[...Men fall from you like rotten fruits, oh, let them perish, for thus they return to your root...]

Everybody has had one of "those" conversations; conversations that start out with a simple observation or inclination, and in the end become the hatching of a plan to save the world or the creation and conclusion of a revolutionary world-view. But soon after, the plan begins to appear less realistic to the parties involved, and enthusiasm peters away; or the idea seems significant, but perhaps beyond this world, so it is put aside while the "real" world is attended to. So an idea that was born out of the simplest of observations becomes not only more than itself, but more than reality can contain. Somewhere in the course of these dialogues, truth gets away from us.

This is how I feel about philosophy these days. We can say philosophy began with the pre-socratics, or we can perhaps say philosophy began when religion began (when did religion begin?) but really, we can't remember how the conversation came about. In any case, we all know that Plato got involved at some point and everybody got pretty excited by what he had to say.

So what's all this about? Well, I was thinking today about capacities. Not whether or not they exist, that is to say, whether or not people are born with a sort of natural capacity for something like math or music, but rather just that I know I could do certain things, but I choose not to. In this case, I was thinking of philosophy.

I know that I have the ability to understand and respond to many of the big scary complicated philosophers, and that it comes a little easier to me than it does to many others. At least I know that with time and some assistance from my superiors I could probably tackle Heidegger and Arendt and the like. I will not say Hegel, but perhaps at the end of it all I could grasp a portion of even Hegel. But just because I know I could do well in philosophy, and I could pride myself for sitting amongst the more intelligent and "dignified" of humans, I have no interest in it. Why? Well, I think it's because I studied philosophy out of a desire to find truth; because I actually care about the content of philosophy and not the presentation, not just the way in which Reason chose to arrange Reality this time.

So with that said, when I think of philosophy, especially the scarily intelligent moderns, I just think of a conversation that has got away from itself. They all must have read so much Aristotle, and whether or not they agree with anything he says, what is responding to Aristotle compared to contemplating one's own existence? Or better yet, what is contemplating existence compared to experiencing existence itself with the entirety of one's being, without excluding all but the rational and contemplative faculties? But still, when it comes to developing and sharing ideas, I'd rather "I wonder about Being..." over "Being is..." any day.

Though ideally I'd prefer...

[...in sympathy with the new joy of the plant world, ever pure, ever the same, where all things grieve and rejoice again in their time..."

I found myself downstairs with a mundane task, but noticed the sunlight. So I stood outside. I noticed the garden, so I went and envisioned the transformation of weeds and garbage to fresh chard and tomatoes. So I set to it.

The magician's wife, an odd elderly neighbour of mine, enthusiastically called across the street to me of the wonders of gardening. "Sometimes I wear gloves," she yelled, "but sometimes I just use my bare hands and let the dirt dig deep beneath my finger nails," and off she marched.

As batty as the magician's wife may be, she is of course not the only woman to be seen on my city block out in their yards with their trowels and their garden forks. There is indeed something archetypal about women and gardening, which is perhaps hard to believe when it is hidden by modernity and cliché. But nevertheless, I believe it is there.

The sowing of a seed: utter disbelief that it could grow to be a full plant within weeks. The creation of a garden: such immediate satisfaction because you can see the product of your labour. But you can only possess it as much as you can possess a child. Dressing, feeding and keeping it tidy; you can in part call it yours, but is it really? A composer creates music, but has he created sound? In the same way a woman creates a garden or a child, but at every moment she is aware that it is Nature, self-sufficient and all-consuming that is responsible for the creation. Nature created her, it works through her, and she interacts with it through her will. Who else but one who plants seeds and watches them grow knows that it is Nature that has allowed for such a creation, and that she is only responsible for arranging it: choosing what notes, played for how long and it what order.

[...brother in hands, held in the hands, of one million bending bones...]

I.

My brother Calum, who is only 24, has worked his way up to being better than most professional classical bass players in the 14 years he has been playing. I could go into detail about his various successes within the musical profession, but all that needs to be said is that he is one of those gifted genius types that are a parent's blessing and a sibling's curse.

But envy aside, his music has often unknowingly kept me company in the middle of the night as he has recited cello sonatas that he has learned to mentally transcribe. And might I mention that anyone who has ever lived in a house with a musician knows that music is more beautiful when it creeps through the walls and leaks into the room in which you are dwelling. He has also on occasion been found within the foliage of Pender Island, and to the neighbouring residents' delight, the forest has resonated with his music, carrying the far-stretching frequencies within miles of where him and his bass stood.

However, perhaps like many gifted people, playing double-bass is not actually his passion. Rather, it seems that at the moment his true love is sawing pieces of wood. Not for anything particularly--shall we say--grande; just sawing wood, down the middle, with a Japanese saw. At the moment he is disassembling an old bed frame, and then proceeding to saw the panels of wood down the middle to make two pieces of wood. Out of these pieces of wood he intends to make a box. The other day after an evening of sawing down the middle of pieces of wood, he wiped the sweat from his brow and grumbled triumphantly, "life is good." Ahhh.

II.

Now, I am just desperate to add in somewhere that among many of Calum's peculiarities, of which there are many, is his passionate hatred of acronyms. Acronyms such as "WWOOF," which stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, or as it's more commonly translated, Willing Workers on Organic Farms. The idea of a perfectly dignified organization naming themselves after the sound of a dog barking is just positively enraging to my brother. However I, thinking that passionately hating acronyms is such a delightful quirk, decided that if I should ever write a book of fiction, I would have to give one of my characters such a quirk. I've only ever decided to remember two characteristics for my potential future novel, and this is without question the better one.

[...the herb yielding seed...]

The computer lacks a certain romanticism which often makes me reluctant to use it as a medium of relation and expression. However, I do already tend to use it as a medium of relation and expression (or impression?). I seem to collect photographs and pictures of things I like which I come across, or poetry or song lyrics. I use facebook (a phenomenon, as vulgar as it is, which reveals aspects of the human psyche which are actually fascinating) to connect with people, be it through messaging a friend or through "lurking" through their photographs to see what they're up to. I have WWOOF Canada, The University of King's College, Banjo lessons and cookie recipes bookmarked on my computer, and it reflects bits about myself that really do make up me. My hotmail account has at least one email from just about everyone I care about, and many more whom I have communicated with that effect some aspect of my life. So indeed, quite a bit of me is already expressed in this medium.

Starting a blog does feel a little silly to me, probably because I am reminiscing on my days as a 13 year old girl writing in her online journal about who knows what, and probably because it doesn't feel as dignified as writing a book or starting an underground publication, but oh who cares. I enjoy writing, but I see little point in writing if no one will read it. Writing, along with everything, feels so essentially relational to me. So what a convenient way to share myself. People are so neat, so surely I must be kind of neat as well. I feel I have some things to share, and perhaps someone might find them interesting. At the very least, my Mum will. And I really quite like my Mum, so why not.