpose? What purpose exceeds, or even coexists with, that of artistic creation? Some would argue social/political/spiritual issues. I might agree with those people. Might. But it seems to me that art with a purpose is craft—it’s practically practical. It’s necessarily, by definition, a compromise.
On the whole, I don’t think this blog is a work of art, and if it is, it more resembles a finger-painting than a Renoir. Rather, I think it is craft. It serves a purpose. It is not its own purpose. In this blog, I’ve tried to push against those boundaries separating art from craft. I’ve tried to make the blog artsy craft. Perhaps there have been moments where it has, however briefly, become crafty art. Whatever the case, I’ve enjoyed creating it.
Therefore, I am reopening this blog. It’s back in business. Consider it the laundry line for my mind. I’ll try to arrange my thoughts in aesthetically pleasing patterns of shape and color. While it might appear to you like I am arranging them thusly as an end in itself, I’ll usually be doing it to air them out. My mind as a hamper has become crowded during my hiatus from this blog.
I’ll be stringing my clothesline out next to the river. Hopefully, my Readership will pass by sometime and enjoy the happy little flags of my thoughts as they whistle in the breeze. But if not, at least I’ll have a peaceful mind and an empty hamper.
Febreze Sneeze,
Ben
Saturday, May 30, 2009
May is a long month. This makes my fifth blog entry for May. I guess you could call it my Cinco de Mayo.
Right now, thunderstorms are passing immediately to the north of my house. No rain here. The leaves on the trees are completely still. It's still twilight and I can see a dark mass of clouds from my bedroom window. Lightning is flickering from them, illuminating their underbellies. No thunder from the lightning. Silence.
Spring has passed me by. I didn't really take the time this year to appreciate the renewal of life around me. In high school, I would take long, solitary walks in my neighborhood. My Louisville neighborhood is quiet and green during the spring. Behind it, there are woods with a walking path which I would frequent. I liked these walks because they allowed the angst-y, hormonal, teenage Ben an escape from angst-y, hormonal, teenage concerns. They also allowed me a space and time to revel in the natural rhythms of the earth.
Walking and thinking go well together. When I get up a good head of steam, chugging along at a brisk clip, thoughts seems to cascade from my brain in super-coherent patterns. I am thinking and walking, walking and thinking, and were I forced to draw a line marking where one ended and the other began, I don't think I could. The rhythm of walking facilitates the rhythm of thought.
I would also talk to myself. The rhythm of walking and thinking would grow to such a fine pitch that it had to be embodied in voice. I can't tell you what I spoke about--only that it was perfectly suited towards my current mood and activity. These talks, often peppy, manic, and entirely pretentious in tone, gave me a feeling of dominion. I would verbally label, comment upon, and transcend anything that popped into my head. Wrapping things in words made them intelligible, and I felt like I had conquered a tiny sphere of chaos after completing my walk.
Blogging is somewhat like talking to myself, only a little more public and a little less sacred. I feel like talking to myself is sacred because it is an act of pure creativity. What I am creating, I don't quite know. A mood? A model of thought? A metaphysical cloud of verbiage? Maybe. What is certain is that when I am creating I am almost entirely unaware of self. The task, the action of creation, is the only reality. I am consumed by it. And this happens when I talk to myself.
While blogging, I am almost always aware of self because I am thinking of myself in relation to an audience (whether imaginary or real). I think thoughts like, "does that make sense?", and "what am I really trying to say here?" I think these thoughts for your benefit. I even (occasionally) spellcheck for your benefit.
Spring must be God talking to God's self. Unaware of its own beauty, graceful and full of grace, spring settles upon the earth like a golden spirit. A voice of rain and thunder calls it into being. And we, using voices much smaller than God's, respond in the only way possible: "Amen"
Zing!
Ben
Right now, thunderstorms are passing immediately to the north of my house. No rain here. The leaves on the trees are completely still. It's still twilight and I can see a dark mass of clouds from my bedroom window. Lightning is flickering from them, illuminating their underbellies. No thunder from the lightning. Silence.
Spring has passed me by. I didn't really take the time this year to appreciate the renewal of life around me. In high school, I would take long, solitary walks in my neighborhood. My Louisville neighborhood is quiet and green during the spring. Behind it, there are woods with a walking path which I would frequent. I liked these walks because they allowed the angst-y, hormonal, teenage Ben an escape from angst-y, hormonal, teenage concerns. They also allowed me a space and time to revel in the natural rhythms of the earth.
Walking and thinking go well together. When I get up a good head of steam, chugging along at a brisk clip, thoughts seems to cascade from my brain in super-coherent patterns. I am thinking and walking, walking and thinking, and were I forced to draw a line marking where one ended and the other began, I don't think I could. The rhythm of walking facilitates the rhythm of thought.
I would also talk to myself. The rhythm of walking and thinking would grow to such a fine pitch that it had to be embodied in voice. I can't tell you what I spoke about--only that it was perfectly suited towards my current mood and activity. These talks, often peppy, manic, and entirely pretentious in tone, gave me a feeling of dominion. I would verbally label, comment upon, and transcend anything that popped into my head. Wrapping things in words made them intelligible, and I felt like I had conquered a tiny sphere of chaos after completing my walk.
Blogging is somewhat like talking to myself, only a little more public and a little less sacred. I feel like talking to myself is sacred because it is an act of pure creativity. What I am creating, I don't quite know. A mood? A model of thought? A metaphysical cloud of verbiage? Maybe. What is certain is that when I am creating I am almost entirely unaware of self. The task, the action of creation, is the only reality. I am consumed by it. And this happens when I talk to myself.
While blogging, I am almost always aware of self because I am thinking of myself in relation to an audience (whether imaginary or real). I think thoughts like, "does that make sense?", and "what am I really trying to say here?" I think these thoughts for your benefit. I even (occasionally) spellcheck for your benefit.
Spring must be God talking to God's self. Unaware of its own beauty, graceful and full of grace, spring settles upon the earth like a golden spirit. A voice of rain and thunder calls it into being. And we, using voices much smaller than God's, respond in the only way possible: "Amen"
Zing!
Ben
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