I owed rent so I paid rent. Now I owe rant. Here goes. Yesterday, the zig zag lines of cars traveling fast like swatches of color all blurred if I let my eyes water in the damp air. The bridge driven over in haste is at a mysterious height and there is little contemplation for swan diving or cannon balling. Only contemplation for blinkerless lane changers and never missing exit back tracking adventures sometimes elicited by a forced rut caused by aggressive drivers and an impossible space to fit vehicle within as transferred weight and emotion boil up and exit through the eyes in the form of silica and blood.
New parts coming in the mail. A back bone I ordered from a mortuary. Some kidneys from the children’s hospital. Some lilac buds for my future garden. Nuts and bolts. Nothing too special.
My legs took me everywhere yesterday. Happy that I have them and use them. There are others who have them and do not use them. We are a seated culture. Strapped into our cars and computer chairs, or on toilet seats with ipads in our naked laps. No room there for the adventurous walking stick madmen who strap on a back pack and walk a steady 5-6 city miles without purpose. Just to do. See. The eyes are so fulfilled when walking. Especially across bridges. The ones normally sped over. Stop. Watch the rowing shells practice in stride. The gentle rocking of moored boats. Sunlight reflecting. Years of layers of graffiti. Etc., etc.
Now today. Assignments and reading. Vague concern for the perpetual sore neck and crinkling foil joints in my hands but this is no time to be a hypochondriac and get lost on Web MD. What a paradise for the concerned American who wishes to have a physical back drop to her maladies. Speaking of, my girlfriend and I, stumbling in love back from the bars heard and saw a crazy eyed old woman yelling ‘Help!’ from her cracked open screen door along the path. I was stewing about my insufficient funds at the time. We woke up and ran over to her. Her name was Rosemary and she wished to get a hold of her niece Lydia at the hospital. (Some number and direction, presumably for a certain wing, I can’t remember.) I guess nothing happened. We let her talk to the niece and then she dragged herself back inside. She held her left thigh and look concerned though did not want to trouble us by testing our empathy or anything. I noticed red on her leg but it didn’t register until later. Blood? Broken bone? We couldn’t call an ambulance because she seemed she could be faking her injury for Lydia’s attention. I don’t know. I was self conscious about my breath smelling like scotch ale and shuffled about nervously, though we knelt by her side instead of standing in dominance. She was wobbly and look back and forth between us like a captured animal pleading for pity.
About self consciousness. When you are alone to be self conscious is meditative, brave, and healthy. You can assess your SELF as if it were a literary work or a constellation map, a page of algebraic expression, or an impressionist painting dissembled… Sit and mull over the day in your mind and if it was not too satisfactory, pick another day… Hawaii perhaps. Be there with the breeze and the sun and the sand mites. Inversely, to be self conscious in a social setting, unless at a pub on trivia night with your philosopher friends, is anti social death. At a party, holding a red cup and a little too self aware, the atmosphere will wash over you like dirty river sediment instead of a forgetful waterfall. The point, in a minor sense, is to lose your self. To depart from your harsh self effacing mannerisms that you are preoccupied with most of the day. Those a-little-too-analytic observations you have about your personality and the scope of the world in which you inhabit, the way your posture feels, does it feel stiff, too loose, awkward and floppy? You’ve learned that even if a few beers can help you ease into a different mental atmosphere, smoking pot will build a house around you that is barricaded and savage against the self around the others. Everyone becomes an inspector and your fears become heightened by the weight of gravity and the claustrophobia of the party-goings comfort zones overlapping. I would argue to be self conscious is beautiful. It allows for clarity. At party, though, one must be socially conscious. Let the self chameleon morph into whatever feels most naturally to get the most enjoyment out of the situation. Be a butterfly and later analyze. No one ever invited Nietzsche to a cocktail party.