Tag Archives: personal

Wednesday January 17, 2018

From riches to rags, raving mad, he sat, solitarily, in his bed. Time and time again a story, a tune, had emerged with a plot that felt it could thicken but just proved to be thick. And, so, he found himself, as ever, on the losing side. The side that did not get sympathy, being still associated to previous success. What he wanted to be was a challenger. He knew that there was no cause left.

His nose was all there. He did not grow sticky feet overnight. Not even that. He just sat, in not so eager anticipation of a plot twist. The story was all out of him. The music had died, and so did he in that very moment. Pufffff, when the air goes out of a wrinkly balloon it’s not even an event. Be specific, he thought. Do something, he shouted to himself, hearing it as the faintest whisper.

Get yourself the fuck back on track.

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On Being Me

They tell me it’s difficult for all of us. The thing is that I know I’m not one of them. Pitch is black. Color is blue. I remember things about wanting to be a member of things. I wasn’t entirely bad at it. Some people were jealous. It seemed like I got it all. It didn’t seem at all like I didn’t get any of it. That’s how easy it is. Yet so difficult. So bloody difficult. Like you want to be run over by a truck.

My half of the car shred to pieces with me in it. Recognizable but maimed. Smiling ready for the thumbs up selfie. He finally made it. Pfew. Instagram it and dare people to like it. I would (dare people, not like it). What’s not to like about the life that once used to be mine to the detriment of everybody around me. Maimed they are and I was the truck. Things it is impossible to say nowadays.

Let’s be normal. Except I’m not. Div zero like thus:

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I’m a Meltdown Megalomaniac

Heidegger says: “Already the ‘thinking of death’ is publicly considered as the cowards fear.”

I die a thousand deaths each and every day.
They creep up on me like shivers up my crooked spine.
Make me catch my breath into my chronically shrunken lungs.
Slowly swell my prostate as if I was hit – hard – in the fucking groin.

Makes my mind spin into feeling (oh so!) special.
At the end of a life I feel like I am on top of the world,
before it all comes a-crushing crashing down. I melt – down –
to being dead inside. Life springs from that, I mean: for now at least.

‘Bummer!’ being booming business nowadays, I just go for “Mens insana in Corpore non sano.” Is it so strange to want death or is it just a part of life I happen to know better than most? The idea that dying is a once-in-a-lifetime thing at the end of life is entirely strange to me. Which makes me strange but maybe not a stranger to you.

Permit me an accusation in the form of a confession.

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Aliens in inner space

‘Let me try this. I don’t get it. Does this matter? Did that?’ I looked forlorn and was taken by others to look for loneliness. Maybe I was. Who could tell? I felt abandoned to my own wits which I happened not to have about. ‘What now? Try again!’ and again and again it hit me like a noise in a flock of noises fluttering about in the room picking on me, one at a time but at the same time all together.

I said: “Cafeterias are torture chambers. They should be banned.”. That was a weird thing to say judging from the awkwardness that ensued. I shut up. I played with the dough that formed itself between me and the others. I knew I could shape it, condense it and – when in shape – manipulate it. ‘Human relations are made of clay.’, I didn’t say that as I couldn’t get a grip on them in the there and then.

Freeze or fleece, that is the question.

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Imagination and Autism

It’s common to see autism linked to (a lack of) imagination, sense of humor, empathy and a host of other human qualities. That makes me wonder. After all, I feel ‘all too human’ to identify with robots or “very-large-brained” apes. I kid you not: these are analogies made by a leading autism researcher in a best-selling book. He might defend himself by saying it was an attempt at vulgarizing science. That does not change the fact such comparisons are, plainly and simply, vulgar.

Maybe it’s because since my diagnosis I finally form part of a minority (instead of merely feeling that way) that I’m more philosophically sensitive about generalization (instead of merely finding them bullshit). Denying human qualities to people is inhuman. It isn’t any less inhumane to qualify that such qualities are statistically less present in a certain set of people. We’re after all not talking about length or the ability to dance or dress well.

So, the problem has to lie in a confusion of how the word is understood. Clearing up such misunderstanding then has the double benefit of understanding better what such human qualities are not and taking away related false generalizations holding a minority down.

This is what I attempted to do in a (philosophical) way in this paper for one case: that of autism and imagination. I do not believe it is an easy read but if you want to check it out at the level of the abstract, you’ll find that below the fold as a (non-?)appetizer. Continue reading

The Degenerating Self

“Selves can only exist in definite relationships to other selves.”, G. H. Mead, Mind, Self & Society, The University of Chicago Press, p. 164.

I am in therapy. The question is: what makes me tick like a time bomb? The idea is that if we find the detonator we can defuse my self-destructive tendencies to so avoid my lights going on red. I feel the hand of therapists guided by society inside my mind carefully and meticulously disentangling the faulty wiring. Let’s hope they aren’t too nervous because I am. I can go from green to red and back again without ever giving off a warning orange.

I so should give them a helping hand. So let me explain my self (if even only to myself).

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Dialogues with Dr. Death (2)

I (knocks): Hey, Death, you there?
Dr. Death: Yeah, who there?

I: I
DrD: Ah, you again. What now?

I: Well I wanted to talk some about this notion of self-preservation. People seem to think it crucial stuff.
DrD: Philosophers you mean? My experience is people rarely think at all, maybe I just get them when they’re all thought out.

I: Yeah, well, philosophers I suppose. But don’t they supposedly voice what people think?
DrD: They suppose that they think like other people think. My experience falsifies that.

I: Ah, O-kay, I see. so maybe self-preservation is not such a common thought after all? Continue reading