i just spent more time than my delusions about time understands resolving technical issues to publish my previous post; i could be frustrated, but am sure i am more amused than frustrated. My purpose is not to publish content that can be monetized, which i now begin to understand is at odds with the platform on which you may, or may not be reading this. This glitch is not for me to resolve - my assignment in the later years of my existence is to plumb as deeply as i may for language that is comprehensible to as broad a spectrum of an imaginary reading audience as i can imagine - my imagination may be the only aspect of my existence that remains vivid. I have read “By all means marry, if you get a good wife you will be happy, if you get a bad wife you will become a philosopher” - (attributed to Socrates) · an ancient Greek philosopher who was forced to drink Hemlock, but was later resurrected by an unscrupulous poser wishing to link his/her thinking by simply assuming the moniker of the original. It is sort of like discovering that the “Desiderata” which i had painstakingly copied onto vellum at the height of my draughting career, only to discover the document ostensibly dated 1692 - but later attributed to Max Ehrmann, was written sometime during the 1970’s.
It doesn’t really matter does it, whether the tale of the two wolves fighting for the soul of humanity was a weathered warrior of the Sioux Nation or the last wheeze of some LSD sojourner from Woodstock - what is important is how each of us resolve the multitude of “truths” placed in front of us, of which there are more and more each time you refresh your screen · or so “they” would have you believe. I accept that my time here is shorter and shorter which sweetens my freedom like nothing i’ve ever known before. What is peculiar to my fantasy is love. I have honored the feeling as best i know through blizzards of lust and deserts of longing, only to find there is no external confirmation enough to quiet the ache. But when i look inside and accept the hunger is my own to satisfy, the pieces begin to fall in place. I am not the failed son who could not prevent his mother from declaring about him publicly, “how can you talk to him - he has fangs ·” What i can do is tend to my wounds however much time later and try to understand the pain of another that would provoke such a cruelty to one of her own.
At this turn in history with so much subterfuge and dishonesty about emotion, i count myself fortunate to have been raised by someone with so little control over her own boundaries. At least i have some measure of perspective when i see “it” coming toward me. Not that that was always the case and that i haven’t to too large an extent internalized another’s reality as my own, but at least i have a point of departure for my own investigation of reality. What i feel is compassion for my Mere. She must be in much pain to have wanted to displace her’s onto the shoulders of one as aggrieved as my physical reality has determined. As a Franks Breech, i’m still not sure which is up and which is down, and as a two-eyed cyclops it is difficult to know always which way i am facing - but i make do and with the added challenge of deciphering the emotional landscape of one 26 years my senior · i realize what a benefit such foreshadowing might be in approaching my end with some measure of peace from maelstroms not of my own design - of which there seem to be more and more ·
And again more importantly and perhaps useful is the determination to allow that natural flow of events that is the greater reality of my existence than the conceit of willfulness borne of ideas and ambitions by my own volition having abdicated personal agency in favor of compliance - an obedience toward some voice that did not, nor does now acknowledge the deeper recesses of peace within which i believe we all possess as long as we peer deeply enough past the the wounds we have inflicted on our own souls simply from longing or confusion about what it is to die. I am the person who’s life will end, and it is my responsibility toward that life to live as fully, openly and honestly as i can learn to do by accepting my wrongs, atoning for my sins and doing penance for any unwillingness to accept the responsibility for having drawn my allotted portion of air during my lifetime.
Whether i can transmute that privilege using my energy creating “Carbon Train” into useful product for those that will be left upon my demise is not for me to determine. My job right now as i “Slouch toward Bethlehem” is to wreak less havoc, have more fun and do more kindness than would be suggested by my previous 65 years of behavior - a time that has at most been occupied by dismantling the fictions of my cultural indoctrination, shredding mythologies about my intrinsic nature and searching for the being below the persona i have yoked myself to in service of accommodation to some overlay that i do not own, nor have agency over. And again the central focus of any such renovation must be in service of the one aspect of my character for which i have no doubt - i love you as i hope to love myself; how the two ever became so inverted is of little concern to me insofar as i may once again sit in the Captain's Chair and steer my ship with all that i felt as i awakened to this mystery which i am too soon to leave.
jts 20/08/2020he http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
∞
No comments:
Post a Comment