kanga makes a discovery
the thought makes me shiver in my boots. could predestination be behind all my supposedly rational decisions? okay, tomorrow i leave the mountains for the flatland. i don't feel like moses or zarathustra, carrying wisdom to the masses. in fact, quite the opposite: like a scarecrow being put in the barn after a wild summer scaring crows. here goes my usefullness, and my stuffed, straw body, full of insects and dry seeds, doesn't help me much to face the darkening days. one must have a mind of winter, says the snowman of wallace stevens.
is it better to burn or to freeze? the question doesn't help. i just hope the mice stay away from me! i'll be living in a box. i promise to exercise more. i'll walk downtown through the park, ramble to the bookstore cafe, jump up and down assiduously on my trampoline. if i have to, i'll take a journey, perhaps to tierra del fuego, or mars. travel is the best exercise. when else do i carrying a pack ten hours a day, climb up inside church towers or wander museums?
could i do something dramatically different? get married? adopt a kid? buy a house? those thoughts feel like an early grave. sentimentally, i'd love to adopt, gain a sense of purpose like my sister did. yet i know i don't even want to have a dog demanding my attention. as my mother said, "when you were little, you played so much alone, i didn't think you'd have anything to do with people." and that's before i remember anything!
i've tried, god knows i have. look at all those theater adventures, pursued around the world. the production photos i've taken, the classes i continue to sit though for fun. and love affairs. now those seem impossible. it's one thing to have a young body and look, the women attracted to you, another to leer at them like an old man. yes, yes, a scarecrow i've become. however, that is power. if i can't inspire love, i can inspire terror! and maybe my first love, judy garland, will come along as Dorothy and carry me off to oz. maybe that's why i devoured all the oz books?
they say you can't escape from yourself. rather than a self i'm coming to believe we're born with a personality, which we expand and fill out during a lifetime. every parent knows the baby born with distinct characteristics. perhaps the very idea of a self is an illusion? something to keep us warm on a dark night, something buried deep in our unconscious. now there's predestination, for you. the poet boris pasternak said, "human beings invented psychology so they'd think they know what's going on."
hmm, maybe that's why hypnotists and psychics seem to be in the know. oscar wilde said, 'truth is in the appearance.' and these kinds of counselors can read me like a book. the twitches in my nose, the trembling of my hands, the mottled look of my eyeballs, they give me away completely to those who can truly see. is this a consolation? no. no wonder i hide my body on a mountain or a tiny city room. i'm terrorized by it being discovered i'm an impostor, a scarecrow in human clothing.
we're all connected
...it's so odd. i feel the drawings i make give me completely away. luckily, people want photographs, not reality. you can delve into the depths of the surface by following the path of the androids: