Friday Philosophy: Perfecting my own brand of insanity

What happens if you let your mind flow?  What words don’t get written or spoken if you do?

Life is often about the words not written, about what a person chooses not to say.  Or maybe rather it might be about the words one has no time to say.

There is also a lot of meaning in the moments between the words.  But how does one capture it?  Certainly not with words.  

Sometimes there are images.  But even as the images are being created, there is a chatter.  Forever something is begging me for attention.  I imagine they are thoughts.  Given the world I was raised in, they are probably contending to be given voice rather than cooperating efficiently.  A jumble of ideas struggling to interact, analog in a digital age.

I must admit that I have no idea what quiet really means.  I’ve been a victim of tinnitus most…if not all…of my adult life.  One becomes aware of the space between the words when it is filled with sound.  That space becomes one more of the levels, the level of chaos, in both the individual and the universe.

And sometimes the thoughts crystallize.  And sometimes danger is the result.  Ideas cannot be unthought.

How does one write what is really important?  How can one talk about working together to solve problems when one exists in a culture which seems to be governed by personal advantage?  How can one talk about  working alone to solve the problems of the individual of difference in that culture?  How can one introduce dangerous ideas.  One of the problems for that individual is living a life of peace and happiness in the midst of the chaos.

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The year started with a promise to help out with publication of an event on human trafficking that went unfulfilled when my vision deteriorated so much that reading became problematic.  That still digs at me.

There was an address to this community.  Like most of such writings, it mostly went unread.

And Martin knew that you can’t even get to The Mountaintop if you are not willing to climb the hills.

These were words I wish were listened to, especially towards the end of the year.

Eye surgery.  And serendipity.

A letter to my mother arrived in May and The Unfather in June.

I was misremembering family history…it happens as one gets older and never really was told all the stories in the first place.  I discovered that a fairly regular participant in Teacher’s Lounge was my cousin.  That required attention to family that hadn’t been happening for too many years.

So I shared more of my story.  Originally there was a different focus.  Tell some unknown person how I managed to make sense of this world.  Now that person…and later those people…had names.  If I dug deeper, I knew them perhaps not as well as they knew me.  And that was a shame.  Diving deep was needed.  It still is.

Telling my story led to contact with my younger sister and brother…and the knowledge that diving deep has interfered with the upper layer called Living.  That needs correcting.  This old dog needs to develop some new skills.

Writing my story became more relevant later in the year.  I talked to my dean about maybe getting my works published.  It’s a job that requires organization skills that I do not possess.  And I sort of find it pressing as my body tells me it’s getting older and older.

My feeble effort at organizing my stories were shared here and there and a few people started listening.  I’m glad.  Maybe it can prevent some hurt somewhere, or provide someone else with some momentum onward into the sea of change.

One thing it did do was get me an invitation to Docudharma.  They haven’t kicked me out yet, so maybe I’m doing something right there.  My approach has always been to try to make myself useful.  Some of you may have been fans of Poem du Jour at Cheers and Jeers in recent years.  Where is it?  Check out Muse in the Morning, the earliest morning (6 am) open thread on the front page of Docudharma.  I post some of my results of the deep diving on Fridays.

On Sundays I share some of the background music for my story.

The ENDA thing happened.  Bad memories re-enacted on a national scale.  Being told we were selfish if we recounted those bad memories.  Ultimately the latter hurt far more than the former.  I really didn’t need to have it happen during the run-up to our wedding, which had already been postponed from the spring because of my eye surgery and was now aimed at a leaf season that arrived several weeks too late.

And eventually we arrive at the end of the year and I am left with the following thoughts:

Those who fail to remember the past are doomed to repeat it.

Those who fail to imagine a better future are doomed to not achieving one.

Film at Eleven Froth Deep down below past even the words are ideas and concepts normally unthought except by the weird unkempt minds of those who dare to be different Whipped creaminess of dangerous notions syllables expressed too rarely and more seldom heard whizzes by faster than can normally be sensed Grabbing on to a possibility I was taken downward further than imagination could conceive There is truth here There is more wherever I look And who wanted to be normal anyway –Robyn Elaine Serven –December 28, 2007

Do thoughts voiced have an impact if few are listening?  Does it matter?