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Fri, Aug. 11th, 2006, 12:18 am
Elsewhere Self, Self Elsewhere

I feel as if my sense of self is dissipating into the air. When I walk I can feel it hiss from my pores, seep out of my skin and spill onto the floor. My store is running low, steaming and gasping and gulping in the Self pump tank as the essence leaks out into the air. It sifts around with the air, 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, and an additional one percent of me + argon and all. In the end it'll be Ar and Il and the rest, Ne, H, Xe, etc.

Then this thick and dull corpus, empty of essence and Self, can migrate out Elsewhere. Elsewhere being the strange land that I've never understood, Elsewhere being all the hobbies and indulgences of men that I have never found interesting, Elsewhere being someplace I've never occupied or wished to occupy. You know--in a hair salon with a high couture fashion magazine in my lap, ordering someone to highlight, to cut, to trim. Splashing pedicure waters into someone's face. In a pew. Dipping a dirty finger into the Holy Water and looking up toward the priest with a smile. At a frat party. On myspace. Never alone. Without a book. Cut off from the flow of information. Comfortable never enetering a library or bookstore. Without reading material. Without discussion.

These are all the places I never want to be, and easily, oh so easily--I could slip into this Elsewhere if these last drops of Self didn't gravitate me toward what I really enjoy, and push me away from the places I don't belong with their magnetically aligned ions.

Yet if this decay continues (Il seems to have a rather rapid half-life) then I will have to resort to extreme measures. Perhaps I'll have to withdraw and rewrite the Self, endow it with new and stronger properties. Il 2.0, perhaps, released with the intent of longevity and high reliability.

But fuck, if I keep doing this 'growing' thing I'll have to retreat and rewrite quite frequently. It means periodic liminality, suspension, uncertainty. Fuck the choices! Fuck postmodernism and its wealth of freedom, the possibilities for social climbing, the wide width and breadth of man and society and study--fuck all. You've all pressed upon me with such an existential weight that I want to slap you all in the face and tell you to get into line. Get the fuck into line! The Universe Does Have An Order, and I want you to follow it!

Yet of course, in a nod to my liberal ties, I can't help but enjoy this freedom, this course to a greater life, blah blah hypocrisy. I understand both sides. I am choosing a side. I am choosing the uncertainty and existential angst and misery and fuck-all; I concede to its overwhelming correctness, helplessly agree to the choice and wonder and beauty of it all.

But I'm still angry about it. Fuck you, though, because I have a right to be! Universal Order my ass.