The Art of Being

I have told myself many times not to do this. At some time, perhaps soon, I will stop, having decided I was wrong to start. Writing is not natural. Speaking is not natural. These are nuanced forms of human interaction, and as such supremely artificial. I act in countless ways nonetheless for pleasure and profit, as we all do; why not then to express what and who I am?

For me to invent, declaim or even merely analyze publicly without a precise and certain context of expectations is to invite despair by demonstrating the craft and materials from which my very self has been created. If words are deeds, as Goethe wrote, and Wittgenstein, who will speak but actors in an endless play? Thus my trepidation.

I will try. Expectations can be built, after all, and even comfortably defined roles must be learned before anyone can take a bow for having played them well.

So much for introductions.