5. Sometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually become the person they seem.

I have a problem.   (curse that infernal love)

But before I can go into that, I have another problem to share with you: 

In the true spirit of taking a step backwards, even describing the first problem is problematic. 

I have a third problem: without resolving the first problem, I feel unable to write here, in this 'blog', at all.

And yet, here I am.  Writing in this blog.   At all.   How so? Very cunningly, I can assure you.  You see, as well as a propensity for taking a step back, I also have a humble capacity for thinking ahead.  In truth the problem has been, if not resolved, then at the very least tamed.  I have a moral duty - for reasons that will doubtless remain obscure to all but myself - to explain the solution to this problem.  But not just yet.  In the meantime, I'm forced to write in a style of arrogance and ill-conceived self importance.  A style, I hasten to add, which is entirely only half founded.  

We have taken our steps backwards, you and I ('when the evening is spread out against the sky'), and now, to balance the equation I have taken a giant leap forward.  What you now read before you is the future.  The New Me.  I stand at the finishing line of life, still fresh from the race, and thumbing my nose at the asthmatic bundles of flesh who lay scattered in my wake.  

This tells us two things:

1) My arrogance, if left unchecked, knows no bounds (unless accompanied by an equal number of leaps), and 

2) I shall forever remain as charmless as the day I was born.

On reflection, (1) is really just a subset of (2), which leaves us with (3).  Did I not mention (3)?

3)  If this is the future, then prey God the future can be changed.

In a moment, I'll leap back into the present, with the rest of you (we'll both just have to learn to cope.   Or you could stop reading.   Please don't).  I'll jump into a present me for whom arrogance is only a treacley veil over the elephantine well of insecurity and mixed metaphors, and not simply a God-given right, like the me of the future erroneously believes.

But don't worry:  forewarned is forearmed (so, a little below the elbow, then).

Knowing what I now know, and with a little luck - and Al - on my side, maybe I can still set right what once went wrong.

Oh, Boy!

4b (same day)

Things die.  It's a simple matter of fact that things die, and thoughts are things of a kind.  All those thoughts that flower and bloom and then fade, without ever having been uttered aloud (or, uh, you know:   plucked).  It seems a shame (so says the natural hoarder in me), and maybe it is, but that's not to say that all thoughts should be uttered, never mind recorded for posterity (pressed flat in the pages of a  -... you know what?  I'm going to give that metaphor a rest now, I think).  However, I have been pacing the room after writing my last entry, and thinking, and it seems sad that what I was thinking may be lost, even as the thoughts slip away from me now, this very moment.  There's the crux.  The conceited, self-important crux.

I was reading a book, in which a character described the sorry state of affairs when ennui is thought of as the 'healthy norm'.  While I was reading this a thought entered into my head (not so much popping as sidling), and lingered there for a page or two before leaving.  By the start of the next chapter I had forgotten what the thought actually was, remembering only that it had to do with writing.  It was in the attempt to retrace my steps (via rereading the pages I'd just read, and indulging in word association) that I arrived at the thoughts and ideas in the last blog entry.  But I'm not sure these thoughts were the same as the thought I'd had when initially reading.  So again I retraced my steps, and again ended up with the conclusion that writing and thought are to some extent the same.  Not identical, of course, but that...  Well, I've already covered this.

Pacing the room, I extemporised on the subject at length, and with great eloquence, to a nonexistent audience.  

Is it vanity after all?

I once heard blogging, amateur poetry and prose, and such like, summarised in these terms: 'Here are the contents of my head:  Raaaaaaaaaarrrrggghh!'

It's true, but it's perhaps also vanity and hypocrisy to assume that only the skilled have a right to express themselves. 

I may have come to the conclusion that writing and thinking are intrinsically linked, but by no means do I feel everyone else agrees with me.  The self importance of emptying the contents of your head into the public domain.  Well, here I am, attempting a crude transcription of thoughts I had barely ten minutes ago.  A crude transcription which, by its nature, is in opposition to my new understanding of my writing as being more than mere transcription.  The transcription is here, nonetheless, and certainly crude, as my memory fails me.  Suffice to say (it really doesn't, but I am forced to pretend), that in the thinking of something more than mere transcription, I was led via such thoughts towards a desire to transcribe.  The essence of the transcription is gone, I think.  The flow certainly is.  But let me say (and how are you going to stop me?), that things die; that thoughts left unspoken (or unwritten) are no less valuable, though far lonelier, than the last recorded full stop.

Should thoughts, by mere virtue of being thoughts, be preserved?  

No, of course not, but only if the thought is preserved can we ascertain if it is worth keeping.

Thoughts are floaty light, and even the greatest idea can drift away if it remains... if it remains... {transcript at this point becomes unreadable}

4a. Writing and Thinking, Writing and Thinking

This is working backwards, but:

The answer is that, to an extent, writing is thinking.

The question is, why, why, why can I use writing as a means to explore the validity of writing?  Why should I write a blog to discover whether one should write a blog, for example?  Because the writing is an expression of thought, beyond mere transcription of mind.

Writing matters to me, and I seek to justify it, and until I do justify it, I feel unable to write.  It seems a hypocrisy to write to discover that truth, but the hypocrisy is not there.

The reader is a lie.  I don't write for vanity; I write for clarity.

The reader is the truth.  Without the reader in mind, the thoughts swirl but never escape.

My thoughts are my own, and I share them, the better to keep them.

Jokes. (A digression)

Ok, here's a quick one for you:

14u

3. Part II - An unreasonable leap.

Welcome back, to this, part two of this Thursday's blog (number three overall, and part four in the series).

It's time to break things down (apply to this phrase the meaning that best suits your current temperament).

Thinking quickly is not the same as thinking intelligently. Nor is it (despite my previous claims) entirely the same as having quick wits. Intelligence is, I suspect, the ability to think efficiently. Quick wits are intelligence coupled with speed. All I'm saying of myself is that I can apply what intelligence I do have at speed. I'm an inefficient thinker, but to be honest that's how I like it. Because, though I certainly think it is possible to be intelligent and creative, I do think creativity frequently rests in an appreciation of the juxtaposition of things that an intelligent person would simply and straightforwardly(sic) know don't go together. Given a choice between creativity and intelligence, I'd rather have both. But if I was absolutely forced to choose between them, I mean, really gun-against-the-temple forced, well, in that situation, I 'd still pick both. Which probably excludes me from the high intelligence category automatically (or, alternatively, inducts me into the one for bullheadedness).

My thinking is frequently abstract, occasionally disorganised. I sometimes suspect that I take such delight in words because they're akin to the ball-pit I never had as a child. A glorious, novel change of setting from the humdrum world of computer games and giant transforming robots.  Some adventure playground somewhere, dive in, dive in. Then home time. To my home. Which did not have a ball-pit. Something which remains true to this very day.

Thoughts rush by, vivid, invigorating, but much, much too fast to describe. If A, then B. A, therefore B...  Gawd, so slowwwww
Let me introduce the new improved design: A, meet Z.

These thoughts aren't a handicap, not at all. But communicating, when this is the way I naturally think? That's hard.
You: 'A, therefore B, I guess. What do you think?'

Me *thinks Z*  *tries hard to backtrack enough to remember why I'm thinking of Z*

You: *bored of waiting*   *Leaves*

Here's a challenge:

2+2=...

The challenge is this: I challenge you not to have thought 'four' after reading the sum.

That was low of me, and I'm sorry; it was a dirty trick. Let's try that again:
Don't think of four:

2+2=...

'When you have the answer, the question seems simple'.

Well, yes. Thanks for that. What kind of idiot would carry on sweating over a question when he already knows the answer? (Answer: A philosopher. It seems so obvious now, doesn't it?)  But what if you were faced with A+B=C, when A+B is as obvious to you as 2+2,  AND C is both obvious, AND another question, itself with an answer as equally obvious ?  When you're faced with A+B, can you really avoid D?  (Again, interpret that question as best suits your temperament.)

What it boils down to is this: 7 out of 10 conversations I have run through my head backwards. I should say that when I talk of conversations, I suppose I really mean 'discourse'. Monologues, blogs, etc.  All count.

I start at the beginning, quickly catch a log flume ride to the end, and spend the majority of my time silently trying to push the ride back up hill to the top of the flume.  It doesn't make for easy conversation.

It is said that our short term memories hold approximately seven things at once. If true, it also follows that those who think quicker, forget quicker.

I know how this comes across, believe me. There's a familiar air of arrogance about all this, I know. But the arrogance is no friend of mine. It's faux.    

Most people, I think, can silently read dialogue quicker than it could actually be said by anyone, at least in any natural voice. You can read an entire conversation, and imagine the pauses, the tone, the inflection, in what is, figuratively, the blink of an eye. It doesn't feel fast. But it is.  Now try silently reading one half of a written conversation, while someone else speaks aloud the other part.   Can you avoid reading ahead?  

Discourse, I think, requires us to remain in the present, while keeping a close eye on the future, and remembering the past. I find that very hard. The present for me is slippery, and downhill (that log flume ride again). So I stand at the bottom, and look up, trying to remember exactly where I was three tenths of a second ago. I see people interacting, communicating, discoursing. And I'm already nowhere to be seen.

dx

2 A leap of reason.

Well, (not 'so'. I'm so not starting with 'so'), another week, another blog entry. Is it really Thursday already? My, that week just flew by.

Etc.  

I'd like to tell you about a mental handicap that I have, described to you under the veil of insouciant boasting (and, perversely, vice versa).

I'd like to say from the outset that I'm not suggesting that this is a problem unique to me, nor that it's not the case that everyone has this problem. That may well be true. I simply don't know about anyone else. 'I don't know about you, but I-...'

My problem, gentle reader (my sweet, tender reader), is that I have a tendency to think very quickly. A curse, I know (but read on to learn firsthand how having quick wits isn't all bad). I'd like to say from the outset that this isn't a boast about intelligence. You're not that gullible. There is a distinction, certainly, but until I explain what I mean, I can't describe it to you (though if you're quick, and/or smart, you may have figured it out already). For the time being, suffice to say that the difference is there.

I've thought long and hard for a couple of seconds *pause for laughter* and come up with a suitable term for my tragic condition:

Cognizant Intuition.

It's time to roll out the Dictionary Definition of Things(c), like the cabinet in a tired old conjuror's act. Yes, we all know what to expect when the beautiful assistant disappears inside, and yet the audience collectively gasps in amazement as the beautiful assistant disappears! Who knew?! Certainly not I.

Intuition. noun. The ability to understand something immediately, without the need for conscious reasoning.

Thanks, OED. ThOEDanks.

There's also a lesser, but more everyday meaning, which suggests that intuition is just a guess of some sort, or else some weird supernatural ability. We shall shun this idea forthwith. Shun it. Shun it now, I say. Do you hear me?

Is it shunned?

Well okay, then. I shall continue.

I have it on good authority (partially my own, but I believe there may have been others who came to the same conclusions, perhaps even gone so far as to publish them in respected psychology journals) that neither the supernatural, nor guesswork, has anything to do with how intuition actually works.

Normal, rational thought can be described as making a series of what are individually rationally sound decisions ('If A, then it necessarily follows that B. A, in point of fact, therefore B. If B, then it necessarily follows that C. B, therefore C. A, therefore C'), eventually arriving at an apparently unpredicted point. ('Z! Wow! Who woulda thunk?!') Intuition leaps from the first to the last without apparently stopping off at any point in between. A, therefore Z. Little wonder that intuition is sometimes seen as preternatural. Little wonder therefore that it is so often distrusted (if not by ourselves, then by others. Probably by you, in fact *mutters darkly*).

But - the hypothesis goes - intuitive thought is simply thought freed up from the distractions and frictions of the conscious mind. It's all perfectly rational, but operating at a subconscious level. The thoughts are freed from niggling little details like words, are streamlined, and just zip along. But they remain subconscious, and therefore, by definition, NOT CONSCIOUS.

I have a handy little aphorism that elegantly describes the motto of this story: 'trust your intuitions. Or, at least, trust them as much as you trust your "normal", everyday, rational thoughts, which has the unfortunate side effect of making for a somewhat wordier-than-intended aphorism.' - d, 2009. Thursday.

Now, we haven't spoken about me for a bit, so I'd like to get back to that. I personally have my fair share of the bog standard, stock, intuition. But I also have this thing I like to call 'cognizant intuition'. [/air quotes]

The thing about the subconscious is that you're not supposed to know what's really going on inside it. That's sort of what it's for, probably. But a modicum of reflexion should be able to lead you to a modicum of a hint as to what's going on inside the dark recesses of your own skull.  With experience, you can second guess yourself. Rational thought can lead us to rationally and consciously comprehend what might actually by definition be outside the realm of our conscious comprehension. In case it's not clear, all I'm saying here is that the conjuror performs a trick, and we know how it was done, while sitting in our seats, looking smug.  We're not rationally and consciously aware of performing the trick, but we're party to its methods. Our reflexion can become more and more accomplished at this, until it becomes, first, second nature, and second, intuitive. First (I know the word is meaningless in the present context, in isolation like this, but it gives the phrasing symmetry. I have, however, included some instructions for those of you who like clearer sentence structure: first pay close attention to the first 'first', and to both the first and second 'second's. Second, ignore the second 'first'. But only for a second.)

Intuitive understanding of what you're actually subconsciously rationalising when you intuit might sound like a vicious circle (if it doesn't, read the sentence again until it does). But I don't think that's the case. It is, rather, self sustaining. Abstract, unclear thoughts in the swampy, depths of the mind are purified to absolute clarity; they become clean, refreshing, drinking water for... for the, um... head (which symbolically represents the thirsty part of us all.  Sort of the mouth, I guess, but higher up...  Um...)

Intuition works quickly because it exists within the subconscious, free of the semantic framework of our minds, but, paradoxically, becoming cognizant of this does not slow it down. The hand is quicker than the eye, but the brain is quicker than either. Do a card trick, keep your eye on the ace, the sleight of hand is faster than you can see, but you know it's there. You can see the invisible.
But let's move away from the metaphor of trickery. If rational thought is made of a series of steps, and intuition is a giant leap (ostensibly of faith), then there is perhaps a third analogy: The log flume ride: WHOOOOOOOOOOSH!

Let's take a break. See you in five.

1. . And ye shall reap what ye

So, I may be a little behind schedule, but you may be somewhat reassured, if not downright mollified, to learn that I am actually working to a plan here. The plan, in fact, that I alluded to in last week's (go with me on this) entry. It's a plan that's taken much thought, and many sleepless nights (albeit only coincidentally; insomnia is a bitch called Malice), and also some not inconsiderable research (To whit: I considered research. It logically follows that anything that can be considered, is also therefore considerable), and one of the first things I discovered was this: about 70% of blogs begin with the word 'so'.

'So'.

Just that one word, to open onto a world of possibilities. Do you know why?

Well, then you're just lazy, because the answer's obvious. 'So' is a great opener, simply because it suggests that you (the reader) have wandered in on the middle of something. Probably something juicy. Or at the very least mildly distracting. "So, I said to her, "look, lady, I don't grease 'em, I just deliver 'em."' Overhear that, while out and about doing your mail round, and your first thought is 'what did I just miss?'  

Your second thought is 'does it have anything to do with Doing the Sexy?'

(Don't Judge me. Don't you dare.)

Anyway, the point stands: 'So' is highly suggestive. It suggests that you (hell: 'we'. I'm not elitist, except when it comes to those inferior people. But we don't speak of them) it suggests, I say, that we have dropped in on 'something'.  

There's a continuum of conversation (that's the lie that's told), and we've missed the beginning. That's not necessarily a bad thing. Flip the channel, watch any episode of Columbo and there, THAT person our dear lieutenant is talking to _right now_? THAT's the murderer. We know the form; we know the Way Things Work(tm).  

'So' tells us 'Once upon a time there was a blah blah blah, and the reason it's important that I should be telling you this story is because blah blah blah, and now that that's cleared up, let's get on with the action: So, there was this nun, right?...'

The point STILL stands. It would be a clever marketing trick, if only it involved actual cunning. As it is, I'm fairly sure it's just a kneejerk reaction to not knowing the answer to the age-old question: 'why should anyone be interested in what I have to say? Why should anyone care?'

Why SHOULD anybody care? It's an undoubtedly important question, with a long and prestigious history, and not having the answer to it can lead to insanity, sweaty palms, and male-pattern baldness (particularly worrying for the women: no one likes a girl with sweaty palms).  

So (which is to say, 'therefore') the instinctive response is to deny the banality by expressing the banality. There's no earthly reason why anyone should care what you or I might say. 'So' creates rapport, camaraderie, bon homie, and je ne sais qua, so as to block out (and thus deny) the ennui, the... the... the je ne sais qua.

'We're friends, you and I. I don't therefore need to justify talking at you about whatever subject flutters, moth-like, across my small forebrain. I'm going to talk at you. Deal with it. So... There was this nun...'

Consider the alternative (and consider, also, whether it really IS an alternative): 'I'd like to tell you, if I may, a story involving me, a nun, a tub of grease and a case of mistaken identity.'

'Why yes, thank you, such a tale would be awfully well receieved around these parts. Pray, do go on. Tell your story, and with our blessing.'

'So... it happened like this.'

But... but what if they're not interested, this hypothetical audience of which I speak (and to whom I speak now)? Far easier to pretend that they ARE interested. I'm sure they'll lap it up, salivating Pavlov-like (I mean salivating like his dogs. I don't want to start any rumours abou the old duffer). They'll assume they agreed anyway.  

I mean look at them. They're dumb like that. (Hey, these are your friends I'm talking about). Have you ever had a complete stranger waving to you with recognition, and find yourself waving back, just in case you do know them?

Oh. Well, no, me neither.

The eagle-eyed among you will no doubt live the life of a carny, whiling away your days next to the ferret-nosed man, and the sharp-tongued woman. On the other hand, those without eagle eyes, but nonetheless gifted with a high visual acuity - such that someone might compare your eyesight to that of an eagle's by way of tired anaology - will notice that I began this very blog with a 'so'.  

'So'?

Yes, 'so'.

So what?

First off, let the record state that I was attempting irony (more specifically, post irony, principally since no one really knows what it means, and therefore the final arbiter on whether it really is post ironic or not, is me. There's no one able to say I'm wrong.  Ha! )

And secondly, today's entry is intended to follow on directly from the previous one. That the previous entry also begins just 'so' should come as no surprise.  

Unless you haven't read it yet. And frankly if not, well, why not? And if you have, what on earth possessed you to ever come back?!

Let me explain (Incidentally please don't think me smug; not yet. That's a state of affairs I'm hoping we can build to over a period of weeks. It's all part of a self-fulfilling prophecy of immense intricacy. You'll recognise the precise moment my smugness takes over when I call you all 'plebs'):

I love words. Let me hear a 'hell, yeah!'

...

I love what they can do; what they can imply; what they can make us feel; sometimes even what they can say (STOP, right there! You! Yes, you, the pedant at the back: don't try to tell me words read. Words can't speak, but they can say. Words can never read. See me after class and tell me I'm wrong. Dare ya.   I'll be miles away by then anyway.)

Lordy, yes I love words. Their metre, the way they dance (sometimes with two left feet, maybe, tripping across the page,  and looking around seeing what the other sentences are up to, but they give it their all, God bless 'em).

You see, a lot of people go out dancing; whereas I like to see words, dancing across a page.

(Similarly, a lot of people like sex; whereas I like  lots of fucking analogies.)

But what right do I have to talk? And who are you to listen?  Who the HELL do you think you are? Who do you think I am?  

You're listening now, to be sure, but for how long? And - really:- why? WHY? It's all very gratuitous. Perhaps you're okay with that. But I know that I'm not. What I say is not important, but it needs to be said. I need it to be said.  It really doesn't need to be heard, though (or 'read'. I've still got my eye on you, Pedro, and I'm warning you: it once belonged to an eagle). Or... does it? No: It needs to be SAID. By me. I can understand that, but I can't truly justify it.  Not to myself, and so certainly not to you, dear reader (At least, I assume you're dear. I only buy the best). So I need these little hesitancies, these constant steps back, and I need you stepping back with me (please indulge me with your patience), back, back  until we can see what I already know is there, before us. A great vista (or, if not great, then amenably adequate). I make you huge promises, and in so doing nearly convince myself: these light-footed steps backwards amount to a preparation, a run up if you will, to a great leap forward. This is my ego talking, but I have to believe. I have to.

To take this leap forward together, we both need this run up.  I need you here with me, and, to accomplish that, I have to coax you in with familiarity; a companionable arm around the shoulder, and the ol' 'So... did I tell you the story involving me, a nun, and a large tub of grease?'  

Have I built in you an anticipation? Have I whetted your appetite for more? Are you intrigued?Have I left you wanting, pouting, pleading, for more? You want it, don't you? Oh, how you want it.  

Because...

Because next week I shall dash your hopes. There's only insight without meaning. I'm sorry, for that. And maybe, maybe, maybe I'm sorry for other things, too.

But for now I've created my setup. Everything is 'perfect' (as they say in the US.  And probably Australia, and certainly the UK and other English-speaking nations). Everything, my friend, is... just so.