I am sort of cold. This room is a bit chilly right now.
It is what you choose not to say.
Blink was an okay book. With very interesting insights. Whatever lifts you out of an ordinary perspective is worth the while. In fact the book may even have been quite good. It definitely read faster than anything I have read in the last long while. Damned law books. Law reports aren’t written by The New Yorker staff writers, that is for sure.
If the elimination of a sensory organ leads to more acute sensing through other organs, would the opposite hold true? This would be opposite in the inversed sense. Does over-development of one type of expressive means in a person diminish at all his ability to express through other means? Maybe Malcolm Gladwell can write his third hit book about that.
How often do you actually know what you are saying? Often times I feel that this is only possible with the most factual of statements / observations, or about certain states of your own mind or emotions or certain traits of yourself – but of course, even that with the awareness of the approximate and temporaneous nature of such things.
F. I lost track of what I was going to say. This happens when you get caught up in the execution or preoccupied with a less important part of a thought. Attempts at precise execution and clarifying the thought are important, sometimes even to the extent of fleshing out the thought itself. But It is a shame that thought cannot be more completely formed at the desired moment of execution. We can’t all be Wolfgang of words, I suppose. For the mere mortals who lack the intensity of thought and the capacity for unrelenting pursuit of an idea, thought is largely casual and the expression muddy. Ah, just like that.
It’s amazing how so much attention, thought, and energy must be poured into the capturing of a fleeting moment of euphoria, beauty, depression, doom – an immediate essence of things, scenes and people that is felt and processed in a “blink” of an eye.
One note of unfettered beauty and poise requires years of discipline and an obsessive pursuit of ideals. And when it is done, what is left – nothing that you can see or hold onto. And sometimes this very futility, or, more precisely, the evanescence of beauty itself is felt and described as a kind of beauty.
L’âme évaporée et souffrante,
L’âme douce, l’âme odorante
Des lis divins que j’ai cueillis
Dans le jardin de ta pensée,
Où donc les vents l’ont-ils chassée,
Cette âme adorable des lis?
N’est-il plus un parfum qui reste
De la suavité céleste
Des jours ou tu m’enveloppais
D’une vapeur surnaturelle,
Faite d’espoir, d’amour fidèle,
De béatitude et de paix?
(I am not so cold any more. [It has served its purpose. In other words, I am slightly depressed. Idly depressed. (Was even more so, but made to feel better after the above.) I seek consolation and comfort in music like the second movement of Ravel Piano Concerto in G at moments like this. I drug myself to ease whatever needs to be eased with music like this, and appreciate even more the beauty held by the Impressionists. I don’t usually know why I feel this way when I feel this way. I look at it as an impulse to be artistic, to be immersed and isolated in some concentrated pursuit of artistic stimuli, getting lost for the sake of getting lost… like that walk I took in that random neighbourhood around school in Boston, on a rainy, foggy fall afternoon. I love getting lost in those moments, moments of wonderment and the prepared openness for those wonderments. The world comes alive then, each of its parts breathing and squirming and glowing and gazing back. Asie.])