I walk around in this flesh, dying each day, containing bowels and brains, maggots and bacteria, sweaty pores and rectal exits and bypasses, behaving as if I know what I am about. It is a horrific joke, quite trying, to realize that not much is accomplished each day and what is accomplished is defined by the apparatchik of society, the molecular bullshit that drives each culture and conditions all of us. A truly free man might commit suicide, so bereft by his isolation, so apart from his kind.
Someone once said that a good psychotherapist is not a little naive, meaning, I think, that he is open to being lied to or betrayed, his innocence part of how he engages his client; that he is real and not suprahuman. I am naive, watching my innocence sullied and taken advantage of, yet it is a part of who I am, or who I think I am. I have learned to live with the little wide-eyed boy in me, the one who can be lied to, whose heart can be broken by adult betrayal and lies.
I am tainted with an ethic, and so I am capable of being hurt.
This living blur has attributes, how fascinating, given that we stumble through the day. I am forever in a state of naivete — amazement. I can’t grasp this existence I live, largely unknown to myself, unknown at large.
I can conclude that we are all of control, life as charade.
What is to be done? What is fire? I really don’t know. But you do see fire, don’t you? Yes, I do. So we can begin there, I imagine. After all, our DNA wakes, moves and shakes us into entering each day. Perhaps the unconscious is really what we live every day. We think it is real real, really real, and it is real, but sublimely unconscious; we are unknown to ourselves as we know ourselves each day — what a condundrum.
I almost shagged the fly, almost caught in words what I am feeling, this mental state of mind in which I float, lint in a pocket. — from Spending Time With Mt. Lemmon.