Monday, October 15

A miracle, in fact, means work

So maybe you hit a certain point in life, and you get kind of blindsided by the slightness, the sheer inconsequentiality, of everything you’ve ever accomplished.

Or maybe that’s not what happens to most people. Maybe most people are either building something they feel has got some real heft, or they just aren’t that interested in the question. It would certainly be easier to be disinterested.

Me, I am looking around, and I am thinking what exactly have I got to show for a decade and a half of being cognitively developed enough to string one word in front of another. (Or two function calls in a row, for that matter.) How different would it be if I made 80? What did I ever build while I knew how to swing a hammer? What type did I set, volumes bind, fences stretch, ditches dig?

I know it’s so much accumulation of dust, so much momentary sackcloth and ashes, at best. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair - all of that is pretty much a given. Probably it’s a fool who believes his work will last. But good Christ do I want to make something. To offer entropy a proper doomed resistance I guess: To feel like I moved in the world for a second or two. Like before all the nothing that comes I laid down something in the dirt, set the posts and leveled the frame and trued the joints.

I’d like to work like something could last.