A crazy man speaks of his having discovered
he was crazy in a world far madder than he,
or so he wants you to think, thus believe,
know in a way other than how others know
the things they say they know for certain,
what he says he was, what he says he has become,
what he thinks he needs to say about what he has never been
that he imagines he might have wanted to come to be . . .
or so I imagine of them and of him . . . of me me me;
who else is there in what I have been, the actor prepares
or as I think from time to time about him,
who am I now, he was going to be the one who said,
what I become remembering quite accurately
everything this man has ever said or asked,
mirror, mirror, on the bedroom wall
what is there about what there is to tell . . .
so telling who I have become, who I do, to me, so telling, you . . .
what then could we agree upon in these digressions travelled,
less taken with their destination than their direction.
Tongue twisting around itself, another tongue,
the tail that wags the dog.
What are these incredibilities of measure,
how to weigh the soul, the balancing act I have performed
all through my life, a juggler, to be to me,
I me you, you me me, I you you . . .
to be you or not to be you, again, the question put
before the mirror, Who is he? I do ask,
another reflection of myself pausing to answer the question,
Who are you? is Who am I?
Do I need to know at the moment,
the prism fixed, a refracted array,
I cannot count how many selves in the Self I am
I have, when to be me is plural,
what I say when considering this man, this human, this person,
persona non gratis, I am the one who wears many masks–
to hide inside I must disguise myself from me,
it is not the masks I wear in the world,
but the ones I wear in me, we,
it is the person I would remain under total amnesia must find
all roads to perdition lead within, ever narrowing roads to the interior,
other forests to enter, or castle walls to wander against,
with them, with myself alone among my selves,
how are castle walls not like the inside of the skull,
alas poor fellows . . .
one or another man I might have been,
who was he or I in another time–
what time it was is less important
than how will continue to wear yet another mask
each time the opportunity arises to create another role
a series of contexts differing from one another greatly, slightly . . .
at other times discovering new men to be . . .
another self and another self and another self,
each one creeping as each one might,
from shadow to shadow, the darkness there within . . .
I have never had the fear of being crazy
that so many I have known over the courses of my life . . .
living as I have lived, where and when I have lived–
who has not the same otherwise differently,
and how and what that has provided me,
the more or less travelled courses I take or follow,
remembering to be a member of my life again–
as it has provided me with many more roles to play . . .
I recollect all the world,
this stage and another stage, the many stages I have walked upon,
fretting an hour or two or more,
sometimes repeating performances–
I am always acting, acting, reacting;
and yes with many transformations I make,
what then would it mean to take, to endure–
and I do endure the many other re-formations across–
what is there to cross, I cross myself as I pass
the chapel niche for Saint Therese of Lisieux . . .
a votive candle lit reminding me of the votives lit
on the tables of the bistro I sit in like Balzac
drinkning a bottle of Sancerre to wash down
the three dozen oysters I have before dinner . . .
one or another metamorphosis I suppose . . .
who can really say I am the same person today I was last week–
and I am not talking about Gregor Samsa transformations, you know
as I do, what yes or no propositions are there,
no one the same today as he was last year or even last week,
who is not something other than what she was an hour ago,
or at any other moment–or string of them extending for many minutes,
for many hours, for many days,
many weeks, many months, or less,
whatever I have at my finger tips
to say At that time then I was nothing like I am now.
Is it only about lessons learned–I have learned many lessons well,
as others, some, I have not, no, never so well, have I . . .
is it otherwise something else in this meta-being I become?
I wish you did not insist that this was too abstract–
you should know it is not . . .
and so, what is it about being and existence
that I recall from some discussions,
I think I could recall having had,
about the distinctions between existence and being?
What is it about my being I should know more than I do about,
to be or to become should be the question . . .
it is the one the Prince of Denmark does ask–
firstly and lastly, as I have said myself,
to hold or not to hold . . .
in hand, in heart, in mid, what then is it about soul we have forgotten . . .
behold the tree outside my window exits but does not have being!
Of course, I say, to behold or not to behold,
more inquisitional themes in variegation,
more questions asked–another oath I swear . . .
I do have being to behold, and what I see or do not to see
is part of what I mean to do
to be able to stand under what I know.
“One does not explain all things by one thing alone,
but by explaining all things by all things at once,” he said, I said, I say.
Yes, he did when I did as I did as he does, I will do,
he and I an other-we I become.
I am we as I have said before here and elsewhere,
over and over saying the same things again and again without gain . . .
Not in time extended can anyone explain everything needing to be explained,
but by explaining everything needing to be explained in a purer simultaneity . . .
pure purity simultaneously co-existing with what it is about
that I have, that I do, that I become,
and I say I think I write that I paint or that I compose–what is it that gets posed,
to posit, to put, to place, displace what is pure–
there is no purity in my being, in any being,
I say to try to make myself feel better
irrespective of it being true . . .
so composed of uncertain potential as I am,
what I actualize–to be or not to be
“Would Adam have needed infinite time to name infinite things?”
I say I said he asked.
Paradise is heaven on earth.
That is not the question, though, how should we enable ourselves
to understand what we think we believe we need to know,
that Doubt is the highest wisdom, and that knowledge is impossible . . .
moreover however nonetheless,
what is now the question is that if it is so,
that Paradise is Heaven on Earth,
then it is of eternity
and does not participate in the laws of infinite space,
nor those of infinite time–
what is it about duration I have missed?
How do I count infinity?
Infinity never comes, infinity is never reached,
no, never in time, nor space, the limits thereof . . .
infinite time would not be enough time.
No amount of time would ever come closer to infinite time.
One billion to the one billionth power is no closer to infinity than one.
How do I not see that infinite possibility is an avalanche waiting to bury me,
as I have said before and again after that, before, I will again, as I have herein.
Eden is a space for eternity to exist–
the walled garden where heaven exists on earth . . .
How does Eden relate to the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem?
Nevertheless, Paradise in the way heaven is on earth . . .
He says so many things I know before he speaks,
I have a flood of premonitions of him speaking of saying telling
others what they need to know about me, about us, I am we, you know,
every you you are or will become.
It is only from eternity that infinity is resolved.
It is only in this way that the Incarnation of the Son of God
begotten not made before time and creation
could be Alpha and Omega,
beginning and end at once–
You do have to get this,
that infinity and eternity are not synonyms,
never have been.
It is a persistent confusion we cling to
out of vanity and desperation
that allows this to persist in our contemporary meaning.
I could have considered more here, but, no, I will not . . .
What else could I say about existing without being–
isn’t that about what the state wants from you, from me?
Why am I again posing the questions of we,
except in the ways that I do become we?
I reconsider what has been wrong.
So what is it that the new State as God wants from me?
Or from whomever it might be possible to thrust this upon . . .
a new existence for people–
I am not people,
yet I am everyone–
I am also all.
I am no one, I am everyone, anyone who needs to be
what it is . . . for humans, we would like to think–
what cannot mount to what being will be . . .
another form of what not-to-be amounts to in this existence I have
Yes, it was not the suicide I imagined Hamlet thinking about out loud–
his unique interior monologue or was it soliloquy,
this to be or not be that remains what it means to say something
about how becoming displaces being
They are not the same thing, you know,
To be or not to be,
This being and becoming.
They serve separate functions, don’t they?
What has utility to do with what we are talking about here.
Metaphysics; Ontology; Epistemology–
I remember these from Philosophy classes as an undergraduate
when I thought I might want to be a Philosophy major.
I wish I had the time to make clear to you
this suffering of folly or madness
or something else quite synonymous
in the mind of another I have been or might become,
not so synonymous in mine–
no two words share complete or absolute synonymy
in every context of usage.
I do not even imagine that they share anything other than a limited synonymy.
What more will I say
could only be completed by you,
as only my hypocrite friend could read. . .
and now a new rub is introduced,
too subtle for you superficial skimmers of pages . . .
you don’t imagine that it is interesting, do you?
Nor do at least for incidental consideration?
If not ordered inquiry?