Blab/Think
Blabbing. I have no problem with talking, even talking a great deal. In fact, the only reason why I feel any discomfort at all when I realize that I have been talking "forever" or that I've "dominated" a conversation is because I've been told that it: (1) can make others feel "less than" or remind them that they are timid, and (2) people will think less of me. And honestly, I feel comfortable with this situation. As I see it, my natural instinct is to commune, but I have a healthy balance between altruistic concern for others and vanity that curbs my enthusiasm for it.
Some people feel totally in tune with their surroundings when they silently observe. Some may even argue that listening, being passive, is the only way to commune with a particular setting. This admonishment seems somewhat obvious to me as nonsense, simply effective revenge by passive aggressives. Proof of this, not definitive, merely circumstantial, is that such prescriptions are reserved for art museums, "nature", and counseling. I narrow in on these as proof of the limitations of the irritating preaching of silence, because I agree that there are settings in which it is better to listen, than to speak. Theater, for example. When your best friend, or anyone really, is crying about some personal pain. Or, when riding an elevator. And certainly, I agree that you must at some point shut up in order to listen or pay careful attention. It does no good to blab your way through a nature walk. You'll miss the all the quiet critters and flora.
My problem with the philosophy that depth can only occur in silence is that it misses the magical, organizational quality of communication. To communicate means that you have to classify and organize, build up a new thoughts on the foundation of previously communicated ones. It requires intellectual discipline.
So, while an art museum is beautiful, inspiring, and affirming (in that it reminds you how sophisticated you must be because you went to a liberal arts school), it is sublime when you spout off about your thoughts on the significance of a work. Doing it loud enough for someone more knowledgeable to overhear, but not enough to disturb everyone else, is the best strategy. Sharing your ignorance, and your audacious enthusiasm to learn, should please everyone that overhears. Some will feel better than you, and the real gems in the crowd will find your enthusiasm infectious. And if you're lucky, some member of the latter club will offer you an unsolicited fact or vignette about the work, or your thought processes.
Even nature must be talked about. My enthusiasm for identifying random weeds in ditches, fields, the side of roads, etc. depends upon my enthusiasm for sharing the information. The most exciting thing is to talk with someone about some ignored little wildflower, a "weed", whether about the actual taxonomy, its medicinal properties, whether its edible or poisonous, or to wax philosophical about nature, the existential reality of weeds v. that of "cultivated" plants, etc., etc. Talking is sort of knowledge in motion. It's fluid, unpolished, raw, and, importantly, it's impossible to remember what was said. Relying on the spoken word, when not recorded, relieves a lot of tension, loosens peoples minds. There's no worry that someone can alter your words later, or perhaps, that you'll be forced to change what you remember someone said. (The written word can create an unfortunate intractability in thinking, after all.)
Today's rule: not to test the limits of the value of blabbing.
Some people feel totally in tune with their surroundings when they silently observe. Some may even argue that listening, being passive, is the only way to commune with a particular setting. This admonishment seems somewhat obvious to me as nonsense, simply effective revenge by passive aggressives. Proof of this, not definitive, merely circumstantial, is that such prescriptions are reserved for art museums, "nature", and counseling. I narrow in on these as proof of the limitations of the irritating preaching of silence, because I agree that there are settings in which it is better to listen, than to speak. Theater, for example. When your best friend, or anyone really, is crying about some personal pain. Or, when riding an elevator. And certainly, I agree that you must at some point shut up in order to listen or pay careful attention. It does no good to blab your way through a nature walk. You'll miss the all the quiet critters and flora.
My problem with the philosophy that depth can only occur in silence is that it misses the magical, organizational quality of communication. To communicate means that you have to classify and organize, build up a new thoughts on the foundation of previously communicated ones. It requires intellectual discipline.
So, while an art museum is beautiful, inspiring, and affirming (in that it reminds you how sophisticated you must be because you went to a liberal arts school), it is sublime when you spout off about your thoughts on the significance of a work. Doing it loud enough for someone more knowledgeable to overhear, but not enough to disturb everyone else, is the best strategy. Sharing your ignorance, and your audacious enthusiasm to learn, should please everyone that overhears. Some will feel better than you, and the real gems in the crowd will find your enthusiasm infectious. And if you're lucky, some member of the latter club will offer you an unsolicited fact or vignette about the work, or your thought processes.
Even nature must be talked about. My enthusiasm for identifying random weeds in ditches, fields, the side of roads, etc. depends upon my enthusiasm for sharing the information. The most exciting thing is to talk with someone about some ignored little wildflower, a "weed", whether about the actual taxonomy, its medicinal properties, whether its edible or poisonous, or to wax philosophical about nature, the existential reality of weeds v. that of "cultivated" plants, etc., etc. Talking is sort of knowledge in motion. It's fluid, unpolished, raw, and, importantly, it's impossible to remember what was said. Relying on the spoken word, when not recorded, relieves a lot of tension, loosens peoples minds. There's no worry that someone can alter your words later, or perhaps, that you'll be forced to change what you remember someone said. (The written word can create an unfortunate intractability in thinking, after all.)
Today's rule: not to test the limits of the value of blabbing.
posted by Michael at
3:31 PM
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