Another other other than that other I have suspected lurking inside of me, that other among the many selves inside, I have to say I know without seeing, know without touching, know without smelling, tasting, what is it we mean when we say feeling? I have clues as to where they are. Yes, I do. Clues to how they move about inside of me? I do not ask; I do, ask. Where do I find this inside of me? I do not wish to draw distinctions between mind and soul, nor do I want to attempt a delineation of brain and mind, amounting to a dichotomy that others swear they can complete. Perfection another delusion I seek to avoid. How should I let them out–can I let them out? To perform, if you will, on this stage, the world, all of me on the inside of me, as I say after what we say of what it is that makes us–makes me–what? I should know. What is out that I should know? This other other–these other others? When does this other (this no longer that) become another? How is it simply done, within a frame to distinguish a category? I hold dearly for life these others I am; oh, how so many of them I become. My becoming stands in contradiction of my being? Or when I do do what I do, in desperation–how desperate have I become about this otherness, mine, which, becomes another question for this otherness that is in a moment what it is, how it is . . . many as they are, they are many. What could become? I do so in one or another context–the contexts here strung together in thought following another thought like beads on a string? I become other. I am other. I do things beside my own self, that should be Self.
Everyone is other to every other one. Simple enough to say, easy enough to mean? Intention is not everything any more than it is the thought that counts. To every self in the Self, who am I is not a question I ask? As often as you might suspect I do, I imagine being other, an . . . other, not another. Should? Everybody is also another in their peculiar otherness. Allow them to exist as states of being, this otherness alongside another-ness. Dearly to a life other than this other life I live; I live otherly? There are many inside of me I have said before in other essays–to essay or not to essay, what trials have I been through. I try in earnest. I essay my living, I essay by experiencing, without having to put pen to page.
I do think I live–I imagine living, as when another living other than the living way I do now with how I am when I become other . . . tis other with when and with where, each always at odds with what remains my best instinct for myself, how I am caught in a whirlpool of surviving–sur-vivir, you know. Drowning in a sea of the living-living as I say, when I do, for another and another and another way, how I merely survive–beyond to live, I have noted else where; to survive is beyond living. Outside of it, we say. Living and surviving are not one and the same. How could they be? Why would anyone need these words to help them?
You must get what I am driving at. To drive home, yet another idea about life, being in the driver’s seat, we say, so foolishly. What it means to live one . . . what? I’ve lost my bearings. Not really. A loss for a word. What is the word on that? What of the other ways of seeing outside of my favorite conceptions? Yes, what about them? How should I handle them now–manipulation always a part of our being apart, I am my own puppet master, someone me the puppet of me?
Familiar, one following another and another? To where, though? Not one of your received ideas in-line with accepted dogma that Doubt is the highest form of wisdom, this sense of otherness I attempt to make concrete. Yes, today we think without saying that Doubt, Doubt, Doubt is all there is at the end of everyone’s epistemological quest. Anymore>? Doubt is the highest in philosophical inquiry . . . we have done this, made doubt the highest wisdom. No? You think otherwise?
Question follows question in perpetuity, I would have to agree, if I followed the maxim that doubt were the highest form of wisdom. Yes, I would question myself perpetually, perennially, minute by minute into hour after hour day by day into week into month into year after year until the day I died. That is what we do, isn’t it?
No one in the mainstream print media writes anything that examines the crisis in metaphysics we face–ah! Here is now the rub, no? But then metaphysics has disappeared from the academy, or so I am inclined to say, having spent as much time in the Academy as I have. So even among Academics, especially mainstream published Academics, this question does not get asked, and they only support the Status Quo because even at Harvard, there is little from the intellectual elite that questions anything except the masses, or the People, even just the People in service of the State as a Public, not necessarily become masses–we have them all in America, though, yes we do. We the People no longer a people, the People when the People are the only institution of governing/government that counterbalances that of State.Yes, you see, I think. The Public? What the agents of the State and the Media that protects them along with the Power and Monied Elites want the People to transform into or be formed into; and Masses, oh, masses, yes, as we have in America, the masses, one of the prime ingredients in turning our Capitalism into a Totalitarianism. Oh, I have let slip an intention?
Virtually or actually? This goes on as one of many fool’s errands. What would you have me say, of course, something trenchant, something pithy, something witty or something, oh yes, perhaps profound, this deeply that could explore the profundities of my soul–oh, my soul is profound. Profounder than my mind? Of my Self–what is it of my Self of many selves? Itself, this upper case Self made of many selves–what could reveal the many deeps inside–what is it then to shed light in the dark, darkness always encroaching.
I am living in a dying light without appropriate rage. In what I used to call the dark ages, people ate drank fucked and slept sometimes very well. What then must I do, must I say, must I, to muster enough, I would say if I were to say as you would have me say. I ask myself no longer, who I talk to alone with me, you in the mirror, I am I, I am you, I am he, then perhaps we? Or you again, who do you talk to in the mirror, mine today with dust, I do not clean the reflecting glass as much as I think I need to do. Or all the rest of any of us remaining, minus me–I have to remain if there is to be a we for me to speak for, speak from, speak to, all the others that make up the many selves of my Self, I am we, of course. I plot no course, Mythos also means ‘plot.’
There is no condition, no human condition or inhuman condition or subhuman condition that people cannot get used to making their customary way of being, of acting, of expecting; mine–again the path shifts its direction–yes, if there were a tribe of people who every full moon stripped themselves naked and shoved feather duster handles up their asses and then squatted and danced like roosters around a fire, that would be normal, and anyone who later did not want to participate would be anathema among the tribe. Any one who did not shove a feather duster handle up his ass a while dancing naked around a fire under the light of the full moon while also squawking like a rooster would become excommunicate certainly, a freak most assuredly, and if the dance were connected ritually to a divinity, refusal would incur stoning or burning for those who objected.
We still witness the trial and execution of Joan again, the trial and the execution are on-going.
If feminists had a patron saint it should be Jeanne D’Arc. This Joan of Lorraine, this Maid of Orleans, c’est moi? Can this be–could it have ever been? No longer? This anti-humanism we suffer–and I am not going to defer to the perpetual doubt that should cause we to say, is that what we really do because it is what we actually do. There is no human nature in our pervading Doubt, Doubt Doubt–just doubt, only doubt, that’s all we need?
What is it that we are saying? We cannot tell? We have abdicated knowing for being in perpetual doubt until we look it up on the internet. The Web is the greatest sham perpetrated on humans, a great yoke to keep us in line like the unthinking Oxen we have become. The notion of a Universal humanity has become another great lie for those who have fallen in love with the marketing strategy of Diversity–nothing more useful to marketing 101 than this marketed idea of multiple diversities (itself become itself the self-fulfillment of itself: diversity qua diversity), where subdividing the marketplace to increase profit or proliferation of the idea of diversity as divergence away from the interests of the people has become the great political divergence strategy of our time. It’s Machiavelli 101, if you will. Yes, we no longer have market places of anything, especially ideas, we have only marketing; and marketing and an organic market place are not the same things. Marketing creates artificial market places that are as inorganic and as divorced from organic needs, wholistic integration into society as anything can be, but especially as totalitarian as anything the Nazis did or the Bolsheviks before them . . . it is why today we find ourselves as far from an organic Folk as in folk-lore, folk-wisdom, folk stories, folk as organic persons not necessarily in the role of the People, which is their active political role, although certainly not the role of themselves as a Public which is always the People in service of the State.
None of these examples of organic folk exist. We have the Media man and the Media woman divorced from themselves as the People, in any Jeffersonian framing and/or their folk-Selves in any over-archingly historical sense, complete, again, with folk knowledge, folk-wisdom, folk-lore, folk markets of organic need, not artificial ones created for the profit of Monied Elites and other lesser capitalists, a system as totalitarian as either the Soviet Union or Nazis Germany perpetuated through their manipulation of print, broadcast and/or image-making media.
The highest form of wisdom dictates under the oppressive weight of a newly lithified dogma that knowledge is impossible, that Truth is a lie, and that anything like a transcendent metaphysical compass heading is a delusion.
Part of why we cry when we lose someone we love is for the loss of a part of our humanity that we recognize unconsciously slipping away, having understood, again unconsciously, that we were happy and relieved that it was not us who died, also unconsciously, when we heard the news.