In nearly two months, it would seem for some people, a lot of important things have happened. Something about some puppies trying to get people mad while ultimately getting pounded in the butt by a butt, I think. Something else about sites closing after a dozen years or more, leaving some to fret about "independent" book reviewing and the decline and fall of a generation of literary/genre online reviewers.
Yes, things are changing, perhaps not to the liking of many people. Writing out thoughts takes a lot of time and energy (so says the guy writing at 3 AM on 4.5 hours sleep, 28 hours away from running his third 5K). So easy to want a steady euphony of thoughts on certain books, so easy to confuse conformity with clarity of insight into literary works. Does it really matter if I were to write 150 reviews in a year (which I have done before) or if I (using myself only as one minuscule example) were to write none here? Do people really want to hear my thoughts on matters or is it more a hope or desire that I express something in conformity with their own inclinations?
Before I began training for distance walking (and after January, running) last year, my mind was often a chaotic mix of thoughts on fictions read and opinions inflicted upon me whenever I checked social media. Sure, there is an excitement involved in coming in contact with new people and unfamiliar ideas, but after a while, it becomes tedious to encounter the same tired opinions expressed in trite fashion. Running became an escape for me from all of this, or rather it allowed me to clear my thoughts in order to experience things in a different light.
A week ago, I ran a 14km/8.7 mile mountain bike/running trail before going to work. Hot, humid day (it rained an hour after I finished). Runs (later, mostly walks as my legs grew tired) along a creek bank, the only human there for a square mile or more. Hearing a woodpecker hammering at an oak off to my right as I struggled to run up a steep, rock-strewn stretch. Smelling blooming plants, including the heavy perfume of a honeysuckle out of my sight. There was a sense of being enveloped here, being a panting, sweaty part of something much greater than me.
And yet words will fail to describe the totality of this. Sure, I can use the 128 colors in my Crayola box of literary expressions to create a simulacrum, but ultimately experiencing the Sublime defeats all attempts to describe it. Yet as I slowed down as I encountered 6.5% climbs in rapid succession, as I saw squirrels scurrying around me as I plodded on (my personal exercise trainers?), my mind became increasingly clear and focused. One more running step forward. One more sprint up a twisting hilly path before slowing down to brace for the steep descents. Then it didn't matter how much or how little I had read, what I might encounter at work shortly, what I needed to do in the future. Right then, right there, I was living within a moment that was more than the sum of myself.
Realizations like that make it hard to sit down at night to jot them down as though they were just impersonal opinions to be shared frequently. I haven't blogged much recently not so much due to having little to say but rather in feeling that it is almost impossible to share these sorts of experiences without coming across as insincere and garrulous. But maybe I've been looking at it from a weaker position. Perhaps through clearing my thoughts via exercise reading itself might become something more enjoyable, as it can be another part of experiential growth. Later this weekend or early next week, I am going to write a review of Elizabeth McKenzie's The Portable Veblen. It is an outstanding work of mediation on relationships, between humans and between the animals who live among us. I took over a month to read it, not because I didn't have time to read it over the course of a night, but rather because I wanted to reflect in piecemeal fashion on some of the things it had to say about how wantonly we live our lives, often at a detriment to other living creatures. Reflecting on this while running through neighborhoods where the scent of southern pines is strong, while hearing chirps and barks and the occasional hiss, made these scenes come to life for me.
All of this is just a long-winded way of saying that it doesn't matter so much what others are saying about works or whether or not you should be following trends or taking recommendations. As Saint-Exupéry said in The Little Prince:
Yes, things are changing, perhaps not to the liking of many people. Writing out thoughts takes a lot of time and energy (so says the guy writing at 3 AM on 4.5 hours sleep, 28 hours away from running his third 5K). So easy to want a steady euphony of thoughts on certain books, so easy to confuse conformity with clarity of insight into literary works. Does it really matter if I were to write 150 reviews in a year (which I have done before) or if I (using myself only as one minuscule example) were to write none here? Do people really want to hear my thoughts on matters or is it more a hope or desire that I express something in conformity with their own inclinations?
Before I began training for distance walking (and after January, running) last year, my mind was often a chaotic mix of thoughts on fictions read and opinions inflicted upon me whenever I checked social media. Sure, there is an excitement involved in coming in contact with new people and unfamiliar ideas, but after a while, it becomes tedious to encounter the same tired opinions expressed in trite fashion. Running became an escape for me from all of this, or rather it allowed me to clear my thoughts in order to experience things in a different light.
A week ago, I ran a 14km/8.7 mile mountain bike/running trail before going to work. Hot, humid day (it rained an hour after I finished). Runs (later, mostly walks as my legs grew tired) along a creek bank, the only human there for a square mile or more. Hearing a woodpecker hammering at an oak off to my right as I struggled to run up a steep, rock-strewn stretch. Smelling blooming plants, including the heavy perfume of a honeysuckle out of my sight. There was a sense of being enveloped here, being a panting, sweaty part of something much greater than me.
And yet words will fail to describe the totality of this. Sure, I can use the 128 colors in my Crayola box of literary expressions to create a simulacrum, but ultimately experiencing the Sublime defeats all attempts to describe it. Yet as I slowed down as I encountered 6.5% climbs in rapid succession, as I saw squirrels scurrying around me as I plodded on (my personal exercise trainers?), my mind became increasingly clear and focused. One more running step forward. One more sprint up a twisting hilly path before slowing down to brace for the steep descents. Then it didn't matter how much or how little I had read, what I might encounter at work shortly, what I needed to do in the future. Right then, right there, I was living within a moment that was more than the sum of myself.
Realizations like that make it hard to sit down at night to jot them down as though they were just impersonal opinions to be shared frequently. I haven't blogged much recently not so much due to having little to say but rather in feeling that it is almost impossible to share these sorts of experiences without coming across as insincere and garrulous. But maybe I've been looking at it from a weaker position. Perhaps through clearing my thoughts via exercise reading itself might become something more enjoyable, as it can be another part of experiential growth. Later this weekend or early next week, I am going to write a review of Elizabeth McKenzie's The Portable Veblen. It is an outstanding work of mediation on relationships, between humans and between the animals who live among us. I took over a month to read it, not because I didn't have time to read it over the course of a night, but rather because I wanted to reflect in piecemeal fashion on some of the things it had to say about how wantonly we live our lives, often at a detriment to other living creatures. Reflecting on this while running through neighborhoods where the scent of southern pines is strong, while hearing chirps and barks and the occasional hiss, made these scenes come to life for me.
All of this is just a long-winded way of saying that it doesn't matter so much what others are saying about works or whether or not you should be following trends or taking recommendations. As Saint-Exupéry said in The Little Prince:
"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."This holds true when it comes to writing commentaries on blogs such as this. What I have to say may matter little to you, but I try to show that something mattered enough for me to write down thoughts for it, even if none of these pertain at all to you. Writers and critics come and go, but the earth still abides and we abide within it, creatures mucking our ways around, possibly toward something greater than anything we can fathom.
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