I think that I have something to say that comes from me, and is authentic in that regard. And then I realize that I do not know at all, and in fact doubt, that that which I express comes from "me" at all. Lately, I have been reading Jean Gebser, a mid-20th century philosopher or at least thinker, and also referred to the I Ching yesterday. I found myself thinking along these rather divergent directions, essentially taking something in, further "refining" myself, and, in doing so, redefining myself in some slight way. Thoughts and insights that come to me, including those from books I read and people I talk to, change my composition in some minuscule way. i write my thoughts and feelings in journals; someone has to listen to me, after all. Rereading what I write, which happens at times, most of it is so utterly mundane, though often heartfelt; I do know the writer, after all, and life can be difficult for him.
This blog is so difficult for me to write because, when faced with finding the "me" to write it as "me," I have nothing to say; I do not want to be put on the spot as "me." Yet when I read someone else's thoughts in a book, I can be both impressed by or critical of what they are saying and how they are saying it. Some very stupid people are incredibly eloquent and articulate, while some very creative and intelligent people express themselves incredibly badly and inarticulately. If someone has an "edge" in their thinking, that is, they move right along the brink of understanding, I will and can stay with them. Hell, I read the whole of The Secret Doctrine and Isis Unveiled, sometimes forcing myself, but still in good faith. So far, so good with Gebser, but Jung, the blowhard, could never hold my interest. I smell phoniness a mile away though try to stay with it as long as possible.
An important theme of existence for me is often that of "leaving something of value for others to understand and benefit from," some kind of system of understanding life, something that can be "applied" like some kind of magic ritual. Here's something from my journal: He knew too much, too much to bear, but could not put it into words; there were no words. Nor did he have any other way to convey it. It was simply an awareness, a knowing beyond all awareness, all knowledge; a singularity beyond all complexity, inclusive of all of it; an understanding that could evidence any such understanding, a speaking of no possible words, an unutterable sound. It was simply too much.
Since I speak so many words, I am probably a "windbag," as it were. I also am weighed down by a need for "context," a place in which to be able to exist, much less live my life. Here is something else from my journal: Sometimes I am clearly in the greater context, the whole, the beingness in which everything occurs. At such time, every person I see I somehow am; I am in them as them, seeing their thoughts and feeling their feelings. Even the trees, I know their drive, their being, though they are not personal as persons are. I know the wind too; I am the wind; I came from the wind. The wind gets around; it knows more than anyone else: To "get wind" of something is true.
My mother was part Indian (Choctaw and Cherokee). My father teased her, saying that her grandfather was named "Chief Breaking Wind," which he meant as a racist insult. I always loved the wind, even as a child, and found such a name to represent the powerful, breaking wind. How many insults carry great inspiration? The wind has no particular self who speaks, rather, the wind, which is all wind, speaks. Gebser would call this a representation of the "magical mind" in which all is reductively included as one, without individuality. I, on another hand, see it as absolutely true. In a recent conversation, in a philosophical discussion with a neighbor, he repeated the phrase: If we do not learn from history, we are condemned to repeat it. My response surprised even me. I said: But if we learn from history in the same way we have always learned from history, we remain condemned to repeat it.
This blog is so difficult for me to write because, when faced with finding the "me" to write it as "me," I have nothing to say; I do not want to be put on the spot as "me." Yet when I read someone else's thoughts in a book, I can be both impressed by or critical of what they are saying and how they are saying it. Some very stupid people are incredibly eloquent and articulate, while some very creative and intelligent people express themselves incredibly badly and inarticulately. If someone has an "edge" in their thinking, that is, they move right along the brink of understanding, I will and can stay with them. Hell, I read the whole of The Secret Doctrine and Isis Unveiled, sometimes forcing myself, but still in good faith. So far, so good with Gebser, but Jung, the blowhard, could never hold my interest. I smell phoniness a mile away though try to stay with it as long as possible.
An important theme of existence for me is often that of "leaving something of value for others to understand and benefit from," some kind of system of understanding life, something that can be "applied" like some kind of magic ritual. Here's something from my journal: He knew too much, too much to bear, but could not put it into words; there were no words. Nor did he have any other way to convey it. It was simply an awareness, a knowing beyond all awareness, all knowledge; a singularity beyond all complexity, inclusive of all of it; an understanding that could evidence any such understanding, a speaking of no possible words, an unutterable sound. It was simply too much.
Since I speak so many words, I am probably a "windbag," as it were. I also am weighed down by a need for "context," a place in which to be able to exist, much less live my life. Here is something else from my journal: Sometimes I am clearly in the greater context, the whole, the beingness in which everything occurs. At such time, every person I see I somehow am; I am in them as them, seeing their thoughts and feeling their feelings. Even the trees, I know their drive, their being, though they are not personal as persons are. I know the wind too; I am the wind; I came from the wind. The wind gets around; it knows more than anyone else: To "get wind" of something is true.
My mother was part Indian (Choctaw and Cherokee). My father teased her, saying that her grandfather was named "Chief Breaking Wind," which he meant as a racist insult. I always loved the wind, even as a child, and found such a name to represent the powerful, breaking wind. How many insults carry great inspiration? The wind has no particular self who speaks, rather, the wind, which is all wind, speaks. Gebser would call this a representation of the "magical mind" in which all is reductively included as one, without individuality. I, on another hand, see it as absolutely true. In a recent conversation, in a philosophical discussion with a neighbor, he repeated the phrase: If we do not learn from history, we are condemned to repeat it. My response surprised even me. I said: But if we learn from history in the same way we have always learned from history, we remain condemned to repeat it.
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