mediocrity

when is the truth enough?

the teacher in me suggests: when your audience are ready to accept it, and to realise it.

it's so tempting to cleave off abstract, discordant ideas from one's writings, for the sake of the reader. by writing in ways that acknowledge current trends in thinking i hope to be understood by more than the most obscure net surfer. however my true train of thought is often leaps and bounds away from the mild and digestible sentences i construct for public consumption. in truth my mind is often at right angles to the views of other people's, or as far as i can tell. Thus I'm hesitant to be entirely truthful and sincere, as i doubt that my audience will be attentive enough to listen, or even able to relate to me. Is this common? surely, yes it is. Perhaps more exaggerated in this curious case, or then perhaps something that everybody endures. maybe the difference is i just chose to write about it. i'm not sure, as it is hard to separate my ego-centricity from my image of myself... i cannot really see who i am except through the most distorted of lenses.

i feel that the most valuable thoughts are those that ignore outside influence, and simply reflect the innermost conception of my reality. a part of me then criticises that feeling, suggesting that the most honest expression is not the most useful in persuading and educating others. so what do i want to do? express or educate? clearly both. without expressing myself there is no point at all. the mind set of educating others, sharing my ideas, gives me a dimension in which to stretch and explore, as well as giving me an end to achieve.

i know relatively clearly what i think to be true, and it is often frustrating to accept inferior alternatives on the basis that it is polite, that it is considerate. in this way i am not true to myself - i often deny my personal wishes to flatter what i imagine to be the customs of other people. here i am treading on uneasy ground, for i find it very hard to know how i stand with other people. a part of me suggests that you can never truly know.... so you might as well forget about the finer points and get on with it. lip service. part and parcel. essential knowledge for the discerning gentleman. so many many thoughts with no reasonable way to express them. only muffled ears to shower with my ill-conceived words, then i think perhaps i'm just not satisfied that nobody compares to how my mother did in listening to and humoring me. deep. then maybe superficial. just a thought.

whatever the fuck is going on in my mind and this world and the mysterious land where both meet, it sure feels good to write about it. alcohol seems to loosen some bolts on the darker doors of expression. sadly it also numbs my relationship with the external world.

hmm i'm tempted to write about that certain person. "premature?" - questions a part of me. i don't know. i do know that i wish i had twice the energy and health that i do now, with all the time to do everything i am missing out on. so much to do and see (in that order?)

doubtsdoubtsdoubts how i love and hate you. my greatest blessing and most painful curse.

back to thoughts on expression and mediocrity (the scientist has won out): the richer and more intense the revelation, the fewer tastes it will cater for. yet to those few who can stomach the raw nature of the dish, and still absorb its nutritious center, for them the reward is many times greater.

how to touch those who will listen and understand? are there actually any? or is there merely an interpretation; like sensation, feeling of the texture of an impression made from a body's impression in wet concrete, after falling from 12th story window. is this the artist's eternal catastrophe? that the shape of their impression is incidental, and its depth being the only lasting influence on others?

others. that is what this comes down to. reaching out to those outside of oneself. why do i want to tell my thoughts and ideas to those outside of me? because i feel i have something to offer, something i cannot see in anyone else who i know, i feel special, and to neglect this seems tragic. back to mother i think. something horribly analytical about the way i see myself. yet i feel i've already done the opposite, an open, free, careless rampage that entrances so many people; and i felt at the end that the romp was so temporary, so fleeting, so i looked for a way to capture and pickle it. this much must be obvious in my writing - descriptive, trying to grip the subject with a claw of vocabulary, so as not to let it slip. why do i feel that my analogies will be the favorite part of my writings? just a thought.

 

 
 

 

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