Thinking about thinking

“The mind, when it feels or intuits, finds its object in something sensuous; when it imagines, in an image; when it wills in an aim. But in contrast to, or it may be only in distinction from, these forms of its existence and of its objects, the mind has also to gratify its highest and most inward life, thought. Thus the mind renders thought its object”–G.W.F. Hegel Encyclopaedia.

What I think

…is not much these days. The Random Highbrow is up, and I’m pleased to be right before Brenda Schmidt. Her sonnet is amazing!

A friend has asked me many times why he writes, why I write, why anyone writes. I always say it doesn’t matter why, but that they do, for their own reasons. Why worry about the intangible? Worrying about why seems unimportant, or maybe this is just me. Tonight I’m thinking about the living, the life/art of any writer, the irrational reasoning in it, around it, the framework of it, and, I’m thinking, that much like writing, maybe life is something we just have to do. Maybe life is the one extraordinary metpahor we need to keep writing.

An Epic Post

Recently, many conversations have revolved around the epic. This handy list was included in my Greek Mythology class last year, but I was able to find it useful in assessing Margaret Laurence’s children’s book Jason’s Quest. The one thing that fascinates/irks me most about epic literature is that the hero is always a man, although writers in modernism tried to alter the view. According to my epic understanding of life, doesn’t the princess liberate the prince?

Untitled

I love thinking about the perfect title for anything I write. This love of the title has left me wondering why people label pieces of creative work as “untitled”. (I’m trying to write a poem based on this practice). There are many here if you search for “untitled“. I see creativity “untitled” not only in poetry, but in many art forms, (scroll down to “title it”), and even in the naming of groups—is there something I’m missing? Maybe the function of the “untitled” is an abstraction I haven’t yet understood? How is it possible so many creative endeavours venture to be different by titling their work “untitled”? Is there uniqueness in similarity? Sometimes I want shout: pick a name, any name. Call it Sue, Bill, Jane, Ted, whatever, but calling it “something” is the key. How many poems are titled “Something“? Since when does the title not matter? To me, the beginning can end something faster than a word meets the eye. Call me untitled, but the title seems like something to me.

ET phone home?

The telephone is something I’ve been thinking about these past two days. Yesterday a friend, who isn’t fond of email, emailed early in the morning to see if we could go for coffee. I emailed right back, set up a time, a place, an almost certain meeting arrangement. I wandered around at the arranged time and place, looking, but no friend. Later in the evening, when I got home, there were three messages on a cell phone that never rang, and an email saying my email arrived at 5pm.

Now I’m wondering about the ethereal connection between people unconsciously trying to avoid the outside world and the objects they claim to dislike as means of communication. I’m not fond of my cell phone. I like my space and I find it somewhat intrusive, but, granted, necessary in my hectic life. I’ve had nothing but problems with my cell phone. Sometimes it works perfect and no one calls. Sometimes it doesn’t work, someone does call and I don’t get the message. Sometimes the message manager won’t work, and sometimes the thing just goes dead. I can send the phone away, again, for repairs, or I can simply suffer with the phone. I can’t upgrade until next August as I just recently bought this phone. Why all this dribble you’re asking right about now, who cares about her phone, what’s her point you’re saying. Well, I think, in some ways it’s no different than the person who doesn’t like email. A person who doesn’t like email seems to have difficulty receiving mail, for some reason never gets things, or they arrive late, or they don’t arrive at all. A person who doesn’t like email uses it only for necessity, much like a person who doesn’t really like carrying a cell phone. Aha.

Maybe our method of communication or not liking to communicate through certain channels is impacting the objects around us. Or not. But, then again, perhaps the problem isn’t with the phone, but me. Ohmmmm.

Chicken

I’ve been running around like one for days now, which is fitting considering my near death experience at the clutches of some defeathered, cooked meat. I’ve been productive this week, sent a little something to the Random Highbrow, finished the essay on Hegel and Howard, and thanks to my friend Annette, finally found a chicken post-card for the contest. All of this work makes me a little–fried.