Pursuing praxis

As far as purpose goes… contradictory as I might sound, I’m only secondarily concerned with what to do professionally. I’m right now caught up in circles and lines, ends-in-self and means-to-ends, with identifying the uniting concept of my life and specifying from there. But even that may be the wrong method. I have a lot of particulars, and I’m trying to deduce the general - and it’s occured to me that maybe I have to induct (induce?) the general, and then deduce the particulars. For once in my life I need to stand on top of the mountain and look down, instead of always looking up - a momentary vantage point for life-long guidance.

Once I name what it is I’m seeking - and I think I must name it, in the sense of knowing it so singlularly, personally, and virtually ostensively, that a name both suffices and suggests all - I think issues of resources and occupation and all the other logistics will be easy by comparison. That’s my native arena, if not the one I love, and I see well enough outside the box to get along on homemade wings.

On my off days I want to hoard my theory and pursue the praxis akin to mucking horse stalls and mowing grass and shelving books. I’m useful for many things where my brain is mine alone. I am not primarily concerned with contributing, gifting, or offering, though it flows naturally in the right circumstances, and in Atlantis I would thrive on such.

But yes, I long to produce, to create a thing which I call mine and trade with my name on it, something of which I am truly proud. Those things I currently feel that I own and which have my signature in the corner, are not good enough to use in trade, and those things I can sell, I am not wedded to. I want to make the thing that is my means, yet no matter how I trade it away, is as inextricable to me as my own skin.

Do I reach for the impossible? A few years ago I would have trembled before such a possibility - that I was destined, by my ambition, to fail and suffer and be futile. In work, in love, in play. It’s all the same, like two sides and an edge of a coin. But now I unhesitatingly want the goldmine, and I’m patient and clever enough to want, to do, to wait - to get. And if solitude is the price to pay for losing the race - it’s not such a bad price to pay, when it was my choice and my desire in the first place, and I was never entitled to anything. Nor am.

And then sometimes I realize how horribly self-centered I must sound - be - and laugh: at the impression, the truth, the falsity, and the triviality of the very thought. I look in, in order to better look out, because out is where I want to be - but well and truly, and not by fiat or arbitrary will.