I wonder about writing my thoughts down at any time. Is it instructive, or helpful or interesting? I don’t know. reading my own entries is like doing surgery on myself. Cut through the skin, the muscle, drag out the intestines or heart or lung, examine the bones one by one. It is a freak show. I have never really been shy about exposing my thinking or my beliefs or even my twisted character. It is even amusing that my person can be reviewed like a story, turning flesh to text, reducing life to symbols.
So much is hidden, so much exposed. But the exposition of it is a distilled fragment freed from its context like looking at a plucked petal of a rose as if it represented the rose, thorns and all. History, memory and recollection all breathe life into real events, but only as a shadow of their real life reanimated for show. What can be learned from such reanimation? Nothing from the story alone. Our belief must be engaged for the story to be connected with the storyteller, for any life to be sucked out of it.
I haven’t said anything yet in this musing. I am dissappointed but realistic. It may not be possible to avoid babbling. I doubt myself too much. I doubt my powers of reason. I doubt my connection to truth?Big T truth, not the reality of course but the description of it.
With respect to absolute reality, I am a believer. With respect to description of that reality, I am a skeptic. It seems fine to claim ultimate reality, even to demonstrate proofs of it. But the proofs are not enough. There is a failure of proofs to prove. I am not in despair even though the proofs are inadequate. It is connection with ultimate reality that proves.
Posted by dougolena at October 9, 2004 01:44 AM