Vortex Surfers

By eeabee

It’s funny. We think our selves are so discrete–so clearly demarcated–such unities–such knowable things. Such myths. We are such myths. Not that I mean we aren’t valuable–I do not reject the value of myths. Far from it. Quite the opposite. That’s sort of the trouble. Myths mean; myths move; myths make. Mmm. It also isn’t that to claim that it would be bad (or good, for that matter), if are selves were always these things we say they are. Maybe they are sometimes, but I think not always, if at all.

The edges of a self are not always so fortress-strong. This means that a self cannot keep all invasions out, nor need it remain untouched. A self cannot enforce its own self-determination, its inalienable rights, which are clearly all too alienable. A self may announce its boundaries, but may not be recognized as sovereign by others–or by elements within–ones that are treasonous, traitorous, sly (I do like me some extended metaphors; in fact, it is becoming a sort of compulsive practice to begin one and keep on keepin’ on with it). A self may not know it can announce boundaries, that it can claim anything at all, or even that it can speak.

I say this to myself and whoever else will tolerate such didacticism: Do not ask why this self doesn’t just take some responsibility; do not say to this self “get a grip” or “grow up.” Only wonder why it does not speak for itself; only trace the reason; only listen for ways in which it almost speaks; only ease the pain of its wounds. Do not say, “when are those wounds going to be healed”; only look for ways to help to heal them. I say this to myself as much as any. I do not always meet these obligations, but I am learning to take notice, and I know that when I mention my shortfall I am accepting that these obligations are mine (as they are everyone’s), and this is something to do not with shame but with pride. Because obligations only belong to human beings who count and who matter, and so are the signs of a real existence, a real life, a fully human life. And because some obligations are a privilege to meet.

There is something to be said from starting from a sense of one’s own unreality, one’s feeling of not being part of the world of real people. Because things that might seem tiresome and onerous to others can seem like homecoming. I don’t mean that this is anything desirable or redeeming. Not feeling real or a full part of the human family isn’t redeemable or okay or tolerable. But it happens. And it has to be lived with (or not, but then that’s a different discussion, or rather, the end of discussions). So I say this in the service of my pollyannaish perverse mode, wherein I take awful realities and find them cheery in a grotesque sort of way, the mode that lets me live.