What interests me most with people is that all the time there is a life going on in the innermost which can barely be acknowledged let alone talked about. It’s a secret dialogue usually whispered and hardly noticed. Another way I see it is like a newspaper, that in various phases lasting days or even weeks there is type of headline or a theme which could be an exploration of a new found belief or could be the re-emergence of a forgotten ideology or perhaps a new theory. It reveals itself usually to close friends but only when a certain amount of superficiality has passed. It wouldn’t be the revelation that deep down you realise you don’t love somebody but more a passage of ideas about the inner structure of love or the mechanics of doubt or change. It may be a big new idea but more often it is a modification of a previously held conviction such that in the book of life you are compiling there would be continous amendments whilst your superficial apparent belief and conditioned behaviour would suggest that a robot were in operation, so yes we are all writing the book of life and whatsmore we are doing it so secretively that all but the very perceptive are aware of it. Now wouldn’t it be a fine thing if we all were aware of it and we spend a fair bulk of our time communicating from our own little books rather than going through the interplay of falseness that most of our interactions are based on.
I have reached a point where it is almost too painful to be around other people because there is very little that is real on offer, this is painful and tiring and keeping up this dialogue is equally tiring and confusing.
I am wondering about intelligence itself. I wonder if there is some undeniable intelligence that is somehow independent of the individual brain, a sensibleness inherent in reality that can be accessed. The individual brain can argue intelligently about anything and can find logical streams of thought that suggest that it doesn’t even exist and nor does anything. If that argument is water-tight then the individual is stuck and can, I wonder, only find an exit by a reference to the fact that this argument is in itself not useful. To do that there is a zooming out of the argument to a sort of external intelligence that says the argument is unintelligent. Yet we know it is not unintelligent and that it has progressed with reason. Perhaps then, intelligence has a context behind it- when we are true to the context of continuing our survival, arguments about whether we exist are a threat to that very existence and must be degraded to unintelligence and cast out. When our context is related to the enjoyment of intellectual journeys we are more likely to arrive at a conclusion that we don’t exist and that conclusion will be deemed true. So if intelligence is so flexible is there such a thing as truth? or, rather more importantly, are hedge-hogs capable of sarcasm?
There is a something quiet rumbling away in the background, not sure what it is, but I have the feeling that it knows more than I do and that it is controlling me. If I am to be in a muted contentment for awhile, it is the master of that, if I am to be striving for more, it is the driver of my ambition not I. Here I am a puppet for something else, all movements internally, all attitudes and positions or changes of heart are frustratingly beyond my control, never before has this been so obvious, and yet still there is something inside me that is trying to take the reins, trying to gain back the power
For moments in St. Pancras Station I was powerfully aware of not having any control of my innermost. There was a feeling of what I am and I could neither control it nor the feeling of it, life had taken me by the neck and reclaimed me. Has a part of me been destroyed? yes it is like that, as if a the core had been significantly corroded over time and only then did I notice it and any urging sense of doing something in the world had gone.
How do you pack every little event of a week into a piece of writing? So much happens beneath the surface of reportable events, where as I said the real action is. Not only trains of thought and impulses and memories but that forever sense that it is all being included in a new theory about this or that and yet what is also powerfully true is that these little books of life we are all writing will never be read! We gather so much and dissect it and position in our study of reality yet it is all for no purpose, we will not live again nor will there be some grateful reader who somehow needs to know it all.
Another moment has arisen where there is an outer beauty-this time golden light tree tips swaying on post rain fading evening light and I am aware of the immediate, apparently conditioned urge to describe it to the reader, yet I pull back and wait for upon closer scrutiny there is so much in the experience of this moment than is visible. I notice that this golden light works as a metaphor or an association which I find pleasant. This sensation is pre-verbal and the reason I don’t go on to describe it is because I automatically behave as if the experience were the golden-tipped trees. But no, actually when I do look at the experience of the non-verbal sensation it links to warm feelings of cosiness, other lands, yes always there is experience of otherness in the face of these pristine forms such that I could say that it is not them that I am truly experiencing, more that I am experiencing what they point to. Or put in another way the experience of the trees both includes the trees exactly as they are and includes other associations and goes beyond the two, which renders a certain absurdity to the mere description of the trees as an attempt to show you my experiences. To some extent impressionism moves along this road but still you are given an interpretation of the trees rather than a full description of the experience of them and of what happened as a result of coming into contact with them. This all cements my urge to describe the innermost-where the action is- without at the same time drowning in existential introspection. Better that I have a cup of green tea and a delicately crumbling flapjack while I hose down a belted galloway.