I just found a sort of “journal” entry I wrote a long time ago. I haven’t seen this probably since I wrote it. Since it was written on loose leaf paper, I apparently just stuck it in between the pages of a journal I have and just now stumbled upon it again. I found some parts of it really funny and interesting, so I thought I’d record it here. My guess, based on my handwriting, is I probably wrote this in eighth grade or early high school. (And I wasn’t high when I wrote this. Promise.)
I was just thinking about how I work. Or how my mind does. At least in one sense… And I realize it is very symbolic. […] I realize thta language is very symbolic. It’s just symbols, written and uttered. Symbols. And we make these symbols what they are. They are not on their own. […] What I became aware of only right now was our use of symbols. I remember very distinctly when I experienced my first awareness of this in fifth grade. I remember sitting alone in my room on my bed which had a window next to it. Staring out the window, thinking. I had a moment while staring out that window at a tree when I thought, “why is a tree a tree? why is blue blue? why is orange orange?” I remember those exact things that went through my mind. I then turned my attention to the room I was in and I saw my lamp. “Why is a lamp a lamp?” My attention jumped back and forth from the tree to the lamp, and I thought, “A tree could be blue. A lamp could be a chair or a fan or…” I went on thinking like this, feeling free. To realize that a tree was only a “tree” because we called it that. It didn’t occur to me at the time, though, to go further. I was still thinking in terms of things I know. It didn’t occur to me that a tree could also be a helebedoo. Or a [insert symbol I drew here]. Or… nothing at all. That it could simply just BE, without me or you or any of us. And that it has been. There is the world where things naturally ARE, and there is our world, where things are something. I think of animals, and them not having a name for a tree. But as I write this I’m outside and I hear birds chirping and I wonder what those chirps mean. I don’t think they always just make noise for the hell of it, because they can. I may simply be communication, not expression as it is to us. And people from all over the world give things different meanings.
I guess I was destined to study anthropology. 🙂 And maybe I’m also a little loopy, too.