I am sitting here as the computer went dead and I lost the entire blog. You can’t do that with a typewriter or pen and pencil. Aggravating and annoying, the brave new world we live in, with the minds and bodies of our ancestors of the Stone Age all wrapped up in technology, “I am Borg.” Yes, we are hive creatures, swarming from IPod to Blackberry to XBox. I was attempting to say before I was rudely deleted that we go through the day often without checking in. We do not dialogue with ourselves. We flee the interior monologue. We don’t ask questions, opine, wonder internally, self-reference our value system, out intellectual gluepot. I sit here and questions arise: will my Ricoh Gr1s camera, a sweet point and shoot compact, arrive at the camera repair store and will the estimate come in at a reasonable price? will Jane remember our memorable love-making long after I am gone — I am 17 years older than she and could have held her in my arms when she was born in 1958? will Jordan, my son, now 31 (egads!) receive Lucian Freud’s Paintings in Chicago, as he is taking a course on anatomy and model-drawing? can I prevent myself from getting diabetes with the diet I am on, a continuing concern? Other thoughts that park here and there — The fear(s) I have about myself: is there time? will I complete my defined goals? can I reconcile with an obdurate and stubborn daughter? is my capacity to love deepening,especially with regard to Jane, as I observe myself caring more and more about her? Answers are irrelevant. It is these mental and emotional vapor trails that cross my cranial stratosphere that interest me.
In my Ten Canons (See Pages) I address these questions, trying to have my clients work on seeing themselves on a daily basis, perhaps moment to moment, to shut-up, say less, and listen to how the world impacts upon them, how mom or dad, if heard properly, are good people but not a little shaky. I often go on, like you, for days, like the Mississippi flowing into its delta, relentless, timeless, unrestricted. At times we need to grab on to a piece of driftwood, catch our breath, look about, look inside, consider and reflect, before we are cast further down the river.
When we watch all the nutty shows on TV, Cops, for one, we see people who cannot answer an officer’s question about their behavior, speeding, for one, because they are empty; they are part of that religion that genuflects and prays to the “Great Duh.” George Romero’s “obsession” with zombies in his movies, I feel, is a brilliant commentary on our materialism and on our emptiness. Indeed, the ingestion of other human parts in order to remain a zombie seems to me a sly way to describe how we deal psychologically, emotionally and intellectually with relatives and the species at large, sacrificing realness, authenticity and genuineness for coprophagous delights.
Once I asked a class to observe. To remove the anxiety I gave them all A’s beforehand. Now we could work free of the insipid conditioning of school and society. I asked them to open their refrigerators and to tell me what they could see. After the titters and discussing what their parents might think — Freese doing his vaudeville act again, they were to write down everything they saw. As predicted, I got lists like this: milk, horseradish, butter, oranges and so forth. I told the class that they were blind. I helped a little — Heinz’s ketchup; Goldman’s horseradish, etc. So, in their next effort I received lists such as this one: Glendale fat-free milk, Breakstone’s butter, a dozen organic eggs, 12 bottles of Dasani 8 ounce water et al. Still not satisfied, I said they really did not see: I helped again. One 15 watt GE bulb at rear of fridge, 2 ice trays, with 12 squares, one inch by one inch, the reg. patent number on the metal badge inside the fridge; the instructions imprinted on top of the “crisper,” and so on. At last, the lists became more and more specific. They were turned into paragraphs of detail, and the whole assignment became a source of humor for all of us. How much do we see in daily life? Do we try to see in daily life? I wished I had then gone on to ask them to log what they feel and think in one day. (See An Observational Clothesline in Pages.)
As I sit here in my squeaking chair, I feel this is my “curse,” my malady, and I don’t wish it on you. I am so constructed in this way. I have found it of worth, of value. The trouble with we mortals is that we often do not inhabit ourselves. So we act and behave globally as asses.
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