Unbound from ennui

Published in S. P. A. C. E.

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I HAVE WITH ME TODAY a little green book of writings and collected scraps from physics books and notations from conversations with people who, like me, I think, I hope?, are asking big questions about meaning and stuff. It’s big and crazy, super esoteric, and exactly the sort of thing you have to box yourself into a space for some time to investigate.

Except, play.

Can’t focus on the universe expanding because of yesterday and the other stuff. Playfulness and the idea of it.

Story, the chance of it, the being open and staying open and getting out of the box. Because wow. It’s starting to seem incredibly boring lately, on the internet in blogs, the real-life conversation is 95% dull, too. But maybe it’s just getting older? When you do, you bore easily, right? I should make a conversation salon, online, with others who are looking outside of usual routines to connect. I don’t mean smalltalk. I mean, real stuff.

Playfulness. What is it? Who embodies it? Why is it important? Questions, questions. Always seeking questions, and yet more questions.

The box that I wanted to go right into and sit and think for probably too long and not figure anything out. Objectively speaking, and is there anything objective, anyway?, the idea of thinking is already flawed. You can’t figure stuff out when you just isolate yourself from everything and try to do it.

There’s a Chinese saying that goes, ‘If you think too much you will box yourself into a corner from which you will not be able to come out.’ Hmmm. Easy to romanticize solitude and space, I guess.

Yeah, I’m guilty. You go to Rishikesh and you go to Shimla and you sit and look at mountains and sunrises and you get crazy inspired, but there is no one to tell it to, the emergence and transition, the shift and the story that is unfolding from inside. It is not even unfolding in a clear way.

You write it all down anyway, and publish it on the internet and it’s like, whoa, who cares and then you’re aware more than ever that you are alone, but you don’t want to be. You go for a year on the road in Asia and you start to realize it’s not about the time, or the space, that’s what everyone thinks you’re up to, just hanging out seeing everything and having your mind blown with amazing life-changing experiences. When really you just want chai and wifi and if you’re lucky, a sequence of serendipitous encounters with an intriguing set of conversations, link, link, not in chains but free-form circles, that don’t bind but rather free you from your oppressive ennui. ‘Cause really. Is this all there is? Giant miracle of coming into being in this universe, and this is it? Boredom?

UNBOUND. Can you design for that unbounded break? A peculiar, particular quality of space.

Space to belong. Space to be. To find out one’s way to a concentrated enchanting and mutually intriguing space for hearing, sharing, learning, and processing Ideas and Thoughts, as esoteric as they are, because this is the stuff that pops us out of mountains of boring, (note to self: read A. Huxley), cookie-cutter play by the rules status quo and beyond that, when we’re beyond that, the rest.

NOTEBOOKS APLENTY yet to be filled, like this little green notebook, halfway gone, but halfway hopeful, with stuff about consciousness and qualia and a lovely thing Einstein said about awe and wonder, the wonder of it all, the same stuff that the movie, ‘The Theory of Everything,’ had Stephen Hawking’s character conclude with. The wonder of it all, the mysteries of things, life and the cosmos and the whole crazy chance existence of us, us beings. You zoom out a whole lot and it starts to seem really weird that we have little quibbles with our friends, spouses, neighbors, the people at work. It seems trifling.

So much seems trifling when you are looking at the wide sky, the sheltering sky that we read about in Paul Bowles’ book, the desert and the skip of sands in the stormwaves, there was much to note there, in those pages, pages that began to come alive and out into the space of ennui and wonder, but mixed, like a melancholy that flows from Camus’ The Stranger. Gosh, it is hot. Just thinking about it makes me tired. Othering and belonging, playfulness and inclusivitiy. Topics for today, in the green notebook’s pages, blending with fragments of remembrances from yesterdays talks, chats, online and offline, weird how we are talking together now. Pencil. Keeping it open, light. Living in the space of greys. Whole volumes, lost somewhere in the drift of moving about, place to place and placelessly, with the hope of retracing steps one day, perhaps, when the time is ready, vivid, and ripe.

Einstein, again: ‘The only true knowledge is experience.’

Whatever on earth for are we driving towards the acquisition of data to stuff into our brains? It seems, again, trifling. Petty. I’m confused about this. The existence being such a miracle of chance and so on, chances are slim, they might say, but chances are really bizarrely slim, I’m confident, this alone I’m confident of, that the mere existence of a spinning together of evolution and atoms and organisms and carbon and some other things hit on a magic moment of turning into life.

Where did you come from, you ask the setting sun.

I am a part of all that I have met
, said Tennyson.

There is more. There is always more to the story of being, connecting to ourselves, to our colleagues, friends, lovers, acquaintances, children, elders, dead poets, and the people at work. To the ones we haven’t met yet, the rest, the beyond, the out there. There is more.

The question is, will we open up the lids of our boxes, just a touch, to have a peek.

Published in S. P. A. C. E.

Get honest conversations and connect with DK in S. P. A. C .E.