The Strength of Colored Goo

There are times in life when the full comprehension of what one is embarking upon comes; and this comprehension shows us that the whole endeavor is ludicrous. There are many such moments in my life, including doing lunges across the church narthex with Jr. high girls, falling in a manhole with my laundry, and watching water literally spout forth from a cement wall in the basement of our summer housing. These are the times when everything becomes clear; when we receive the realization that the author of Ecclesiastes was right – everything is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

But nonetheless, it occurs to me that people actually enjoy chasing the wind. I don’t know if this is masochism of a sort, an attempt to mentally get their exercise in, or a true misconception of reality, but whatever the cause, billions of people do this every day. Now, the greatest example of wind chasing that I can see is the gathering of peoples to discuss “things”. Yes, that is correct; meetings are the bane of existence. I know that many people agree with me on this assertion, because I have heard it said more times than I care to count. And yet, I don’t know that I believe that they actually believe that declaration. Why? Because they continue to not only attend said meetings, they are actually responsible for scheduling them.

I was thinking about this today in class, as we had our 10 minute break in the middle and some ridiculous conversation ensued. It was amazing. You know in the movie The Absent-Minded Professor, where he creates flubber and it’s this substance that, once bounced, defies gravity and all laws of nature and actually gains speed as it continues to hit things? The absurd conversation this afternoon was, in all ways, a true manifestation of flubber. This is, I think (or at least I’m making it fit this context), what my friend meant when he said (in reaction to the conversation), “Never underestimate the power of people in large groups”. It really was as if they were spurring one another on, strengthening their influence on each other as they continued. You gather for a meeting, and what happens? Nothing. Why? Because once the motion of flubber has been initiated, it is very difficult indeed to stop. It is unending. So, my conclusion, for better or worse, is that large groups of people = lots of winds and lots of flubber.

Power

Why is it that we all think we have something to say? We don’t even know what it is that we are contributing, but we want to contribute it nonetheless – just in case. We read the diary of Anne Frank and realize that yes, it is possible to have our thoughts count for something. So we keep journals, diaries, blogs… It is said that writing things out helps one to process things internally - to see contradictions, to see connections, to enable us to understand. But if that is the only purpose, then why keep them? Why re-read those entries that were written in joy, pain, and confusion? To remember, we say. In order to not forget the past and so repeat it. But if we understand ourselves, as some would say, to be a result of our accumulated past, and if it is intrinsic to human nature to be addicted - to not be able to control our actions at all points in time - then wouldn’t our pasts be repeated anyway? Whether we remember or not? And then, if we do change – if that change is a true transformation of character – then that past wouldn’t be repeated anyway because our actions come out of our character, and our character wouldn’t allow it.

But despite the irrationalness of keeping journals, millions of people do. And not only in the privacy of those pink Hello Kitty ones with lock and key, where 9-year-old girls tell their diary whom they love and stick notes and bracelets between the pages. No, people put their thoughts and feelings online for everyone to read. This I do not understand.

But I think it is because we innately believe that we have something to offer, something to contribute. We don’t know what it is, and we’re too dense to figure it out ourselves, but we are stupidly hopeful beings, who believe that someday, someone somewhere will see our thoughts and ideas and consider them profound. We’ll become the hero of something that we never meant to promote in the first place, and in all reality are probably fundamentally against, but no matter. We will become heroes. Geniuses. Influentialists. Who knows? We might even accomplish an unread quote on the side of a milk carton.

Labyrinths

Life is not Webster's Dictionary. That's what one of my 8th graders told me yesterday afternoon. We met for coffee and were continuing a conversation about the meaning of beauty. Her thought was that beauty equaled appreciation; the problem then, was that she couldn't flip the definition around and/or come to a conclusion about what the opposite of beauty was.

I'm someone who really loves definitions, meanings, connotations - anything subtly deep and distinct. That's part of the great genius of literature; all of the words mean something in and of themselves, and then all of the patterns and compilations of these words mean something more. Allusions, foreshadows, double meanings, they are what make literature worth reading in the first place. So it seems natural to me to have this carry over into "real life". Finding the connections between people, situations, and thoughts, and then interposing them with what our immediate and obvious realizations are, is part of what makes life so fantastic.

But as conversation in these veins continue, acquiescence to the inevitable occurs. We find that we run into dead ends with these exercises and then don't know where to turn and can't find our way back to the beginning of the maze. And so it was yesterday, when we came to the ultimate realization that life could not be made up of definitions, with clear-cut answers for every scenario. And this conclusion, of course, led to talking about gardens balancing on pins (who knows), the Free Masons from National Treasure, and blue underwear.

Caught By Lucy's Sadism

Do you ever find yourself rejoicing over the absurd? For instance, people have been making fun of me for my excitement over finding a crossword solver on dictionary.com. Yes, my friends, salvation for all vocabulary-challenged (or rather, random-never-needed-to-know-before-or-after-this-knowledge-challenged) people has arrived. On this fabulous website, you can type in any and all information that you have. So I can write out the clue, how many letters it has, insert any letters I already know…some tell me this is cheating. I maintain that since it only gives me a list of possibilities, and that since I still have to use my mind to decide which one it is that actually fits, it is therefore more than legal.

But that wasn’t really what I was rejoicing over today. No, today it was because I was reminded that I – along with everyone else – am nothing. I was told again that I am a human being. Now, there are a lot of great things about being human, something to ponder on another day. But being human also means that I am an addict. So everything that I can (and sometimes do) beat myself up about? Yeah, it’s kinda there to stay. Because I’m a homo sapien. I am going to continually repeat what it is that I do, and what I do is not really that great. In fact, it’s awful most of the time. My theory is that everyone is addicted to at least one thing. I think things like drugs and alcohol come to mind for most people first, but those addictions can almost be better, if there is such a thing as a “better” addiction. At least those are external – something that is visibly obvious. What about the addictions to self-degrading thoughts, compliments, a certain person or people, sleep, verbally or physically abusive relationships, etc.? They can be, and are, equally harmful. Sometimes spiritual, emotional, and mental death is worse than physical death. But do we work on stopping it (or would we, if we could)? No. We just continue to think and do the same things over and over again. It’s like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football. Every year, the same thing happens; every year, Charlie Brown thinks he knows better or is better, and he never is. So why the excitement? Because it shows what God has done and is doing. My filth is literally upon God; it is not mine. Christ, hanging on the cross, took it to his grave. And today is the day that I am shown, in all of its fullness, how shitty I am and that there is nothing I can do about it. God has done everything and continues to do everything. Ha. Nothing better than that.

So on this Ash Wednesday, on one of the 4 greatest days of the year, I am rejoicing in the absurd. I am thrilled by crossword solvers, the incomprehensible grace of God, and really, more than anything, bright green paper in the copying machine.

Fluidity

The unknown is incredibly glamorous. Something which is entirely idealized holds everything one could ever want; really, the splendor of it is almost incomprehensible. We can believe about it whatever it is that we want to believe. It fits perfectly into our world, because it contains no glitches: no frustrations, no doubt, no murkiness, no faults. Inconsistencies simply do not exist - not really, anyway. We might allow them in on purpose, just because we can - for who wouldn't admit that they are fun? But as something that can actually hamper our little world of the imagination, they do not exist. So we move about in this fascinating substance of our mind; we can live in any time in any place, doing any thing in any way that we choose. And we can do all of that at the same time. Time, space, color, matter: they mean everything, but nothing. Their entities and modes of existence are entirely fluid. Getting to write on parchment with a quill and ink by the light of a candle, but yet being able to enjoy a modern-day shower? Not a problem. Making whatever there is of a metaphysical truth coincide with the nature of God? Fully possible.

Most people dismiss all of this enjoyment out-of-hand; we all do this type of thinking, whether secretly or openly. But to believe in it? To make it work? Not many, if anyone, attempts that. This is simply daydreaming, an effort to escape from reality into worlds that make us more than we are. But how, then, do concepts, pictures, images, and ideas fit in and amongst reality? Are they indeed superficial? Is reality categorically so concrete as to never be malleated? Is it a solid playground of the mind on to which to bring running, stomping ideas? Rather, are concepts and imaginations the force of stability, and reality the one in motion? Or do we resign ourselves to an undefined chaos of existence? Whichever way it is, it seems that to dismiss the impossible is a mistake. One must be a realist to the core in order to get anywhere with the questions. But one must also create the reasons as to why reality is innately unsettled.

So here is to the glitches, frustrations, doubt, faults, and murkiness that arise out of clarity. Come, my friends, and revel in the splendor.