After much talk and writing about the present project I do find myself barely just facing the tip of the iceberg and a few weeks down the road. You know, it is that tip of the iceberg that shows up above the water surface. Submerged there is a whole lot more of mass. If that submerged mass is indeed ice, that is another issue, right now I have more the feeling that the whole is actually fire.
It could also be that I am again running through insane schedules of not sleeping for 48 hours, and trying to figure out what on earth has me totally paralyzed when it comes to doing tasks that are necessary, that I do enjoy doing while claiming on Twitter the contrary, and make me feel good when they are done, thus contributing to my well-being at all levels. Knowing all of this, I still postpone such unmentioned tasks to no end. If and when I crack this one, I undoubtedly will be astonished as to why and how it took me so long to figure out something that is apparently so simple. My insights have an habit of hitting me that way and leaving me feeling inadequate about my slow learning pace. I want to crack this one, I will crack this one.
Wait a minute… I write sentences that are too long. My thoughts are complex manifolds in hyper-space.
Maybe it is the fact that now I have the door to the garden open, have been smoking the occasional cigar outside, sat on the porch of the dollhouse, looked over the fence at the neighbors yard, realized that the grass is not greener on the other side of the fence, and was reminded that the whole thing with Theoretical Man started last summer in this garden while I was reading some material that had been on my reading list since the heavy and reflective days spent in Amman a few years back.
But this can not be! Not again! Am I actually going to prepare the manuscript of Theoretical Man while trying to write Schemata? I already produced a whole other manuscript while trying and not succeeding in writing Schemata, and I had never intended to write anything of that genre. Intention somehow is not what all of this is about. Intentions are good, but somehow they often fail me, or I fail them. Your pick.
Back to the garden and the fact that Spring is starting to peek out the door. When I need a break, I also postpone the break, but eventually go out for a meditative round. It was yesterday on one of these outings that I looked down at the grass and wondered about my relationship with words. Frankly, it is lousy. I do not think in words, verbalization for me takes quite some effort, and there are days when I barely have access to that part of my brain. Lately I have been dying to draw, and I am not doing much of it. I have what feels to me like a mind full of objects, finding words is always another process. I need to draw to represent what is inside my head, or else I just imagine the scene and the objects and try to describe these with words. Needless to say, narrative comes to me more easily than dialog. I struggle with dialog, and of all the literary genres, theatre is just nothing that I aspire to write for, I would not know where to start. Still inside my head Schemata is a whole series of scenes and abstract objects with a few representational ones associated with it. I sometimes I am really puzzled by what dimension I do think in. Is this thinking? Rats, I think Heidegger asked the question before me! All right, a few others too. My guess is that that is always a good question.