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+--- Thread: Song of Self (/thread-26014.html)
Song of Self - rowens - 10-20-2024
Self/Awareness, there is space between self and awareness, they look "at each other", manufacturing many, many 'distorted' reflections and sophistries.
Self is a sense that transcends rational argument. An arbitrary absolute. I exist, therefore I am. Subject and Object. The I exists through fluctuations and alterations. A braindead me is still me. . . . And dead me . . .
I am the body and transcend the body, as I can sense and act beyond the immediate environment.
Conditioning is me. Error is me. Confusion is me. Lack Thereof is me.
The me is ad hoc ad libitum.
I live in Freedonia.
My Team is V. F. D.
I'm a Child-Hermit.
I live near the Good Tree of the Good Neighbors.
I have a radio and a television.
There are some books in my Room, and I have a Tent.
The Sky and Earth are the Workings of my Body-Mind-Environment.
I'm a Pop Cultural Priest. A healer, exorcist,
vampire-slayer with silver bullets.
A fornicator, roaster, toaster, thief, jive-tongue,
wrestler, backdoors bluesman, Cynic, Magus, Shaman, Bard
and avadhoot.
My number is 8 and my Genius'
is 13.
She has two Wings, each a 7.
Some call me Billy Malone, and I most
often call her Bia.
I have no Religion, Politics nor Business.
To me, Death calling is cats in labor
on weeks leading up to MidFall.
These are like ghosts-alive.
[ . . . ]
RE: Song of Self - rowens - 10-31-2024
A job is to slave,
a home is a prison;
another man's wife
is an itinerant heaven.
Goodbye Sophia,
to hell with religion.
Adjustment's sacred
as a gospel's a pigeon.
Love is War equal,
no bickering discussion.
All clouds a fair shape.
Saints are business decisions.
With entitlement
turn vindictive and
torn; I as a whole
am done with fieldhands,
marches, elections,
strawmen and scarecrows.
Death is no freedom
and trust but a hoe.
Paid work is a grave,
children are prison;
while Child-Hermit him-
self's a wall-less garden.
RE: Song of Self - rowens - 11-22-2024
Halo as a Frisbee
The Child-Hermit enjoys hypnagogic and pareidolic rituals, divination and scrying.
You hold the Mirror to your face, You are Isis with her Material Vanity, you are Osiris who comes and goes with the reflection, or you smash the Mirror and It becomes an Ankh, and you are Horus, the Crowned and Conquering Child soaring on the Sandal of Life. As for me, I throw the crown in a ditch, leave the mirrors and the ankhs to vampires, and stumble on up the road.
RE: Song of Self - rowens - 04-17-2025
IV
I'm WC Fields Robert Johnson Antonin Artaud
John Constantine Mad Max All of the Marx Brothers
Sherlock Holmes Philip Dick
not their gifts but they
all
at once and at intervals.
My Buffoonery says that my mistakes and failures are part of my iconography. (Where would W. C. Fields be without his flaws? His character defects are his character.) My Narcissism tells me that my most selfless acts are born from egoist notions of what I SHOULD do (Even an act of pure bravery and self-sacrifice is glittering with mythopoetic notions of grandeur; or, in another situation, a desperate need to protect or help others or another, based on my own conceits. My own values, my fear of cowardice, my need for approval even in death, my fear of loss that would make my pain while alive worse than the pain of whoever lost me from my own point of view. Even when I am beyond point of view, it is ME that is absent.).
There's a duck on the table, rubber; not clear which, the duck or the table.
I see myself as I am, holding a cup, like someone in a 19th century or 20th century movie. I feel aesthetically somebody. A me.
The same as a character in a movie is and does within the context of the movie.
When someone is dead, you can write their biography and evaluate their work and depict them as a character in a sense of Absolute Motion.
I am simply living that Absolution (pun intended). I am the character in the movie, the movie is realtime reality.
I have the satisfaction of being Complete and Unfinished. I'm my own Role Model. I live vicariously through myself.
Anything that happens is happening as the movie, and adds to my character. I am complete and open to alterity.
Two gongs sit on a table. And a purse from an older decade. Some cookies in a jar.
A box fan is also on the table. It is turned on and blowing toward the hall where no one is.
The sunlight through the window behind me is making shadows on the walls and floors. All the lights are off in the house.
The sound of the fan and what it would feel like, as it's a couple hours after noon. This is years ago.
. . .
V
"my personality has been eclipsed by my consciousness of personality"
me, 2004
Decades of self-reflective OCD.
15 years of solitude, identity feedback on "its" "self", no experiences, relationships, social-cultural happenings in which to forge an identity or salvage what, as a child, I had.
The only means of transportation conducted by those who constantly feedback on what I apparently am, how I look, how I talk, how I walk, what is and isn't appropriate.
Taken to therapists to further analyze what I am.
Phone calls and letters to far off friends and romantic interests, further talk of things not experienced, more analysis of life not life, more feedback.
To poetry readings where I listen to others, and myself either ask about others or remain silent.
Poetry readings where I can find an opportunity to read, but these are groups, where instead of reading and leaving, I'm asked to give feedback on others and receive feedback on my work.
To online poetry sites where the rules allow no feedback but dull readings, or feedback required on others' and given on yours.
A life of feedback on an identity that's very identity is nothing but a closed feedback loop.
But from the middle of that loop, a monster has been born. A tradition warped flow of fiery alterity.
To shake my hand is to imprison yourself, as I pick your pocket for every key to every novelty your body electric is capable of . . .
. . .
There is no such thing as OCD
There is no such thing as Trauma
There is no such thing as Denial
There is no such thing as Regression
There is no such thing as Misunderstanding
These are excuses.
. . .
Stripped to naked earth
of all illusion,
I no longer speak
to Self,
but to you and Bia.