Something Personal? or One that Counts

I never could understand how "personal" to get with blogs. It is free internet domain, anyone, virtually all beyond my control can read it, judge me, comment and such. As Nietzsche said "One does not only wish to be understood when one writes; one wishes just as surely not to be understood." Foucault would say this is a product of some power dynamic that is internalised, the need to be watched and seen, the structure it gives to my person, the power from discipline, but is it? Maybe.

The Nietzsche quote was on a postcard on my first "rebirth" into writing, the purchase of a pocket notebook. My first foray into writing occurred after a series of painful events. I remember the day explicitly. I just thought, this is never going to end. An "out of stepness" just seemed omnipresent, and perhaps, mayhaps the only way to deal with this was to write. I will admit, I was not the best writer, but I had read good writers, I knew what it should sound like. So I wrote. I still have the journal, the leather bound one. The first 100 pages are torn out now. They are in an envelope I have since hidden. It always seems the painful memories always seem to have the capacity to hurt you, and maybe you hurt others because of them. When are things meant to be shared, if ever at all? Do somethings just need to be written and burned, but then they are a memory, something that gets eroded by time, but need we remember all things? That is a story unto itself.

Right now, I would love to sit down and just read something, fiction, to write in my journal, to stare at the stars, their vastness compared to my smallness. The triviality of all things before this cosmic gaze, but there never seems to be that kind of time. We are always driven forward, or at least I feel such. I feel as though I am guilty of some crime against society by stealing away time to write this silly blog. All my books are nonfiction, philosophy the lot, the only fiction I have here, with me, is Brother's Karaz and anthologies of Borges and Rimbaud. The latter you need to read the philosophy books to gain insight, but there is something about Borges that captivates my soul. Perhaps it is his same longings, the wandering dark streets of Buenos Aires, to the strange sueños of the night. I do not know. French may be the language of love but spanish is the language of passion. It has a cadence, where french glides a tender touch, spanish grabs your hand and forces you to dance. The rhythms of flamenco play with the tip of your tongue, but at the same time something sublimely curious. Tainted with a bit of common profoundness in the diction. French is elegant, suave, smooth, filled with four different words for sex and writing, but spanish lives, it has a beating heart, pulsing with each moment. I digress.

So, why am I an engineer? That always seems to be a question whenever I reveal my little secret, my major. I am an engineer because I was cursed with a good teacher...and I showed some profiency in it. I can do it. I won awards with research projects, I can think. However, it is the nonlinear thinking that makes me special not to sound trite. It is tough. I like to think, genuine, I like to talk to people, especially people who I find intriguing. I get bored very fast, but when I find someone intriguing it is like Christmas come early. Conversation in general is so bland, but every once and a while, you get it, that quintessential it. A pleasant conversation, for the mind is so fickle, is such a godsend, but yet so tenuous, in fact it is defined, created by this dynamic between two minds, this tension generates the pleasure of the conversation, two parallel lives running together for a moment. So few and far between. If I could have but more conversations like that, or just one. Digression again.

I am an engineer because I have never made a decision. I picked it because it was the hardest, most technical degree I could find, especially Chemical Engineering. I did not know what to do so I just grabbed in the dark. If I could do it all over, maybe physics and philosophy from Oxford would be a good bet. But, that is another time. I still do not know what I want. I would like to see the world, for what it is, it is a big place you know. I want to read more, write more, influence others, go to more concerts. That isn't a job though. I do not think I would mind just owning a bookstore, that sells music (LPs) and coffee. The (material) things I love. That would be almost ideal. I wouldn't have to live a grandiose lifestyle, which isn't want I want. I want a freedom, not a run free in the wild, or never tie me down freedom, but a particular freedom of the soul, if there is such a thing. To breathe free. And to write a book wouldn't be bad. My only fear in life, sadly yes I do have one fear, is that I will not live up to my potential. It both drives and torments me. My adviser told me, this is in my major, "Try to make it with whatever bit of your soul you can hold onto." I initially thought, there is no way he is serious. But, he was. I feel like I am losing my self, or at least a part of it in there, but thats why I have the liberal arts. The arts that make men free, quite literally, they are there to allow me to think, to learn to think, to think about thinking. I understand why that Basque-Irish Argentinian hopped on la Poderosa...

So what is it that life holds? For me, for you, for everyone? I do not know. It doesn't bother me to say that anymore. I live for the day, not dead poets society-esque but more the great philosopher LSE graduate's words, "you can't always get what you want, but you find some times you always get what you need." So I just will continue on, living, learning, exploring the world around. Looking for those glorious conversations, mind mingling, writing, drawing. All those enterprises which expand our horizons as persons. While I breathe I hope says my state's great motto. I just, must, will, can no nothing other than search for what makes life the most fantastic voyage it is. Alethia.