A new study confirms what we all knew here already: Writing is cognitively good for you. I won't go into the myriad reasons postulated for this, all of which are perfectly plausible, but I confess the lack of this form of exercise feels detrimental. It's a strange space this. Blogging is pretty antiquated now and my be looked upon in amusement or scorn by consumers of more modern forms of media. But this does not detract from its inherent value, at least for me. It is a space too, albeit not a physical one. But it can still get cluttered, even if it is virtual. Perhaps I'll clear out some of the muddles here at some point. Or perhaps they can remain as a testament to previous existences. It might be amusing, painful, enlightening to look back at words written an age ago, in another life: A life where an illusion of stability and respectability held sway. There was a family, a wife, a salary, a job title. Such definitions, though a prison, provided a kind of definition to life. There was a distinctness about obligations and expectations. And now it's all got a bit fuzzy. My life is a mostly-comfortable testament to entropy now.
I am surprised at how easily these words come to me, how effortlessly they arise and are conveyed relatively lucidly on the page. I noted something recently, and there is a point to the ramble I am about to undertake.
I restrung my musical instruments in the hope it might motivate me to play them. Apparently learning musical pieces is also transformative for the brain. Once tuned, I picked up my guitar and played a few familiar chords. Yes, those are still there. A D comes easily, and E more-or-less, bar chords are still, as ever, problematic and uncomfortable. But the chords remain mostly available to my fingers. However, transitioning between chords feels clumsy and I reflected that actually, it always had.
I picked up my banjo, put on my fingerpicks and played a few Scruggs rolls: Basic arpeggios which link together to for a syncopated tune with the melody contained within it. Again, I noted that it was no harder than it had ever been. It was ok, the right kind of sound. But it felt inarticulate and quite effortful. Again, I noted that this never really achieved fluidity.
I started playing the guitar at 18, the bluegrass banjo at 19, forty-mumble years ago. I played and played, practised and jammed. And always it was unnatural. I observed the fluidity with which friends and mentors could move their fingers up and down the fretboard. Some of them had been playing a fraction of the time I had and yet, their hands flew and wonderful melodic sounds came out. Me, I felt always like my hands were two Cornish crabs at the end of my wrists, chitinous fingers rebelling against my instructions to play this or that note, to assume the correct configuration of strings on frets without dull thinks or buzzes. It never got easy. Despite thousands of hours of practise. The conclusion is unavoidable: I have no talent for this. I bash out a tune in opposition to my natural tendency towards digital coordination. It's just no something I have any natural ability to do well, though I can bash out a tune and enjoy it.
In contrast, I went to a dance where I fell into conversation with someone who I have observed from afar for many years but frankly found her evident ability too intimidating for me to consider asking her to dance. She is very skilled and has a controlled physicality which I thought I could not match adequately to do her justice as a partner.
She asked me to dance as the event was sparsely attended and I could not hide. And it was wonderful. Tentatively she asked if she could perform some moves she had seen but not found anyone adequately strong to perform and we went through some quite scary drops together. They were pretty cool moves and i learned them eagerly and could perform them well with only a few attempts. Dance is like this for me. I see a move, my brain assimilates the movements and trajectories, I try it and quite soon I can do it. easy peasy. This after much less time and practise than I had devoted to music.
Here we have a natural inclination, I hesitate to use the word talent, but it's that kind of thing, We also have an interesting contrast: Something I really want to be able to do (play music) eludes me even after decades of diligent practise. It just won't happen.
Conversely, dance moves, even quite complex configurations of limbs and partner, are taken on board with, in general, a minimum of effort. There is a conclusion here, therefore, which must be acknowledge: There are things we, as individuals, are able to do well with little practise and there are things we will never excel at, or even be competent at, despite lengthy assiduous training. And, you know, I think that that's ok! I am fine with this now. The admission that music is not a talent I have takes the pressure off. I can stop trying so hard.
And so, back to the words. Self-expression clearly varies amongst the population as a normal distribution curve. Ok, most people can speak and the majority can write. But the translation of inner world to interpersonal communication varies immensely. For me, it is easy. I was shown how to write and once I escaped the bonds of having to use a pen, the words go straight from mind to page. Which I confess feels wonderful, cathartic, exhilarating. I am told that writing manually (i.e. paper and pen) is better but, to riff off an earlier theme, I was shown how to use a pen at about five years old and despite writing millions of words, the majority criticised brutally and painfully by educators along the way for their lack of legibility, I can still not make a pen go where I want to. And I've done a hell of a lot of writing for exams and qualifications. Practise did not make perfect. It's difficult for me. I just can't do it. And that too is ok. The admission is a tremendous relief.
But words, they just happen. There are thoughts. there is a vocabulary and grammar, and here they are, saying exactly what I intended and imparting a satisfaction which reduces my frustration with the world. The guitars, however, are going back under the bed. No more flogging dead horses.
As always, I have no idea if this will be read. The thought that it might encourages rigour. It's nice if it is and someone recognises a concept they perhaps had yet to articulate to themselves, but I do this as a service to myself and because the flow feels good. So, here I am again. Unstructured, chaotic but less burdened by formless thought.
