best loved hmmms
i'm a mess. who's a mess?
we've been talking about vanity. what was that sixties thing, ego death? killing the ego? was that really healthy? was that really appropriate? ego is continuous with/is a property of the material plane. material desires can never be satisfied. ego desires can never be satisfied.
what did we mean when we said ego?
#1 is vanity.
#2 is individual identity.
#3 is "the division of the psyche that is self-conscious, most immediately controls thought and behavior, and is most in touch with external reality."
looked up "ego death" at dictionary dot com, and it replied: "No entry found for ego death. Did you mean "ego ideal"?"
calling, calling humanity.
vanity.
fairy-tale ladies disfigured their faces so they would not be beautiful; religious women shaved their heads and put on the european burka; saints forswore their inheritances of luxury and power, the kissinger aphrodisiac.
we assume that it is good to be a saint. or...
is it irresponsible to pretend not to be an individual? a kind of moral laziness?
complaining about materialism sounds simpleminded. bracketing everything we can lay our hands on ("reality," "individuality," "self") seems cowardly.
one wants to be "simpleminded," but not to sound simpleminded...
and there it is again.
i got sick.
i am tired of thinking these words.
i got sick and could not walk from the bed to the kitchen without collapsing
and i don't remember a lot of it. i was sick and the steroids made me better but they also made me sick in new ways.
the steroids gave me a hand tremor. it was scariest when i was stitching up an old man's armpit, where we had just snipped out some poisoned lymph nodes; the skin was so thin, so delicate, and my fingers clutching the needleholder and the forceps just shook and shook, uncontrollably, but at least rhythmically, at least i could time my breaths in and out and twitch the needle-point into his skin, lightning-quick, between jolts. i could stitch him up and not hurt him, but it was hard and i was scared and dripping with sweat and sorrow.
i also spill glasses of water in my lap - just a little. i also toss salad all over the salad bar - more trouble with fingers and forceps. these are things that are happening to me, me, how can they be happening to me, of all people? ego pulls the pillow over her face and gnashes her teeth and hides.
the steroids also junked my appearance.
it's hard to forget about how i look. there are reflective surfaces everywhere. the physical sensations are reflective surfaces too and i am ashamed of myself and these are the fruits of vanity. it's a convenient time for me to ponder ego death, although it was you who brought it up.
i think i ponder i brood about the surgery that would open my eyelids, pull out the thick wads of fat that steroids have filled them with, i think about it all the time, i wish i could just do it myself in the bathroom, it would be such a relief to see my normal face again and another relief to not have perfect strangers tell me "you look tired" and an even bigger relief to not work so hard to keep my lids apart so i can see and if only the blur would go away.
my vision is unclear, in oh so many ways. it's all a blur. it's all a blur.
one day i was driving along and i had the strangest feeling of disconnectedness. driving, the idea of a car, see-through atmosphere, having a little agenda for the day, putting everything in words, everything suddenly seemed arbitrary. i thought, maybe this is what i'd be like schizophrenic. i also thought it must have been the toll - the toll of feeling subliminally punished by ill-health, as well as the toll of the dreariness of having such heavy, heavy lids... it went away, but one wonders... could one become unfamiliar to oneself forever?
could one get used to being unfamiliar to oneself? is it the void behind the Void?
the corpse of ego, not so graceful as the death?
i am blessed with the clearest lesson yet that the desires of the ego, the demands of vanity, can never, never be satisfied. it is an unsatisfactory blessing (today).
what i am saying is i can not properly see.
simple operating instructions.
you have been told more than once.
why do you always have to do things the hard way.
don't goof off.
calling. calling humanity.
vanity, pure vanity.
calling, calling humanity.
vanity.
- reggae song
we've been talking about vanity. what was that sixties thing, ego death? killing the ego? was that really healthy? was that really appropriate? ego is continuous with/is a property of the material plane. material desires can never be satisfied. ego desires can never be satisfied.
we were talking about the space between us all
and the people who hide themselves behind a wall
- beatles song
what did we mean when we said ego?
#1 is vanity.
#2 is individual identity.
#3 is "the division of the psyche that is self-conscious, most immediately controls thought and behavior, and is most in touch with external reality."
looked up "ego death" at dictionary dot com, and it replied: "No entry found for ego death. Did you mean "ego ideal"?"
nature's art disdaineth
her beauty is her own
- elizabethan song
calling, calling humanity.
vanity.
fairy-tale ladies disfigured their faces so they would not be beautiful; religious women shaved their heads and put on the european burka; saints forswore their inheritances of luxury and power, the kissinger aphrodisiac.
we assume that it is good to be a saint. or...
is it irresponsible to pretend not to be an individual? a kind of moral laziness?
complaining about materialism sounds simpleminded. bracketing everything we can lay our hands on ("reality," "individuality," "self") seems cowardly.
one wants to be "simpleminded," but not to sound simpleminded...
and there it is again.
the whirlwind is in the thorn tree
it's hard for thee to kick against the pricks
- johnny cash song
i got sick.
i am tired of thinking these words.
i got sick and could not walk from the bed to the kitchen without collapsing
and i don't remember a lot of it. i was sick and the steroids made me better but they also made me sick in new ways.
the steroids gave me a hand tremor. it was scariest when i was stitching up an old man's armpit, where we had just snipped out some poisoned lymph nodes; the skin was so thin, so delicate, and my fingers clutching the needleholder and the forceps just shook and shook, uncontrollably, but at least rhythmically, at least i could time my breaths in and out and twitch the needle-point into his skin, lightning-quick, between jolts. i could stitch him up and not hurt him, but it was hard and i was scared and dripping with sweat and sorrow.
i also spill glasses of water in my lap - just a little. i also toss salad all over the salad bar - more trouble with fingers and forceps. these are things that are happening to me, me, how can they be happening to me, of all people? ego pulls the pillow over her face and gnashes her teeth and hides.
the steroids also junked my appearance.
it's hard to forget about how i look. there are reflective surfaces everywhere. the physical sensations are reflective surfaces too and i am ashamed of myself and these are the fruits of vanity. it's a convenient time for me to ponder ego death, although it was you who brought it up.
i think i ponder i brood about the surgery that would open my eyelids, pull out the thick wads of fat that steroids have filled them with, i think about it all the time, i wish i could just do it myself in the bathroom, it would be such a relief to see my normal face again and another relief to not have perfect strangers tell me "you look tired" and an even bigger relief to not work so hard to keep my lids apart so i can see and if only the blur would go away.
what if it never goes away?
my vision is unclear, in oh so many ways. it's all a blur. it's all a blur.
one day i was driving along and i had the strangest feeling of disconnectedness. driving, the idea of a car, see-through atmosphere, having a little agenda for the day, putting everything in words, everything suddenly seemed arbitrary. i thought, maybe this is what i'd be like schizophrenic. i also thought it must have been the toll - the toll of feeling subliminally punished by ill-health, as well as the toll of the dreariness of having such heavy, heavy lids... it went away, but one wonders... could one become unfamiliar to oneself forever?
could one get used to being unfamiliar to oneself? is it the void behind the Void?
the corpse of ego, not so graceful as the death?
i am blessed with the clearest lesson yet that the desires of the ego, the demands of vanity, can never, never be satisfied. it is an unsatisfactory blessing (today).
what i am saying is i can not properly see.
lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither
moth nor rust doth corrupt, and thieves do not break in and steal.
- the dude
simple operating instructions.
you have been told more than once.
why do you always have to do things the hard way.
don't goof off.
calling. calling humanity.
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