Creatures of contradiction.

Or maybe not contradiction...rather, perhaps creatures of such limited comprehension that what is in actuality just richness and complexity appears to us as contradiction.

Everything I say has been said before. Similarly, everything I do has been done before. However, that can hardly steal the joy that I experience in saying and doing. I both rejoice and grieve the singular intelligence. The hive mind learns from each individual and contributes to the collective knowledge, but as the singular human, we learn from our own experience. It makes us stupider. But damn, we can feel stuff.

I guess I stopped trying to make logical sense when I write. The tendency towards structure and logic still shines through like sun through window blinds, but I'm beginning to wonder which is the blinds and which is the sun. I think many times structure and logic are the blinds severing what may otherwise be an unadulterated ray of sunshine.

At least the existentialist takes responsibility for his life and behavior. After his or her anguish, the existentialist encounters a great joy upon realizing that he or she is not only responsible for defining self purpose, but also participating in the purpose of all people. Often, the Christian is too busy waiting for god to do something, claiming god's will, or making excuses for god to do anything for themselves.

If Christianity was approached with the humility of creatures that realize their infinite capacity to not understand, then maybe bricolage could be a lifestyle. But here I am, like Ayn Rand, foolishly thinking of utopias. I guess I imagine a collection of people so aware of their shortcomings that each day anew must convince them again.

It's no surprise to me that Derrida called deconstruction the "playing" of language. No sane person can look at deconstruction and not lose his or her mind. If I try to explain and analyze it, then I am pulling the blinds over my light. Everything plays. Everything is a game to which I know no rules. Who knows, maybe I've more of the positivity strength than I thought. Such a thought causes me no despair, but the excitement of learning anew.

It's often hard for me to tread the same paths as my ancestors. I feel like there should be some sort of respect I am given for rediscovering the trails of thought blazed by older generations. I don't believe they were blazed by older generations. I believe they were there from the beginning of time. Nothing I say is new, but that makes it no less important. I'd do well to remember that the next time a skeptical, middle-aged educated person scoffs at my "college" beliefs.

Yes, Solomon! Grieve! For there is truly nothing new under the sun. And then celebrate, for everything is new, every day, because communication is impossible and inevitable, and because yesterday is gone.

But damn, my pride's a bitch. I have so much trouble remembering today that yesterday's tools are worn and pathetic. Yesterday's atheist is today's saint. The cynic is the polar-twin of the blind bible beater.

Recipe: 1 part despair, 3 parts humility, 1 part humor, 2 parts patience. Remind me again that perhaps the dead god of yesterday is the not-so-dead of today.