Sunday, January 12, 2014

Finding Authenticity in Becoming

Most of us have a shared taste for authenticity, for freedom of expression and for finding new ways to allow our inner self and emotions to come through. 

Belonging to our sense of taste and values is the passionate interest for authenticity as it is perceived in settings of our own fanciful imaginings. The power of emotions and passions felt in such privileged locations illustrate this taste and preference. 

In authentic happenings, life triumphs over repose: the world is awake in its pantheistic view of itself. 

Whether one has a preference for the quiet moment of a morning spent in the presence of self or for a moment shared with others, each and every moment in which we find ourselves is our authentic self in that given moment. The homage we pay to past moments or importance we place on future moments are all held in moment. This moment is different from this moment and yet they are all moments. As with being, I am me here, and there, and everywhere I go, even though I am a different version of me here, there, and everywhere I go.

Authentically being is as redundant as saying I exist in existence. Authenticity is a matter pertaining to judgment and values. If I like truly enjoy or connect to this moment, I am being my authentic self. If I do not enjoy this moment and wish to connect to a different moment, I am also being my authentic self in my preference and taste for specific moments of being (authentic or otherwise nonexisting).

Perhaps it is not a matter of authenticity for We are what we are (cue Popeye) in every given moment, thus the need for authenticity is as redundant as we are that which we are (as well as that which we seek, though admittedly this is a matter of debate).

I am as authentically me as you are authentically you. I am "me" and you are "you" and perhaps like the fleeting but highly complex trajectories taken by snowflakes on their maiden journey into ever-becoming, we are but the stuff snowflakes (and dreams) are made *of.

Giorgio de Chirico

"The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego-consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness may extend. For all ego-consciousness is isolated: it separates and discriminates, knows only particulars, and sees only what can be related to the ego. Its essence is limitation, though it reach to the farthest nebulae among the stars. All consciousness separates; but in dreams we put on the likeness of that more universal, truer, more eternal man dwelling in the darkness of primordial night. There he is still the whole, and the whole is in him, indistinguishable from nature and bare of all egohood ... It is from these all-uniting depths that the dream arises, be it ever so childish, grotesque, and immoral. So flowerlike is it in its candor and veracity that it makes us blush for the deceitfulness of our lives." (C.G. Jung, "The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man" in CW X, par. 304-5)

A dream:

"I'm standing outside on a grassy, gently sloping field. In front of me, slightly higher to the right, a round silver ring hangs in the sky. Floating outward from the ring are 4 pieces of blue, faded slik. I can still see some faded Chinese-looking lettering on it. This is a THESIS. I know with certainty that whatever question it is asked, it will always reply with the only one possible true answer." 


 *until we are something else, somewhere or somewhen else.


Anonymous said...

Inspired by your post, here’s a poem instead of my usual musings

The authenticity of the me
Can be defined by the you
My doppelganger form, the now and thens

I am a unique in the uniqueness of me
Contained, ostentatious and meek
I can charge bravely the Minotaur
As the beast hunts the labyrinth dark
I can scorch the embers of Dante’s divine
Whilst performing song for Metatron

Arc thy bow with arrow
To Cupid or to Achilles
Tears seamlessly melt the rains
I am the wax seal and scroll
Found on genuine article
You are the stamp that pressed

Dreams dissolve without the us
Like perceptions from the you
And we, we authenticate me the best


Soph Laugh said...

Thank you for the poem, Monk...

If I may be so imprudent to surmise I can know something of you from a string of words you crafted and shared... you strike me as an exquisitely conscious latecomer (confirmed by your recent sharing) ... you somehow manage an authentic step beyond, and nothing so inaccurately termed Postmodernism has caught up with you. Your writing reminds me of what perhaps began in Flaubert, and later of Proust, and even my all-time childhood favorite, Kafka... Perhaps you are destined to write a novel of permanent genius, invariably funny and like Shakespeare's early comedy 'Love's Labour's Lost' a feast of language.

If you do ... or if you have and I am just unaware of its existence, I should like to read it as I imagine I would have much upon which to draw or *ponder.

Sophy :D

Anonymous said...

What is about to follow is the archetypal and cliché saturated spoiler alert! I’m absolutely hopeless when it comes to the absorption of flattery and/ or compliments. Psychology would direct this type of personality trait toward deep seated roots that intertwine emotional razing in my formative years and other various askew baselines. Having written such a poignant statement, I am rather taken aback that someone of your intellectual wealth could possibly find a common ground with me. In a way, it goes back to what we were talking about before... That knowledge is perhaps not only relative but perceived and graded by those in your circles. I would very much like to say, while momentarily dodging our philosophy, it sure is nice to be able to relate to someone who is comfortable on my delicate platform.
As for writing a book, I have only had dreams of what might have been. To be honest, I wouldn’t know where to begin let alone the subject. Could it be procrastination by my own design or the subconscious in me that whispers ‘unworthy of going down in the scrolls of time’? Perhaps this, like with some of our roots, grow too long for the pot and as such, one must trim back the root ball. Encouraging growth and stimulating new branches. I have found that true with our conversations, albeit over a short period of a week or so. Destiny, kismet, life; a someone to gently prise me from the moribund and stimulate new growth. One which I hope continues even in some small way. I do hope my dialogue has given you a calming insight of me, rather than the obvious ... ‘DANGER WILL ROBINSON,DANGER!!!! Hehe. Who knows, perhaps many years from now we can drink fancy, overrated coffee, laugh at our choice of clown costume (there has to be a ridiculous costume involved) and read each other’s novels. I have a sneaky suspicion you have a fair few under your belt already ;)

Mark aka Monk aka AKA aka Ps aka Masquerading as me