Every once in a while I think, perhaps I should blog about deeper, more meaningful subjects: politics, religion, the human condition--those weighty subjects over which people wear themselves out and kill each other.
Then I read other people's blogs--and editorial columns, which are, after all, the same product in different mediums--and pretty soon my eyes glaze over and my head starts to ache and I think, Hasn't this all been said before?
My mom lent me this book to read: Rumours of Another World, by Philip Yancey. As some of you may know, my parents got born again about five years ago and they went from being calm, rational, spiritual, loving and generous people who understood the world and its limits to hyper, shrill, religious, intolerent and artificially cheerful people who are racing toward Doomsday as fast as they can and flogging the rest of us to hurry up.
Anyway. I read the first couple chapters of Rumors and there are some pretty deep quotes in there. Yancy borrows heavily from the great artists and writers of the last twenty centuries, so he's bound to have pirated some good material. But I'm reading it and going, Yeah...hasn't this all been said before? In fact, didn't I see this on somebody's blog last week?
I don't think I'm being cynical. I just think we're begging the questions. Love and death and God and Art and yadda yadda freakin' yadda. These things exist. We all know they do. (Well, some people quibble on the God point, but let's keep moving.) Why do we--you--they--spend so much time splitting hairs over definitions?
I had dinner with Crystal last night. Bright girl. Not very well-read, but always open to learning and discussion. She asked me some minor question about religion and I said I didn't like to talk about religion because everyone either wanted to prove a point or wanted me to prove something to them.
Hell, I was eighteen years old when I realized you can't change another person's mind. And all these bloggers do is surround themselves with like-minded folks who will feed into their own little illusion of reality. If that's not close-mindedness I don't know what is.
So I guess I'll just keep reflecting on my little version of reality--yummy food, sumptuous silk, stories to tell and read.
I figure love and death and God and art will come get me when they need me.