Tuesday, February 07, 2012
the disassociation enigma - la vie jumelleuse - the driver behind the eyes
Why is it that, "People never think their passport photograph looks like them?"
Why is it that, "People never think their reflection in a mirror is an accurate depiction of them?"
You know, it's too fat here, too thin there or some other re-definition of what's I think I might be like as opposed to what I physically am.
What is the self-image and why is it so different from this FIXED PHYSICAL FORM?
What is this 'constant' that's aggrieved by the shifting tide of the years. And I don't mean this as the depreciational effect of aging. I'm talking about THE MOMENT, now, what we are right at this moment today tuesday 7th february 2012 roman calendar.
This voice, that I physically I use, day in day out, to speak to other people, it really DOESN'T SOUND LIKE the way I think I should sound. And it's not a macho thing, it's not like I think I should have a deeper or more refined or raspier voice or whatever...
I have my own internal voice, that I use in my head, as this text is being typed or as "I" am re-reading this stuff before pressing PUBLISH POST. But it's hard to say what that 'voice' sounds like -- I mean I couldn't easily imitate it, to sound like the me-in-my-head, it'd be cancelled out by me real-me speaking so I've never 'heard myself speaking' only have I ever been 'imitated' by my (anatomically restricted) vocal chordic version of the me-voice.
And the personality itself, this thing that projects me (and my intentions) through this organic machinery, actually feels like TWINS. I don't know how to explain this 'feeling' but it's like human beings are 'two entities' using/driving one vehicle. One for the left steering wheel, one for the right steering wheel. Both trying to work together to 'keep the balance' and 'synchronise the movements' of both mind and body for 'optimum transit' through the 'chores of the daily tedium' - woah, that was a downer phrase!
I have noticed that the act-of-writing often runs contrary to the act-of-thinking. You formalise some idea you want to 'get down on paper (or in digits)' and you start to write, and, even though you really want to try and say exactly what you set out to say, your fingers start to type something AMENDED or altered from the original thought-flow.
That's how I wrote both of my 2008 Silverthought novels "Bukkakeworld" and "Planet of the Owls" (look on Amazon if you wanna buy them), by just letting the fingers do the walking/talking typing/story-telling. I wasn't really IN CONTROL of the characters nor the narrative consequences of either of those novels. Some would say that's why they're so shit. I would say that's why the term 'stream of unconsciousness' has been attached to my work so frequently. I write, that's it.
I'm not channelling either; I don't think.
Put it this way, I'm not aware of a specific 'nature' to the person behind these physical movements. I not aware of a specific 'personal identity' I can NAME or WITNESS or who is 'working through me'.
As I'm typing this post, I can see THIS STANDING WAVE of physical matter struggling to keep up with the 'monologic of intent'. That's the thing. It's not the same as a ghost. It's not the same as a spirit. It's not the same as demonic possession. It's not even the same as 'disconnection from the real'. But it KNOWS it's not the same thing as this BODY. It knows it's just doing this as some form of exorcism (to use a religious campism), something that has to be expunged, gotten out, re-coded, word-ised or otherwise 'retailed'. There are physical inputs and outputs to this being-ness and others like me use these same inputs and outputs to 'translate for their logos' the incoming and outgoing realm of experience.
I'm looking at these words, hearing these words, as I type KNOWING that it's 'not necessarily' me who's doing the work. I'm in here, somewhere, but I'm being 'interpreted' by this physicality. I'm not a space alien. I'm not a trans-dimensional being. I'm not a soul... I don't think. I'm certainly not moral, as is no-one on this earth. We are only working within the limitations of our Body Politic and you can take that to mean the realness of societal living, shell-scaping; or the night-time equivalent of hand-holding.
Imagine a man wearing a coat back to front - that's how funny this feels, every single day.