Recent life events have brought forth something I have been trying to articulate for sometime. Here I express it very briefly, but it is anything but brief…
I am a political animal and so I touch people’s lives through politics, but I also need to touch lives as a poet, philosopher and (well yes) as a lover too.
All things are political, but it does not follow that politics is in all things.
Politics cannot explain the overwhelming emotion of a Mozart Oboe concerto, the beauty of Botticelli’s Venus, the exquisite feel of the words in the mouth formed in a sonnet by Shakespeare or the passion of one skin against another; the physical and mental mixing of two beings creating an indescribable phenomenon that is of the self and yet is not of the self.
Politics can describe these things traded as commodities, but it cannot describe them as perceived realities experienced by me and millions of others.
The philosophy of Samuel Beckett was that life was meaningless. Every life has meaning, but where I partially understand Beckett is that if we cannot properly explain our lives and what we want them to mean to others (especially those close and valued) then our lives in that philosophical sense are pointless.
Many of my political friends will through no fault of their own probably fail to grasp what I am trying to say in this short reflection. No matter, they shall still remain my friends. But I hope that by setting down this inner turmoil that I both hate and cherish in equal measure there will be some who come close to understanding.