Everything is categorized.

You see, this is why I cannot keep a blog.  I start one and, without fail, wake up the next morning forgetting that I ever started it.  Well, forget isn’t the right word.  I remember that I have one and even think about writing but something always comes up.  Usually it is something important that involves saving the world.  Lately it has been sleeping.  This is my favorite summer-time activity.  It is my favorite activity because I don’t like the heat and, let me tell you, it has been warm.

I am trying to find pictures from which to create a drawing for my next tattoo.  I have been attached to Google’s and Yahoo’s Image Searches for the past few days.  I keep finding random pictures and save them with a name that is approperiate to what part I like in the photo.  Needless to say, my Pictures folder is now full of arbitrary photographs labeled “Hand” or “Arm” or “Squinting Eyes.”  Baseball players named Posture.  Children named Shadow.  Even a tourist group called Angle of Heads.

Though is this so strange?  I turn from my computer to my mind and find emotion named Love.  Intellectual musings named Philosophy.  And a whole slew of experiences categorized as Happiness.  Like the photographs, these categories contain much more than their titles suggest.  Personal narritives abound.  And, like the photographs, their external representations will never do them justice.  Photographs are our attempt to freeze, to lock in and save forever a moment that exists only in the past.  No matter how detailed the photograph, there will always be something missing.  There is no living personality, no living emotion but merely our recollection of these.  This is similar to how our language works, I think.  No matter how hard we try, concepts of emotion–love and happiness, anger and regret–are not something that we can explain to someone else.  Saying “I love you” may mean something to you but something completely different to the person who you speak those words to.  This is true for everything in our existence that is based upon personal experience.  The best we can do is hope that the person we are telling these things to have a similar experience as we do.  It goes back to that fun philosophical mind-fuck that is a favorite in college, “How do you know that my green is your green?”  With the limits of a language based upon categorizing and compartmentalization, the best we can do when our language fails is hope.  That is, if hope means the same to you as it does to me.

How are we ever expected to know the intricacies of our love if our love doesn’t mean the same thing?


~ by sisypheanfeat on 22 July, 2008.

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