Unresolutioned

January 2, 2010

I could not dare to open anything on the first, not knowing what my heart would unveil. Something about the heart that frightens me. Dreadfully. God, I’m not sensible. Or perhaps because reason tells me I ought to govern myself, the heart, which is precisely the tug of war that the self has been torn. Irrevocably. God, I’m irrevocable..

And above that, I cannot even pare life down into one Freudian paradigm against another. What good does it do to say that the the id is the passionate side of who I am, longing for love and desires untold—the part that is called the Shakespeare, Keats, Byron, Wordsworth—the literary romantic, and pagan. What I’m am majoring in because that’s the only thing that continually makes me know I’m alive. The part that Kierkegaard plays to such utter anguish because he stood on the verge of something unspeakable. He could not have possibly reconciled the duality of such dark abyssmal anguish with Christian charity. Or is this a mere glorified version of my little sister demanding incessantly the next piece of cake. I can’t determine what or if such a thing as “noble passion” exists. What makes something actually noble, just because it’s been advertised by society? And whatever this propriety thing is, I’m sure it has nothing, only if inversely, to do with nobility. Sure, we’ve argued about whether or not only a genetically noble character such as Prince Hamlet were entitled to tragedy versus Miller’s vision of the common man at the center of a universal overthrow of reason. Cease to love, cease to love at least passionately what is unreachable, in which case what’s the difference between hedonism and martydom anyway.

I have never ceased to ask such blasphemous questions. It’s selfish, immature, and youthful at core, but I guess I’m at least honest, right? I’m not masking any sort of I’ve-got-this-world-figured-out,-it-sucks, mentality. It just is. I can’t figure it out. They say I’m postmodern. Or at least I’ve pegged myself postmodern. Because that gives me the comfort of actually being something. To ease my insufferable sense of not knowing who I am..



By the way, Josh Groban, from the way he sings, he doesn’t sound like a man who has actually had his heart broken. His voice drives the song, a resounding shallowness at the very center, unfortunately, such a talent one inch less away from a gift. But miles away from the thing we call art. Miles. I seem to never be able to say I found it. Even what may be enjoyment for many, I cannot acquiesce to it being art. Or “good” art. I see all the outer paraphenalia, the surface which never reaches to the deep dimension. That I know.

That is reality. It is a reality I know. Without a shadow of doubt, I’ve known it and know it still. [For that obstruse reason, I don’t believe in art for art’s sake. Which is ironic, but doesn’t contradict. Art comprises heart. Is part of heart. It can’t be if there is no heart. It’s like me trying to exist without my parents. It’s just wrong. There is sorely missing that which is most integral, and inherently human. Not an emotional appeal, merely hitting somewhere, coming from and going to the exact place of the Heart. That’s communication. I believe in it. I believe in the propaganda of art for heart, for love, for a grander scheme, a glorious star in the cosmos. That’s the reality of what I believe. Is that what calling is? The empty space in the puzzle, the piece that fits, that is me? The grand scheme that I can lose myself in? What I devote every ounceof being to.. What I must know is true.] But, despite of, despite everything, I can’t seem to get past the hurdle of reason or any rational thought.

Maybe if I don’t think about it so much, it’ll go away. Which is totally not true. Only momentarily. Not at the intrinsic, gut level where pain meets the universe. Is there even a cosmic meaning to all this? Right now, I can only say that I doubt it. I doubt it utterly. And of course I have absolutely no right whatsoever to make such a pronouncement. Only by the support of many who toil and labor, who bend their backs to the blazing sun in rice paddy fields, in dingy textile factories, in some long-forgotten time when the loggers built this cabin, in the hidden place of prayer where my dad, a pastor faithfully makes his living by breathing in and breathing out God. In all the common, the most obscenely common places, there germaned seeds so that the stuck-up me at this moment could appreciate art. Could judge classical music of which I know nearly nothing (one thing I do know is that it’s somewhat of a middle ground between art and math, between deconstruction and construction, between irrationality and reason). Could wonder why I don’t minor in math. Could rant and rave about philosophy. Could contemplate the meaning of existence. I’m so blasphemous. But God I can’t help it. I can’t help it..

Interestingly enough, Dr. Tackett had said I was cosmopolitan. Almost throw me backwards falling over. Now I see, a trace or shadow of the city diletantte, who is aspiring for the simplicity of country life, for the serenity that is a luxury. I never really wanted it. So stuck in the mire of present I could never actually reach a cleaner place. Just like in Snow Country, I suspect I have unpure motives. I feed off of the rich cakes, and yet I abhor it. The chandeliers and palm trees disgust me, but I don’t really know what else to do about it besides live with it. All those claims to radicalness, bullshit. If I even start, it would the world things falls apart. At least some admit that they can’t live without their iPod, or computer, or cellphone, or music, or Starbucks, or whatever. I, alone, am delusional in the simplicity factor. It’s pretty sad if you ask me. Bondage or slavery, yet I can only make an intellectual assent to what is shackling my life. I can only begin to understand the monstrosity of loneliness and ache that is eating away the core of being in me. When will night ever end?

The day I was born
I was destined to be shattered.
These
Broken shards of glass..
I keep cutting myself
And ask, where did all these wounds come from?
Is there balm in Gilead?
Is there
Is there at all a miracle possible?



[I totally lost my long-awaited sensible conclusion to all this emo-ness … ah … I suppose more lament won’t do. Good night. – January 4 Twilight (a profaned word by the way) ]