The speech (more narrowly, the things written) must always be the things that need be said. The perfectionist, the ideologue, the artist… all of these are the same man in some manner, at one point, struggling to do something — to say something — in the face of doing nothing.
Perhaps the better, to do nothing. Perhaps the better to be simply wise in silence than a fool without question… that is, better to be characterized by thoughtfulness and potential than by any statement which could make certain your folly.
The only thing which I have found to answer this insipid waiting is responsibility; only our obligation can describe to us necessity where we feel uneasy about our contribution to the conversation.
My present obligations are many. The things which I consider worthy of saying are few. I have yet sided with those few things I consider worthy of saying, a favour shown often in my life. Maybe this is not as colorful, but it is willfully that I contribute at a rate which does not restrict my confidence in the value of my word.
Appropriately, then, especially in moments of fraternity, reverence, revelation, passion, kinship… those intimate and endearing, those enduring things of life… I cannot struggle enough against myself to take pictures. Neither as prooftext of an experience or in documentation.
I know the moment existed. This is usually enough for me.
And I can lie believably like that for a moment or two internally before I begin writing.
Quickly, the small, exceptional details, and the things that will pass if I do not allow something else to keep their memoriam; I write parentheticals and breezes, and of the looks plastered on people’s faces. I attribute humanity to one thing without it, generalize about the stuff (the real substance) of it all, and usually realize the worth later, having done all above inadequately.
I want so desperately to do justice by those moments, and to have the capable mind required to make them valuable for more than their only witness. However, as I come up incapable, the written words sink… bog bodies to be remembered only the next time I toss a bit of text into the mud and standing water.
All of this, I cry, to explain, the literary suicide which follows: I do not want to write this.
I cannot think of a single thing which could follow that and survive. That said, it is pragmatic to note for your sake, that I am survived by my love of perfection, and that the thing that drove me to this particular grave was a great obligation: I feel a duty to give what I have, however failing or small, to the number who will listen.
Today, all that I have to give is my honesty in small number. Tomorrow, you shall have the terrible thing waiting in the mud. I hope that my difficulty in putting to words the experience of my life partially chisels out a sufficient amount of the profundity and blessing in it. Today, cake… tomorrow you shall have a David.
That is all I will now speak on. I hope to do so quietly, here, and make plain my desperation in holding these contradicting tenets in later updates, one of which you can actually expect tomorrow. Incredible.
The Lord bless all of you in surpassing peace.
