Would you like to see something written up about this lamp?

Just a quick bloggy existential crisis: I’ve been thinking long and hard about the kinds of things I think long and hard about, and what I write about, and if that’s worth writing about.

The quick and easy answer is no, of course not.

The truth is, it’s really easy to write about things I’ve bought or received or found. I can look at it, describe it, vaguely share what it is I like about it, provide some background on it and where it came from, and where I put it in my home. Because hey, sometimes I’m proud of my stuff: I think it’s pretty cool, and I think I’ve worked hard to earn it, and I want to show it off. Sure, my vintage Lotte lamp is but a fraction of the value or a house or loft or car, but it’s valuable to me!

But I’ll also admit that writing about — or investing any sort of value — in material things that are trivial and frivolous  is a shallow en devour.  Sometimes it makes me feel like writing about goods and trinkets feels like the written equivalent of tumblr post featuring the account of an ingénue’s daily thrift-store/American Apparel “outfit” and sure-I-did-it-myself haircut.

So where is the line drawn? Why stop at “objects,” when maybe I should also stop writing about “places,” “stores,” “food,” “concerts,” “books” and “movies,” right? At a certain point, that even gets a little shallow, right? Even writing about my own writing, musical or otherwise is even sort of selfish, right? To go even further, who cares about what I have to thing about Government/Religion/Art in general?

The downward spiral can go even further: Why write that novel? Why take that photo? Why hack that Ikea? Well, I could go on, but you get the point

Here’s what I think: As long as I never lose sight of the big things are actually important (God, family, community, love, culture), there’s not a good reason why I can’t adorn my life or my writing with diversions that add a little embellishment. After all, these kinds of things are the spice and flavour of life — to a point.

For now, I’ll stop this train of though here, and leave you with a quote by my favourite philosopher, Soren Kirkegaard, from “Fear and Trembling.”

If there were no eternal consciousness in a man,
If at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment,
A power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential;
If an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything,
What would life be but despair?

Thanks for bearing with me on this… we’ll now return to your regularly random updates about whatever.