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(no subject)
Something falls from the sky. It is not quite rain and not quite snow, but it is quite wet.
The heat wave ends, and it's cold again.
Happiness is lovely, has been with me for a week now. I wish I could trust its presence, trust it to be there still in a week, in a day, in an hour, a breath. Of course I cannot, and I grow increasingly aware of the intangibility of all things - awareness, identity, history, self, knowledge, love, longing, sorrow, memory, yesterday, tomorrow - I hold as true, and am increasingly disconcerted by the waning proof of my own existence. (I think therefore I am not. I think too much.) Can materialism be anything less than a legitimate struggle for something to grasp?
I have photographs of the desert. I have all the physical evidence of my high school self in a box at home. I have a journal to record the scattered thoughts of many months. It is not the same thing.
I like reliability and my own personal flightiness is sometimes upsetting. I am loving school - loving work - loving learning - and wondering if grad school is in my future after all. At the moment I can't imagine anything happier than learning for the rest of my natural life. But a week ago I wanted to quit, said I was tired of the institutional nature of education. How can I trust myself?
There are things I do not tire of - poetry, nature, the people I love - but they are few. Reliable, but few.
Oh, but I am happy. What does it matter what makes me so? Real or unreal, tangible or not, silly or frivolous or sentimental or strange, it's me. And sometimes, rarely, I really do love me.
+++
On an unrelated note, this is worth reading, and this is worth signing.
The heat wave ends, and it's cold again.
Happiness is lovely, has been with me for a week now. I wish I could trust its presence, trust it to be there still in a week, in a day, in an hour, a breath. Of course I cannot, and I grow increasingly aware of the intangibility of all things - awareness, identity, history, self, knowledge, love, longing, sorrow, memory, yesterday, tomorrow - I hold as true, and am increasingly disconcerted by the waning proof of my own existence. (I think therefore I am not. I think too much.) Can materialism be anything less than a legitimate struggle for something to grasp?
I have photographs of the desert. I have all the physical evidence of my high school self in a box at home. I have a journal to record the scattered thoughts of many months. It is not the same thing.
I like reliability and my own personal flightiness is sometimes upsetting. I am loving school - loving work - loving learning - and wondering if grad school is in my future after all. At the moment I can't imagine anything happier than learning for the rest of my natural life. But a week ago I wanted to quit, said I was tired of the institutional nature of education. How can I trust myself?
There are things I do not tire of - poetry, nature, the people I love - but they are few. Reliable, but few.
Oh, but I am happy. What does it matter what makes me so? Real or unreal, tangible or not, silly or frivolous or sentimental or strange, it's me. And sometimes, rarely, I really do love me.
+++
On an unrelated note, this is worth reading, and this is worth signing.
no subject
thanks for the links. i read, faxed, and signed, like a good little leftist. ;-)