I ride the bus to work each day and so have time for the mind to wander over landscapes of accumulated thought. Here’s today’s edition:
When the Universe ends-or re-begins?-how will we know? Who will write the history of it? And what is the basis of any hope that anyone would care to read it? What makes us think that anyone would want to continue with what might come next? You may suppose that I lack imagination or its bastard cousin, faith. Perhaps I should allow my mind to wander the white fields of a metaverse; a realm which stands above ours and whose inhabitants peer down through windows and reflect obsessively on our plight? But I ask you, even if this wild imagining were true, why would such beings care for what they saw beyond a cool and scientific observation? Who cares much at all for more than their own story? Who can do ought but read their story into the lives and concerns of others? Then why not the gods?
Now, put yourself into the shoes of these imagined immortals if you can (or merely remember that they would have no shoes had you not imagined them first) and ask yourself, why? “Why would I care about the lot of humans any more than they of the vermin that live in their walls?” The only answer which satisfies is that their story is my story. That they are as a newborn child and I their mother. But in so imagining we have proven the point that they can only be us, else why would they care at all? … if they exist at all? And thus we make ourselves the seed of our own imaginings and we image ourselves to be gods.
I’m crying. They are tears that only I understand and this is how I know that I am. It is sufficient for one lifetime of wonder and stupefying awe.
One lifetime is enough.
—
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
I’m crying.
Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday. Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.
Mister City Policeman sitting, Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I’m crying, I’m crying. I’m crying, I’m crying.
Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess, Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.
Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don’t come, you get a tan From standing in the English rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.
Expert textpert choking smokers, Don’t you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty, See how they snied.
I’m crying.
Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna. Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.
Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo.
–The Beatles, I Am the Walrus
[image credit: Colin Mutchler, Reflected Sphere. via Wikimeda Commons]
This week I found my old box of journals, and have been reading through posts from different points from my teenage years and early twenties. I think when I started writing daily, and during much of the time writing, I thought that my labours would provide a body of writing that would be – (narcassist, I) to some extent, interesting to future generations.
Reading through it now, and knowing that my Dad has twenty years of daily records – shelf after shelf of books – I reflect that none of us have enough time or inclination to read/listen/observe through the masses of material that comprise any life story. It’s not that I’m not interested in my Dad’s life story – just, as you say – one life is enough. One life is more than enough.
Your post leaves me halfway between sadness and wonder. Together, they certainly form a beautiful thought.
Andy, the whole comment makes me smile. You’ve added something that means a lot to me. Thanks!
BTW, the Beatles song baffles me, entirely. :D
Always baffled me to. Then I was listening on the bus one day and I heard, “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.” and thought, wow, that’s about the way we see each other. And about how the world looks from one mind’s view at stops though a series of glimpses. Maybe that’s not at all what John meant. But that’s what I saw when it first meant something to me.
Woah. Connection made. :o
Yes, seems an ancient notion.
In relation to our recent conversation…..excellent post my friend. I see you.
Makin’ me smile. Thanks, Jacque! I see you.