Friday, February 26, 2010
Me, Talking to You
T o converse and to convey ideas to one another; to feel the direct emotional chemistry between you and them and to intuit all that you can and to feel them doing the same toward you. This is, essentially, all there is - and in a very literal sense. Caught up in the distant and not so distant past, brooding over the vast future; this is how many of our lives have been constructed. But as I talk to you you listen to my words, or in this case read them, and as they enter your mind they rise and then fall away again, becoming only the thin mist that constitutes human communication. The memory of a conversation can take many routes, but not matter which it chooses it will never be a recitation; it will only be a reconstruction of what once was: of a moment that arose and fell. Right now, this is happening; and as soon as you dispose of each word I write, it too is released from the moment. It is no longer. You can read back on the words and convince yourself that it's the same; but it isn't, for the moment has changes as it always does. A series of moments unto death, each moment determined in somewhat chaotic fashion by you. Or perhaps not - this is debatable. Undeniable is the instant, the flow of time which cannot be separated, cannot be truly divided. It would be like dividing portions of a river. Abstractions are hours, minutes, even moments - for conventionally, these words must be used to convey ideas. Without them there is simply a feeling, perhaps a knowing, perhaps more. It seems plausible that, today, we have been removed from the moment. Though this is an illusion. We cannot be removed from it; what we can do is deny ourselves the truth of this moment; we can think we are not in it except when we're immersed in some activity, or we can say we're far from it when we're bored or have time to "waste" - but these are abstractions. Always we are there, following the flow of what we have deemed "time". All is constantly falling and rising up, being and not-being, becoming and dying: me, talking to you. Something to ponder, perhaps.