2 posts tagged “life”

I have pointed out previously that I am a reader. But why? (No, I'm only asking myself.)

I am a reader due to the vast amounts of knowledge contained in written word. I've spent my life so far, all 18 years of it, learning, and I have noted that nothing can be worked with more as an information medium than language. It is an art form, a science, a taboo, and a religion. Its something all culture has in common -- whether that particular Mother Culture is dignified or not.

More often than not, I find myself confounded by the seemingly absurd nature of life. Due to this constant happening, I can no longer turn a blind eye to it. This would be one of the reasons why I am starting this on line journal: To complement my written diary of whatever I find. So far, in my physical compendium, I have summaries and synopses of a few works by Daniel Quinn, as well as the miscellaneous guide to strategy. I have also jotted down observations, thoughts, or ideas I have deemed useful. By useful, I mean something that may eventually shed light on a meaning, or a truth.

You see, I try not to do anything without purpose. To conjecture that this life may be purposeless is nearly painful to me. I know for a fact that there is some reason why consciousness exists (Just trust me). Since there has been nothing in my life except mere coincidence to back up this fact, I have made a relentless search for any sort of knowledge that I may string together to help unravel this mystery for me. A vain attempt? Perhaps. But I will only know that in the end.

Moving on.

I intend to use this space for much more than recreation. I will document personal theories, experiences, and conjectures from books I have read. I am currently tearing through books, consuming and comprehending at a very pleasing pace (Alliteration aside, astounding anyway). While I do not have much to document currently, it is because it is tucked away in my physical journal. Regardless.

I have just finished "My Ishmael" and had a time comparing it to "Ishmael" (Both are by Daniel Quinn). Both speak volumes on the injustices of this world on the planet, and on our own selves. We, as a human race, have caused destruction of our own people, our own habitat, our own knowledge, and if things keep continuing like this, our own future and existence. "Ishmael" raises this point, and does so with a poignant point that it is not raising any solutions. "My Ishmael", however, is a little more aggressive, and addresses certain quandaries in "Ishmael" and gives possible solutions for the Taker problem.

Tying them together is most gratifying, and using Daniel Quinn's own method, demonstrated and outlined in "If they give you line paper, write sideways" opens up layers in his books. 'Write sideways' runs with the information provided in his previous books and expounds on his processes behind the papers. This is done in 'real time' -- the book is actually a recorded conversation with a young girl that visited him to learn his thinking strategies.

I could go for pages on all the information unraveled in his books. It would be a waste to undo it all here. Instead, when I have nothing else to write about, I will unload it then, making new connections.

How I love a good, multi-layered book.

I read. I digest books as iff they were something edible. Indeed, for my mind, they are precious nutrients. Oh, but I am not parasitic.

Books are my friends. I walk among them, smiling, shuffling pages, listening to their volumes of information, understanding and being patient. When one appeals to me, I develop a fondness for it. I take it home, nurture it -- first, if it has been damaged, or neglected -- and then give it room to grow. I take it, and lay its knowledge within the open confines of my own. There, it may take root, and gain life once more. After which, the cover is closed, and I keep good eye upon my new partner. I wouldn't be able to allow myself forgiveness if a literature was abused under my care.

For I am a true bibliophile.

Why, do you ask? (Or rather, why do you ask?)

Books are an ideal. A philosophy of their own existence, a poetry with their own structure. For this, an admiration is deserved, I believe. Many of the servitude turn their exercises toward ideology, simply for the course that human nature takes in corruption. I have that experience.
I gladly retain -- and likewise serve -- books due to their willingness to accept without judgment, to hold my ideas, to allow me room to grow, to give me strength, to be a form of comfort in a maddening existence. Not once have I been wronged by the ink on the pages of history, for it is I that decides whether or not I take offense. Not to their own that they may force me into submission upon ideas. But I digress.

Some serve generals. I serve books. (There's more than one way to read that last sentence.)

Going deeper, I hanker for knowledge. I never wish to withhold intelligence to an intelligent being. I wish to learn from all I contact, and I know that every experience may be shifted to hold meaning. My dear, there is nothing of coincidence.

There. This post brings about the largest aspect of my personality, out into the open. From here, I may formulate more ideas, perhaps building on this current one, and record some of my own ideas.

You will get explanations. But I still wish for your response.

Sincerely,
Marcus