vanity, thy name is human

current fixations:

lately i’ve been thinking about offering a life update, but i’m torn because this isn’t that kind of blog. the kind of blog this is aims to rebel against our image-saturated culture that insists on appealing to the short-attention-span-holding masses easily satisfied by junk media, 260-character tweets, photos of delectable breakfasts, tangerine sunrises and leather-bound classics and 17-second video clips. rebel by positing that a human being is composed of much more than portrayed and received pixelated images on the screen. that we are, more important that what is seen, a people that have thoughts, emotions, and eternity-deep complexities that we cannot understand nor are unable to unravel in a lifetime. that a picture paints a thousand words, yes, but thousands of words bursting from a complicated heart and mind that cannot be fully understood except by its Creator leave behind, so i would hope, a legacy.

all that to say, my life update is my current fixations enumerated above. from there i would think that you can grasp--albeit not very fully, i’m sure—or at least take an educated guess as to what i’ve been thinking about lately, what my heart has been immersed in, what i am currently entertained by and where i’ve been finding my joy.

beyond that, i got nothin'.

well...tech shabbat starts soon. and boy, do i need it.

Comments

Ya Hey

this is the kind of beauty i always aspire to translate to my fiction: this cover made me stop and notice the following lyrics as if it's the first time i'm hearing it: all the cameras and files all the paranoid styles all the tension and fear of a secret career and i can't help but feel that You see the mistakes but You let it go it hits me in a new way. "all the tension and fear of a secret career": how often i longed to just obey and finish my book already and query agents and take the plunge, jump into the river of doubt, trust God, let go . how it all feels so secret, this career that's yet to actually be born, held hostage by fear of failure, dependence on self, lack of trust in God's plans. this song is honestly so beautiful (and the cover even more so). it is the bare confession of a band in the midst of an almost existential crisis attempting to unravel the threads of a complex God who will not reveal Himself to the faithless, t

on being an unknown author...

...just remember that the famous reclusive writer j.d. salinger would've envied your anonymity. that thomas pynchon (of V. , The Crying of Lot 49 and Gravity's Rainbow) is probably still in hiding to protect his. the appeal of self-glorification by way of discussing the minutiae of your daily life that is prevalent in our culture remains a mystery for many authors whose only desire is to write without their own lives being eviscerated. in the words of salinger again: "I'm tired of being collared in elevators, stopped on the street, and of interlopers on my private property. I've made my position clear for 30 years. I want to be left alone, absolutely. Why can't my life be my own?" see, we make a grave mistake when we obsessively (key word!) identify with the owners of the content we consume and think we are One with Them and wish we could call them up after consuming their work. for one thing, in religious circles, that's called idolatry punishable

free

it's uncomfortable how quickly the heart can plunge into self-doubt at the mere presence of greatness. even trying to write out the thoughts in my head at the moment has me questioning the intention behind every word, and i cannot stand how self-limiting self-doubt is. being afraid of being judged and once judged being afraid of never being good enough and in turn we curl back into our carapace (hello, new word i just learned today), CTRL-T to a new tab to double-check every word used was used correctly just in case somebody actually comes across this little corner of the internet and judges you for the incorrect use of carapace and it interrupts the very stream-of-consciousness style you're trying to achieve by simply writing out the contents of your consciousness without thinking about it, no editing, kerouac-style, and achieving nothing but self-deception because you know deep down inside that none of this is off the cuff and everything was somehow, subconsciously, premedit

prose & praise

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