When it feels most clear that language can only come anywhere near truth when as much as possible of the context in which that language is being used is understood, I wonder what I’m doing writing. At best, the vague echoes of the context in which I’m writing will be understood by you, reader of this writing. And then probably only if you’ve done a little research and if I’ve done a poor job keeping the Internet out of my business. This is just an AOL Instant Messenger away message that long, vague, and meant to make me feel seen without anyone really seeing anything. But then, at the same time, it’s more than that. Words are paints and this is canvas. This is not a truth exercise. There is no reconciliation with reality demanded of a painting, not even for the Realists. So welcome to my impressionist gallery. Because a book seems too long to be seen as a single painting. Maybe there are a few books that have been written that could qualify as a single painting (Dune comes to mind for some reason; I think that book could be represented well be a half-wall painting), but most books I’ve read, and certainly this one, can be better thought of as a series of paintings. It’s sort of like days. Some days are experiences like one piece of art, perhaps a statue of a panda holding a kitten (that’s a good day). But lots of days are a series of sketches, poems, and pottery. And often the art exists between days. Creations that are worked on across time, where the story of springtime, the story of cycling, the story of Wisconsin each play out as pieces of art honed across many years in my life. The unique ability of a book is pulling art from across time, space, and medium and creating the feel of a mixed media gallery. Before I stretch this “art within art as art” analogy any further past it’s breaking point, I want to add what feels like a key ingredient. Journaling, tweeting, and rage-doodling when bored-frustrated in a meeting lack what the mixed media gallery (book) has in full: awe (I’m in awe of the definition of the word awe: “an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime” (Merriam-Webster for the poetic win)). Journaling may contain a bit of wonder and a lot of dread, but the veneration is often missing. Tweeting misses completely. Rage-doodling is more of a de-veneration exercise. But writing a book. I feel full of dread, driven to venerate, and wondering about wondering. I think this is why the letters “P”, “h”, and “D” are in such large font on the covers of so many books; to inspire by authority is also why memoirs by powerful people and biographies about powerful people are popular. At best, I might be an authority on quitting jobs. And maybe “strategy”. So I find myself plumbing the sublime (and wondering about what exactly “sacred” means).
I put a little bit of butter in my coffee this morning. I’m not sure if I like it.
It’s morning in May. I have a lot of emails that have a couple of tasks associated with them in my inbox. I can feel myself missing some punctuation and spelling as I write this morning. Perhaps I need to eat. It has been a vigorous few days, physical activity-wise. Unvigorous artistically though. The spring seems to be passing away into summer. The light comes in early and goes out late, and my body insists on being used.
I find myself coming back to the Zhuangzi. To be in flow, to be in the Way, to develop an intuitive, spontaneous existence. To live in context rather than trying to be that which or where I’m not. I will go find breakfast. And perhaps eat the way a hungry tree eats: intuitively and vigorously, and I imagine in awe of the sun and soil.
Roman Ryan 