not fully ourselves
the many different ways our hyperreal modern media allows our personalities to bleed into those of others — all this watching, reading, listening, the drumbeat of the mirror neurons calling us to dance, overwhelming our emerged individuality — it bleeds away. Hygiene, Foster Wallace called it, Good Man Foster Wallace. Oh, don’t bleed, sailor, hold yourself together —
Why do they call it disassociated personality disorder? Who are the Hosts that dwell within us Legion, shackled and silenced until the Mediator fails? Trauma destroys the integration of personalities — the Noble Lie that makes us think we are one person?
I am legion, says the Possessed One. Jesus quiets their ragings.
The King must be crowned. The Mind and its minions must submit. The edge, the Long Walls, must be maintained. Zen Meditation encourages the bleeding — the smoke of a cigarette delineates the boundary. We are human — we possess our bodies and the world, with Others as negative cut-out holes through which we cannot see beyond — there is something hidden there beneath behind the other’s Eyes. Call this madness — it is — even probing-twisting the world in this way pulls me towards madness — that cigarette, delineator, sounds good right now (whatever the consequences.) I must know who I am. I must know where I end. What is me and what is not me. What is me? Aren’t I just a leaf on a tree, though, a wave on the ocean? A part of the whole? Yes, of course, and can climb back up the beanstalk to sport with Giants — sure, surely, of course I can.
But I have apples to deliver, and puzzles to break open, and riddles to ponder — best riddle, what do I have in my pocket (answer, the yet unknown heart of darkness, POWER) — cigarettes and deaths and lines in the sand, and the Conductor to yoke the orchestra towards euphony instead of dissonance — dissonance is lovely too, striking in its statement of autonomy and fallibility–
One thing leads to another. The road goes ever ever on. The words are shining settings that make more beautiful the thoughts contained within. To those who listen, everything sings. Each to each, says Eliot. I will not forget that, not ever. Three coins in the fountain. I asked for love. Another time, I’ll tell you that story.