Involution's End

[lhexa]

A moment catches me several stories up, gazing at the city that surrounds me. Earlier in the day there had been a book, a computer, and a radio station, but I had pushed myself away from each. The energy that I had been gathering was for now, not them.

The first things I see are the wildness and the patterns. These spread, though not at an even pace, wherever humanity goes. There is a familiar danger in one side of the pair: when a pattern grows too large, the human is lost within it. Yet it is my conviction that chaos is not the solution to unbalanced order, nor is order the solution to unbalanced chaos. The matter does trouble me -- however, my gaze also brings in the exceptions to the patterns, and the vitality in the uncontrolled, thus I feel that I can always count on humanity. Humanity is the tree that burns, without being consumed. In its radiance of every frequency, seeing anything else is difficult; nevertheless, I am looking beyond humanity.

Just as I once listed the good things in the world, now I must list the things my writing will not do: feed someone who starves; pull the finger from a trigger; free a prisoner; cause anyone to undo past misdeeds; provide raw knowledge, as of research and experimentation; draw a shy loner into friendship; guide the hand of an artist; give the feeling of looking up, as a child, to the stars. The people are humanity's best who dedicate themselves, or even just their lives, to such tasks. I, however, do not find myself numbered among them. Humanity does not need me. But through my peculiarity and aloofness, I may yet discover a distant goal, one suited to me in particular.

That is why I sought a place for this moment. There is something that I... think I... have seen, and I wish to repeat the observation. But as I stand here, looking out over the lights and colors, I do not perceive that elusive entity. -- There are sounds, from the streets below, that I fail to hear.

I turned off the radio because I had become disgusted with the conceit of its music. The song that finally struck a nerve was some blather by a group claiming to be the heralds of a new revolution. They should have learned from better musicians, ones who had already tried, and failed, to create a world of love; at least they knew what the revolution was for. -- There will often come a day when a man of passion breaks down the doors of the church, runs to the altar, and screams at the wretched figure, "Give me back my sins!" When I see such a man, I will not get in his way, but neither will I follow him into the church. -- If I was not there at its genesis, I feel that it is not my conflict. In a fisher mood, I would go further, in fact: this is not my society; this is not my community; these are not my rules; these are not my sentiments; and so on, into solipsism. In the shadow of a building, I catch a glimpse of my target; it's here, somewhere.

I put down the book because it reached me too easily, disrupting my mood in an instant. I read with feeling, now that I've learned not to speedread. However, there are works which, although they too touch me easily, leave a feeling of revulsion. I now regard them as something abusive, and they are related, but only related, to what I'm seeking out. To call such abuse "postmodernism" once held some attraction, but was wrong; postmodernism will die, and has other merits besides. Only when hurt do I revile a name. Let it suffice to say that some books leave me feeling hunted. I do not enjoy the danger of being caught, for I do not enjoy being caught; when captured by that which I most often flee, I can merely struggle briefly before my neck is snapped, leaving me for a time dead to myself, thus dead to the world.

Finally, I pushed myself away from the computer, because it is what puts me in contact with my friends. I hope that they will forgive me for taking such risks, for sometimes aiming at a star only to arrive in the void. I already know that within me is something that will one day need a more-than-human forgiveness, that I have seen in a friend something I wish to destroy. That which comes from loyalty to powerful emotion, and from the exegesis of glorious thought, is not easily confronted.

As I turn my gaze away from the city, planning to return home, I hear a whimper, see its source. Beside me is a poor, broken-winged little creature, draconic. Looking into the blue eyes of he who once danced in the sky, I see them defeated, but still brave. My past self tells me in a whisper: "This is your evil --"

The ultimate temptation is to make the experience too profound for words.

Comments

[guilen.livejournal.com]

Have you ever made the experience too profound for words? I can't say much for others, but for myself I have, perhaps, in some small fleeting to moment, and it renders everything else with a feeling of inconsequence. I'm a perfectionist by nature already, and nothing is worse than propogating what defines "not good enough".

Dude, your snaking thought patterns are just about the only ones I identify with. I wish you were a friend that lived nearby whom I got tangled into intense conversations with. The internet doesn't cut it, because it seems evasive of reality to discern truths from a text-covered screen - and what I need in my life is freedom from screens, portals into other realms (or whatfuckingever) that have kept me transfixed away from the thing that this world suggests. That, and reading is something I don't do as well as I'd like to...

I love my friends, and yet somehow wonder how the fuck I could ever stay with them. What is solitude worth, anyhow?

Tea, yes. Sounds good. Come up to Vancouver for a bit, and we'll do it.

[lhexa.livejournal.com]

Of course I have. I've also done similar things: said, though only to myself, this experience is too profound to put into words for you (responding to some person); this experience is too profound to explain in this place -- they're all temptations I try to resist.

You're fascinating, but I find you fascinating because of the specific ways in which you're my opposite. There are plenty of such ways, but one of the big ones is... the situation of my inarticulacy, is talking in person. And recently, I've found it somewhat transfiguring to be with people nearby, and be inarticulate, though not silent.

The thing about matter and antimatter is, they annihilate each other. I remember the last time we had an intense, tangled conversation. The next day, I felt I broke the world. The day after that, I was in a mental hospital again. The strange thing is, I didn't make that connection until just now. I'm not blaming you, or saying you caused it, no more than I would blame any other person. However... you, sir, are a dangerous person.

I do intend to meet you, and talk with you a lot, but talking with you in person will be something of a struggle. So, in anticipation of those days, maybe you should converse with people in a place where you are the one struggling for adequate words.

*grins* Solitude's worth a lot. It complements togetherness.

I thought about suggesting that you have tea here in Dallas. But, check out this map (http://maps.google.com/maps?q=vancouver,+canada&ll=42.163403,-108.369141&spn=29.199404,84.164063&hl=en). Let's have tea in Salt Lake City, halfway between Dallas and Vancouver, in a place where neither of us would want to live, but both of us would love to visit, where people thrive by the undrinkable water.

How about it? It'd be awesome. I'd meet you, maybe in Vancouver, way before then, but at some point we'd go off and have that tea.

[guilen.livejournal.com]

...why, sir, that's not a bad idea at all... and as for finding my words inadequate, I've been through the ringer on that one. That seems to be my life most of the time, but I'm learning. I just keep trying, and you gotta get on the right track eventually doing that...

Bloody hell. Last year was a hard year. Oh well.

Can't make any definitive plans yet, not working, but soon...

[(Anonymous)]

*nods* I can't plan anything definite either. I need to get to graduate school first.