One of the problems of being human is what I will term the problem of, ‘my consciousness,’ or ‘narcissistic consciousness.’ I suffer from this. Others may also. I haven’t noticed.
As a result of this malady, one thinks that what one thinks is really interesting and meaningful. (Why there is human subjectivity and individual consciousness at all, totally escapes me. Couldn’t the forces of nature, evolution, Zeus, dare I say, God, just as well have shaped living beings without consciousness—you know, kind of efficient bacteria, only prettier?? Gee, I guess it/they did! Just turn on any ‘reality’ TV show.) Anyway, I really think that what I really think is interesting—at least I experience it as interesting and novel. But is it?? Let’s review a bit of a day’s thinking---kind of a list of topics from my stream of consciousness, to see if it really is that interesting, shall we?)
OK. I get up and unload the dishwasher and feed the dog. I reflect that, on the one hand, life should be more that this. Emptying the dishwasher and feeding the dog are inane activities, but on the other hand, I at least have a dishwasher and dishes and a dog. These are good things. Right? While emptying the dishwasher and feeding the dog, I think to myself, “Must get kid to school. When will she be old enough to be self-regulating, so that I don’t have to tell her to brush her teeth before we leave? When will she just automatically go in there and brush her teeth without my prompting her to do so? Geez, she is almost old enough, I think, and she is growing up way too fast. Soon she will be 30 (in fact she is just 11) and I will be dead, or what’s worse, I will be living a life of lonely poverty, forgotten in some nursing home, tortured by my regrets about my life’s failures (including having a dog and emptying the dishwasher 439,786 times.) Back to the thought at hand. My daughter is growing up and I am going to die. Shit! Change course. Think happy and pleasant thoughts. Life is sweet, and ‘being,’ if one takes time to appreciate it, is a miraculous thing. Drive kid to school. Be nice to dog!”
On the way back from dropping the kid off at school, I stop at my hair cutters and get my haircut. I like my haircutter, she is very sweet and nice and she’s been cutting my hair for 15 years, and I like her. She’s Italian-American. She is also pregnant and is scheduled to have a baby in March. (OK, maybe she’s not exactly ‘scheduled.’) As she cuts my hair, I enquire about her health, the progress of the pregnancy, her plans…it’s all very pleasant chit chat. As I do this, however, I am thinking, variously, “When H was born I was old, but a lot younger than I am now. Was I 42? Chriisst. I was! Life is short. Mortality is inescapable. I will not live forever. Me, me, me, me, me. Death = no more me.” I notice myself thinking about life and death and the looming disaster of my own mortality. This is not good. By ‘not good,’ I mean both my thinking about my mortality, and the fact of my mortality are not good. It’s dreadful.
I drive home right after the hair cut. The haircut has taken about 3 minutes to complete because I don’t have much hair, much has fallen out---another sign of my mortality and impending demise. I think to myself, “I should get ready for a work meeting I have later today , but I have plenty of time. Relax. Why not just sit down for a few minutes and have some fun. Maybe visit the NY Times website, and maybe later write about my consciousness. But wait! I don’t have that much time. Time is short. Tempest Fugit. I don’t ’know Latin—although I studied it for two years in high school—I still don’t know any Latin—I’m terrible with languages—I should have learned Spanish. I should study Spanish, now. I should take piano lessons—why haven’t I learned how to play the piano? Time is running out. Maybe I won’t learn Latin before I expire. Or the piano. I am a failure. My life is nearly ending, and I am a failure.”
