The other day I discovered something very unnerving about myself. I find that I am always discovering new things about myself, turning over new stones in my mind and looking behind new doors in my soul; and more often than not I am surprised by what I find – surprised, but rarely unsettled. But, Sunday night sitting in the rain beneath a single lighted lamppost I realized that I was a practical deconstructionist (not to be confused with a theoretical deconstructionist.)
I cannot say that I was awakened from a “dogmatic slumber” for I have always had a subconscious appreciation for the less ordered, but never can I remember a time that I would have willfully ascribed to the deconstructionism such as demonstrated by John Cage in his piece 4’ 33”.
I set out Saturday night to do some artistic journaling; generally speaking I don’t journal simply by writing about what I’m thinking or what I am going through. When I journal I express my thoughts and sentiments through poetic verse. And so Saturday night I set out with my red pen and 4x6 blue notebook to do some journaling. The atmosphere was perfect; I was alone on a bench under a single lamppost in the pouring rain surrounded by a city kept indoors by the dismal weather. (I don’t know what people find so repulsive about the rain – I find it refreshing and altogether inspiring.)
As I wrote, the ink smeared on the pages, sometimes so badly that some of the words were lost. But I had anticipated that, and it was part of the reason I had endeavored to write in the rain on this particular night. It added a certain… artistry. And yet as I reflected on my work I realized the implications of what I was doing. I was encouraging chaos. I was encouraging the destruction of my own work under the guise of deconstructionism.
I would never think about such an idea in the realms of philosophy or theology – to do so would be all but intellectual suicide. However, somehow I had allowed this arbitrary obliterator to enter into my ideas, even ideals of art. I am not sure exactly when this occurred, but I suspect I am in part an unfortunate victim of the venomous fate imposed upon us by the uncompromising war machine of popular culture.
But, despite the discovery and self admission that I am in fact an artistic deconstructionist at least in part, and despite the knowledge of the intellectual implications this holds for me, I cannot reverse the trend inside of myself. Because even as I write I sit here on my bed one sock off, a broken key around my neck, a bass guitar string around my wrist, drinking a Clausthaler and listening to the screaming tones of dissonance and discord on a new album by the Chariot in which the song titles read, “ Back to Back/They Faced Each Other/Th3y Drew Their Swords/And Shot Each Other/The Deaf Policeman/Heard This Noise/Then Came To Kill/The Two Dead Boys/Forgive Me Nashville/The Trumpet” in ascending order from track one.
And so for now I accept my artistic deconstructionist tendencies and will tolerate them as long as they stay within their given compartment and do not seek to corrupt my still constructive boxes of philosophy and theology… and realizing how disgustingly western and systematic this last sentence was, I think my next post will give stage to the battle of opposing ideas raging inside my head. I’ll call it “Systematic verses Synthesis” and advertise the bout saying, “Come see the West’s great Systematic defend his title against the up and coming Synthesis…”
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