Caution: words can be flammable objects

An attempt to chart one mind's walkabout.

Words die the moment they are spoken. They are temporal, existing only in the briefest blip of time in which they are said, and then they flame out. Their ghosts often live on inside the minds of those who’ve heard them, but they’re shadows of their former selves. They can experience second lives through recordings, but something is lost, because hearing it live carries the power of that moment. 

The written word is an altogether different creature, not particularly dependent on time, and in some ways, dismissive of it. It waits patiently: it has mass. I sometimes wonder if there’s a subtle difference between writing them down, physically, and typing them in. In longhand, you’re downloading. On a computer, are you uploading? I’m not dissing either, just curious. And I’d be interested to know whether you think differently if you’re sitting down or standing while writing. I feel the difference. Maybe it’s because when I’m standing, there’s the potential I may just walk off. When I’m sitting, it’s clear I won’t be going anywhere soon. The words have lashed my legs to the chair.

Written words can experience the thrill of the now by being read aloud. But they know full well their real power lies in capturing the soul silently. Written words can have longevity - think of cuneiform. Any word may fall as softly as a snowflake, or thunder across the landscape and crash through the ages. 

Sometimes words can occupy a middle zone: single words or phrases that become touchstones in our culture. Sic semper tyrannis! (thus always to tyrants - curiously apt at the moment). Veni, vidi, vici (I came, I saw, I conquered - ditto). Interesting that there are so many phrases from a language nobody speaks anymore.

I used to think that the most impactful form of art was music, and though it’s not lost on me that words often weave their way in, I mostly paid attention to the notes. And now I realize the error of my ways. The written word is becoming increasingly important in my life, as I weigh this and that and search for meaning. What propels me? What propels you? 

The “propeller”, I’m convinced, is art. It is something endlessly made and unmade, formed, discarded and then reimagined. Fun aside: did you know that English is one of the few languages that uses two words from different languages to describe something? Cease and desist. Part and parcel. Pith and moment. The Angles and Saxons, when in close, often bloody contact, couldn’t settle on one or the other, so both remained in parlance. Is the language better for it, or merely redundant? 

It’s not at all like the description of baseball a friend of mine gave me, (but that I’m going to use nonetheless), when we were discussing the unholy and frankly outrageous idea of different ballparks having different sized outfields - something she termed “charming”. So, twin descriptions in English, possibly charming and forever married  or until the culture divorces them.

My dogs watch “TV” all day - lying by the deer fence, able to look at landscapes miles in the distance, scanning the horizon and alert to the slightest movement . They are in a constant state of watchfulness and this, for them, is utter bliss.  Humans should do more of that. I should do more of that. Whatever I have to do to continue this life for them, I will. Maybe one day I will allow myself to benefit from it the way they do.

Taking the long view isn’t just a handy phrase. Years ago I read an article about babies growing up in high rises that were separated by mere feet. If they spent the first few years of their lives cooped up in small spaces, unable to see things at a long distance, they didn’t develop what’s known as spatial skills, which as this paper summarizes, is critical - “spatial skills are a central aspect of evolutionary adaptation and a key component of human intellect.” The incidence of myopia in children is skyrocketing, mainly due to the fact that they spend much more time staring at screens than outside playing. They’re not getting the long view.

A friend I have been in communication with lately spoke of a generalized feeling of “slowness” coming on and pondered whether this was a good or bad thing. I think we’re both in agreement that the pace of life in the industrialized world is unsustainable. Social media is society’s digital smallpox. We have no immunity built up, and we are constantly overwhelmed. What is the vaccine? I think it’s staring at me through that deer fence. I must take moments throughout my day, and re-train my brain for the long view, both figuratively and visually.

I’m fragmented - as this post flatly confirms. I watch my mind flit through various partially related thoughts and my attempts to make them walk a common road may have failed. I need to unplug. I need to write. I want to communicate. These needs are in conflict with one another, but it’s essential that I discover a way of interlocking them to piece together this puzzle of who I am. I want to go on walkabout, but may have to content myself with an internal one. Maybe that’s what Substack is for me. My very own endless landscape. My long view.

I used to think that the few whose puzzles were already solved right from the start were the lucky ones. Now I’m not sure that’s true. They miss the hunt, the discoveries and the disappointments, which all add up to a life well examined. I wouldn’t trade any of it.

And so, I’ll keep writing. You should too. This is sustenance, we need it. Our tiny patches of love and chaos that we anxiously and obsessively tend. Something good will grow from this.