Wednesday, January 19, 2011

to be really realistic...

I’m simply me. It’s not complicated. I can make it complicated.
But I don’t seek that.

I have the interests I have. So it goes. I get enthusiastic about things easily, and I’m thankful. It’s not egoistic to be thankfully enthused about things that don’t interest many others, if I don’t blame others for not having my interests (which would otherwise be very silly.

But there are people who are dismissive of others because others’ interests aren’t theirs. Wanting to be non-monetarily enriched by others is apparently not universal (and “culture,” for many persons, is merely instrumental to status advancement in Society). I’m thankful I’m interested in the things that draw me, and I believe that my interests are genuine toward the subjects of interest (or objects of interest) and authentic toward myself. (I’m thinking of writing about creative fidelity this coming weekend and more on resonances of textuality soon—eerie phenomenality of narrative voice, not to be pretentious, but to explore synergy and differences.)

I love being myself, why not? I love being open, casual, playful, empathetic, thoughtful, analytic—every whichaway, simply enjoying or appreciating time or a situation or a relationship—no pretentiousness, no pretext of unapproachable complexity, just feeling free to be myself. But that’s kinda complex: being in love with a diversity of relations. That’s not egoistic to note.

Maybe I’m a psychologist at heart. I think about generalities of living. So what?

It can seem kinda egoistic to say that, rather than just get on with things. (I can seem like a bad personals-column ad. Ha! I have a file of personals ads from the back of The London Review of Books.)


As I’ve said recently (but want to cease being repetitious), the pieces of this blog are (will be) parts of what becomes a single work someday (long from now and after taking it all apart and weaving revised parts not discarded). Repetitions may be early versions of later threads that won’t get tedious.

I write to the unknown, at least as fidelity to the value of sensitivity and the importance of recognizing that what’s unknown prevails on us to not be presumptuous, yet not shy away from openness.

Writing is writing, which is its own reward for anyone who loves to write.

So, realism is really a tenuous thing.

Actually, I understand ‘realism’ in a technical sense (you want to know—right), as more or less meaning: evidentiary pragmatism (though I understand ‘pragmatism’ generally as the balancing of idealism and “realism” in the common sense of evidentiary maturity, etc).

Ah, Luna, you’re full tonight, cirrusian whisps seeming to frame your apparent stasis in the black sky, and warm breeze bathes the high field on “my” Berkeley hill overlooking speckled lights carpeting San Francisco far across the black bay.

To be really realistic, everything is cycle, recursion, and iteration.