I feel like I used to be able to think better than I do.
I know that I know more than I used to--it's an outgrowth of my time as a teacher--but I don't think as well as I used to. In some ways, this is probably what a college athlete feels: A sense of accomplishment with a lurking belief that she's peaked in her mid-twenties and nothing else she does the remainder of her life will be able to live up to that level of capacity.
Maybe that's what a midlife crisis actually sounds like? All I know is that I used to be able to read something like this:
But the point is, I don't read like that anymore. I don't think like that anymore. When I review almost anything I read (generally, though specifically that video game blog), I always get hit with a backhand of pretension. I try to sound smart but I rather doubt that I'm putting anything together in any sort of coherent or worthwhile way. Impostor Syndrome is kind of my bread and butter, and that extends throughout almost every aspect of my life. And the areas where I know I'm not an impostor, I have to fight against worrying impulses of arrogance. Humility does not come smoothly to me.
Anyway, I know why I don't think like that anymore (I don't read hard things as much; I don't seek to push my own understanding; I've ossified my thinking because it's easier and I don't always have the bandwith to branch out; whatever reason du jour is populating my head), but it makes me sad. While there are probably ways to circumvent the issue--restructuring my evening hours would be a good first step--the largest problem that I have to overcome is audience.
As both writer and teacher, audience motivates me in all sorts of ways. My job is highly performative--why, I think, anyone can teach, but not everyone can be a teacher--and my hobby is a potentially performative expression. The point of, say, this blog is not just to shout into (cyber)space about whatever is on my mind, but to also get something out of it. My tagline verbs Polonius from Hamlet, creating a flimsy allusion-qua-homage agrammaticality that is, at best, firework verbosity--flashy, bright, and consumed without lasting effect. But it also underscores the idea that there may be someone "out there" who finds the contents of the blog interesting and she wants to read more. In sum, I write for someone besides myself (here, at least; I have other, more private venues) and I learn in order to teach for many someones. In college, I had class, professors, and classmates to perform for, and that need to perform helped push me deeper into texts and thoughts that I might otherwise not have followed.
I used to send lengthy emails of philosophical, theological, and political concerns to one of my coworkers. Now that we've both moved past the job that made our friendships, we haven't really talked at all about anything, to say nothing of the difficulties of existence that we used to pursue. If ever there's a cost to growing up, it's less in the being excited for a vacuum cleaner for Christmas and instead the fading ability to keep up with people who used to mean so much to you.
I miss being able to think deeper than I have occasion now. As much as I love teaching my students our 10th grade curriculum, the hardest questions that I have can't be asked of them. They're too heavy, too deep, too uniquely phrased (as philosophy and literary theory are peppered with unique parlance that make nonce comprehension infrequent) to be something that I can frequently dive into. Yes, I've had students who are good at deep thinking--and I'm not saying that I'm too smart for other people--but I don't have a relationship with anyone that operates on the specific level that I used to. (That isn't to indicate that the level is "high" or "low", but, rather, different than what I have available to me now.)
Of course, some people find philosophy and theory wastes of time and mental energy. But I find intellectual lifting to be rewarding in the same ways that others find cross-fit exercise to be rewarding. Unorthodox thinking--especially when it's couched in a complexity of language that, by the nature of what it's exploring, doesn't lend itself to easy access--stretches my mind and grows its "muscles". Since I've retired from quidditch, I'm in the same situation physically as I am mentally: Unchallenged, yet unwilling to step into the requisite gyms to gain the growth and ability I miss.
I think that's sad.
I know that I know more than I used to--it's an outgrowth of my time as a teacher--but I don't think as well as I used to. In some ways, this is probably what a college athlete feels: A sense of accomplishment with a lurking belief that she's peaked in her mid-twenties and nothing else she does the remainder of her life will be able to live up to that level of capacity.
Maybe that's what a midlife crisis actually sounds like? All I know is that I used to be able to read something like this:
simulacra of simulation, founded on information, the model, the cybernetic game--total operationality, hyperreality, aim of total control. (Baudrillard 121)and mark in my marginalia "YES!" (complete with exclamation mark) and enthusiastic arrows to some opaque point that meant a lot in 2009 but is a murkier now. There's a chance that, were I to review the entire work of (in this case) Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation (which I read as part of my exploration of a video game theory), I could shake off the intellectual cobwebs well enough to piece together some of my earlier thoughts.
But the point is, I don't read like that anymore. I don't think like that anymore. When I review almost anything I read (generally, though specifically that video game blog), I always get hit with a backhand of pretension. I try to sound smart but I rather doubt that I'm putting anything together in any sort of coherent or worthwhile way. Impostor Syndrome is kind of my bread and butter, and that extends throughout almost every aspect of my life. And the areas where I know I'm not an impostor, I have to fight against worrying impulses of arrogance. Humility does not come smoothly to me.
Anyway, I know why I don't think like that anymore (I don't read hard things as much; I don't seek to push my own understanding; I've ossified my thinking because it's easier and I don't always have the bandwith to branch out; whatever reason du jour is populating my head), but it makes me sad. While there are probably ways to circumvent the issue--restructuring my evening hours would be a good first step--the largest problem that I have to overcome is audience.
As both writer and teacher, audience motivates me in all sorts of ways. My job is highly performative--why, I think, anyone can teach, but not everyone can be a teacher--and my hobby is a potentially performative expression. The point of, say, this blog is not just to shout into (cyber)space about whatever is on my mind, but to also get something out of it. My tagline verbs Polonius from Hamlet, creating a flimsy allusion-qua-homage agrammaticality that is, at best, firework verbosity--flashy, bright, and consumed without lasting effect. But it also underscores the idea that there may be someone "out there" who finds the contents of the blog interesting and she wants to read more. In sum, I write for someone besides myself (here, at least; I have other, more private venues) and I learn in order to teach for many someones. In college, I had class, professors, and classmates to perform for, and that need to perform helped push me deeper into texts and thoughts that I might otherwise not have followed.
I used to send lengthy emails of philosophical, theological, and political concerns to one of my coworkers. Now that we've both moved past the job that made our friendships, we haven't really talked at all about anything, to say nothing of the difficulties of existence that we used to pursue. If ever there's a cost to growing up, it's less in the being excited for a vacuum cleaner for Christmas and instead the fading ability to keep up with people who used to mean so much to you.
I miss being able to think deeper than I have occasion now. As much as I love teaching my students our 10th grade curriculum, the hardest questions that I have can't be asked of them. They're too heavy, too deep, too uniquely phrased (as philosophy and literary theory are peppered with unique parlance that make nonce comprehension infrequent) to be something that I can frequently dive into. Yes, I've had students who are good at deep thinking--and I'm not saying that I'm too smart for other people--but I don't have a relationship with anyone that operates on the specific level that I used to. (That isn't to indicate that the level is "high" or "low", but, rather, different than what I have available to me now.)
Of course, some people find philosophy and theory wastes of time and mental energy. But I find intellectual lifting to be rewarding in the same ways that others find cross-fit exercise to be rewarding. Unorthodox thinking--especially when it's couched in a complexity of language that, by the nature of what it's exploring, doesn't lend itself to easy access--stretches my mind and grows its "muscles". Since I've retired from quidditch, I'm in the same situation physically as I am mentally: Unchallenged, yet unwilling to step into the requisite gyms to gain the growth and ability I miss.
I think that's sad.
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