On the influence and bearings we all carry around
There's a white screen waiting to be filled every time I sit down to write. A "tabula rasa" that will accept all that is thrown at it, never questioning me or my motives. Those motives, as I've tried to convey before and intend to keep trying, are still very unclear to me. Whatever they may be, a person is not like a screen waiting to be filled, but that does happen all the time. As a fallible human being, my own life is a short story of working with what was given to me, and - then again - moulding it and folding it into whatever direction I chose.
The concept of a tabula rasa, a white canvas, on which we simply draw upon is present not only in Fine Arts or Literature, but also in psychology. That's what an infant is seen as in some schools of thought: a white canvas that will be drawn upon by society. I believe the focus on this concept can't be stressed as much these days, since now we have DNA and all sorts of science taking up the space that once belonged to Philosophy and then to Sociology.
Still, as any genius in the past and all my fellow bloggers around the globe, I always sit and stare at the blank page for several minutes before I start writing. It would be that much easier to write, had I a definite ulterior motive pushing me here. But I don't, and I don't expect to move crowds with a small post in the sea of information out there. There's no point to my writing, as there's also no point directly being made in what I write. That's probably why I sometimes I write for myself, rather than for others. At times, I believed it would bring order into chaos. At times, it seemed I could give chaos more definite contours somehow. Even now, I have this clear feeling in the back of my head that I'm writing in order to verbalize something that's been hovering around awaiting for me to give it shape, rhythm, names and relationships to the rest of my visible world.
As I go about my daily life, I get written on all the time. It's somewhat tiring sometimes, but it does get better with age, somehow. I mean, the first word stuck on anyone's forehead is "son" or "daughter". And I can't lie or hide the fact that those two people, my mother and my father, did write a LOT of what I came to be. Which is not to say I didn't turn it around on them to an extent.
Maybe there's an elephant on this last paragraph, so I will state it's name clearly before moving on. This elephant is: I feel very bad about the fact that most of my career choices weren't made by me.
That last sentence can be rephrased in over a hundred ways and several different languages but it still hurts me when I say it. Me, the white sheet of paper, going through life with someone else's book written on me.
But this "tabula rasa", a good boy as it may be, did turn the situation around. Sometimes, to make the best of a situation can mean so much more than just remaining unscathed.
The concept of a tabula rasa, a white canvas, on which we simply draw upon is present not only in Fine Arts or Literature, but also in psychology. That's what an infant is seen as in some schools of thought: a white canvas that will be drawn upon by society. I believe the focus on this concept can't be stressed as much these days, since now we have DNA and all sorts of science taking up the space that once belonged to Philosophy and then to Sociology.
Still, as any genius in the past and all my fellow bloggers around the globe, I always sit and stare at the blank page for several minutes before I start writing. It would be that much easier to write, had I a definite ulterior motive pushing me here. But I don't, and I don't expect to move crowds with a small post in the sea of information out there. There's no point to my writing, as there's also no point directly being made in what I write. That's probably why I sometimes I write for myself, rather than for others. At times, I believed it would bring order into chaos. At times, it seemed I could give chaos more definite contours somehow. Even now, I have this clear feeling in the back of my head that I'm writing in order to verbalize something that's been hovering around awaiting for me to give it shape, rhythm, names and relationships to the rest of my visible world.
As I go about my daily life, I get written on all the time. It's somewhat tiring sometimes, but it does get better with age, somehow. I mean, the first word stuck on anyone's forehead is "son" or "daughter". And I can't lie or hide the fact that those two people, my mother and my father, did write a LOT of what I came to be. Which is not to say I didn't turn it around on them to an extent.
Maybe there's an elephant on this last paragraph, so I will state it's name clearly before moving on. This elephant is: I feel very bad about the fact that most of my career choices weren't made by me.
That last sentence can be rephrased in over a hundred ways and several different languages but it still hurts me when I say it. Me, the white sheet of paper, going through life with someone else's book written on me.
But this "tabula rasa", a good boy as it may be, did turn the situation around. Sometimes, to make the best of a situation can mean so much more than just remaining unscathed.
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