September 01, 2004

It is not that I have a shortage of things to write about. It is that I seem to have discovered limits, to the extent of my ability to set words to print at least. The previous post turned out to be oddly prophetic.

These next few entries, I divide up into daily simply for the sake of ease of reading and temporal approximation of when they were conceived.

I communicate through my writing. By far, the vaster extent of all my communication is through my writing. Every person with whom I have ever spoken, ever corresponded, has an equal right to my full attention at the moment of response. Every event of which I should have the ability to know deserves my attention. No one person, no one interaction, no one event is ... less than relevant.

But I am one person, guessing too often right for my own comfort, and finding as a part of my vocation that I could wish to bring others to see what to me is self-evident. Too much information: I almost wish sometimes that I could shut my eyes to much of it, but I cannot. I understand now why dogs and other species which receive most of their sensory information through scent rub their noses in what we humans frequently find distasteful: for if we choose to see only the pretty things, the comfortable things, sooner or later we will find ourselves in dispute with a speeding train ... and trains tend to win.

(Although a jaywalking pedestrian and very much in-traffic cyclist, I have never yet had an accident involving another vehicle when not myself driving. Perhaps it is because I have always assumed that there was not much point in disputing right-of-way with something that weighs more than I do and has far, far more momentum. I don't care to be Right from a hospital bed.)

And yet I try to lead something of a "life": I go out occasionally, I get together with people, I see films in theatres. I don't pour over a computer 24-7. I don't constantly prosletyse at people in "real" life, even when I don't have to sleep (and it is sleep which keeps being trimmed first, when what I seek to do seems to take more time than exists). I do know how to have fun, and others have even watched me having such fun. Whatever I do, I do. What is the point of doing less?

It is just that I cannot stop seeing, and sometimes I think about what I see. We re-ran through a few Buffy episodes yesterday, and much of the rest of what was available as mass-marketed "entertainment" died the death by comparison. My personal idea of hell would be to be tied in front of a television screen playing standard sitcoms. For me, I find that it drives all identity, all thought, all ability to think, all anything but the music, out of my head. It shoves everything else out and replaces it with itself. At some point I stopped playing background music. If I play music, I want to listen to it, to give myself to the listening. Or, equally, if silence, I want to give myself to the silence.

What I don't want is for a sensory stimulant to fill space I don't have the capacity, or the motivation, or even the slightest desire to fill for myself; to fill space so I am not forced to reach into a terrifying silence and seek - and accept - what might lie there.

Twenty-odd pages a day (give or take), single-spaced, at 9 point font. For now, that seems to be about the limit of what I find possible. And as it is, there are so many things I would wish to write about, and I simply don't have the access, the resources at the moment of need - or the time.

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