“No one is free who has not obtained the empire of himself. No man is free who cannot command himself.” Pythagoras(570BC-500BC)
I am having a Kunta Kinte moment in terms of my writing, which is just terrific. I walked into the house minutes ago and went through an embarrassingly familiar, Friday evening routine. I quickly got out of the usual beer shirt and jeans, heeling off my wonderful running shoes, in the midst of the uniform change. I put on a dark blue robe and a head band that would likely scare anyone else, even getting me institutionalized, provided I had billions of dollars, while surrounded by a family of piranhas. It’s on Netflix in April.
I am sitting here in my writer’s costume, at my weekly, writer’s time. I have decided to let the story tell itself, while we both get to read it at the same, if you get my drift.
I came upon the quote up above from Big Master P, the triangle dude, partially for his message and for when it was written. I kind of fell over him, because I knew where I was eventually going with this story, having no idea how to get there. Spoken 2,500 years ago, it is testimony to the forever, internal dialogue for many of us about it.
The true beginning of this tale is a result of my searching for something to close out my weekly, news podcast. Very often, I try and recite a poem, without fucking it up too much. I even mark off punctuation. I do mean well. Other times, I’ll find a quote I want to share and bag the poem.
Quite by accident, if you believe in the ordained kind, I found a quote by Hunter S. Thompson. I was kidnapped by it. Now, would be a good time to tell you about my relationship with Hunter. When I was really laboring over what my voice could possibly be, his recklessness and insight was the half I was missing. I unconsciously folded him into the guy, who sat on a goddamn cushion, believing in angels, that would be me. The gonzo journalism of Thompson and the deep, soul searching of the Buddha, birthed my ZenGonzo voice that we are both stuck with.
I just thought about bringing my palms together in something called gassho, a pretty universal, prayer gesture. The right palm is Hunter, close to the ground, a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, dude. The left is more ethereal, willing to fly inside, never certain of the destination. Brought together, I am cupped somewhere in between.
His quote dealt with being alone, always alone, devoid of any self-deception. The most important take away by far was having your own, rock-solid self-respect, dwarfing the impact of those around you, who always approve or disapprove. It is a trap we all fall into, some more than others. I am trying to do less and less of that, reminded by the damn clock on the wall.
Then, I thought about my grandson, who I purposely don’t write about. Like the lightening loss of species on the planet, the truth of privacy is already extinct, with no need for my shovel. Recently, we have been talking and writing about something I think is important. Mr. Thompson drives it home like a Mack Truck with no brakes, going down a steep hill.
When I first thought of the word individuation, I swear I went to Google, because I was sure I had just invented it. It is such a perfect word, brilliantly grown from its root, defining itself as you say it. My use definitely predates any conversations with my grandson. I’ll bet if I dug back into my clumsy library of stories, I’d find it somewhere. I know I would, because it has always been a favorite subject, long before I “invented” the word for it.
You know, the point could easily be made we are all in a constant state of becoming. It definitely gets my vote. It is one of those muscular, white marble pillars that supports how I try and define myself to myself, a perpetual see saw of innuendo.
I would say my grandson and I are at a perfect place to develop a wonderful connection about being alive. Wait, I take that back, we’re doing it already. It just sounded a bit more dramatic the first way.
Try this bit of fiction: Maybe around six months ago, he’s handed a ticket for a night, Game of Life, for the very first time. He goes by himself. There is a huge, outdoor stadium he’s never been to before. After mindlessly walking up the damn ramps for what seems like his entire childhood, he gets whacked in all his senses by the magical sight of the field and that Gargantuan rush of energy. It is now his game to win and he knows it. It’s gonna take some time to find his groove, which I am certain he will.
Sometimes, it can feel like you are carving yourself apart to please others. It sure as shit starts as a kid. It takes years for the idea of ownership to bloom and it sneaks up on you, at least it did for me. You take off your parents’ glasses and start seeing through your own eyes. The funny thing is, your sight keeps improving with time, while the scenery is continually changing.
I now have box seats at that stadium. I am still in the game and even though I’ve slowed down, I see more clearly. One of the things I see is my grandson finding his individual way in the world. I am certain of it.
What Hunter S. Thompson was talking about never changes with age. I know you are aware of it, too. We are truly alone and our souls are bankrupted if we live for the judgment of others. I constantly meet myself for the first time in so many ways and it is still a blast.
End of story.