I think ergo what? I don’t know. I think appears to indicate that I am able to think. Am I I? Aiaiai! The ease with which I am able to I-dentify with one single bloody letter in the alphabet is indeed absurd, unconscionable, not to mention well-conditioned. “I am I”, how surrealistically self-evident and simultaneously how galactically far [the spell-checker suggests galactic ally], how many photonic trillennia removed from my subjective experience. The term “phenomenology” fades in and out of consciousness.
What if I am more specific about it? The “I” just flows straight off of the tip of my thinking, fluid as water, real as rock. “I, I, I, I” how many times can it be said or typed and me still ease-lessly think of it as precisely designating myself. I, me, myself, the holy triad for the psycho-linguistic golden cow known as “ego”. After three decades of conditioning how long will it take to think or live [temporarily] outside the ego-maniac blackhole of I-dentity? I-ndividual? Is the habit of exaggerated arbitrary alphabetical identification/self-compression terminal or not? Is it an add-I-[fi]ction? Will “I” always be the solipsistic sun @ the center of my subjectiversum? Hope not.
Been willing to interrogate damn-near everything considered conventional, styled this mind as very critical but never took so much as a cursory glance at the untouchable, immaculate notion/construct of the I/self/me/ego. Even more sacred than the second tenet of my 19/400 individuology: CHS, cognate human shittiness. As in: doubt all narratives except the narrative that doubts narratives.
Or could be more specific about this matter: “I am Themba, Themba Mabona”. Inside here in CH this should make things clear, these few letters strung together, one citizen in possession of relevant i-dentification docs. “I am Themba Mabona. I am not Stiller. What else could U for heaven’s sake want to know? My athletic activites? My literary preferences. I am what meets the ‘I’, words and skin. Somebody somewhere staring at a screen.”
But if replace a single, arbitrary alphabetic letter by a dyadic six-letter combo, a biographically sanctioned signifer of who “I” am [becoming], does that make matters any fog-freer? Less amenable to [semantic] suffering? It’s even less economic in terms of letters and time to enunciate. Trying to tackle this issue from an idio[t]syncratically intellectual side is not fertile in regards to results.
So then. [Technically, the whole idea of an ego or “I” collapses if you cognize/signify in terms of Helvetica neue…the spear-tip of your identity becomes for all means and purposes indistinguishable from the letter l as in “letter” or “laxative”. This might be more than just a typographical coincidence.]
a b c d e f
g h I j k
l m n o p q
r s t u v w
x y z
Or… [if correctly sequenced and iterated]
a b c d e f
g h I j k
l m n o p q
r s t u v
w x y z
“The self is always “there”, ready to be wounded or gratified. Rather than seeing it as multiple and elusive, we make it a unitary, central, and permanent bastion. It is the deep sense of self lying at the heart of our being that we have to examine honestly. The problem is, this label thinks it’s the real deal. To unmask the ego’s deception, we have to pursue our inquiry to the very end.”
– M. Ricard
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