It's All About Me; A Conversation Between Trees

Recently I went back through several of the shorts that I've written in order to feed my ego a bit, and I realized that I almost never, if at all, write about myself. When something I write relates to myself, it is by way of metaphor, from a third person perspective, or simply false. You as the reader are not treated to the intricacies of me as the writer; rather, you are subject to a series of manipulations that move you to some purported end. If you enjoy my work, then likely I desired for you to enjoy it. If you were confused and asked me what it meant, I was pleased at the question. If you felt for me or my characters, I expected the pity. My writing has always been for myself. By visiting my blog and my writing, you have given me pleasure and fed my ego.

But many others have written much and often with an end result of gain for many readers. I just today read an introduction to Dostoevsky's final novel, and in terms that could not be any loftier the man was praised for a spectrum of achievements topped with establishing himself as the very identity of Russia. A single man who in truth played no large role there was given equivalence to a land and people hundreds of years old. And through what? A collection of novels each portraying one not terribly outlandish tale of nearly ordinary people. But obviously something more than that lies within the text of nearly a thousand pages that woos and soothes so varied an audience.

Essentially, writing can be deeply enjoyable through the sharing of humanness. This sharing is perhaps more maskedly crafted in the thoughtful works of painters or musicians and the like, but all in all the appeal of art is in oneself, as a human being perceiving the interpretation of life in any form by another human being. When I read the odds and ends that I've created over the years, I realize that each and every work I have written under the incessant demands of my arrogance. I make no attempt to share my experiences with my humanness, nor do I hope that the reader understand some aspect of humanness. I merely ask for praise over my clever use of words and for the meaninglessly mysterious style of writing.

But some of you have in fact truly enjoyed work that I have written (or simply fooled me into believing this), so I am forced to wonder what actual appeal I have put down on the page. Was it that my deep understanding of life actually can instruct? Was it that my thoughtful vagueness actually motivates thought? Or (more likely) was it that my feeble attempts at greatness conjured up a sympathy for basic inadequacy in even those fields that we believe ourselves most competent?

For writing as far as I know requires not any mysterious insight nor dazzling diction, but rather an ability to convey via a slew of words the summation of various experiences from the most ecstatic to the most bleak in a way that any person who has had the least taste of life would be moved to shout with joy and weep with anguish. I wonder, am I capable of such an undertaking? What matters is not any qualifications of capability. That I desire to shout and weep alongside you is nearly enough. What else is of importance is my pen and paper, a dark room with a lit desk, and hours and days and weeks of time.

I want to write not for me, but for you and me together.

--

An oak and a maple stand together on a lonely green hill. The oak comments on the state of the weather. The maple agrees. The oak seems to shift in the light breeze, back and forth, unsure.

I'm with a girl at a table in the student center. I comment on the state of the weather. She agrees. I shift back and forth in my seat, perhaps to get comfortable.

The oak comments on the difficulty of drawing in water because of the elevation of the hill they are on. The maple replies that this has become increasingly frustrating with recent droughts and other trees seeding nearby. The oak seems to not respond, but then agrees.

I comment on how difficult it is juggle so many different regular responsibilities, and to do so during a busy first semester of senior year. She looks at me and replies that additional worries of what to do next year and undesired obligations to various groups only complicate the situation. I wonder where I am trying to go with this conversation, but there is nothing to do but agree.

The oak complains about the activities of various squirrels in its branches. The maple replies that it hasn't had any such problems. The oak remains silent again for a moment, then sustains that they aren't too much of a nuisance.

I mention that the various supervisors of groups that I act under are irresponsible and flawed. She turns her head and succinctly says that perhaps I should be helping instead of complaining. I don't want to argue with her, and so I concede.

The maple reminisces about the days when the two had just sprung up on the hill. The oak reminisces also, but attempts to maintain a semblance of satisfaction with growing on the hill. The maple waits.

She makes a remark about how time has really flown and how it seems just yesterday that the two of us arrived for a new beginning. I agree, but add in that things seem to have gone reasonably well. She is directly looking at me and nodding, but she does not see me; she is focused on something deep in the distance.

The maple is cut down eventually, or perhaps just dies. The oak continues to stand on the hill, wondering if the maple will return, or if the oak will stand alone for the rest of its days. The oak wonders if the maple was simply just visiting the hill and humoring it.

She checks the time and declares that she must leave for class. I agree. She stands to go and does so with a mere wave of the hand. I clearly wish her well.


I wish that I could write about magnets or combining tributaries, but trees serve here by sprouting, growing, and dying without ever moving any closer. The two of us, well, we are just trees.