It’s 2:02 A.M. I should have been asleep hours ago. I spent six very long hours in the car today, driving down the seemingly endless road of Highway 5. I felt like I was chasing the line that astronomers draw on their mock-up globes. That fuzzy line that separates the sun-flooded day from the pitch-black night, gliding along the surface of our world without notice of any kind of obstacle as if the planet were polished smooth; in a way, we are all being chased by it or chasing it away, depending on the perspective and the hour of day.
That was not really supposed to be deep or anything, just stating the observed. However, I think that when we say “I made the observation that…” or “Observe this…” or “Observing the …”, unless it is said in the context of some dreary science laboratory, our observations are more towards the side of perspectives, opinions, biases, and embellishments. How can one truly observe anything, even within a scientific and sterile settling, objectively? And what does that word even mean? Objectively? We can all agree on syntax, until we can’t. We can all agree on an adjective, until we can’t. The object is a red cup. The observation is that it is round, or holds water, or is the color red (whatever that means, especially if you know anything about light waves and visible spectrum). Our observations are all true (or let us presuppose for the sake of demonstrating a dilemma that they are true), but what is the objective Truth (or is there such a thing)? Is it the compilation of these sorts of observations, mixed as they are? Or is there something more, something else that sums up the object-ness of the object in question, something that captures it so wholly, lacking no aspect, that if able to be stated in understandable language would be classified as not only a truth, but the Truth about the red cup (significant specimen, I know).
If a red cup is this question provoking, I dare say my head may split if to actually, for even only a moment, consider man. The gravity of these questions about a drink-holding object is enough to, at least, make the thinker consider their balance. But these questions when applied, about the objectivity of man, the reality of man, the wholeness of man, the man-ness of man, and the humanity of man (two very different things I assure you), makes (or should make) the thinker fall over less than gracefully on his/her buttocks.
I do not suggest considering these possibilities for too long. After little thought, the night sky alone becomes a crushing and unwelcome burden, the thought of the vastness like a quick, yet excruciating blow to the head. Buechner writes about the experience of Today (which from his other writings you can deduce is also our experience with the Really Real), saying, “If you were aware of how precious it is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.” You must be aware.
But to be aware, to recognize the deeply painful gift of each moment, means doing more than just observing. One might ask, can’t you observe the world and live in it too? The one who asks that question most likely would be my friend. I, too, seemingly can’t help but want to both participate and capture the moment. I want both the picture and the memory. But it is very rare that when trying to get both that you get much of anything at all, which is one of those sad true ironies of living: one simply cannot have their cake and eat it too.
In the end, I very much enjoy the taste of cake. It is lovely to look at, for sure, but what use is it? What life does it give if it sits there and looks pretty? What use does a picture have if it captures the moment that the photographer cannot never truly grasp because he/she was behind the lens? What is the purpose of knowing the whole lot, and never casting a ballot?
Being aware means making the choice to partake and not peruse. Being aware of the weight of today is living away from the line, which blurs the battle. The war is that very cliché (except it cannot be cliché in this case, as this is the beginnings of such literary thematic as good vs. evil, light vs. dark), in which night usurps day, but after a good few hours of conquest is forced once again to surrender under the white flag of dawn. To be aware is not observe, and perhaps to not even just exist, but to pick a side. To avoid the gray. Being aware means making the choice to be aware even when it hurts like hell (or really is).
But I must admit: I am often paralyzed by being a spectator and speculator to top it off. I crave time to sit and watch and think, in short observe, rather than be. And while I do not believe that there should be no time made for this wonderful (albeit addictive for some) activity, I just think I do it, or at least desire to do it far too much for my own good. You see, part of me wishes nothing more than to just be able to survive off of reading and thinking alone; to be able to supply myself with the basic necessities for life by absorbing literature and thinking about by some sort of odd power. But I do not have the power to do this anymore than I have to turn my favorite stories into realities (but that is another discussion).
And when I think about it, I do not truly want it. It would mean making the choice to remove myself even from the role of onlooker. Yet I am greedy for knowledge, to know the whys and hows and of whats. But I am not disciplined enough, so I attempt to satiate that greed with either scraps and pieces or the whole pie (old family saying… it means basically that hunger (for food, or any other thing) isn’t an all or nothing endeavor, but a process in which discipline must play a large role in the continuous portioning of food in a consistent manner).
Sigh. It’s all this talk about the future that is driving me mad, I’m sure of it. I am obsessed with the nature of future (being it in my nature to not only (or especially not) observe the present). I am so oriented around this observing disease that I cannot help but never ever be satisfied with what I see my future to hold. I am already disappointed for what comes next (what gay (the old old old meaning) and frolicsome disposition I have!). I am already disappointed because I expect that what I observe is what is True, that there could be nothing more real than the real I perceive.
I am already disappointed because the ‘real’ that I see is quite frankly quite ‘blah’: a beige and off-white pathway, lined only with milestones that mark not miles but the moments I became more practical or more efficient or more stoic, or some such nonsense as that. I see normalcy, when all I want to observe is adventure (and furthermore, I want to partake in adventure). I believe I fear mediocrity more than the unknown. I think I fear mediocrity more than death. In fact, I know I do. I fear beige. I fear white noise, more than explosions or silence. I fear this line that is fuzzy and sweeps over the world without courtship kisses or bitter goodbyes. It is no man’s land, yet everybody is here. And that is a fearsome thought indeed.
