15 September 2007
Dedicated to the perennial dream of breaking free…
)Published on September 15th, 2007 @ 11:17:57 am, using 867 words, 592 views
You and I are a lot alike. You… whoever you are. The way we zero in on the ant speech even though we are ants ourselves. We are ants a little bit, aren’t we? We grab the ant quote almost as a lifeline or a shot at redemption - a last chance without the finality that the title conveys. As though loving it would set the seeping process in motion, would steep us in that beautiful rose-colored Utopia of people bumping into each other (and bravely going against the pre-established norms of what’s expected behavior) by asking to ‘do that again’; then sitting down as if by a campfire and sharing their ideas (a little bit of their most private selves) with complete strangers. Opening up space and making room for the ‘confrontation between their souls.’
Sort of what I’m attempting here. Even though, from this distance, it’s not nearly as brave.
Hey, could we do that again? I know we haven’t met but… I don’t want to be an ant, you know? I mean, it’s like, we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another continuously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?” “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw. I want real human moments. I wanna see you. I want you to see me. I don’t wanna give that up. I don’t want to be an ant, you know?
(Waking Life)
Why are there so many things that are undoable?
Undoable…
Says who?
How to deal with the image of an ocean for the very first time? How to look at something you’ve never seen before? So many options, so many possible reactions. To laugh, to cry, to breathe in and out, to close your eyes, or simply to squat, place the palm of your hand on the surface of the water and bring it back to your mouth… tasting it – looking into the distance as though it were something of a mirror, as though you had found something more… just to incorporate into the inherent vastness of who you are.
What follows are two separate thoughts written down on two separate occasions that became two separate journal entries and for some reason seem relevant now.
Prostrate sounds like a good word. No humility in this context, though… No conceit, but no humility, either.
Right now… to me… the word is literal. Directly connected to the coolness of the floor I’m standing on. It feels good to be barefoot. It feels good to be squatting, with my hands spread on that coolness. It feels rebellious of me. It feels improper. It feels freeing. I’d like to do more. I’d like to lie on the floor, arms stretched, left cheek squished against the coolness. I don’t, only because I wouldn’t be able to justify it. What we can’t justify becomes embarrassing if witnessed. There must be a lot of value to justification if we can’t do without it. I’m feeling quiet - desperately craving solitude but having to manage without it. When you feel like that, any word can be a form of trespassing. Someone’s mere physical presence can feel like trespassing.
What is that voice? Whose voice is it that stops you right when you’re tempted to do something impulsive? It’s not conscience. Conscience oversees the bad deeds department. This is different. If you were in a dark room looking up at a screen and something impulsive became a possibility, that voice would say ‘Go for it!’ to whomever was up on that screen. And with a mischievous squinty-eyed daring at that. But not to you. Not when your life is the context. It’s like a parent in a way. It talks like you have to be more careful than the average person. Either because it thinks you’re more fragile or less entitled. Either way, it sabotages your will.
On the way to work a couple of days ago, at 6:55am – the ungodly hour of swollen eyes and quick feet – I patted a stranger on the shoulder in the middle of the street and asked a question. As recently as two years ago, I would’ve kept both the question and the curiosity behind its conception all to myself. A little understated triumph, that was. Every day it seems, a little piece of this shell I wear as a garment gets detached from the whole to reveal a little more of this chick, to stand in my way towards that rose-colored Utopia a little bit less. Until I can talk to virtually anyone and be at home virtually anywhere. Until I can utter the words ‘I say’ with no hesitation whatsoever.
Bruce Springsteen - Born to Run (Live)/
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
Ants, Utopia, strangers, trespassing, inner voice, shell
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