Tuesday, December 03, 2002

enter the danger of becoming a blog addict. at least i am writing, i say to myself. not that i am writing what i need to be writing, my superego points out. what shall we write about now, the ego asks the super and the id. [plato's concept of three parts to the human being.] [always in threes.]

they say that the brilliant are only truly brilliant by virtue of their ability to convey their thoughts. essentially, there's no point to being a genius if you can't let everyone else know how smart you are. this is the business of refining one's own writing. communicating, as it were. (credits: roger wilkins, tom friedman, amongst others.) herein lies the challenge. am i smart enough that other people can understand what i am relaying? this is yet to be seen.

my self esteem was significantly damaged by an incident a month ago that involved a "betrayal" of sorts by two people who i thought were my best friends. i have not come around to this realization quickly; it is perhaps only in the last week that i realized that i have little to no self esteem anymore. there are several issues to explore here. one is that to a large extent, how i view myself is reflective of how i believe i am viewed by those who i love. in other words, if someone thinks i am a toad, i believe i am a toad and act accordingly. if someone thinks i am brilliant, i believe i am brilliant and act accordingly. it is the loss/questioning of two people in my main circle of friends, actions of theirs that made me wonder how they view me, that has struck me to the core and resulted in a lot of velocity thinking. now, how ridiculous is this? intellectually, it seems very clear that the malfeasance of others should in no way impact my self-opinion. emotionally, i am downtrodden and confused. run back to _the fountainhead_ and wonder at the being of howard roark. as a figure, he stood on his own and knew he was, yet the woman he loved, lady dominique, made decisions to challenge herself but that also challenged him. yet he handled this. this particular scenario has more meaning in my life these days than i would really prefer. i guess this means it is time for a re-read. (credits: kara, ayn rand)

i'm reading hermann hesse's _narcissus and goldmund_. i'm about halfway through it. a lot of it focuses on the concept of life as contradiction, something that i have been poring over endlessly these days. there are a lot of passages about this. one focuses on the process of birth and the expression on the woman's face as it occurs: the ecstasy and the ultimate pain, and what it says that this single process intertwines them both. so i am thinking as i have been lately about passion, which has the root word meaning pain. via dolorosa, the street that held christ's last moments in jerusalem, the street where israelis and palestinians fight now, the possibility that this single street synopsizes what the entire human experience is and means. props to the journalist-playwright david hare for making it the title of one of his works. (credits: david hare, hermann hesse)

i had a high school english teacher who deserves his own biography. one of the quotes from him is, "history tells you the facts. fiction tells you what really happened." or something to that general feeling. perhaps this is why recently i am struggling to read anything that can be classified under the heading of news, history, anything that reeks of the word 'fact,' because recently i am so dubious about fact itself. fact, it seems, does not exist. or is, at least, transitory. this is what happens to your mind, reader, when you have an experience that makes you stand back and doubt something so integral to your life that suddenly everything else is questionable. suddenly, you are an existentialist. you spend a lot of time thinking about albert camus. may i recommend _the plague_ and _the stranger_, but _the stranger_ if you only have time for one? (credits: mccann, camus)

clearly, i am struggling, as you can see. this is what velocity is. thank you susana for giving it a name.

a lot of my time is spent trying to find a balance between my three's. my three of plato, my three of freud. i allow myself to be ruled by my emotions too often. i can tell you're interested. may i refer you back to one of my earliest posts, commenting on how it is now time for my very own self-absorbed blog? now i am thinking of dave eggers on fiction, and how really fiction is just what happened with changed names. that commentary of his in _a heartbreaking work of staggering genius_ is really enough for me to betroth myself to him, but he even went further and made more brilliant, funny and wonderful comments. his second book interestingly uses the word velocity in its title: _you shall know our velocity_. has dave read kaysen? was part of his motivation for this title her usage of the word, although there is a clear story to which he traces his selection? notice how the worlds keep pushing me towards the word velocity.

notice how the one thing i am missing in at least half of the personal relationships i value is Velocity of Closeness. is that proper grammar? is that communicable? what i am saying is i can’t have these people just yet, or at all. what i am saying is that in these relationships i have to abide by "all things human take time," and this is causing significant anguish in my world. what i am saying is that i wish i didn't spend so much of my time missing people, metaphorically, geographically. can you relate, reader?


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