Fallor Ergo Sum

Whatever precautions you take so the photograph will look like this or that, there comes a moment when the photograph surprises you. It is the other's gaze that wins out and decides.
Jacques Derrida

I've often said I reserve the right to be wrong, an escape hatch, perhaps, for being careless with my words at times. Recently I've had a lapse of faith in my reasons for writing. Why do I do this? I blog rather than keep a private journal because the possibility, not the requirement, of a reader, I hope, will keep me honest, willing to consider an alternative view--willing, in short, to be wrong. Jacques Derrida is credited for saying that every reading is a misreading--that is to say, whatever precaution I take so this blog will sound like this or that, there comes a moment when the words surprise me. It is the other's (mis)reading that wins out and decides. Well, that's an entirely new aspect of public writing that caught me off guard. It shouldn't have, probably, because on some level I know how difficult authentic communication is. I've participated in plenty of what I call "parallel universe" conversations with other people. We go along talking and it seems we either agree or disagree but know what it is we agree or disagree on, and then my partner in repartee makes a comment that reveals to me we, neither of us, have heard what the other was truly saying. SHOCK! Waste of time? Maybe not. Maybe the value is simply in the recognition and the reattempt.

Recognizing this recently in terms of blogging gave me a case of virtual laryngitis. I lost my voice. I began thinking about Zen Buddhists (other Buddhists, too, maybe) or philosophical yogis who take vows of silence. It's possible that keeping our mouths shut is truly the only way to be honest, to avoid misinterpretation. But where's the fun in that, right? Besides, someone is bound to take silence the wrong way, too. Yesterday an acquaintance of mine posted this TED Conference clip on Facebook and voila! I'm cured. Not without some trepidation, mind you, I return to clicking away my perceptions on this keyboard wondering who will read it and why. Kathryn Schulz says early on in this talk, "The single greatest moral, intellectual leap you can make is to admit you might be wrong." I agree. This single concept has been the seed center of my philosophical/spiritual/whatever perspective for more years than I can remember. I might be wrong. I don't know.

Believe me, this does not give me a sense of moral superiority. (Do I pity the fools who don't get it? Maybe. OK, so at times it does give me a sense of moral superiority. Don't worry, though, I also anticipate a moment in the near future when this rug will be pulled out from under me and I'll be sitting on the ground rubbing my bruised ass while watching stars and birds encircle my head. I won't be  feeling so damn morally superior then.)   In terms of this little blog project, this exercise in expression is more an endeavor at affective creativity than an intellectually rigorous invitation to debate. I really don't mind when someone disagrees with me philosophically, and I'm not too invested in winning a battle of right ideas. However, where I do get stuck is on feeling that when I attempt to strike a certain emotional chord that it will resonate with all people in all times exactly the way it resonated with me. There's my Achilles' heel. I can quote Ira Glass via Kathryn Shulz with ironic experience that my intention when writing was that "this one thing was going to happen, and something else happened instead."

I may be wrong here, but I think the crux of what Derrida says is that the artist or even mere instigator of the conversation is not the creator of the meaning. There is no such thing as intellectual property, despite copyright laws and patent offices. Now I'll be pulling in too many disparate sources with my next leap, but bear with me. This connects for me with the Buddhist idea of emptiness. No form. Even our perspectives of the tangible world are just perspectives--open to interpretation, seen differently from another angle. That's a daunting thought, isn't it, to recognize this illusion that we've been standing on solid ground, that the world may not be, in fact, probably is not what we thought it was? But it is only when I recognize this--never when I'm stuck in feeling safe and right--that "the world turns around and astonishes" me.

I'll end this post with a quote from Shulz, in case you've been pressed for time and couldn't listen to her entire talk, or alternatively were so enthralled with my writing you didn't want to interrupt it by clicking the hyperlink:

"If you really want to rediscover wonder, step outside of that tiny, terrified space of rightness and look around at each other, and look out at the vastness and complexity and mystery of the universe, and be able to say, 'Wow. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong.'"