How can I be forgiven for abandoning a blog that helped me through a nightmare, Brexit? How can I delete posts that a handful of people have read? I owe you a lot for having dipped into a world where no man (or woman, or something else) had been before. A world full of viruses (well, one anyway), film reviews, and philosophical musings.
I’ve come back to reignite a passion to write that was never extinct. It’s the wood that makes it good, logs full of passion and serenity directed at a world full of indifference and violence.
An example of what I mean. This unread blog has to be protected from malware and multiple attacks coming from countries like Russia, Russia, Russia, and Russia. Yes, Senior Putin, I’ve not only installed a sophisticated firewall, but have also changed my password that’s now 4321 instead of 1234. It took me a few days to remember it because of the complexity of a sequence of numbers that, by itself, doesn’t require remembering.
What’s the point of having a blog that no one reads? Well, what’s the point of anything? All I know is that the power of writing overrides all forms of logic. Written words follow each other in a preordained sequence. Sentences will outlive readers. The meaning of the text lies outside the text, Derrida says. So take a trip to the moon and, just maybe, you’ll understand what I’m trying to say.
But there’s a more serious side to why I want to continue writing. When I die, I want my son to have some written recollection of my passion for an ethical world that will never exist. I want him to enjoy my very British sense of humour that dates from Morecambe and Wise, Tommy Cooper, and so many others who lit up my life in the 70s. My thoughts are so much better on paper than lost in my mind. I make jokes that aren’t always mine (backing a horse at twenty to one; the horse crosses the finishing line at half-past three comes to mind). My son laughs at what he describes as “Brexit humour”. Bless him.
An operation may control or even cure my incurable disease that begins with a C. Fifteen months ago, my life changed. My entire perception of reality changed. That’s when the philosophers came to my rescue. As Montaigne said: “philosopher, c’est apprendre à mourir” (to be a philosopher is to learn how to die). But I’m not there yet.
I love reading philosophical texts, and when I stop working in a few weeks time, I will dig into all the books that are silently collecting dust on bookshelves that aren’t even straight. But who cares about “straightness”?
So, yes, I’m back. Alive and kicking, I will share my ups-and-downs with philosophers whose ideas resonate in my soul. Starting with the ancient Greeks.
Parmenides is a good start. If only I could understand what the hell he was talking about.
(To be continued).