“Wow, that’s almost four thousand days in a row, a missive a day – where do you get your ideas?”
I pause, stumped. My friend is being friendly, but the question is all wrong. Now, though, is no moment for a meditation on ideation – our entree will be here any minute. Besides, my friend was just making conversation; any answer would suffice, as long as accompanied by a modest shrug. To further complicate matters, I don’t know the answer, not really. So I punt: “Oh, everywhere and nowhere. How are the kids?”
Language treats an idea as a thing, a noun, which one possesses. The arrival of an “idea” in one’s consciousness we depict as an event: “Eureka!” – “Holy-moly!” – a lightbulb lighting. Some ideas are like that – break-throughs – “the nickel drops” – “Oh, I get it!” Saul had such an idea on his road to Damascus, I when I announced (to myself): “Jane’s the one.”
Most ideas, in my experience, do not barrel into us with the force of revelation. One looks – and sees – and looks again – and sees more. One can look in any direction. Every observation differs, if only slightly, from its predecessor: fresh awareness modifies previous impressions. I say what I see because I like to and good folks do me the favor of hearing me out. What I say is necessarily new if I’m speaking truly. It’s also new because I dread boring you by repeating.
Sometimes a topic is dictated by our moment – Christmas, say, or the Fourth of July – or a disaster – the Nameless One, almost hourly. At other times, I turn to a poem I like – I keep a list – to read together. Sometimes Henry pinch-hits, saying what he sees, which necessarily differs from my vantage. Sometimes I simply plant a word in view and stare at it, quizzing myself about my feelings. The results of these inspections surprise me, because, if we’re honest, what we think is seldom what we think (and if an opinion hasn’t changed, that too is noteworthy). Monet painted the same haystack from the same angle twenty-five times and each view differs because the seasons change and the light and the painter. My brush is my pen, words my pigments. I paint the best I can because I want to please you. That’s my only idea: to say what I see.
What I end up seeing invariably differs from the consensus and what I expected. That’s because I never report what I know – how boring! – only what I don’t. From that infinitude I select aspects I think you might enjoy. Am I thinking? I suppose so, but that’s not what I think. Sometimes from my observations I evolve a thesis, but I prefer not to; the defense of theories tends to be tedious, not to say futile. (My beef with “philosophy,” so-called.)
How do I choose in which direction to gaze (for that’s really the only choice I make)? I ask and you tell me. I can see you nodding, shaking your head, grinning, frowning, yawning. I know you well. You are like me but not me. Many topics that interest me mightn’t you – the mechanics of sonata form, say. I select one from where our interests overlap, as in a Venn diagram. Sometimes I mistake (maybe today – yikes!).
I seldom presume to persuade, teach, reform, only encourage. That purpose sounds trivial – and it is, I guess – but conviviality restores the spirit in trying times. “Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief,” said Cicero supposedly. For sure I feel less glum after our strolls. I hope you do too.