21 March 2011

March 22, 2011

I was thinking yesterday about how many things are said that don’t need to be said, how many things are written that don’t need to be written. We don’t need another essay about how magical Christmas is. We get it already.

I think everyone has the ability to say something worth saying, but they have to dig, dig, dig for it. It could take years.

A book I’m reading said that security is always false, insecurity is always true. I stared at the sentence for a long time before disagreeing with it.

There’s a documentary on Netflix about the meaning of life. It’s called the Nature of Existence. This guy goes around to people of all different backgrounds and religions and asks them what’s important, what’s true, what the point is. I thought it would be interesting, eye opening or something, but I turned it off halfway through. It reminded me of an Andy Warhol painting: repetition until a thing becomes meaningless. I just stopped giving a damn about what any of those people thought.

I remember watching the Jesus Film in high school and thinking, “I probably wouldn’t be friends with that guy.” Even then I knew that meant something.

And the thing is, there’s just too much information, too much material. At some point we have to chose an interpreter, a distiller, a compiler. We have to let somebody be our theology guy, our literature guy, our music guy. We just don’t have time to go through it all by ourselves.

I was reading on a bench outside my office when one of the maintenance guys said he needed to fix something and would I mind moving. I sat one bench over. I wanted to stay close, to listen to him work. I wanted to hear the chisel against the metal, the sand paper against the rust. It almost put me to sleep, it was so relaxing.


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