Facing who we really are as people is something that almost no one does in their lives. To look into that mirror of self contemplation is often a painful and seemingly unbearable action. We stare blindly at ourselves, not aware of who we are so much as oblivious to any consideration of self.
I find it so difficult to let go of my attachment for my wife. Of the feelings of ownership (for lack of a better word) or possession of this singular person in my life. I want to be able to let go, if only to save myself from the demons that rake my soul when I am alone with my thoughts.
But in looking at who I am I have realized that the entire situation has been created through my actions. Beyond the tapestry of infidelities (on both sides), lies, misconceptions and confusion I see that somehow I am creating this entire situation in order to feed some necessary (or so my heart believes) function of creation. I am creating the suffering I must endure in order to have fodder for my own creative output. Only I am to blame for the endless pain and broken dreams.
But it all begs the question of why? Why do I create these situations? What causes my mind to do things I know will only hurt me and the people I love? How is it that I have come to believe so strongly (in fact so much so that I am almost unaware of it on a daily basis) that I need to suffer in order to create? And is it true that suffering is the food of creation?
Many of my friends in NYC have said that I should try to work things out with my wife. Most of my Chicago friends feel the same way. But how do we work something out with someone who doesn’t want to be involved? How can we begin to heal a wound that we ourselves have created?
The greater urban center that calls itself New York city has maintained its prominence as the center of the commercial and creative worlds through simple density. Both population density and financial density here are at such an extreme that anything is possible.
Artists move here to be closer to the money. Money people move here to control that money. In New York there are still people who buy art. Some of them pay large sums as an investment, others simply because they like the piece itself.
Yesterday I spent the afternoon interviewing Lionel Ziprin, a man who was born, raised and still lives in the neighborhood around Clinton and East Broadway. We spoke of the recordings of his grandfather made by Harry Smith, about Harry Smith himself and about Lionel’s life and the things he has seen. He spoke expansively on mystical traditions, Crowley, the Kabbalah and his interaction with Timothy Leary in the 1970s.
I lived here in New York for a year in the mid 1990s. I found the city overwhelming then, a vast moving being tuned into some hyperstatic plane of growth I was unable to groove with. I find the city now, as a visitor, an open and exciting place. Still too harsh for daily life, or the life I want to live, but the ability to reach out and connect with people, to pick up the phone and say hello is astounding. Everyone lives here, or will at some point. All things happen in the nexus of data that calls itself the 5 boroughs.
I am just waking up so this may come off as odd but I spent the evening thinking about my new found state (being separated from my wife) and how my ability to travel is helping my career. But the problem is that I miss my daughter constantly.
I have friends who are working musicians and parents and I am in awe of their ability to continue to work and still make time for their children. I spend as much time as I can with my daughter when I am around her but being on the road working is driving me crazy. I worry about her constantly and I wonder what she is doing. I can’t wait for a time when she is old enough to travel with me.
I have been spending a lot of time by myself these past few weeks. More so than ordinary. Among the emotions of my mundane existence I find myself thinking about the human form and what we are as beings. I have been thinking about growth, emotional as well as physical and what it means to have a body.
The more I consider the human body’s shape I see a plant like outgrowth sprouting from the head down away from the brain. As if our head is the root and out bodies merely projections of sensory equipment into the 4 dimensions of normal existence.
Somehow the tendrils of the human mind take soil in other dimensions of existence, beyond the fabric of reality, beyond our current understanding of life.
I am often called an asshole. Sometimes directly too me but more often in reference to me as a person. I am sure I am called other things as well but asshole seems to come up a lot.
What is wrong with the world that it can not stand direct criticism in any way? I am not insulting, I never call names or even care about people’s physical appearance (though I do compliment things people wear or hairstyles, if I like them). But I have an opinion (about almost everything) that somehow really pisses almost everyone off.
I feel like people really don’t want anyone to question who they are or what they think. That there is a resistive nature to how we identify ourselves against the world around us and if our self programmed reality paradigm is brought under the microscope of questioning it freaks many, many of us out.
Is our sense of self so fragile that it can not take a poke or two? We identify with our surroundings based on certain predisposed variables that make up our personality traits. When the underlining structure of those traits (anger, self-envy, lack of self-respect, love, lust, whatever) is questioned it makes us uncomfortable to think about.
Why is that? Why are we so defensive about who we are? Why is individuality worth fighting for? There has to be something about the survival mechanism that makes individuality a priority and makes thinking about your algorithmic makeup an alienating experience.
I just wish I didn’t piss off everyone all of the time.
Somehow I am drifting,
lost at c
Even awake I am
unsure who to b.
The ocean all around me, like
a band out of tune
I call for the rhythm
but everything is blue.
When the days are hot
the sun a scorching melody
the silver c ablaze
I find myself moving
toward the place
where the mirror of
the c meets the sky
When everything is a storm
of emotions and thunder
I tend to improvise
and people wonder why.
Sometimes trying just isn’t enough. We do everything we can to make certain things come together but in the end they refuse to straighten out. No matter how hard the road is we must walk it, no matter how long the journey traveled we are still where we start.
I have tried to make everything go as it should. I have tried to be a good father, even if I wasn’t a good husband. I wanted it to be good between us, but it never was. When we turn and look over the road we have come down it is already fading. Our steps meaningless marks in the garden of forking ways.
I am confused and tired. I am homeless and without a family. The sun no longer brings me joy, the moon no longer brings me solace.