belief makes things true

(thanks to Gavin DeGraw for the song title)

I think, that necessarily, people are not to be trusted;
they are to be believed in.

Things

In school, one of the things that used to keep me awake was the wondering over how much of me was myself, and how much of me was made of parts that I incorporated from other people. I wondered whether there was a particular thing that I could point to that was myself, since I felt that there should be. If not, then who/what was I?

Now, I feel the situation has almost reversed. It feels almost easier to consider myself as an aggregate, refracted expression of experiences and preferences.

It seems natural that any one Thing is itself an organized, interdependent collection of other things.

projective geometry

The words my thesis advisor used to describe projective geometry seem increasingly applicable to contemplations of the world(s) I inhabit.

"When you think about it, they're really all the same point"
- Joe Roberts

revolving

(while the health bill was in its final discussions in Congress, I was enjoying a post-lunch talk with a friend in which she reminded me that charity and love (both overloaded words and common translations of the Greek αγαπη or latin caritas) are different words)



Especially in the last several weeks, I have been considering the days before I used words for these things:

the times in my past when I recall feeling a strong sense of care towards another person, a profound loyalty to their well-being, a deep appreciation for their person, an admiration for their accomplishments and goals, and a certain joy that rose in me to meet them, a sense of fulfillment in the ways I might help them, and an understanding that I felt what I felt, and my decisions were my decisions.


If I called it a crush, I began immediately to crush it - as such a word was meant to apply to haphazard and unsustainable notions.

But, I did not call it love. That word was reserved.
I did not call it.

I felt the current through my fibers, I felt the swells and strains. And, I let it pass through me.



Since I've became accustomed to a word like 'love' - an overloaded, under-explored, broad-brushed paint of a word - I feel aware of an attempt to corral the subtle senses I described above within a category that, although it is not understood or described, can at least be named. I feel aware of something like trying to sense the current with a dam, like trying to see a river in a lock, like trying to describe an excellent wine with one word.

I am aware of a sense of dissatisfaction arising when the many subtle creatures do not herd well into the corral, when the river being dammed becomes a stagnant lake, when the current in the lock does not seem natural, when the wine does not pair well.



Why is this?

I think I would like to remember how it was that I was able to let the current come, to feel it, to recognize it, to hum with the ways it will tense and tune my strings, but to let it pass without needing to ask it to stay or to fit itself, without needing to call it anything.

I think that once we call a thing something, we begin to get ideas about how we should treat it.




I began to think I wanted a friend I could keep.
Since when have humans ever known the proper things to want?

I think that I would rather remember the subtleties of caring, plumbing the breadth and depth with my hands on the strings,
and to care less what others care of how I care.



The good, the sorrowful, ... I was not a harbor. I expected motion and I let it pass. I felt the strains on the strings from weight of wanting. I felt the silent cry of resin between the bow and violin. But, it did not stay to do me any harm, and I did not keep what was not mine.



Besides, I am moving, too.

a star by any other name is just as far

I am thinking now that, even if I were in love with rising stars, these are just as inaccessible.

Perhaps that is the feeling of longing - the distant tension as of a thread or filament strung tight to something unseen and yet-unreached, but which nonetheless exerts its presence as a tug.




I suspect that citizens of owl city might also feel this tension of stars.



Perhaps it is just that I do not know what this thread is tied to, but sometimes I can feel it move.