always missing deadlines

I got to enjoy a fairly liesurefull Friday after five o' clock roundabout with some coworkers where we discussed genetics, predetermined intelligence and wether or not our futures are cast before we break free of the womb. I was, and am, of the opinion that, by and large, our destinies (meaning the decisions we will make, our personalities and interests, and overall intelligence) are a result of our genetic makeup. I won't go into full detail here, but I will say that while I believe we have free will on the surface, that free will is exercised and guided by factors that we are not necessarily consciously aware of. I do not believe we are all capable of anything. We have natural limits and drives, not all of us gifted in the same ways or gifted at all. While our environment can foster or discourage types of behavior based on insentives (which human beings seem to be very easily motivated by), you pretty much are you who are.

This didn't come up explicitly, but it did get me thinking that there is an ultimate sadness to my own ideas about human nature and the nature of our interests and obsessions. Perhaps this is why I was met with a healthy amount of resistence in the breakroom conversation. We are very much not in control of our own destinies. With that, perhaps, being the case, I want to talk about an even more upsetting posibility that is more liklihood than possiblity. That liklihood is unmet potential. I like to think that, as someone who has studied and spent most of his life in and around writing, my prowess as a storyteller and user of words has not reached its peak. Scary would the circumstance where I would have to sit back, go over my notes and realize that my best sentences are behind me. Or in front of me, already written. I would like to continue to grow, to grasp at rearrangements, word creation and poetry. Being in this position, I think it's reasonable to suspect that there is still considerable room to grow and that my natural predisposition to the written word means that I can better myself. So where, then, is the line and how do we ever know if we truly reach it? I guess we never really do. That in itself, can be unsettling, but not nearly as unsettling as thinking that you never even came close.

I was reminded about a once close friend of mine. She has written some of the most beautiful things that the English language can offer, and yet she was largely untrained in this area of expression. There were, of course, classes that required writing of various types, but in terms of serious academic or even personal discovery, there wasn't much that was done, so far as I could tell. Yet, her innate talent was (and most likely still is) perhaps beyond anything I have read. There was a simplicity to the line, a freshness to old words. It was as if the roots of the language you knew were revealed and suddenly a history came to light and your language had to be reacquired. It was even more striking because there was so little of it. I don't want to use a tired addiction comparison because there were no downsides to reading her work. I didn't wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat, I did not become itchy or cold when it had been too long between reads, nor did the interior of my nasal cavities deteriorate to the point of needing surgical reconstruction. This was more serious than that. Maybe the most heartbreaking part about it all is that I had forgotten about all of this.

With so little to go on, a sample size so miniscule that half of my fascination with the work was pure speculation on how good it could get, I can't help but wonder now what it was that had initially sparked the outlet of writing in her, and what so cruelly suffocated it before it had the chance to get walking legs. I don't speak much with her now and I don't want to theorize on what has changed in her life. It would be easy to link a failure to reach one's potential with so many artists that had their talent cut short by life spans that fell far below the national average. Basquiat comes to mind as well as so many of the other members of the 27 club. But there is a significant and more depressing difference between a life ending, resulting in the end of a talent, and someone simply not exploring their talent further, continuing on in to other areas of their life as if that talent had never manifested. With the dead, their talent was maximized by default. They reached their peak, however short-lived. In effect, that talent was not wasted. That says nothing of those that continue to live. We are all worse off for those who deny us their gifts yet are in full control of them.

In the breakroom, a point I had to concede was that culture largely impacts what we become. I do not find that this contradicts my being convinced that we are our genes. I feel that there is a baseline of talent, intelligence and behavior that we are given by our genetic donators. Where those genes take us may be predictable, but not perfectly so. There are outside pressures that gear us in certain directions. Even if we would like to, we cannot expose newborns to anything and everything. There is simply too much stuff in our world for that to be possible. But when an obvious talent is recognized, should it not be fostered? I don't want to come across as saying persuits should be forced upon people that do not want them, especially since this kind of talk comes up most often when discussing child-rearing, but it doesn't seem as though encouragement is enough in some cases. I just hate the idea of something not being created just because someone didn't want to create it. My sensitivity to this is mostly because of my infatuation and on again off again relationship with writing, but if the work is inside you, don't you have to let it out? Hell, what I am writing this article now for if not because I have no other choice?

I do not believe in a higher power. I do not believe that the universe is infinite. From what I can tell, existence, as we know it, is purely accidental. Maybe that's sad. Maybe it's not the best way to continue on since there isn't seemingly anything to work toward. Maybe that's why my friend's talent was never fully realized. But some accidents are just too damn good to let go of.