There is part of your humble narrator that feels he shouldn’t be here, doing this, yet again. That this exercise in philosophical hubris is doing unperceivable damage, while masquerading itself as something nobler than the cry for attention that all this might amount to being. That vanity and isolation within that leads back to this place, in a crude mimic of behaviors that should have been outgrown by now. That all this ever expresses is little more than flowery worded conceit, and gets neither author nor reader closer to that idea of truth that seems so intertwined in the overall idea of human pursuit.

And yet, away we go, again. Hoping in the end that something arises more valiant and veracious than the ideas marched in with.

There is a word, new to me, yet thousands of years old to itself, that has been bounding the confines of my consciousness, as of late. An ancient word, in an ancient tongue, that this language I own, descended from barbarians, falls short of finding exact definition for. Though, I suppose, on a long enough timeline backwards, all of us arrive from some barbaric origin. But, anyway.

Arete.

Derived in part, at least, from the name of some Greek minor goddess, the definition, as far as I found, is an idea contained in a few similar but vague wordings.

It could be used to describe excellence, of any kind. Or that of moral virtue. But the idea that speaks most clearly to yours truly, has to do with the idea of the full realization of one’s potential, or inherent function.

I believe that will be my ideological plaything for the evening.

Inherent functions.

Sounds nice, if not cold and mechanical. The idea that there is a purpose, a function, a reason for the particular being that I, or any of us, have ended up being. Or are destined yet to be. Something like a wampeter, for those in the know of that term. But the idea of inherent function leaves me aching for mobility. That there is a set purpose makes it seem as though we are only trapped by what we were put here to do, whatever it is that might end up being or not. Constrained by fate, and a failure when attempting to deviate from it.

Now the other bit, the full realization of one’s potential- that one aligns much more with my stylings.

The very mention of potential inspires some youthful vigor in my mind and soul. Potential being a term for the futurist, rarely or never nostalgia trapped or static, but rather climbing, running or trudging towards the maximum capacity of a soul’s out letting. The outward grasp, even at unreachable bodies, celestial or otherwise, in order to provide something fulfilling. And something certainly larger than a false idea, grouping or individual.  

Begs the question, then, don’t it?

What might I be thinking the arete is associated with this particular sentience?

In this moment, the role of writer seems fit.

A hat, among the many, that I continually don in the attempt to escape the existential dread, or worse, the acceptance of some timid normality. But as self-deprecating as I could easily get on the matter, I’ll check the internally vicious, pitiful modesty and admit that these words, and others I’ve tossed out and around over the course of such a section of my life, has at least a few times served some point and purpose beyond myself. Maybe not with this themed habit, but maybe here as well. But otherwise, in the verse and prose of varying degrees, I have been told that these words that yearn and fight their way beyond the conviction of my own consciousness provides something, even if only some temporary aesthetic or entertainment, for beings other than this first-person perspective.

The poems, the stories, the songs- at least a small number of these thrust upon the outside world have garnered some variation of positive acceptance or reaction. Enough that the idea of justified necessity to return pen to paper, or these more digitized versions, exists with the right to be doing so.

But even with that, the evening’s ache still seems insatiated.

It is as though I am still fool enough to believe that sitting down to this self-made aggrandizement of thinkings might someday provide the appreciation for this universal struggle for existence. Because, the truth is, that I am fool enough. A choice, I make, regularly, with or without a type of semblance towards action along the lines of something akin to divinity.

Yet, I cannot shake the feeling that all this attempt at accomplishment is but a self-guised effort to stave away all these unattainable aches. Or worse, just the personified cowardice of all the failures I refuse to face. From my now empty castle, one of my two main penitentiaries I bounce between, golden shackles all a-janglin’.

But before I go and drown out any validity to all I do and say, I most confess I know those are part of that idea of personal arete. My parenthood and profession, both bound by oaths I find to be holier than holy, are integral portions of this idea I call an identity. And though they have both and in varying ways separated myself from my own generation, and those just after me and before- I know that is an essential part of who I am, and who I am still yet to be. That the fight within me is regularly justified through the efforts to be the best I can be at what it is I do. And how those two bleed into everything else, enlightening and enriching not only my own experiences but any of those impacted or even just in proximity.

It is not easy, and I am glad for that. Easy is boring, after all. Effort is in interaction that any human would admit to being addictive, if they were to arrive at enough honesty regarding one’s own self. And struggle makes the man, as it were. To be weathered by existence and yet emboldened enough to fight against the storm in her perpetual onslaught, is the stuff that makes stories worth telling.

I think of the all the give I still have, despite the void seeming to be never unable to continually take. And in moments of arrogance, I still believe that from this singular soul is enough to satiate the quandaries of all humankind. Bold would be the kind way of explaining that. Audacious narcissism, might be another. Both true, me thinks, in their own rights and ways.

And along with the whole choosing to be foolish bit I’ve been blabbering on about on and off for my entire writing ‘career’, I know my more negative assumptions to not be wrong, even when not quite right either.

That fighting paranoia with naivety has regularly served to hurt. And that the cynicism ignored has so often led to damage that could have been otherwise avoided.

But I like being a bit of a damaged thing. I believe it suits me, and, I wear it well. And it suits this living in such an imperfect world, with all its dread and wonder.

There is another line, or part of one, which I’ll quote, that struck me in the last few dozen hours since we met here last. From a fellow that I was unaware of until a collection of essays was acquired for your narrator by perhaps the earliest inspiration of the thoughtfulness I now find so inescapable. A book, one of many, given to me by the woman that bore me into this world. The words written by a philosophical conservationist, long dead, who lived in a land I once knew as close to home.

Forgetting what exactly he was speaking of, he described some aspect of observation as ‘a striking peculiarity- a strange defect- or a rare excellence.’

How about that, huh? A defect from one perspective, being something of unique excellence from another. That normality, while more broadly accepted, is not some virtue, but rather the bland covering of the inability to dive further into an idea. What is wrong in a way that disagrees with the overwhelming tide, is right when paired with the rarity of its occurrence.

Because, you see, as wrong as I may have felt upon initially sitting down to click and clack away, I see now, something closer to the truth. That this is a part of my inescapable pothos. Another word heard recently which you can look up on your own. No, not the variety of plant, but the ancient Mediterranean idea somewhat aligned with arete. That I do not sit down and write this, or any of the other words vomited out, because I want to. Though it plays with desire here and there. But there is a will beyond that. An obligation, to myself at the very least, but I think, as well, beyond this singular sentience I call home. That the itch to this and so many other objectives is a must, not a want. And although I may never arrive at some greater truth, I know each step gets closer. And if I can make a path for others to get there, then a purpose has been served beyond myself, most divine.

Though, I admit, my selfishness hopes I’ll get there someday for myself. But that is just the choosing to be a fool, again, at least a little bit.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting on. There are dishes to do, and laundry, and a double LP freshly acquired of one of the most sentimental and somber songwriters to thus far grace this rock. A record suggested for listening by a dear friend on the last multi-state road trip I had engaged in. Bought, quite rightly, in a recent existential endeavor, possibly slightly ethanol enhanced.