In sickness and in health (and in being).

I am becoming a subscriber to Bertrand Russell's idea of idleness.

Speaking of my generation, I feel that we have forgotten how to do nothing at all. This is not to be confused with sloth. This is my rant, straying on a slight tangent from Russell's advocacy for idleness to its relationship with being. My advocacy for doing nothing at all, which surely is an art.

Somewhere along our journey, some of us, have became obsessed with the absolute marriage of ideas and utility; the practice of only practical knowledge, and only as a span to some working man's definition of production. Having spilled into relationships, we forget that friendship, and even marriage itself, is not a means to an end; not merely a means of reproduction so that race is carried on. In sickness and in health is more than a simple forecast of physical condition, it is a matter of being.

We are losing touch with knowing for knowing's sake; being as a means of existence. We neglect our potential. As this philosophy of neglect spills into academia, knowledge takes second stage, and information assumes the lead. I am surrounded by students who seem to care more about a rigid definition of graded advancement than about where they are today. Creativity becomes the orphan of a so-called progress.

Watching, I find myself in a state of depression. This will continue to be a theme.

Children are the epitome of creative essence. They are the saplings of true knowledge. Their inquisitive nature and natural willingness to fail, an expression of wonder and existence. In early years, a lack of inhibition is rarely passed off as an impediment to a child's nature. Instruction does vary and at times is left to chance. Sadly, some roots only spread across the ground.

It is a rare adult who can stroke a cold, moss-covered stone for minutes upon end and then clench it in a fist as a prize, but a child will. In youth, a stick is worthy of affection. The adoration of an ant hill, worthy of a crouching stare and rust-colored knees.

The world becomes worthy of full intention, and dirty knees, a necessary ingredient.

With speech, expression becomes vocal, and the questions are asked: why and how? How do I live? Why do I sneeze? How does it work? Why do birds fly, and why can't I? Why does the sun set? Why can't I stay up? Why are you crying? Why?

At some point, we stop asking questions. Part of it is balance; contemplation before a fall. Yet often 'because' becomes good enough for the grown. Time is also an excuse, though in many cases I reflect on, unworthy.

We have pigeon-holed the world, defined it, if not by our words than by our actions. There is often more revelation in what is done than what is said. If this is true, if we cannot exist in a balance of action with still 'contemplative thought,' then sadly our self-created schedule becomes a prison; endless toil, a pathetic ball and chain.

Rather than sit in what meaning is, we create meaning to fill a void; action to make ourselves comfortable with reality.

I used to work with a man named Pete. We fought fires together, and in rare moments of solitude, sat in the dust of empty deer trails. The forest was silent, crusted with burnt wood, the aroma of smoke, and stray sunlight turning ashen crust into obsidian. When the season ended Pete disappeared to a lonely ranch somewhere in middle-of-nowhere, Idaho. The crew joked loud enough so that he could hear: teased him about being out of touch through the winter. Pete never replied. He left that autumn.

I smile just thinking about it. Pete, one of the hardest workers I have known, was okay with silence, with rest, and idleness. I imagine him out there, splitting firewood, snowshoeing the hills, white from horizon to horizon, and sitting.

Everything in balance.

Being is elusive, silence taught to be awkward. But stop and feel the air about your fingers. Listen to your own breath. This is a beginning.

"The day is real;

the sky clicks securely into place over the mountains,

locks round the islands, snaps slap on the bay.

Air fits flush on farm roofs;

it rises inside the doors of barns and rubs at yellow barn windows.

Air clicks up my hand cloven into fingers and wells in my ears' holes,

whole and entire.

I call it simplicity,

the way matter is smooth and alone."

- Annie Dillard

No. 8.

I am trying to emulate the study habits of the greats. Who might they be? Monks and nuns, perhaps? Although, where their practice may often be in silence, mine is taking a slightly divergent note.

I have begun to familiarize myself with the central library on campus. Its appearance is quite bland. The carpet is old, thin in spots from frequent treading. The colors, a bit dreary. Perhaps thousands of volumes are on the shelves. I love to be surrounded by literature, but when confronted with hit or miss class reading, sometimes I need a shove. One more push in the direction of inspiration. One more driving nail to secure ideas to the wall; to catch falling thoughts.

As I sit, I imagine a shadow of myself dancing around the room, running for ideas and wandering notions. Papers waft slowly from above. Yellow sheets. Blue sheets. White sheets of paper. Lined and graphed. Dropping from beyond the ceiling, they cascade towards the ground. And there I am, looking like a frantic trader. With ruffled papers squeezed between my elbow and my left side, I stride about the room. My right arm extended, I snatch them from the air and force them to the pile. These papers--ideas, theories, words, names--float through my conscious realm, and for a moment my shadow holds them for a more permanent memory. Others, they pass on. Ideas for later. Papers dropping through the floor like ghosts, on to the next boy reading alone.

Somehow, without theme and melody--alone with the silence of fluttering papers--this imagery creates chaos in my mind. But with music, there is a soundtrack to the paper rain. Now, instead of running, I walk. Instead of tearing through literature, I simply lean into the back of a chair. I recline on my elbow and take what I can.

I have purchased some new music. New albums for new inspiration. I have convinced myself I need this. Based on a well thought recommendation, I have bought Mahler's Symphony No. 8, performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Having listened to the 1st Symphony, I have been told I am ready for the 8th. My theory has not yet been tested in the library, but at home I am finding success. First performed in Munich in the early 20th century, with a chorus of 850 and an orchestra of 171 you can imagine the sheer might! Suddenly, my pathetically bland living room is no matter. The piece is reaching its conclusion. The final stanza, "Alles Vergangliche". The choir sends chills from my shoulders to my legs. The organ thunders to life. I lean my head back and close my eyes. Please, do not end.

I think this will do.

Literary triage.

This blog could have easily been titled 'Dostoevsky drops my jaw', 'Nietzsche makes me kneel', 'Kazantzakis kicks my can', or maybe even 'Derrida makes me cry confusing tears'. But moving on instinct and passion, Kerouac steals the day. Ahem, the title.

Is it obsessive to say literature could be my girlfriend? Oh, its just a joke. Don't worry all you want to be Freudian psychoanalysts, literature is not my girlfriend. And 'this' sentence certainly doesn't flow like the song. For most of you though, my new devoted readers, the names of these authors will instantly ring a bell in your mind. Even the most self-admittedly clueless should at least recognize, or experience a hinting subconscious notion, of at least one name. If not, shame on you! Visit a library, they are free. These names stand as pillars in literary history.

On a personal level, the emotional effects of where and when I read is equally powerful. Reading The Birth of Tragedy while questioning the nature of injustice did drop me to my knees. Reading To Build A Fire, even in the oppressive heat of Bangladesh, made me shiver.

Literature, from the Latin word for "acquaintance with letters", incites deep, personal meaning. The terms 'book' or 'novel' may hold some credibility on their own, but to me nothing compares to the mental picture of Melville penning the first pages of Moby Dick. Or of Franklin racing into the night on a journey to complete his Autobiography; a momentary surge of literary inspiration; just one more sentence.

Even now, names crowd my brain. 'Swift makes me slaphappy'. 'Solzhenitsyn makes me shiver (and want to grow an amazing beard)'. I imagine all of the above arguing with me for rights to the title. Thomas Paine tells me the answer should be clear. Vonnegut is sarcastic, as always. I like him, but for now I don't care what he thinks. And poor Melville, he just sulks away when I shrug and tell him, no. He has obviously not yet caught on to my feigned apathy. For all he knows Moby Dick was a tragic literary attempt.

For me, these names are more than just a bell. They are a gong, reverberating beneath the surface of my skin.

You can imagine my concern in deciding which books to bring with me to Israel. A fraction of my personal library was stacked at my feet and about the basement. Standing there I felt like an old hen of a nurse, or a rooster in my case, caught at the scene of disaster. I clucked about, forced to triage the deserving victims. Who will I leave behind?

I tried to pick a few that would aid me as a graduate student. White Man's Burden - William Easterly and Walled: Israeli Society at an Impasse - Sylvain Cypel. But to pass my reasoning as only academic, offsets what I am trying to prove: that literature, a book if you will, is enjoyable. It must be, if you are to be profoundly affected. I do not regard reading as an academic to be a dysfunction, but if passion for reading is first instilled--education will naturally follow.

So what did I bring? Without further ado:

The Shia Revival - Vali Nasr
White Man's Burden - William Easterly
Walled: Israeli Society at an Impasse - Sylvain Cypel
The Formation of the Economic Thought of Karl Marx - Ernest Mendel
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - Haruki Murakami
To Know as We Are Known - Parker J. Palmer
The Gift of Death and Literature in Secret - Jacques Derrida
Of Spirit: Heidegger and the Question - Jacques Derrida
A Kierkegaard Anthology - edited by Robert Brethall

What are you reading?