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33607I think therefore I was

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  • Trinidad Cruz
    Apr 2, 2005
      Death has nothing to say to me, no mouth for words; but pain I can
      hear; its unsolicited throat-cancered snarl, bad-toothed howl, and
      arthritic bark, always drooling at my heels. The breakdown comes with
      sleep deprivation; though thunderstorms, high crime, and war, cannot
      awake me uninvited; friends, lovers, and loved ones betraying can
      torture and take what sleep, what regathering, what foothold, I'll
      ever have. Sleep is forgiveness; without it there are only hangovers
      and self-loathing. Love is an erector set of assemblings and
      disassemblings, spread over a lifetime, tied together with the same
      little nuts and bolts of human twinings amounting to nothing more than
      synchronous steps, fortunate dances, yet the same parts reused never
      produce any duplication, however familiar, each encounter, every
      dance, is new and old at the same time. Driven by affection we will
      surely die, but without it we have never lived. Banded together beyond
      the couple we act little more than senseless vandals against the
      in/out rhythum of our own breath seeking resolution of rebuilt wrecks,
      wrecked by the very act of rebuilding. We paint the human edifice with
      blistered charred and dingy colors disintegrating sound walls and
      beams and roofs to abandoned factories, dried up farms, ghost towns,
      played out veins. The mother cord cut, intitially we resonate,
      understanding. Along the way we write and speak ourselves to dust and
      disappear. Everybody wants to stop. Life moves on, always toward the
      ending that caused it to be comprehensible, and as we fall off the
      pace the pain begins to catch us and steal our sleep with
      reconsideration, and eventually we stop altogether. Outside of where
      we look from; the whole pulsing accident of what we've left behind to
      see, moves relentlessly into its begotten emptiness, that blessed
      emptiness that let us look at all. There are facts; they just can't be
      expected to remain the same. There can be universal human ethics; they
      must always be wide-eyed and changing. We are not here engaged in
      observation, but rather, more precisely – recollection. We can only
      formulate after the fact, and we can only actively change the past,
      the rest is accidental.

      Trinidad Cruz

      "The enigmas that I have in mind all turn on what I shall call the
      "systematic elusiveness" of the concept of "I". When a child, having
      no theoretical commitments or equipment, eventually asks himself, "Who
      or What am I?" he does not ask it from a desire to know his own
      surname, age, sex, nationality, or position in the form. He knows all
      his ordinary personalia. He feels that there is something else in the
      background for which his "I" stands for, it is something very
      important and quite unique, unique in the sense that neither it, nor
      anything like it, belongs to anyone else. There could be only one "I".
      "I" feels mystifying. And it feels mystifying, anyhow in part,
      because the more the child tries to put a finger on what "I" stands
      for, the less does he succeed in doing so. He can catch only its
      coat-tails; it itself is always and obdurately a pace ahead of its

      Gilbert Ryle from "The Concept of Mind"