Sunday, March 27, 2011

Day 36

The clue lies in the past. I have got to go back. Not now, though, I'm too tired. The words came to me on the bus, and all of a sudden my anxieties melted away. I will meet up with all my former selves. I will become whole again.
Glass House Philosopher, notebook 1, page 1, 19 August 1999
I failed.
I remember the bus ride. It really did happen like that. I was going to put the pieces back together. I had no special writing ambitions, not even to write philosophy. The philosophy for business idea hadn't even been heard of. I just wanted to put the pieces together. That's all I asked. And here I am now. With more pieces, not less.
Glass House Philosopher, notebook 2, page 140, 26 December 2006
Yes, I really did think I was going to put the pieces together. Yes, I really did think I'd failed. But I didn't know what I was talking about did I? Who thought this? Me, or my online persona? Or, rather, what did I fail at? Wasn't the failure a failure to construct a coherent persona? Success would have been worse than failure.

And now I'm doing it all over again, with my three blogs: Tentative Answers, Electronic Philosopher, and this one. And I will fail again, just as I failed before. But that's OK, because (get this!) what this is really about is a story about a philosopher (or would-be philosopher) who tried and failed to 'construct a persona', and that story is merely the construction of another persona, or meta-persona. (Which will fail.)

It all ties up together. I was always a tidy thinker. (Nietzsche ''The truth is simple.' Is that not a compound lie?') But then what is truth, anyway? I love irony. Too much. The point, the point — The point is, this isn't about me. Not any more. Who I am. Yes, it's about that. But only in the sense that it's about you too. Anyone who considers the question. (The question that this blog is about, ostensibly.) Who I am, the person writing these words at this moment, is of no consequence whatsoever. Human beings like telling stories, that's how the writer gets into your brain. But the story, the construct, is just a means to an end.

(Another irony? both the above pages from Glass House Philosopher noted that my wife June 'was away' on holiday, I was alone in the house. Two years ago last Friday, June passed away. Maybe that was on my mind?)