10,000 Steps

I see now that my aversion to knowing how things work was based on the misbelief that knowing how things work would take the mystery out of them and prohibit me from performing truly creative acts. It seems to me lately, however, that this kind of thinking is pure superstition, derived from fin de siecle French poets and wealthy Austrian philosophers who renounced their wealth and died young.

I admit to being behind the times, and realize this puts me at a great disadvantage: I’m a virtual illiterate, a person from the past who can’t read or write computer language. And now that some of the core principles of living in a state of democracy are in question—the belief, for instance, that I live in a special place, a place where I’d actually want the incumbent to run for re-election—I’m relegated to reading the morning newspapers and the cultural criticism of brilliant professors much younger than me.

I woke up this morning thinking, all criticism is self-criticism, after trying to read a much-celebrated new book on art and culture, which I saw about halfway in was actually a self-help book disguised as a polemic. I’m no longer interested in criticism, I wish I was, but I’m not. Most criticism turns out to be unsustainable, causing me to think about things I don’t want to think about, or touch or hear, taste or feel. And is there any critic who would not rather be a creator?

Today I’m going out walking, in search of the sacred 10,000 steps. This time I’m going to measure the steps I didn’t take instead of the ones I did.