Whatever the emotional surges I've been feeling lately spring from, the most enduring is that I'm not to blame for most of the stuff that happened to the people who took me at my word. If there is anything I've learned about myself in the last 69 years it's that my word ain't worth a plugged nickel.
I think my personal life began the moment I realized my word was not my bond, and it didn't have to be. People hear me say stuff I never intended for them to hear as my opinion. They project their own me-and-thee-ing upon my words, and appear to claim I intended to say what they would have been saying. No blame. It's not like they have a choice. Which is why there is no blame in taking me for themselves. I don't blame them one bit. "Why not take all of me?"
I like using the hyphenated expression me-and-thee-ing more readily than the more commonly accepted term "meaning". I figure the intermediary form left out thee, and became me-and-ing, then meanding, and finally meaning. Since humans don't have a choice but to project their idea of their self on to the other, it's only through thee that my me can identify itself through thee. It's how we determine what we believe about the other's effort to communicate. If either of us take our responsibilities the wrong way, then we fight in some manner, but if we agree about the me-and-ing, then the further consideration of the element "thee" matriculates to an us and "we" fight together. Why would we not? Who doesn't like coming in out of the cold, dank world of being one's own mole?
It's quite likely that I write in some frenetic attempt to get someone/anyone to agree with me because I'm so lousy about agreeing with the other. I like living alone, don't I? Why should I be kind just to save myself? I'm just so selfishly bigoted about my own opinion it's practically impossible for me to cater to your just desserts.
"Just desserts"? Oh, so you think I'm not spelling it right? I wondered myself. So have others:
http://www.snopes.com/language/notthink/deserts.asp
I'm not attempting to claim that I'm not responsible for what I say to other people or they for me. LIke the explanation at the bottom of the linked article above, I'm saying I have no control over how people interpret what I say, and thus incur no blame for the other assigning me the task of living up to their assessment of my god-forsaken chatter. That's why I tend to say whatever amuses me, because it doesn't actually matter what I offer up as fatted calf or wine to quench their gullet.
I like to pretend I write what I write in full consciousness that my reader must interpret the content I provide to mean what they think it means because of their own experience with the subject or topic they think I've written about. Some claim I write what I write for the reasons they might have, if they wrote what they concluded that I wrote, which is impossible, but what difference does that make? To me or them?
I've had a lotta people tell me, "You oughta write a book." As far as I"m concerned they should take their own advice, and write the kind of book they think I should write. I've met too many people who have written books because somebody told them they oughta and it ruined their lives. They get stuck having to defend something they only created to feel important in the first place when you were young. Unfortunately, doing that's probably a form of blasphemy of the spirit. Blasphemy of the spirit is not a funny joke. Either in this life or the next.
It's shocking how many authors commit suicide in one form or the other. I didn't realize Jamie Herlihy committed suicide until nearly a decade after his death, and only then because Roger, a long-time member of the GoT mailing list, looked it up and informed me. I was shocked. Now, I realize that Jamie may have written me to say goodbye, and I didn't get it. I didn't even answer his letter until a good while after he was already dead.
I guess I got those emotional surges because of what I saw watching television this morning. It was Sunday morning and I am habituated to watching the news shows on television to wrap up the week. I don't watch the news much during the week. I forgot it was Father's day.
The memorial to Tim Russert was in full swing. Meet The Press was his Sunday morning show for a long time. He had written a biography of his father that got published recently. There were lots of fawning over what a great guy he was and pictures of he and his father, and of him, his father, and his own son. The holy trinity?
It might have been being painted that way for reasons I don't understand or coulda been just another of my inane conspiracy theories, but when I watched a show on North Carolina potters of the Catawba valley after the Russet memorial was over, and the central characters of their documentary was a trio of grandfather, father, and son, I realized it was the latter.
It's difficult to confront the bottomless pit that my own cowardice is. I don't pretend it's not there, I just avoid getting slapped in the face with it as often as I can. The problem with my particular kind of cowardice is that it is unforgivable. Such is the root source of myth. I've carelessly romanticized my way through life as a lark, so far, but with this question remaining: Will I be able to romanticize my way through death? Will it hurt?
I actually think not. I hurt all the time now. Why wait? I can only romanticize events I appear to have some modicum of control over. In the dying process, just as when losing consciousness to sleep ("perchance..."), I have to let go of manipulating the live images in the sensory world I use to define me. Maybe what I'm trying to describe is similar to literally going into shock and losing control of the sensory environment makes me think I'm okay.
Once I enter that state of shock and consciously experience losing control of the sensory images that constitute my being okay, my fate is sealed. I no longer possess the faculties necessary to competently manage my surroundings. Without that support of identity, and If this tendency continues on and inevitably ends in death, so be it, but I won't consciously know that I have died or that I am indeed dead for the simple lack of identity.
What died? Who died? Somebody I used to know died? You might ask what does being dead mean? Nothing. On the contrary, death is the virtual end of all me-and-thee-ing. Death is the end of the ongoing relationship between me and thee. Without a relationship with thee, being me don't amount to much.
A monad has to have a personal identity to die. After all is said and done, it's only the identity (who-I-am-thinks-it-is) that actually tastes death. Being-in-itself don't know life or death is even possible because it has no consciousness other the the possibilities of the upsurged being-for-itself that's out on it's own. It just is. So, how does an unidentified entity escape the fullness of the state of is-ness in order to upsurge into a separate reality, and question it's own ex-is-tense as a method of staying aware of the sensory dimension it id-eates into a facsimile of it's best hopes and wishes?
The nomadic spirit that defiantly created and used an unending array of bodily forms (in it's persistent and eternal attempt to become human), can not die, even as a pig-in-a-poke.
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
http://www.poedecoder.com/qrisse/works/israfel.php
You know I gotta state my disclaimer and personally notify each and all about the fact that I write this stuff off-the-cuff just to see what will appear on my computer monitor. For those who subscribe and are notified immediately when I post a new entry, you should understand that I edit a lot after the fact. If at first you don't get what I mean the first time, because of typos and bad mental habits, you can come back later and there might be changes to clear things up or make it worse.
I attempt to capture passing thoughts with words. I can't vouch for the truthfulness or duplicity of these passing thoughts. It's about time and simultaneity. I can't concern myself about the ethical or moral implications of my muse's content in the real time of my intention, and simultaneously attend to sometimes eccentric idiosyncrasies of the daemon I write for once, and then move on.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
