Now Politics: the Political Opinions of Thomas Sarebbenonnato

A Friend of the People Opposing Elites; Social and Political Commentary of Thomas Sarebbenonnato; Publishing and Contributing Editor, Jay V. Ruvolo [Copyright (c) Jay Ruvolo 2018]

Archive for November 9th, 2016

Learning How to Die, and Other Trials in the Tribulations of My Life and Opinions [short fiction]

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To essay or not to essay might be the question to ask. Montaigne certainly had asked this in other words decades before Shakespeare. I have a copy of the translation of Montaigne’s essays Shakespeare would have read. Yes, I do know that to Philosophize is to learn how to die, of course . . . who am I? Montaigne must have asked, been asking, continued to ask through all the writing of Les Essais, essays not exactly what they are but being what they were? Etymology is not the first and the last in meaning, but it does have something to do with what we are seeing, reading in Montaigne, and it certainly helps us get a handle (pardon the cliche) on what we read or what we are writing when we do an essay . . . to essay or not to essay is exactly what Hamlet determines when he tries to determine his to be or not, which, as I have written before and said often times prior, also has everything to do with being and becoming, the latter just as much not being as anything suicide determines.

I am always myself. I am never not myself. Whenever I catch myself saying I am not being myself, or that I have not been myself, or that I am not myself, not being myself, theme in variation, what is it that I am doing at present? I am bullshitting myself whenever I do as I have said I could do, could be doing, might have done concerning not being myself, how is it that anyone is not himself? There is a way to be one’s Self even under watchful eye of amnesia, or so to speak, if you understand my implications? Who am I? A question Montaigne asks just as anything I query when I inquire of you or of me or another me as in persona personalizing . . . personality has everything to do with wearing masks, again, all the world’s a stage.

I have lapsed into that method of self-examination another more astute person would call delusion or perhaps self-hypnosis, that is, if or when I come to say I am not myself. The latter said cannot ever be true I have come to believe. I am always myself even when being myself is acting in a way that is totally unfamiliar to everyone I know who has ever known me and imagines what they think is the limit of what I am, could be, all possibilities laid out before me–how can anything be before me?

Another question—I am me?  Am who I am when I am wherever I am however I am? Questions beget questions we have learned from reading me. Whenever it is I am not myself as I sometimes say I am not being me in a way that only I could not be me, what? What then happens, what then comes, what then do I become, change into, for, with . . . ? I pause here.

I am not being someone else nor am I not being myself in the way that Genghis Kahn was not me or how Van Gogh was not me, or how any of the people who have never been born could take turns not being me. What the hell is anyone saying when he insists that he is not being himself? Who asks this? Many have in many ways . . . what diaries have been kept, otherwise known as journals, how does entitling change anything about what it is that takes place on the pages within the covers . . . discovery, uncover, recovery, all of them multiple, no? meaning is made, determined, I set the parameters of the text; I establish the definitions, what I make finite, what limits their are. Every text establishes the boundaries of epistemology, no?

What is it that anyone thinks he means when he says I am not being myself? When he says I am not being me, not being who I have been before for him and for others? I am me, I am I–I am he, I am you, I am wee, all of these in the mirror, whether with dust or not, what does this have to do with me, with recognizing me, who I see, when I look to me in the dark when I wake in the middle of the night to piss, enough light from the streetlights outside to see pissing but not enough to recognize definition of my features, but I never think it someone else in the mirror at night in silhouette.

And so this man I am not that I was being—for not being myself means I was being another, which means someone else, who else, an unrecognizable me that could only have come from me. So, whenever I am not being myself, I am not being me in only a way that I could be not-me. And so this other me says, I am the playwright of me inside me, all the mind’s a stage, all of memory a stage, all the universe of being inside of me, the many Selves self, and all the psychic and psychological, soulful, mindful me or me(s) that I am, that I become, that I fluctuate through or into, changing as I do, wearing masks on the selves inside of me, the many masks I wear on what self I choose to be or am forced into being, coerced?

Yes, I could be a man in a bar–the man in the bar who last night was saying quite loudly and clearly that with “Obama being the Banker’s Bitch, Hilary could not escape becoming the Whore of Wall Street,” which, even if only remotely true, and I have not come to either praise or bury Hilary or Barack or Trump, but neither also to play hop-scotch with the Truth or ping pong with words or ideas, at least those lumps of shit packaged as ideas by the media . . . yes, even if what this man had said was even remotely accurate, we were in for a whole lot of Clinton being Clinton, of Clinton, by Clinton for Clinton–what does it mean to say anything,but then to say it in the guise of another and another and another creeping inside me in petty paces I keep rhythm with, as I have and will continue to have done. Or, then becoming another, or then being another me I have been before, in other words–with other words streaming from his mouth . . .

I am with Michael Moore who has called on Liberals in America to take back the Democratic Party from the Prostitution that is Obama and Clinton and was certainly Bill Clinton, which should have been clear enough to America then but we were playing that rhetorical ping pong we ;love to play as much as the Chinese love real ping pong, but then . . . with as much news being infotainment, even more than the peculiarly once-in-while Hollywood movie that half- informs, it was easy for the Democrats to have gotten in bed with Wall Street, so long ago now that it’s almost as disgusting to say you are a registered Democrat as it is to say you are a Republican. What an insipid lot. Did Donald Trump help America side-step a more Jacobinistic response to the Power and the Money? Contemporary liberals, as effete as they are, wearing the cloak of non-violence or non-vehemence to cover their impotence, could not understand just how fed up Americans had become. They were as cliche riddled, trite worn and sloganistic as anything the Republicans devised, except the Democrats looked as if they were playing catch-up with the Republicans. I get that Hilary was being thoughtful when she delayed so much; yes, as thoughtful as Al Gore who has only become a caricature of his former self when he actually was saying something.

You want more, but you are unwilling to write more, not being able to because your ability to write is not much higher than your ability to read; so then, who I am is about as irrelevant as who you are, at least in the ways we have come to think imagining these are important for us to know . . .what more or what less could you want herein, this essay in another form than the one you are most comfortable with, that is, familiar with; familiarity breeding comfort, but familiarity only being repetition over time. Yes, there is no condition that human beings cannot get used to thus comfortable with.

Re-read Becket, my friends, some suggestions: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnameable, Murphy . . . how then is it that no one reads Kafka anymore? I know that that should not be enough to draw this essay to a close, but it is my conclusion, and all conclusions are of conclusus, which from the Latin is a kind of a wall that gets built.

Trump’s Mexican Wall being the Final Conclusion?

How much damage the buffoon is doing is going to set us far back.

Politicking one of my favorite past-times.


Written by jvr

November 9, 2016 at 1:51 pm

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