Is it about time?
Perhaps a better question is: is it too late?
I sincerely hope not. I can't afford to lose. Not yet. Not while I'm still awake.
There's something about a hangman's noose that tends to focus the concetration quite admirably. Unfortunately, in my case, that seems to be about the only thing capable of sending my focus into the rarefied heights normally only occupied by my intelligence and insecurities.
Good boy, Jon. Just strip yourself naked for the crowd. We've always known you were a bit of an exhibitionist.
Which of course, begs the question: Just who in the heck invented the idea of a journal? And, what possibly even more twisted mind first hit upon the idea of granting public access to it? Doesn't writing your thoughts down imply that someone will eventually read them? And if that's NOT the idea, then why write as opposed to just thinking?
Of course, that's been my dilemma all along. I've never much held much truck with journals - I can keep up with my own thoughts in my own skull well enough, thank you very much. Thanks to my prodigious mental gifts (which I never seem to tire of enjoying such a contradictory relationship with: I identify myself with my intellect at the same time I dismiss any ownership of - i.e. any deserved merit derived from - it. Perhaps I dismiss myself so readily because the one thing I excel at I don't really believe is who I am. But I'm sure that's plenty o' fodder for a future blog, neh?) I've never had to try to keep track of what my thoughts were: they were always readily accessible. What was always important was the results of my thoughts: the end product of my deliberations, viewed one way; the resultant and permanent growth or development in my own character as a result of those struggles with my mind and emotions, viewed in another.
And this has resulted in two or three very different yet comparatively negative effects. In the first place, I have (a recurring theme) not developed any discipline whatsoever when it comes to capturing my thoughts and putting them into usable form. This has been an absolutely wonderful boon to my graduate career, let me assure you. Basically, if I can't keep it in my head all at once, it doesn't exist for me in terms of my intellectual development. Which makes writing a dissertation a completely unprepared-for challenge on my part. There is simply no way that I can keep the contents of a book-length treatise alive in my head at once. So, if I'm not concentrating on it in the moment, It's not all that important to me. Ah yes, the joys of being ABD and ADHD.
Secondly is the fact that I have no chronicle besides my own recollections of my history. This means that although I don't tend to forget lessons, I tend to forget how I learned them. And that also means I tend to forget how I came to need to learn them in the first place - i.e. manage not to keep track of the kinds of things that I should not be doing. And since my sins are all intensely private and personal affairs, it's not like anyone else can be advising me on what I need to not be doing....
Thirdly, and this is obviously closely related to the second, is the fact that I am a stranger to everyone but myself. Now I suppose that that is the inevitable consequence of the human condition, and it's certainly not the case that I am such an exhibitionist that I am willing to share my innermost self with just anyone who happens along this page. But by the same token, being constantly, consistently, and chronically misunderstood is no fun. I almost feel sometimes as if the reason I'm never quite taken as seriously as I take myself is because nobody believes anyone could be quite as naive, intelligent, cynical, and idealistic as I am all at the same time. And yet the simple fact is that I am - it's not that I'm out to manipulate or mess with people's minds; it's just that I really am that stupid.
I really meant to write a post about the nature of God and my own screwed-up misconceptions and psychologically inappropriate means of approaching a relationship with or understanding of Deity. As usual (I talk to myself a lot, so if you're reading this and wondering just what "usual" means in terms of established motifs in my writing when this is arguably the first forum in which I've ever written down any of my personal thoughts down, well, just remember, I've been having this conversation with myself for something like 20 years. You're just catching the extreme tail end.) autobiography and narcissism trump productivity, spirituality, and metaphysics. But perhaps that's just as well. It wouldn't do to present a good face too early in my writing, no? When you're as full of self-loathing as I manage to be on a semi-frequent occassion, laying out your sins in full view of the world, opening yourself up to scorn and ridicule, is somehow a positive experience.
Ok, I'm not really that pissed off at the world or at myself. Ok, maybe I am. Honestly, I don't know, and that's one reason why I'm even writing all this down in the first place. I think that I should add "Find a counselor" to my To-Do list, but simply putting it on the list will accomplish nothing: I'm nothing if not an avid avoider of responsibilities. For that matter, I really shouldn't be writing this at all. It's not as if I don't have a major deadline for my dissertation due tomorrow.
At the same time, anything that has me writing, at all, is a good thing right now. At least insofar as it addresses the three problems which I listed above, in addition to whatever benefits which might accrue from getting into the habit of writing in itself. And to excerpt the letter I still haven't written yet introducing to my friends this new blog, it's not that my other blog is defunct: it's just that right now (with the sword of doctorate hanging over my head) I cannot (psychologically) afford the time and committment necessary to write a blog that I intend to turn into a portfolio of political thinking. So the unfocused rambling of a diary is perhaps better for me right now. We will see how this works.
But I really do have interesting ideas about God and Deity running through my head. And of course, other thoughts inspired by the circumstance of being madly in love with a wonderful woman who loves me but who cannot, right now, return that love. Perhaps I will write them sooner rather than later.
For now I only know this: I may actually get the upper hand on my demons this way. Plus, this just might be better than pig-wrestling. And of course, I feel like an overclever Joyce writing Ulysses.
I sincerely hope not. I can't afford to lose. Not yet. Not while I'm still awake.
There's something about a hangman's noose that tends to focus the concetration quite admirably. Unfortunately, in my case, that seems to be about the only thing capable of sending my focus into the rarefied heights normally only occupied by my intelligence and insecurities.
Good boy, Jon. Just strip yourself naked for the crowd. We've always known you were a bit of an exhibitionist.
Which of course, begs the question: Just who in the heck invented the idea of a journal? And, what possibly even more twisted mind first hit upon the idea of granting public access to it? Doesn't writing your thoughts down imply that someone will eventually read them? And if that's NOT the idea, then why write as opposed to just thinking?
Of course, that's been my dilemma all along. I've never much held much truck with journals - I can keep up with my own thoughts in my own skull well enough, thank you very much. Thanks to my prodigious mental gifts (which I never seem to tire of enjoying such a contradictory relationship with: I identify myself with my intellect at the same time I dismiss any ownership of - i.e. any deserved merit derived from - it. Perhaps I dismiss myself so readily because the one thing I excel at I don't really believe is who I am. But I'm sure that's plenty o' fodder for a future blog, neh?) I've never had to try to keep track of what my thoughts were: they were always readily accessible. What was always important was the results of my thoughts: the end product of my deliberations, viewed one way; the resultant and permanent growth or development in my own character as a result of those struggles with my mind and emotions, viewed in another.
And this has resulted in two or three very different yet comparatively negative effects. In the first place, I have (a recurring theme) not developed any discipline whatsoever when it comes to capturing my thoughts and putting them into usable form. This has been an absolutely wonderful boon to my graduate career, let me assure you. Basically, if I can't keep it in my head all at once, it doesn't exist for me in terms of my intellectual development. Which makes writing a dissertation a completely unprepared-for challenge on my part. There is simply no way that I can keep the contents of a book-length treatise alive in my head at once. So, if I'm not concentrating on it in the moment, It's not all that important to me. Ah yes, the joys of being ABD and ADHD.
Secondly is the fact that I have no chronicle besides my own recollections of my history. This means that although I don't tend to forget lessons, I tend to forget how I learned them. And that also means I tend to forget how I came to need to learn them in the first place - i.e. manage not to keep track of the kinds of things that I should not be doing. And since my sins are all intensely private and personal affairs, it's not like anyone else can be advising me on what I need to not be doing....
Thirdly, and this is obviously closely related to the second, is the fact that I am a stranger to everyone but myself. Now I suppose that that is the inevitable consequence of the human condition, and it's certainly not the case that I am such an exhibitionist that I am willing to share my innermost self with just anyone who happens along this page. But by the same token, being constantly, consistently, and chronically misunderstood is no fun. I almost feel sometimes as if the reason I'm never quite taken as seriously as I take myself is because nobody believes anyone could be quite as naive, intelligent, cynical, and idealistic as I am all at the same time. And yet the simple fact is that I am - it's not that I'm out to manipulate or mess with people's minds; it's just that I really am that stupid.
I really meant to write a post about the nature of God and my own screwed-up misconceptions and psychologically inappropriate means of approaching a relationship with or understanding of Deity. As usual (I talk to myself a lot, so if you're reading this and wondering just what "usual" means in terms of established motifs in my writing when this is arguably the first forum in which I've ever written down any of my personal thoughts down, well, just remember, I've been having this conversation with myself for something like 20 years. You're just catching the extreme tail end.) autobiography and narcissism trump productivity, spirituality, and metaphysics. But perhaps that's just as well. It wouldn't do to present a good face too early in my writing, no? When you're as full of self-loathing as I manage to be on a semi-frequent occassion, laying out your sins in full view of the world, opening yourself up to scorn and ridicule, is somehow a positive experience.
Ok, I'm not really that pissed off at the world or at myself. Ok, maybe I am. Honestly, I don't know, and that's one reason why I'm even writing all this down in the first place. I think that I should add "Find a counselor" to my To-Do list, but simply putting it on the list will accomplish nothing: I'm nothing if not an avid avoider of responsibilities. For that matter, I really shouldn't be writing this at all. It's not as if I don't have a major deadline for my dissertation due tomorrow.
At the same time, anything that has me writing, at all, is a good thing right now. At least insofar as it addresses the three problems which I listed above, in addition to whatever benefits which might accrue from getting into the habit of writing in itself. And to excerpt the letter I still haven't written yet introducing to my friends this new blog, it's not that my other blog is defunct: it's just that right now (with the sword of doctorate hanging over my head) I cannot (psychologically) afford the time and committment necessary to write a blog that I intend to turn into a portfolio of political thinking. So the unfocused rambling of a diary is perhaps better for me right now. We will see how this works.
But I really do have interesting ideas about God and Deity running through my head. And of course, other thoughts inspired by the circumstance of being madly in love with a wonderful woman who loves me but who cannot, right now, return that love. Perhaps I will write them sooner rather than later.
For now I only know this: I may actually get the upper hand on my demons this way. Plus, this just might be better than pig-wrestling. And of course, I feel like an overclever Joyce writing Ulysses.
posted by Jonathan at 9:00 PM
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