redundant
I recently ran into a friend who has been saying since I met him six years ago that the whole world is redundant. All that can be written has been written, that can be said has been said. There are only so many words, which is true, and all the combinations of words have been played out. We are born into a world that doesn’t need our thoughts because they have already been thought.
I used to try to believe him, because he’s older and so what did I know. And a part of me still wants to try to believe him, because he’s my friend, and because I never said I know how to live this life. And because he’s read way, way, way more books than I have.
Maybe it’s because I, naive me, is bringing a whole new person into the world, but I couldn’t listen to it last time he told me. Now I have to believe that this world is new and that each person who enters it isn’t just the same as each person who has entered it already. My body is changing, my sense of height and depth and scale and smell and taste, everything is different.
Recently I was asked if I’ve ever walked into a room and felt like I’ve never seen it before — the person was a therapist and she was gauging how much I detach from my body and sense of self. She concluded that I detach no more than anyone else, but my passion for her question surprised me. Because I feel like I always walk into a room and feel like I’ve never seen it before. Was that couch always so low? Was that hallway so wide? Has it always been dark in that corner? Did the sun always make a quadrangle right on top of that painting? Steve and I go on walks each morning, and often we’re walking the same route. But each time I feel like I’ve never seen one or another house before ever. I’m sure it’s not new, I’m sure it didn’t grow over the grass overnight, but I’m seeing it for the first time. Maybe that’s because we’ve left five minutes early and the light is different enough that the paint color strikes me, or maybe it’s because the grass is longer and I suddenly notice scale, or because the flowers are falling and I see their new muted color in relation to brick and siding. Being in this particular self is unironic, it’s not cynical, and it doesn’t make for good jokes or cutting quips, and it probably doesn’t come across as very smart. But every walk is different. Every time I come home, I see my home for the first time.
September 15th, 2009 at 1:54 pm
I listened to Terry Gross’s interview with John Cage and Merce Cunningham not too long ago–it was an hour with a selection of both–maybe you heard it. At any rate, I think it was John Cage who talked about this very thing–everything being new all the time. I love this idea, and in fact, I think it is true…and you know, I think it’s actually harder to live one’s life believing things are always new as it requires us to be open to possibility.
September 15th, 2009 at 8:44 pm
barbara, i’ll look up those two interviews right now. thank you and thank you. i am the shyest responder to your beautiful studio index, but i read it often and am always inspired. enjoy these next few months in your studio!