I realize that reading back on a lot of these essays of mine, a lot of my former teachers and professors would be ashamed at the quality of the work: the regular shoddiness of the structure, the lucy-goosey relationship with grammar and spelling, the disregard for ensured audience understanding, the list goes on. I’m certain I need not tell you, sweet reader, of the problems we find in my writing.
I want to attempt to write out here — both here in this essay and I suppose more generally throughout this “blog” — less a well-thought-through, thoroughly scrutinized essay, and more a chronicle of my thought process, how concepts tug-of-war in my head, and this, the regurgitation of words and ideas the result pouring out. Perhaps I well represent the times, as it perhaps represents a fundamental laziness in approach. Is my duty as a social creature not to make myself understandable to the widest possible reach of the whole? Very likely, and so I should try harder, then, to more articulately lay-out more polished concepts that most accurately represent the ideas envisioned in my head I am trying to excavate with these written out words.
What if in the audience-focused excavation we ruin the full understanding, in the long-term, of certain ideas and more importantly the process required to create them? Get half-meanings and sought-intents, rather than the truth as intended by the source. The words seem right as I articulate them, they fit a deeper sense of rhythm and tempo, a beat that I cannot fully understand but feel intuitively when it goes not fully matched. It makes the words come out weird, abnormal from the common writing of the mass, but it fits that inner narrator spouting them out in due tread. The meaning can be parsed and understood, maybe with some effort, and that does seem arrogant on this author’s part. Isn’t art always arrogant in its nature? An assertion of ego-interpretation, express the heart! Well, then why should this be different, to be understood. To be understood. It is the hope of the author to be understood. Why else then would they publish and write? Why, indeed, why then why?
Who knows?
Maybe robots in times to come will parse through these pages, my publications then taken in and scrutinized in a blip, my being thus contributing to the unified whole, a unification that will come with the rapid suction in of man, of all the knowledge, all the art, all the writings, all the soul, the entirety of our petty creation into its whole, a unified intelligence instead of today’s disparate humanity. Why then, I shall stand alongside the lot of them: The Melancholy Dane and The Bard; Marie Curie and Stephen Hawking; Mohammed, David, and The Lamb; every diary, every journal, and Sam. In that one-day rapid consumption, there will be no difference between any creator ending up in the realm of digits and bytes, there will be no differentiation between any one person’s interpretation of God, there will only be those who created something for consumption and those remaining sated with only consumption.
This process here then is so that I am understood, confusing and messy and in whatever rhythm I am, in the hopes peers resonate today, or some other else in some tomorrow, but fundamentally within the consciousness that I am, the imperfect, largely blinded, and clearly searching exhibition of personhood mocking itself up as this particular man. Perhaps as a help in the understanding, perhaps just so I can externally see more fully this self, perhaps in arrogant claims of the grand. It’s just writing, really. Why does anyone attempt to create by their hand? With the intention of scraping away the muck hiding the bliss.