So it's ever-so-slightly drizzling outside right now and somehing about the particular sound of tonight's traffic or about the scent of tonight's little half-storm, or even somehing simple like the slightly cool air outside is carrying me back to a time a million years ago when I actually felt in close enough tune with existence to notice and appreciate such things.
These days it feels as though I am a conceptual rather than a corporeal being, wrapped up in processes and lists and requirements and potential shortcomings and failures and timekeeping. The questions of importance include what is to be done and how it is to be done and when it is to be done and what is needed in order to get it done and whether it got done and how it looks now that it has been done and so on and so on. Conspicuously missing from the list of questions is how it feels to do it or why it is to be done or what it means that it has been done. In short, what is missing is me.
There is too much practice going on alongside not nearly enough theory, a lot of recitation but very little reflection, a lot of respirating but not nearly enough being. One symptom of all of this that strikes me as emblematic is the difference in the quality and character of my writing, both online and off, between some previous "then" (say, 2000) and the present "now."
I used to feel and be aware of my life itself, and in returning to long past writing I yet find a world of words as rewarding to read as it was to write. I can't say the same thing today. The blog, for example, feels like a mechanical exercise. There are no more scraps of paper floating around. I no longer feel driven on unexpected occasions to suddenly engage in an hour of deep imagination and scribbling, apart from sortees of academic eclectica that sweep in from above.
In a similar way, photographic output has dwindled almost to nil, and that is also not good. Coding output is gone. Discretionary reading is on the decrease.
It's not that I dislike my work or my family. Far from it. It's merely that (keeping the saying in mind) Jack is in danger of becoming a dull boy. That would be very bad because in my case pinstripes are not in Jack's nature and Jack begins to become unproductive when wearing them too long without interruption. At the moment, it sometimes feels as though it has been several years.
At times, it all takes on the air of a performance that is being critiqued. Such a state of affairs can't help but alienate oneself from the manifestation of one's self that everyone else experiences. It is on nights like this that all of this seems most troubling, most like a catastrophe of some kind. It is on nights like this that nostalgia prowls the streets of consciousness like a fog, beauiful and threatning and beckoning all at once.
I need to write more, shoot more, go outside more, hack more, deviate more.