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waiting...waiting...
where are you?
Created on 2003-12-12 20:13:26 (#1540142), last updated 2007-01-13
245 comments received, 276 comments posted
Basic Account [Gift]
74 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 3 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 4 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | gzee_ah |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 08-09 |
| Location: | Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States |
| Website: | dreams & illusions |
BioBeer is the answer.
I don't remember the question.
You don't know who I am.
No matter what I write here.
You can never know who I am.
No matter what I write anywhere.
No one knows anyone, really.
How do I know this? I don't know.
So, who am I? I thought I knew the answer to this deceptively simple question. But I guess I don't. No matter what I say, how I define myself, it really isn't true. (For anyone). We can give specific details of our lives, and they are true enough, though relatively meaningless; more a matter of simple fact than essence. A bio is supposed to reveal something essential about oneself. Where we have lived, what we have done, even what we believe is little more than superficial information. Our central reality is a less differentiated mass of feeling, most of which we hide away inside. We can try to reveal it in words, and to some extent we may succeed; but we never get to the true essence, the soft, mushy center--not with words. I am a soft, mushy center, a BIOlogy of meaning, which is difficult enough to try to know myself, let alone trying to communicate it. Instead of attempting to explain this essential nature, I could have written a simple bare-boned history here. But it wouldn't have been as true.
I don't remember the question.
You don't know who I am.
No matter what I write here.
You can never know who I am.
No matter what I write anywhere.
No one knows anyone, really.
How do I know this? I don't know.
So, who am I? I thought I knew the answer to this deceptively simple question. But I guess I don't. No matter what I say, how I define myself, it really isn't true. (For anyone). We can give specific details of our lives, and they are true enough, though relatively meaningless; more a matter of simple fact than essence. A bio is supposed to reveal something essential about oneself. Where we have lived, what we have done, even what we believe is little more than superficial information. Our central reality is a less differentiated mass of feeling, most of which we hide away inside. We can try to reveal it in words, and to some extent we may succeed; but we never get to the true essence, the soft, mushy center--not with words. I am a soft, mushy center, a BIOlogy of meaning, which is difficult enough to try to know myself, let alone trying to communicate it. Instead of attempting to explain this essential nature, I could have written a simple bare-boned history here. But it wouldn't have been as true.
ConnectInterests (12):
astronomy, chemistry, cosmology, herbalism, particle physics, phenomenology, postmodernism, psychology, reading, teleology, writing, zymurgy
External Services:
 | gzee_ah@livejournal.com |
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