Fancy new Moleskine, as the trusty spiral I got from S. is almost full--finish it this week, probably. Very nice chat with G. at M. "Girlboss, Gaslight, Gatekeep." As far as my habitual indulgences go this is a good one and not particularly ruinous. Went to worship at First Baptist. J. was great and yet -- the wealth, the comfort. I accept that Sunday is for rest ... I think I don't accept that level of wealth ... I'd have to talk to J., I guess.
Partly I journal to keep a record -- partly to know myself. I don't believe I think the inner life is developed and given meaning -- is deepened -- by reflection + narrativization + ritual. I journal for myself + others -- to become a richer person, more complex and nuanced. There is a tension between introspection and the outward turn. But on the other hand, if you don't do enough, then you are a walking void of meaning. "Who am I? What am I doing? Please tell me." Much of my interpersonal sorrow or difficulty could be said to stem from a lack of self-reflection. One does not need to be fully healed, fully situated, fully narrativized -- but one should seek to inhabit something of a center in the midst of all this; otherwise our troubles can function as a riptide in conversation -- I am trying to be here with you, and suddenly I am borne away into intensely personal troubles -- which it is healthy to disclose, we are permitted it in times of crisis -- but not always. You are always struggling, always living your life, always gripped by existential troubles -- up to the moment of death, always. These things have their place -- they are at or near the core of deep relation -- "tell me about despair" -- yours -- but they are not bread and butter, and the medium of daily life -- seeking to be a human responsible to oneself + others, at home, delighting in the quotidian: in a way this is as much an expression of the resolution of these dilemmas as intense personal disclosure. We are all despairing constantly, technically speaking. Some people find it uninteresting and unremarkable -- they cannot remark, they lack the awareness -- and so when they feel seen, vulnerable and connected, they imbue daily troubles with an existential pathos -- setting up a false narrative wherein their eternal troubles are cast implicitly as children of circumstance. This is good for them, and a privilege to observe -- I have learned part of what I am writing now from such people, and have a lot of affection -- but it is tiring also to hear someone over and over set up these arguments and explanations that miss the point and will not illumine much for them. Jesus says "and what about the 18 who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them?" I think I have been aware of the existential nature of my troubles, but guilty of the same fallacy: existential troubles are not solved -- at best they are more deeply understood. My CPTSD is felt existentially -- certainly for me certain existential problems arise that more fortunate souls do not face. But I should draw a distinction between existential experience and problems -- finitude, suffering, imperfection will be with me always -- belaboring the point with existential language -- no matter how "precise" -- misses the point just as surely as treating these eternal problems w/ contingent language. To complete this schema: I could find them interesting and unremarkable, while able to find them remarkable -- knowing better. Connecting to another soul -- finding a mutual foothold for mutual exploration and understanding w/ another on the eternal ground of suffering which is our truest birthright -- that's remarkable, and there we may speak existentially and rejoice. But we may rejoice just as well in the Other without this ground -- "you contain depths, whether you know it or not; I do, and I know it; I do not need any more knowledge." And be together rejoicing. Saying to oneself: "there is a gaping hole at the center of my being -- my finitude before eternity." And smiling, and moving lightly and w/ grace over the void that one day swallows all of us whole. Imposing no unnecessary limits: acknowledging finitude and testing it: how far can I take this, not begrudging its limitations, its trials, its tragic end?
I have had this notion that I have not changed or grown in approximately a year; transcribing this journal entry sure did a number on it. A lot of it is "correct," in the sense that today I would provide similar answers if asked similar questions -- but why ask these questions? My main impression is that I am glad I have read a lot of Buddhist texts since I wrote this and chilled out on the Kierkegaard. (Of course Kierkegaard also thought that these kinds of ruminations were essentially beside the point.) I still think it is good to write -- duh -- but I would like to write differently. Adding to the layer cake of reflexive self-criticism: "I think I have been aware of the existential nature of my troubles, but guilty of the same fallacy" -- isn't that entire meditation essentially navelgazing about existential troubles in existential language? Existential language is nice, but ultimately boring -- at the risk of triteness, here is my current stance: "is this conducive to the presence of loving-kindness in the world?" That settles most existential questions. Ultimately I think existential discourses are like the Wikipedia game where no matter what, clicking the first link on a series of pages will inevitably bring you to Philosophy. Just skip ahead to loving-kindness and your needs and those of others. It makes for less portentous writing, too.
I'm not so interested in these themes these days. Wormtown will not, I think, be my moody blog where I rehash The Sickness Unto Death until I can't type anymore for the weltschmerz of it all. Actually I want to read theory, mostly, and history, and digest it for myself and any interested readers. Hence Wormtown -- worms are so charming, how they make their way through dirt and shit it out, leaving it better and different than they found it. And my cognitive and behavioral health cry out for this digging through intellectual dirt -- hence a project for myself and others. So, looking back at my overwrought reflections of last August, there are thematic links, and certainly I am grateful for a splendid example of melancholy pondering in my oeuvre -- but I also feel like, thanks, I'll actually be doing what you proposed people should do. And I could do without the moralizing and unbearable wisdom and Cassandra-like knowing of the precocious 25-year-old. (Not very loving-kind.)