Nothing

It's quite interesting to read all the previous writing I have published here, for when something becomes simple to communicate you simply have to move on to something else. That is just the way it is most of the time. There are, of course, clarifications to be made and I do narrow the focus somewhat but that is just the way I write. In order to maintain a sense of optimism and not shroud my understanding with obtuse references, the final piece of writing is always rendered seamless and is woven into itself without much apparent foresight. I can't tell. Earlier this year I was not sure if I wanted to continue writing. It had become an effort to dismantle the most central ideas of Sigmund Frued and Rene Descartes; thinkers who have since the time of their writing and discussion made a profound and lasting impact upon Western culture and thinking. The narrowness of their conception of the universe was so staggering that I insisted upon a reaction which was not to contain any evident frustration; only assess what I understood to be profound misunderstandings by people with their own personal convictions. 

This world is so vast and it expands further than we know. Even the colours that we see are part of a limited spectrum and it is madness to assume that this is the only life, and that this is the limit of covilisation. Maybe to understand the nature of life and not attempt such delimiting control would assist in our survival and sustenance here. This is all reaction, the reader must note. This directly follows from a lifetime spent contained by specific frameworks of learning, of sexual limitaions drawn out for no other reason than that they make a certain social sense. That women are equal to men is unquestionable. All are equal in nature; our sexuality is not homogenous either. Women with women, men with men, men and women by themselves, indefinitely. What strangeness in not being able to mirror nature itself; to cast doubt over a sense of self which carries into generations and shrouds the actual nature of this life we live. 

And it extends to the furthest depth: mental illness, coronary disease, rising levels of dependence upon medicine. This extends not from some uncurable malady but is in truth symptomatic. Nature is true to us in the way it demonstrates when things are in disorder or out of balance. What people regard as the danger inherent in schizophrenia or psychosis is more or less the symptom of an individual or many individuals who cannot adjust to the increasingly unstable and impermanent nature of reality and the devaluation of life itself. There are no suprises in nature; all is very apparent and connected. And we are concerned with major outbreak of sickness or the threat of the elderly not being able to outlast the winter sometimes; the cause is apparent. We have ecosystems which are perpetually attacked and do not have the ability to adapt to the changing environment. The elderly do not have a feedback loop inside the communities in which they live.

The government is criticised and it takes us months, years, to come to the conclusion that growth is not possible, and it may even threaten our very survival... to come to a conclusion that riots are due to some level of materialism running counter to our basic human needs, which reside deeper in community and closer ties with the land we live in. It isn't our government's fault; we allow ourselves to be fragmented and for the world to unfold as it does. Our dependence remains integrated with the non-growing nations which we buy commodities from. It's all written very simply by Joseph Heller in "Catch-22". However, the entire point of "Catch-22" is that the entire readership would be lost inside the various manifestations of Catch-22 when it was only ever the war itself and the absurdity of it that rendered all these other Catch-22 situations possible.  

We always have a wealth of possibilities before us, and yet again we do not see that it is the broadest picture which is most obscured by the way we live. Kick the pail over, and don't feed the farmer's children; feed the calf that is calling in the field nearby, over the fence. These writers like Thoreau were not writing to no avail. They were writing because they knew of the manifest possibilities to find in nature, in the life that they found did not contain them but was them and offered all of its secrets to their innermost thoughts. Has the reader reckoned the poetry of Walt Whitman and how talls it stands next to the writing of his peers; it is all understanding evoked from the sky above and the earth below. All imbued with reverie and the scent of the flowers he describes seems to carry gently through his prose. And this solipsis is as unreal as anything we can imagine was our own; if the reader believes that pain our profound understanding separates him or herself from the rest of the universe he or she has not reckoned upon the fact that pain is universal.

It may shift in degrees and the pattern may change but it is always shared. And isn't that solace? Isn't that the clearest, most uncompromising sentiment? Because where suffering is shared, there is space for understanding. Anyway, it seems that I have shifted back to my regular writing style...