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The mind reels, the mind fails, the mind desires unwelcome outcomes. The mind must ever be the servant of the will and yet? It sure don’t seem like it goes that way does it?
The Will is intention and desire and self, you could say it’s seated in the mind but I tend to disagree, I don’t offer an alternative, I just disagree. The Will is fragile and can’t be supported once it’s achieved its ends. It wishes for things but is made to wait, languishing – that’s what’s bad for the will, being frustrated by waiting, by time, by distance and the intervening efforts required between wanting something and having something done. It’s in your will to write a book, in your will to paint a picture, to find a job, to do a job, and it’s the mind that wanders while these things are being accomplished. It’s the mind that listens to physiology and succumbs to strange demands, weird pulls and bad decisions. The Will is frustrated because it is boundless but tied to a mind. The mind, in this construction, is the physiological intellect.
I don’t always think this, but what does that mean? That I don’t really think this or that depending on physiological circumstances I would always think this? Conundrums.
Turning away from that though – there is the life that’s accomplished in the intervening time, life occurring without the application of Will – the life that happens to you when your attention is elsewhere. This is a comfortable state for me, being rather willful as people go. It’s fine to sleep through days while thoughts of far off, even imaginary places spring up.
I remember, at a party once, I was drunk and getting drunker, I was drunk. I sat at the bar with a girl I didn’t know, she wasn’t interesting so I had to be extra interesting. Do you know how that goes? I took the conversation where I wanted it to go – explained how it is – you flex the will, imagination, you think – the telephone poles become the Baobab – they become trees sprouting from the ground, breaking pavement, the lines are vines, the asphalt is a litter of flower petals, the cars are elephants, mammoths. You can will physiology into submission, see what you want. Focus the mind on what you want to see, and close your eyes concentrating, open them – and you see. The girl drove me home but we didn’t kiss. I see her once in a while, I don’t care about talking to her now.
Sometimes people can’t learn. Because it’s not obvious what can be known.
In the meantime, life is lived, while you dream the dreams you decide to dream. There are those moments, where there’s another person who appears, who you want to appear and then the world snaps into itself – no amount of force or insistence will shape it back to your fantasy – instead you accept the real because you need to share the real with someone.
My person, the roots to my particular tree, of course, is Agatha – who I’d missed. We spent our time together, wonderfully. Pancakes and shoulder-rides and the war of Jam vs. Jelly while we wait on our Pancakes. “Then, Everything changed, when the Jam nation attacked.” The sweetener packet says to us. “But I believe the Creamer can save the world.”
Flirt at the bookstore, drawings on the dinnertable. We are busy and happy and the best company either of us could want. It’s so strange anymore- that I live for the weekends, for the good time.
I wonder if I could have it every day – so many people do. They have wives, girlfriends – every day, and their kids every day. I’ve got solitude until the weekend.
Well – not solitude, but my friend comes over- who I used to date till I didn’t want to. She makes fun of me about the Plainswoman – I show her what I’m working on and she scolds me: “Of course, you’re the worst possible boyfriend, that’s why you have to get all caught up in these crafts based romances with women you never actually see.”
I kick something on the floor, look at my feet, sidelong glance and a smile – “So?”
The weeks go by, Monday-Friday and the Will is subsumed by other wills, the car drives itself. Come the weekend and life is focus, laser-sharp. That’s what’s happening. That’s who I am now.
The Will is intention and desire and self, you could say it’s seated in the mind but I tend to disagree, I don’t offer an alternative, I just disagree. The Will is fragile and can’t be supported once it’s achieved its ends. It wishes for things but is made to wait, languishing – that’s what’s bad for the will, being frustrated by waiting, by time, by distance and the intervening efforts required between wanting something and having something done. It’s in your will to write a book, in your will to paint a picture, to find a job, to do a job, and it’s the mind that wanders while these things are being accomplished. It’s the mind that listens to physiology and succumbs to strange demands, weird pulls and bad decisions. The Will is frustrated because it is boundless but tied to a mind. The mind, in this construction, is the physiological intellect.
I don’t always think this, but what does that mean? That I don’t really think this or that depending on physiological circumstances I would always think this? Conundrums.
Turning away from that though – there is the life that’s accomplished in the intervening time, life occurring without the application of Will – the life that happens to you when your attention is elsewhere. This is a comfortable state for me, being rather willful as people go. It’s fine to sleep through days while thoughts of far off, even imaginary places spring up.
I remember, at a party once, I was drunk and getting drunker, I was drunk. I sat at the bar with a girl I didn’t know, she wasn’t interesting so I had to be extra interesting. Do you know how that goes? I took the conversation where I wanted it to go – explained how it is – you flex the will, imagination, you think – the telephone poles become the Baobab – they become trees sprouting from the ground, breaking pavement, the lines are vines, the asphalt is a litter of flower petals, the cars are elephants, mammoths. You can will physiology into submission, see what you want. Focus the mind on what you want to see, and close your eyes concentrating, open them – and you see. The girl drove me home but we didn’t kiss. I see her once in a while, I don’t care about talking to her now.
Sometimes people can’t learn. Because it’s not obvious what can be known.
In the meantime, life is lived, while you dream the dreams you decide to dream. There are those moments, where there’s another person who appears, who you want to appear and then the world snaps into itself – no amount of force or insistence will shape it back to your fantasy – instead you accept the real because you need to share the real with someone.
My person, the roots to my particular tree, of course, is Agatha – who I’d missed. We spent our time together, wonderfully. Pancakes and shoulder-rides and the war of Jam vs. Jelly while we wait on our Pancakes. “Then, Everything changed, when the Jam nation attacked.” The sweetener packet says to us. “But I believe the Creamer can save the world.”
Flirt at the bookstore, drawings on the dinnertable. We are busy and happy and the best company either of us could want. It’s so strange anymore- that I live for the weekends, for the good time.
I wonder if I could have it every day – so many people do. They have wives, girlfriends – every day, and their kids every day. I’ve got solitude until the weekend.
Well – not solitude, but my friend comes over- who I used to date till I didn’t want to. She makes fun of me about the Plainswoman – I show her what I’m working on and she scolds me: “Of course, you’re the worst possible boyfriend, that’s why you have to get all caught up in these crafts based romances with women you never actually see.”
I kick something on the floor, look at my feet, sidelong glance and a smile – “So?”
The weeks go by, Monday-Friday and the Will is subsumed by other wills, the car drives itself. Come the weekend and life is focus, laser-sharp. That’s what’s happening. That’s who I am now.
