Identity and progress: “becoming”. What does becoming imply about what you were before? Was that life prior to the becoming less of a life? Was it the story-fuel for the ongoing becoming? A means to a gerund-end? Or perhaps it’s an ongoing state of being. An unfolding that doesn’t quite fully unfold or unfolds in some kind of outward spiral. I might be able to get on board with that latter unspiraling. Though the predestination, fully loaded starting point implications are not settling. When there is open space in one’s life, the temptation is to fill the space. When I see a blank calendar, I think, “what should I do?” When I zoom out far enough on the calendar, to the decades and century level, and the calendar is still blank, I think, “what should I do with my life yet to live?” Perhaps I should fill in the whole of the projected remainder with Becoming. It doesn’t feel unreasonable and it’s sufficiently descriptive. But it feels like one could easily at the state of being that will be reached at the end of the actual remainder: Dead. Becoming dead doesn’t feel like a difficult, remainder of life project. That seems like it will happen without my intervention. And though I’m not completely convinced of this, I’m mostly convinced: dying, even though it happens at the end, is not the point of living. So it’s what happens in between that’s the point, and maybe death is part of the point too. If it’s all about the between, I’m interested in where to go, who to be, what to do; there’s a lot of calendar time between here and there. Possibly a lot of space. Checking the actuarial tables real quick. Yes, lots of time. You can put your money on it. I won’t see any of that money, because life insurance is a death payout. Maybe the point is to trick the actuaries. Become a smoker just long enough to have them skeptical and prove them wrong by walking every day and living intergenerationally & socially (apparently one of the things that extends life the best). The way of proving the “haters” wrong seems particularly absurd. To take up smoking, risk the addiction, and apply for life insurance that I don’t need, just so I can hold up my death certificate and laugh in the faces of; oh. Yes, perhaps I will continue to worry as little as possible about the notions of other people with respect to my choices about living and becoming, particularly if they sit in front of spreadsheets and understand “statistics”. So then, what to become? How to become? In what way to become? To be and not to be are not questions that I’m concerned with; Hamlet was too dramatic. “In what way to be” would have saved a lot of tragic lives. There’s no answer to these questions because every answer is an answer and the questions don’t end. The question mark ought to have at its bottom, rather than a dot, and arrow that curves down and points to the right, indicating that the question is not the end. For now, until this has been designed, perhaps we can use this: ?-> (good luck, audio book reader).
It’s morning on the ninth of June. It’s hot already, I was wearing a partial sweatshirt and starting to do its namesake. I removed it, and I’m sitting here watching my little trees grow. Well, one of them is growing, the other is struggling. I hope they will continue to become for many years, but I recognize that the length of their story does not indicate the meaning of their lives. The birds around me know how to become, gerund or otherwise. These birds are particularly good at avoiding false dichotomies. It’s one of the things non-human animals have us licked at; polarities happen in gradients and animals either get that or they don’t. I mean, they are usually somewhere on a spectrum and understand that. Who could really say, is probably what they would say about good and evil, up and down. I have a hard time imagining studying animals, getting up in their faces, doing more than observing, counting their eggs. I like to share the outside with them, humans and otherwise, but I am not interested in counting them or analyzing them. I’ll orient around them, do what it takes to be safe with them, and help them cross the road when they are lollygagging. But I’m not going to take measurements. I think that’s how I see becoming in my own life. To orient, be safe, scurry across the road, without measuring. I think that’s how a neighbor of mine lives. A punk/metal/grunge/genre-making band’s drummer from years ago, he gets on his bike every weekday morning and heads to work, a job he enjoys. He doesn’t count the days, though he does count his miles biked. But not to understand his migration patterns, just for a little satisfaction. I like seeing him bike off to work when I’m sitting on my porch in the morning. I often have the urge to shout hello, but the street is too quiet, and the birds are helping get my greetings across anyway.
Roman Ryan 