Well

Sometimes I really want to write something, as a kind of therapy against the fleeting moments of a life that I'll never re-tread, or some horror waiting yet unnamed. But in those moments I get a feeling in my stomach, like hunger but duller, a feeling of the bottom dropping out, a kind of multidirectional tug in three to five directions. I sit and I stare at the screen, and what invariably happens is I end up surfing the internet aimlessly, kind of hopping from page to page, skimming paragraphs and pictures, half-getting jokes and not laughing, and so on.

So I wonder. How do we get into things deeply anymore? Take an example: I've read many books and seen many films in my day, as we all have, but from how many do I remember anything other than the most superficial features? I'd certainly like to: nothing would give me greater joy than the deep understanding of the piles surrounding me from every genre. But how? This bottom-dropping-out business is serious. It's why I've left a trail of beginnings of short stories, unedited poems, dropped research projects, bookmarked pages I'll never visit again. The only saving grace I can see is the ability to carry on seven-hour conversations with people close to me. Those conversations cannot help but reveal, and therein is the antihesis of the internet's seductive hummingbird mentality.

This wasn't terribly interesting, and I apologize. But try to appreciate that seeing the beast out of the corner of my eye is at least the beginning of recognition. And with recognition comes understanding. And with understanding comes control. And with control comes efficiency. And that's what I need to hone any craft I have: cold metallic efficiency, uniformly unyielding hardness, and so on.

Consider: "It is just that we should be grateful, not only to those with whose views we may agree, but also to those who have expressed more superficial views; for these also contributed something, by developing before us the powers of thought."