Soul-split, it would seem
Nothing poetic or socially stirring today. Nothing revolutionary to change the face of the future. Just a contemplation that has been rattling around in my head the last few days. Or, perhaps it was already there, and I was avoiding it. Or, perhaps, it had only manifested itself in an expressible manner in the last few hours. Either way.
At times, I feel like Asher - split up, spliced. But not into a million bits and ends - nothing fantastic like that. Just a couple of odd pieces that I can't seem to seam back together.
It isn't as though it's impossible, just complicated.
I wonder, at times, if it isn't the conflict of intro- versus extroversion. As if half of me were wanting to be plain, open, honest, clear. But the other half would rather sit in a chair quietly with nothing to say.
Part of it, I'm sure is a lingering shyness which, I would think, many of us had. Especially those who grew into the "no stranger" era of our current society. Those who you did not know were not potential friends or people with names and lives of their own. People you didn't know were the threat - potential murderers and rapists and kidnappers who had malicious intent. Uttering a hello or indulging their conversation could potentially and would most likely end your life.
And partially, the craft is to blame. Words, written on a page, carefully thought out, planned, manipulated to be just the expression you were searching for. This is where I have always found true expression. Since I first found words, pencil and paper eager to listen and receive the concepts and ideas and outflow that no-one else had the time of day for - I was free. Free to the expressions of a youth that seem ridiculous to the grown. Free from the bounds of social expectation. Free to be who and how and what I willed so long as I could forge it from the pieces and shards of language. And so, I learned and I practiced and I became good at being evident, clear. Hell, even raw, ragged, honest. I could open my chest and not bleed. I could open my soul and not shrink. And so, I took to the flick of graphite to perfect myself.
This, I thought, would be wholly effective.
But now, after so many years of pouring heart and soul on the page, into the text box, out into the world for others to see and engage with - I have struck a problem. A strange disconnect that I have yet to be able to explain between text and person. Between writing and relationship.
It's complicated. As usual.
Time, it seems to me, moves too fast. A conversation can last a heartbeat, can flash on and off within a matter of eye-blinks. And in those flashes, I have to formulate responses. But not just a response - a clever, interesting, engaging response. Something witty to keep the listener listening, some fascinating tidbit to keep the conversation moving. Something true to spur on the relationship.
And if it so happens, as it tends to, that I have nothing to say? The air becomes clogged with this thick viscous liquid that only further stoppers up my thoughts. Leading to an inevitable landslide of awkwardness.
In person, I can be very awkward.
And so, until recently, I took to hiding in the caves of the written word. Where, if I am uncertain, I can pause, contemplate, debate, analyse. Continue on when I am ready. Fully prepared to convey the meaning. Sometimes even here, I am ineffectual, but not to worry. 95 percent of the craft of writing is in redrafting, editing, rewriting, fixing. Making the words I previously chose warp and shift and become what I intended them to be. Changing my muddle into a beautiful manifesto.
That has been my unalterable and infinite solace.
And yet.
There is another half now that now has awoken within. That craves expression. That I am no good at handling or shaping. Much less expressing.
So, I have this book that talks about personalities. It's premise is a fairly broad split into four categories, types of people if you will. Two of the factors on a persons way of being, it claims, are fairly irrelevant when examining the deeper laws of spirituality and functionality. How you gain your engery - in private or in trove, and how you function daily - in a structure or more free-flowing. I would agree for the most part.
The book extrapolates on this by relating how, as a person grows, they find themselves changing, shifting from one of these irrelevancies to another. Making these two concepts more fluid, more alterable. A person may be on the same journey their whole life and constantly be flopping between order and chaos, or between private and public. More often than not, a person will eventually chose one that is most comfortable and/or beneficial and/or complimentary to said person's chosen path of life.
I can see that. But, it might be more instrumental than was thought. This is my problem. I feel a split, a solid break, a long thin crack in my ways of being. Have I been functioning as one type all along when, in reality, I have a better tendency to the other? Or, is it that I have found a unique balance between the two based on necessity? A constant in-motion approach to the whole deal. A perception that the "split" is no split at all, but a means of interpreting ways of being.
That sounds very Brandon-like. Fitting the situation in order to instill the most amount of comfort and therefore create the most optimal setting in which to be one's true self.
If only I were that capable.
But, this struggle may be the road to that end. If I were capable of being both, then I ought to be able to switch between the two traits at will. Ought to be able to sense an encounter and choose the better behavior. Isn't this the root of social interaction? Or, at least, the root of what we are trying to accomplish as people continually mashing ourselves together? To instill in one another an ability to choose the better behavior?
And yet, I feel dominated by the traits. Pushed into one depending on the circumstances surrounding an encounter, regardless of effect or appropriateness. Behaving, it feels, without control. Like a programmed robot.
Which leads us to instinct, which to be honest, I had not considered until now. Instinct, generally speaking, is thought of as the latent abilities and patterns of behavior established from generations and generations past, due to necessity and need for survival. These such things spring upon a creature at the time of need and will be foreknown so the creature can act appropriately.
However, this does not necessarily apply in the same measure to a creature who can choose to set its own instinct. The human has an incredible ability to set its own desired reactions, its own self-programmed behaviors. However, many of these reactions - it's true - were programmed in to us before we had a choice. By adults, by society, by the onslaught of perceived necessity.
And yet, they are adjustable with some measure of effort.
And so, this leads to a sort of minor revelation. The instinct I set, or was given - however you look at it - is the desire to quiet up, slink off, sink into the backdrop as a piece of silence, hardly noticeable. Once there, I am free to examine and explore and extrapolate truth and honesty and revelation. Alone.
The instinct I wish to set is, instead, the ability to open freely, express clearly. A forthcomingness that bars nothing. A sense of calm social manipulation, like the mastery I feel over words, but in true physical contact. An easy comfortableness with the way the human is, moves, speaks, thinks. And a confident ability to engage it.
The problem, then, becomes more clear. I could still, at this point chose any route. I could revert entirely to a shadow on the edge of existence, sitting practically motionless under the covers in the corner of the room - revelations and expectations and convictions and questions kept in a bottle to be put on the shelf later and hopefully looked upon with some degree of interest by passers-by.
Or, I could remain split, broken, pieced. Two halves acting autonomously from one another: one expressive, the other encapsulated in a thick insulation from the world. Probably resulting only in a massive misconception of both sides, muddling and possibly even blotting out the way I would have rather been.
Or, I can do the work to become the sort of person I have imagined I could be, were I to actually put forth the right amount of effort.
The problem here is two-fold, however. A nervousness and a tendency to shy from honesty which leads to the introversion I was trying to avoid, thereby proving in said instances that it really is the true mode of action and the rest was all acting - putting up a play, setting up mock-ups of reality and dancing around them like a little puppet. The counter, I tell myself, helps in this performance, in this delusion. In combination, or rather in aide of the nervousness is the inability to formulate the strings of communication I can assimilate inside my mind given much more time and delibaration. And the art of revision.
The first fold requires nothing more than experience. A general sense of communication outside of the counter and the stage-play feeling ought to fade. And it has, in small ways. The second fold, however, requires basic practice. Which, in a way, has already begun. But, alongside practice must be a constant consciousness of the fact that I am not in good practice, that my ability will wane. That the small huddled up shadow inside of me will want to sit in the corner and grow mushrooms of despair and isolation. That, given the chance, instinct will kick back in.
And so, I must engage in more practice of action. More practice of words. More practice of lifestyle. More mindfulness of the inner tumult. More awareness of the given moment. More carefully planned thoughts in a given instance. More focused intent. More constant desire.
And then, I will be in the right. Living the right way. Being the right me.
As opposed to this messed up puppet I, at times, am. With a seam down my spine and a break in my chest and a heart that's been sawed in half. With two puppet-masters rankling one anther for control and neither ever winning out when the moment counts.
At times, I feel like Asher - split up, spliced. But not into a million bits and ends - nothing fantastic like that. Just a couple of odd pieces that I can't seem to seam back together.
It isn't as though it's impossible, just complicated.
I wonder, at times, if it isn't the conflict of intro- versus extroversion. As if half of me were wanting to be plain, open, honest, clear. But the other half would rather sit in a chair quietly with nothing to say.
Part of it, I'm sure is a lingering shyness which, I would think, many of us had. Especially those who grew into the "no stranger" era of our current society. Those who you did not know were not potential friends or people with names and lives of their own. People you didn't know were the threat - potential murderers and rapists and kidnappers who had malicious intent. Uttering a hello or indulging their conversation could potentially and would most likely end your life.
And partially, the craft is to blame. Words, written on a page, carefully thought out, planned, manipulated to be just the expression you were searching for. This is where I have always found true expression. Since I first found words, pencil and paper eager to listen and receive the concepts and ideas and outflow that no-one else had the time of day for - I was free. Free to the expressions of a youth that seem ridiculous to the grown. Free from the bounds of social expectation. Free to be who and how and what I willed so long as I could forge it from the pieces and shards of language. And so, I learned and I practiced and I became good at being evident, clear. Hell, even raw, ragged, honest. I could open my chest and not bleed. I could open my soul and not shrink. And so, I took to the flick of graphite to perfect myself.
This, I thought, would be wholly effective.
But now, after so many years of pouring heart and soul on the page, into the text box, out into the world for others to see and engage with - I have struck a problem. A strange disconnect that I have yet to be able to explain between text and person. Between writing and relationship.
It's complicated. As usual.
Time, it seems to me, moves too fast. A conversation can last a heartbeat, can flash on and off within a matter of eye-blinks. And in those flashes, I have to formulate responses. But not just a response - a clever, interesting, engaging response. Something witty to keep the listener listening, some fascinating tidbit to keep the conversation moving. Something true to spur on the relationship.
And if it so happens, as it tends to, that I have nothing to say? The air becomes clogged with this thick viscous liquid that only further stoppers up my thoughts. Leading to an inevitable landslide of awkwardness.
In person, I can be very awkward.
And so, until recently, I took to hiding in the caves of the written word. Where, if I am uncertain, I can pause, contemplate, debate, analyse. Continue on when I am ready. Fully prepared to convey the meaning. Sometimes even here, I am ineffectual, but not to worry. 95 percent of the craft of writing is in redrafting, editing, rewriting, fixing. Making the words I previously chose warp and shift and become what I intended them to be. Changing my muddle into a beautiful manifesto.
That has been my unalterable and infinite solace.
And yet.
There is another half now that now has awoken within. That craves expression. That I am no good at handling or shaping. Much less expressing.
So, I have this book that talks about personalities. It's premise is a fairly broad split into four categories, types of people if you will. Two of the factors on a persons way of being, it claims, are fairly irrelevant when examining the deeper laws of spirituality and functionality. How you gain your engery - in private or in trove, and how you function daily - in a structure or more free-flowing. I would agree for the most part.
The book extrapolates on this by relating how, as a person grows, they find themselves changing, shifting from one of these irrelevancies to another. Making these two concepts more fluid, more alterable. A person may be on the same journey their whole life and constantly be flopping between order and chaos, or between private and public. More often than not, a person will eventually chose one that is most comfortable and/or beneficial and/or complimentary to said person's chosen path of life.
I can see that. But, it might be more instrumental than was thought. This is my problem. I feel a split, a solid break, a long thin crack in my ways of being. Have I been functioning as one type all along when, in reality, I have a better tendency to the other? Or, is it that I have found a unique balance between the two based on necessity? A constant in-motion approach to the whole deal. A perception that the "split" is no split at all, but a means of interpreting ways of being.
That sounds very Brandon-like. Fitting the situation in order to instill the most amount of comfort and therefore create the most optimal setting in which to be one's true self.
If only I were that capable.
But, this struggle may be the road to that end. If I were capable of being both, then I ought to be able to switch between the two traits at will. Ought to be able to sense an encounter and choose the better behavior. Isn't this the root of social interaction? Or, at least, the root of what we are trying to accomplish as people continually mashing ourselves together? To instill in one another an ability to choose the better behavior?
And yet, I feel dominated by the traits. Pushed into one depending on the circumstances surrounding an encounter, regardless of effect or appropriateness. Behaving, it feels, without control. Like a programmed robot.
Which leads us to instinct, which to be honest, I had not considered until now. Instinct, generally speaking, is thought of as the latent abilities and patterns of behavior established from generations and generations past, due to necessity and need for survival. These such things spring upon a creature at the time of need and will be foreknown so the creature can act appropriately.
However, this does not necessarily apply in the same measure to a creature who can choose to set its own instinct. The human has an incredible ability to set its own desired reactions, its own self-programmed behaviors. However, many of these reactions - it's true - were programmed in to us before we had a choice. By adults, by society, by the onslaught of perceived necessity.
And yet, they are adjustable with some measure of effort.
And so, this leads to a sort of minor revelation. The instinct I set, or was given - however you look at it - is the desire to quiet up, slink off, sink into the backdrop as a piece of silence, hardly noticeable. Once there, I am free to examine and explore and extrapolate truth and honesty and revelation. Alone.
The instinct I wish to set is, instead, the ability to open freely, express clearly. A forthcomingness that bars nothing. A sense of calm social manipulation, like the mastery I feel over words, but in true physical contact. An easy comfortableness with the way the human is, moves, speaks, thinks. And a confident ability to engage it.
The problem, then, becomes more clear. I could still, at this point chose any route. I could revert entirely to a shadow on the edge of existence, sitting practically motionless under the covers in the corner of the room - revelations and expectations and convictions and questions kept in a bottle to be put on the shelf later and hopefully looked upon with some degree of interest by passers-by.
Or, I could remain split, broken, pieced. Two halves acting autonomously from one another: one expressive, the other encapsulated in a thick insulation from the world. Probably resulting only in a massive misconception of both sides, muddling and possibly even blotting out the way I would have rather been.
Or, I can do the work to become the sort of person I have imagined I could be, were I to actually put forth the right amount of effort.
The problem here is two-fold, however. A nervousness and a tendency to shy from honesty which leads to the introversion I was trying to avoid, thereby proving in said instances that it really is the true mode of action and the rest was all acting - putting up a play, setting up mock-ups of reality and dancing around them like a little puppet. The counter, I tell myself, helps in this performance, in this delusion. In combination, or rather in aide of the nervousness is the inability to formulate the strings of communication I can assimilate inside my mind given much more time and delibaration. And the art of revision.
The first fold requires nothing more than experience. A general sense of communication outside of the counter and the stage-play feeling ought to fade. And it has, in small ways. The second fold, however, requires basic practice. Which, in a way, has already begun. But, alongside practice must be a constant consciousness of the fact that I am not in good practice, that my ability will wane. That the small huddled up shadow inside of me will want to sit in the corner and grow mushrooms of despair and isolation. That, given the chance, instinct will kick back in.
And so, I must engage in more practice of action. More practice of words. More practice of lifestyle. More mindfulness of the inner tumult. More awareness of the given moment. More carefully planned thoughts in a given instance. More focused intent. More constant desire.
And then, I will be in the right. Living the right way. Being the right me.
As opposed to this messed up puppet I, at times, am. With a seam down my spine and a break in my chest and a heart that's been sawed in half. With two puppet-masters rankling one anther for control and neither ever winning out when the moment counts.
0 Thought(s):
Post a Comment
<< Home