Friday, March 20, 2015

I Am All

I woke up this morning absolutely clear-headed (no, you absolutist AA-ers, not because I hadn't had anything to drink; in fact, I had about 7 beers the night before). My very first FEELING upon awaking was of being aware of the earth rotating, and then that flashed to Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage" from "As You Like It":

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts...


Which reminded me of ant lives and dog lives and people lives that I've been thinking about lately, how all are (obviously) finite. Which would seem to tie in with the Shakespeare --- we're all just here briefly against a much bigger backdrop; yes, I get it.

Then I started thinking about a line from Plath's "Purdah": "I revolve in my sheath of impossibles."

Then I started questioning whether or not I actually revolve around the earth or whether it revolves around me. Of course I am aware of a larger scheme of things, but in reality, every single thing that I do does in fact revolve around me. I am the center of my universe. As everyone else is in theirs.

I am not at all primarily concerned with the other "players" upon The Stage, and their comings and goings. I have no control over those things whatsoever. Rather, I'm most focused on what role I'm playing. What else is one supposed to be concerned with?

Which led me back to Plath and her "Soliloquy of the Solipsist":

I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.

And then this online take on solipsism, in relation to Plath's poem:

Solipsism is the philosophical position that contends that a given individual’s mind is the only knowable reality there is (a concept that’s intimately connected to idealism). Some have gone as far as to state that there is in fact no independent, external reality; that that which we perceive to be ‘the external world’ is really nothing more than the conjecturing of ideas that exist with the individual’s mind alone … in its extreme from it asserts that the individual (whoever that may be) is not only the basis of reality, but the creator and destroyer of it.

And then it was nearly time for my alarm to go off and my mind started drifting to the scientific paper I was editing at the moment, but before that quite clicked into place, I made myself get up and write down:

I continue to revolve
Not in my impossibles
But in my "I Am All."

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And a p.s.: All of the above ties in to a youthful belief that I held so firmly for so long: That if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one there to hear it, it DOES make a sound.  It DOES, it DOES! It HAPPENED!

As I grow older, though, I'm more cognizant of the fact that... 100 trillion-trillion-trillion things "happen" all of the time. What gives any particular thing its significance is the recording of it and, then, the interpretation of it. In and of themselves, "things happening" are anonymous and, thus, meaningless. As an aside, I suspect that might be one reason why people get married: their mate and kids and pictures of mate and kids prove that they were once there.

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