November 7, 2013

November 7, 2013

This writing is different from the hand-writing I have done in my journal. It is different because I use a keyboard to produce these words. When I write in my journal, I write with a pen or a pencil. I like to hold my journal, I like to hold my pen or pencil, but I don’t like to hold my laptop. One may think there is no big difference, but the difference is huge. To me keyboarding is a rational activity, while writing with a pen is an emotional affair.  And, writing with a pencil, is even more emotional than writing with pen. These different ways of writing are important, because each way of writing has its very own process.  

While writing these words, I find myself in front of the computer screen of my warm laptop, which rests on my thighs and buzzes softly. When I write in my journal, by contrast, I turn the pages of my note book, which gives me a more pleasant tactile sensation.  While keyboarding, I press buttons with my finger tips of both hands, but while writing, I hold and move a pen or a pencil with one hand, my right hand. These are very different stimuli, which each have their own response. It seldom happens, but I have done it and the results are indeed very different, that I try to write with my left hand. This is more difficult because I am not used to it and it results in unusually shaped words and content. 

The feel of writing with a pen is different from writing with a pencil. The former has a plasticy, inky, permanent feel, but the latter has a natural, woodsy, momentary feel. With a pencil, I make a dusty, erasable trail, which gets thicker as the lead gets blunted and needs to be sharpened. I am more inclined to doodle with a pencil than with a pen. When writing with a pencil, I seldom find myself having to erase anything, but, while writing with a pen, I have to cross things out all the time. This makes my pen-writings look messier than my pencil-writings. If it is erasable, I hardly have a need to erase, but if my writing is permanent, because I write with a pencil, things get messy. It makes me think about why I never wanted to write in first place and why I didn’t appreciate my initial pen writings. They just looked too ugly. Who wants to read that? I don’t even like to look at it myself.   

There is a precision and a sense of harshness when I write with a pencil that has just been sharpened. Things gradually get friendlier and rounder as the lead point and the lines it creates become thicker. My yellow pencil gets shorter and is more difficult to hold as it shrinks to a stump and disappears while I write, but the black impersonal pen stays the same and annoys the hell out of me once it runs out of ink. Writing with a pen that almost ran out of ink makes me surprised that I can still write so much more, while I was convinced it had already run out. Other times, I thought I could continue, but I was wrong. I had to throw the pen away and find another one. Although eventually I throw all pens and pencils away, I become attached more easily to my pen than to my pencil. If I like how it writes, I like to continue with that pen. The writing feel of a pencil fluctuates, while the writing feel with a pen is more stable. However, if it runs out of ink, and the line gets thinner, that stability is gone again. 

I remember great pens, which looked better than they wrote. I kept those pens, because they were so nice, but since they did not write well, I almost never used them. They were sitting there, in a box in my draw or in a cup on my desk. When there was nothing else to write with, I would take them out and give them another try, only to find out that they were not up to the task. How different that is with pencils. They never let me down. All I needed was to sharpen them once in a while and they were good to go again. I like the hexagonal shape and don’t like round pencils, because they just don’t hold as nicely. I like to sharpen my pencil, because it is break from my writing, which announces itself. 

This keyboarding I am doing right now seems to make me forget about how I write. The how of how I write is important to me, because, in speech, the how is important to me too.  The how of how we write determines whether we read what we write while we write it. There is a great deal of difference between reading what one writes while one writes and reading what one writes after one has written.  During the first, one adds mindfulness to one’s writing, which is lacking in the second.  If one reads what one has written only after one has written it, one finds oneself to be separate from what one has written. Although one may feel a sense of release or relief, one’s writing was primarily an escape from something. That seems to be why such writing makes one feel separate from what one has written. The need to reread it is minimal because one wanted to get rid of something, one wanted as they say, to get something of one’s chest. If the writer reads his or her writing while he or she is writing it, this writer is able to write about different matters than if he or she wasn’t doing that. This ability is determined by reading while one writes. One behavior makes the other behavior possible. Holding a pen makes writing words on paper possible. Likewise, reading while one writes, makes a kind of writing possible which is not something one wants to get rid of or escape from, but which is something one wants to hold on to and cherish. Then what one writes feeds back into what one is going to write. When reading while one writes, one senses the reader who invites the writer to write.  

Summarizing the aforementioned, we can say that how we write influences what we are writing about. Furthermore, how we write also determines what we will be writing about. The future of our writing is determined by how we write. If how we write does not change, what we write will be of less interest and we will continue to produce more of the same writing. This is comparable to our listening to music. People buy certain tunes that sound similar to what they have already heard. The similarity between writing and music reminds us that our preference for certain tunes necessarily involves a conditioned way of listening, which perhaps shouldn’t be considered listening at all. The fact that we only want to hear these particular sounds exemplifies that we don’t listen to what we don’t want to hear. If we want to hear what we have already heard, our listening is predetermined. It doesn’t mean that we can’t hear anything else, we can, but that we are not inclined to listen to it. We are accustomed to the tunes which distract us from our harsh reality. It is natural for us to move away from aversive stimuli. Regardless of whether we believe otherwise, we all do this continuously. The exact same thing occurs in writing. People want to read familiar stuff and more of the same, because that gives them comfort, it calms them down and it creates a bubble. However, when people write what has already been written, because those who read only want to read what they have already read, nothing new will be written. Thus, our way of reading determines what will be written.  

Since our way of listening, while playing, gave rise to the creation of new types of music and since we became aware that our way of reading, while writing, resulted into new ways of writing, we can  be pretty sure that our way of listening is going to determine if something new will be said or can be said.  One behavior will make another behavior possible and, at certain point, even necessary.

As a child, I started out writing in grade school with a pencil. After I practiced writing my letters and words, I began to write with a pen. It took me many years to start using a typewriter, because the dominance of printed words felt oppressive to me. School and education had little appeal to me, because there was not enough reinforcement and too much punishment. Because of this, I wanted to speak and be heard. I didn’t care much about reading and writing and was not good at it. For many years, the only books I took from the library were those that had pictures in them. Actually, I wanted to be listened to more than that I wanted to speak. It used to piss me off each time I read “it has been said that…”, because I realized that although authors across the world write “It has been said that..” that nothing was really said, nothing is said. Authors use phrases as “So and so argues that….” while “so and so says that…” when in reality, nobody is saying anything. They are referring to the fact that “so and so wrote” and that “so and so responded” to that in writing. What we have is a mix up. We think we say things because we write about them, but we don’t say anything if we don’t realize that writing is not the same as saying. To say that it is, is wrong on its face. It is true, of course, that we can write about what was said and that we can say that which was written, but to consider them as the same obviates our need to speak with each other and to listen to each other. When speech is not listened to, it is not speech. When listeners are not listened to, when the needs of those who do not speak are not “represented” by all these important speakers, who, by the way, always have written their speech, then what goes on in the name of spoken communication is twisted. 

Because it is complex, the role of writing in undermining human speech has not been analyzed, but it is worthwhile to realize the influence of writing on how we talk.Where is the evidence that writing, reading and studying have enhanced human relationship? We are still as incapable of talking with each other as we have always been. Writing, reading and studying didn’t enhance mankind’s spoken communication. It couldn’t because it takes us away from it. What needs to be understood is that writing couldn’t enhance spoken communication. The assumption that writing can enhance spoken communication is false. How much more writing must we produce before we begin to see that it was speaking and listening that makes writing and reading meaningful and not the other way around? 

When this author started writing, he often got lost in his words. This is what happens to all writers. This is what written language does to us. It is about time that someone calls a stop to this problematic process. Writing should bring us closer to each other because it should describe how we interact, rather than making us believe that we don’t need to interact. Spoken communication can enhance writing if this writing keeps focusing on spoken communication. However, most writing doesn’t do that. It proclaims to do that, but it doesn’t. Most writing takes us away from the idea that nothing is actually being said. Although it may appear as if an author is saying something to the reader, this illusion is created by the ability of the writer to produce what the reader wants. This preaching-to-the-choir phenomenon is about 1) selling a message, 2) being sold on a message and 3) endlessly buying into that message. In operant conditioning these three stages are identified as 1) stimulus, 2) response, and 3) consequence. Due to negative reinforcement readers keep reading more of the same nonsense, because by doing so they are able turn away from the negativity which dominates so much of their relationships. If something which is considered negative disappears due to a particular behavior (reading, face-booking, texting, TV or games), this behavior is more likely to appear in the future. Our need, demand for and addiction to entertainment is explained by operant conditioning. 

    

When this author was a child in grade school, his letter box fell on the floor and the letters lay scattered all over the around. It was an embarrassing experience, which set the stage for anxieties and problems. After the letters with the help of the teacher had been put back into the box, he dropped the box a second time, but, this time, on purpose!  It wasn’t until this author learned about operant conditioning that he was able to understand why he had deliberately dropped his letter box on the floor as a child. Rather than acting out of defiance, he had simply tried to get reinforced again. His deliberate dropping of the letter box, which was preceded by the accidental falling of the box, had always puzzled and troubled him. The accident had resulted in the friendly attention and care of the teacher, who otherwise had been harsh and punitive to him. She had been on the floor with him picking up all the letters and calmly putting them back into place. After he dropped the letter box on purpose, however, this author didn’t receive any kindness. He was punished and humiliated for his action. He was made to pick up the letters all by himself, while everybody was watching. Because he tried to do it as quickly as possible, he accidentally dropped the box another once he was almost done putting all the letters back in place. It made everybody laugh, but the teacher was not laughing and she sternly insisted he pick it up the letters by himself. This horrible scene set the stage for the author’s troubled connection with language. This author never forgot this painful memory of sitting on the cold floor with all these letters scattered around him. Only many years later, this author was told that his grade school teacher, who had four children and was always seated on the front row of our church, had committed suicide. This poor woman had probably been overwhelmed by her life.  

Throughout grade school years teachers would ask questions and if students knew the answer they were praised. Although this author often tried, he didn’t receive much praise, because his answers weren’t  correct.  If he was asked something by the teacher directly, he often didn’t know the right answer. Also, his spelling and writing was below average and he got a bad grade for language as well as for his behavior. He was told not to speak before his turn, but felt ignored. The author’s father, who often physically punished him, said he was not listening to him. No matter how hard he tried, this author ended doing the wrong thing. Nothing the author did was pleasing his father. There was not any approval for anything this author did. He mainly got disapproval for what he didn’t do or for what he did wrong. Consequently, his father was not involved with him and was unable to connect with him. Even today, this author is sad that his father was never able to be genuine with him. 

This reading while I write lays bare the contingencies of reinforcement which set the stage for the early stages of my language development. I am the author of these words and I had to come to terms with the sad realization that my father will probably never be able to respond to me the way I would like him to. It has taken me many years to accept and understand that it has nothing to do with what I say, write or do. I have been so terribly upset with my father and with others when my words have not the effect I had wanted them to have. It had gotten to the point that I didn't want others to have my words anymore and that I wanted to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. Words are not meant to be kept to myself and may be one day I share this key-boarded journal.  I feel that this day is getting closer and yet I also fear it may never come. This writing unexpectedly takes me into a feeling of despair which has been with me my entire life. Will my words affect the reader into understanding what has not been understood? Will these words lead to the conversation that I would like to have? Can they set the stage for a new way of communicating? I hope they do and I trust they can. This writing is to let the reader know that a different way of communication is possible and necessary.