Accidentally stumbling across my old blog, I ‘m surprised to be receiving any traffic. The past week has found me struggling to re-envision what the purpose of blogging is for me. Already the limits of hope are straining.
My muse is convinced that not only is the prior material worth re-visiting, but that it still may have an impact on webpage turners amidst their other dog-eared pursuits. That is a needed dose of perspective, but not remotely why I began blogging. I wanted to capture memories; I was never remotely consistent at journaling and could n’t < find a voice > in it. Not places, not people, but particular states of being or of mind (if the difference is considerable) were needing to be captured before they flitted off into the abyss of the un-remembered. It all began, of course, with having experiences I could fear forgetting (ah yes, fear, friend of the writer).
Subsequently, fear stretched its haggard fingers in the direction of my un-reading. Before my time abroad I was resigned to mediocrity as a reader, ever mocked not by the emptiness of my book-shelves but by the hollow-ness of my engagement with greater minds. These memories too were not yet worth recording. I was met by a new dawn on soil not native to me though truly home.
So I took down a few petty notes (what else am I to consider my earlier writings?) but I would have no hope of occupying this space without having been there. I ‘m not sure what it means for thoughts to progress through space (I like to leave things complicated), they surely can’t do so unchanged. Still, there was no voice I would wish to listen to in my writing. I could n’t resign myself to a blog for the purpose of mere practice, nor for solving all the world’s theological or philosophical ills (for I had largely retired from controversies where neither side is worth agreeing with) — so instead I hoped to court a few of my friends and merely dipped my toes in the water — rarely dipping in.
I wanted a conversation, or twelve, but did n’t know where to begin.
Two of my favourite conversation partners, meaning in which I serve as hopeful sponge, liken the study of philosophy to swimming in the open ocean waters. The ocean, amongst the ancients and often in our dreams, corresponds with chaos. Being driven by the wave and smartly following its current may not look so dissimilar. I wanted to be driven little and to be loosed to drive my own team of water-stallions. I felt at once too proud and too un-equal to the task. Saying is impermanent and I am yet wary of having my position located without my knowledge.
I affirm her affirmation. The subtle influence may prove the strongest in the end, especially if such influence is toward subtle ends. I would not pursue that which was not already complex, herself being no exception. But still, feed-back is what I would — not from all, but from one timely given. That may intimidate you, but why should it? I tremble all the more.
Not having found a true voice, but I shall try a thousand nearly true until I will be at last spoken to — and, then…
Then all shall most properly be well. Until then let us strive — I shall have it no other way.