Dissonance

I somehow happened on a page of the archives of this very blog while I was surfing. Very melodramatic. A lot of rubbish about trying to find myself, or define myself, or how I construct my understanding and interaction with the world. I wonder how much of that I really believed at the time. I do know that I was prone to dance with the ideas, teasing out twists and intricacies that are more truly an expression of possibilities than the reality.

Of course, what is reality but one of a multitude of possibilities, many of which are picked of our own volition. For example, I could claim, as I have done, to be extremely enamoured of the way Lake Michigan gains just a hint of pink of the occasional evening. And by choosing to be fond of this sight, I would be.

It occurs to me now that it has been a long time since I observed a sunrise. Or simply sat watching something uncluttered by life. In those many hours alone in my room in Chicago, I often watched the sky and the lake. Both blue, quiet, clear. It has been far far too long since I admired the way the sky in this country can become completely unmarred by clouds and turn a gorgeous shade of blue, deeper than anything I have seen elsewhere.

I think I must be warped. There are occasions when I feel the need to ascertain some things which should never need to be questioned. Yet I do question them. And it invariably leads to disappointment, for my expectations are never realistic. Expectations seem to be constructed, for me at least, from the stuff of my own commitment to the matter. I anticipate a mirror, and mostly imagine seeing a mirror. Yet when I do examine what lies before me more closely, there is nothing there but a mirror. A mirror is not reality, after all. What a mirror offers is merely the image of what you give it. So when I offer something to it, and look into the mirror, I imagine that I receive something similar. Except that things do not work out that way. On the rare occasion when I slip out of a self-delusional mood, and closer examination is made, the disparity between what I imagined, and thusly what I give, and what is returned seems always to be jarring. And so I attempt to decipher what exactly the problem is. Do I simply overestimate the quality of the exchange? Or is a remedy to be found in altering the nature of interaction. Perhaps it is like a dance. If you keep advancing, your partner must withdraw somewhat. So if you were to withdraw, the partner might then advance. So I withdraw, hoping to elicit aggression from the partner. Then it occurs to me. It is like a dance. And my partner must meet me, and withdrawing simply indicates a lack of desire to dance. And the only thing left to do is to smile and retreat graciously. Why make a scene, after all? Retire to some other area of the room, perhaps obtain a drink, and let the party continue.

A major regret is that I no longer have a view that elicits quiet in me, to counter the disquiet. The lake was almost always tranquil. An aura of calm blanketed it, at least from that distance. Even with boats and sails and whatnot on the surface, the tableau still resembled a painting of itself. Standing on the shore, with the waves crashing on the breakers, motion was clearly at the front of the mind. Yet casting my glance out beyond the immediate, I recall the stillness of the view from my windows, and then it is calm again. The surf is just noise. The essence remains unperturbed. Then there was the view from the bar atop the John Hancock building at night. Certainly it was of a city, bustling and frantic as any other city. But as a function of the distance, and the proximity, the buildings seemed static, permanent installations for our admiration. Stars arranged for our pleasure, almost within arm's reach, it seemed.