It sounds biblical, but from out of the whirlpool something speaks to me. Around me stories are being lived. David Herrle has a mother-in-law in the hospital and his wife is distraught…Ben Rapoport in upstate Canaan, New York is aging with his Parkinson’s…My son, Jordan, just left Chicago for New York with his present squeeze for an upstate tour of Canaan, New York where we had a summer home for 14 years. And Jane and I have made plans for a trip to Chicago to see my son upon his return. On 8 November he will be 32…We both cannot believe that…I muse about Uncle Mike who I haven’t seen in decades. He is over 90 now. I dedicated one chapter of The i Tetralogy to his son and my cousin, Howard, who died in an accident at 21…Surrounded by stories around me, I seek not to know their endings. I am intrigued about their fits and starts. Much is withheld from us, much we withhold from ourselves. In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king, the saying astutely proffers.
I have always been philosophic in my thinking processes; perhaps a consequence of observing too much as a child and young person. As I reflect back i sense that I took in without processing and my entire adult life has been one of metabolizing all those threads of existence one encounters as one grows up. It is a cliche but amply true that there are more stories and novels in any one’s childhood to last a lifetime. I am sure if you are old enough you might agree that as we age the past becomes clearer, also a cliche but a truism as well. We see things uncluttered by relationships, connections, obligations, musts and shoulds. We become a little better at deconditioning ourselves so that we see lucidly. I will argue that all the books and stories I have written are simply re-digested experiences at one level or another, disguised from you, sometimes from me. i did not know that the book Grandma Flora gave me as a very young boy, Jewish tales and Legends, I believe, would play a part in the writing of The i Tetralogy. But it did. Freud argued that nothing is ever really forgotten, suppressed, yes, repressed, yes, forgotten, sure, but everpresent, ready to be rescued from the subliminal self. So when I go to write I often dwell inside of myself, seek questions and answers from selves I have to reintroduce myself to. I greet the nether me and ask of myself what questions I need to pose to advance my writing or my self-understanding. Perhaps my philosophizing is a defense against being pragmatic — or dirt real; or, perhaps, it is a defense that keeps me away from me, a siren’s song that blinds me to the truth, whatever that might be. Perhaps I need to be safe and secure so I wind myself up into words, phrases and highfalutin thoughts. Perhaps. Perhaps. You know, dear reader, I am too old to be frightened by my very self. And what a curious remark that is. Do we come, you, me, that person there, her, him arrive at some point in life that we serendipitously make peace with ourselves? I do feel less divided than before, more coherent and cohesive than ever before. Ssssh! I think I am at the height of my powers, whatever they are. I feel strong and certain and resolute. Yes, resolute! That is a sweet feeling to have.
As I said in the previous blog, I am working time. Testing it, trying it out, putting a spin on it with my fingers as I curve it into your space while we play boxball, you and I. I am working on comprehending not only who I am — the ever question, like the ever tidal flows across the span of the world’s oceans, but how to best serve me as I wade through the thick ephemera which is time, the cotton candy of time’s trespass, all fluffy and inconsequential. All is flux. All is sound and fury signifying nothing. In that cosmic and personal change I grasp at a straw — can I? may I? in some intelligible way direct its course. Give me a rudder I shout out and I will give you a direction, I boldly declaim, like a crewman on the Pequod.
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