Speaking without saying: A dialogue dilemma! (A not-so-long examination of speech, including minimal amounts of Heidegger)

It’s a familiar situation to find that you have started a conversation with absolute conviction, knowing exactly what you want to say only to find that you’ve ended up garbling some rubbish about nothing in particular. Or it certainly feels like you are. Moreover, the other person probably hasn’t taken a whole lot of notice of anything you’ve said anyway. This is a common feature of any dialogue: feeling a little out of depth, even a touch disconnected from the other person. We can only ever attempt to say things – but are we ever really understood?

A little Martin Heidegger for you now (don’t groan just yet, he has a decent point to make). He says that:

‘communication is never anything like a conveying of experiences, for example, opinions and wishes, from the inside of one subject to the inside of another’

And so...

‘the communication of existential possibilities of attunement, that is, the disclosing of existence, can become the true aim of [...] speech.’

Not to go into too much analytical depth, Heidegger is basically claiming that we can’t ever actually know what someone is trying to say to us. Let alone this, it’s impossible to really know anything about anyone. I mean really know, as in personal emotions and tastes; not superficially know, for instance how someone might feel starting a new job.

As a result, we are always talking about ourselves. Even to someone else, when we’re trying to say something constructive or helpful: it’s all a disguise. The minute we open a communication with someone, we’re reaffirming our own existence. We say ‘I am here, I am saying this; I am convincing myself of the awareness of my own being’, and ultimately, there’s not a lot we can do about this. It is a quirk of the art of communication which we tend to overlook.

So the next time you feel as if you’ve said nothing much when talking – or absolutely jack all – it’s not something to be ashamed or embarrassed about. You are merely embracing the art of speaking without saying...and you’ve just made Heidegger a very proud man.

Hearting autumn: Being close to the rhythms of seasons

It’s around this time of year where I tend to get very excited. It’s not necessarily because there is often a lot of shifting in life happening around this time, with many vacations culminating and work beginning again – although that is exciting in itself. There is some indescribable resonance about this time of the year. The first morning after a long summer (however disappointing the summer was, weather-wise) when the air gets the most subtle of cold tinges to it – not just the cooling effect of wind alone but a cold kind of imbuement to it – that’s what rouses me first. It wakes me, reminds me; signals in the most minute of ways to me that there is so much sensory abundance to come over the next few months from the rich and beautiful season that is autumn.

There is far too much for me to romanticise about autumn here: the earthen smells, the umber hues and auras of evenings to name a few. This is also not forgetting what philosophy thinks of autumn, that we must see and be aware of the death of things to appreciate life (the dialectic). I won’t go further because I don’t feel that describing this really matters – besides, you’ve probably heard something like that before somewhere. What matters is that something is at work. Something subtle, a sort of cadence which resonates with my own measure. It’s around this time of year that I suddenly experience some sort of creative boost if I go for a walk or sit observing for a time. Obviously I’m not complaining about that, however it does raise a few questions.

The first is why exactly it happens at all. Could it be something to do with inherent human nature? It’s not uncommon for people to relish the summer months and feel energised by the brighter, hotter weather. Some people hate it. It’s a matter of taste and how the body reacts to different climatic conditions in that sense. However, that doesn’t mean that other seasons do not have the capacity to inspire. For instance, I’m not a fan of summer myself but I will still feel stirred to write more lingering verse in hotter weather.

So secondly, this is what leads me to think that it’s triggered more by what the mind finds from what is presented to it: I am presented with a season so full of ‘things’ happening that I feel not only the inspiration to write, I feel a soulful shift happening as an underlying current. It’s hard to ignore a dynamic like that; there’s no doubt it will come out in what I write in some capacity.

The final thought I want to give is that whatever time of year that inspires you it’s the subtleties that really hold the most worth and joy. The small things. The things that you might see in a moment or fleeting instance which strike you. The scenes you might want to take a picture of, the smells you might want to take another lungful of. Being close to the rhythms of the world around you is part of making you feel a natural human being – not a robotic office droid. Be aware of the seasons and know them: they are what make up our earth and world.

Passing into the realms of ‘the uncreated’: The creative process, featuring a crude Lego analogy

'Decreation: To make something created pass into the uncreated.'

'Destruction: To make something created pass into nothingness. A blameworthy substitute for decreation.'

- Simone Weil

As the writer puts metaphorical pen to paper, in terms of the very instance of a thought – inspiration – he is creating. This is something which we have come to accept: the act of drawing upon faculties and resources in order to envision a new order or combination of parts. This is ‘creation’, something which most of us find easy to let by unscrutinised.

Not so long ago I was captivated by Simone Weil’s philosophy of decreation; indeed, it has now become a staple in explaining away a great deal of the emotional traumas that have wandered through my life up until now. How we are able to decreate and then create ourselves in new and exciting, stronger ways leads me to believe that we are, in many areas, truly dynamic beings. So I’d like to spend a little time breaking down what she says, as I believe it’s important to understand how people, and in particular writers, ‘decreate’ as much as ‘create’. I will be doing this through the genius of Lego. That’s not the name of a philosopher, I really do mean Lego.

Firstly, let’s have a look at ‘uncreated’ and ‘nothingness’. They’re frightening terms, yes. The whole notion of the ‘uncreated’ is slightly less frightening as a starting point because this seems to refer to all the bits and pieces which are ‘us’ in their broken apart state. So, think little blocks of Lego scattered over the floor which are all the pieces that make up the writer’s self. Not that depressing, really, when compared to ‘nothingness’. If we continue our Lego analogy here, you can forget the Lego. ‘nothingness’ isn’t even the bare floor without any Lego scattered on it: more just blackness, or if you can imagine it (which you can’t) no blackness at all.

So if we destruct something, we aren’t taking the Lego and packing it away in a large box – we’re banishing it from the realms of existence altogether. However, if we decreate something, we’re taking the Lego model apart and looking at all the shiny, shiny coloured pieces in their individual glory, just waiting to be reconnected together.

This is the importance of creation and decreation as opposed to destruction: both creation and decreation share a symbiosis with each other. As the writer is creating something afresh, he is simultaneously recognising that his ‘self’ is able to be decreated. The writer is able to be split into component parts which suffuse themselves into his work – a combination of individual faculties. When the writer chooses to write, he is unwriting himself; as a Lego model is built, we see the pieces which slot together in creating it.

In a very simple way, this is what the writer needs to consider when thinking about the way in which he or she writes. It is a case of understanding your own parts, how they work and interact with each other: thoughts, emotions, beliefs and experiences. Once the writer has an understanding and grounding in this, the poetic or narrative voice becomes increasingly assured. After all, a Lego model will always look best if it’s well thought out.