2UU2. Scribblings on the S(h)elf: The Constant Gardener and the With-otic Quest

It is the void, bored and ebulient self that avidly seeks the crutches of external validation and recognition, which, btw, are hallmarks of sufficiency and not prerequisite, or indicative, of communing, cooperative living , conviviality, or , more precisely, being-in-the-world-with-and-for-others, in short, this withism that mercilessly encroached on our collective imagination and seized the grounds of our entire discourse. [Ahem! ] The besieged, or reluctantly warring, self knows its terra firma and has no need to showcase it to the world. Exception makes only the rare truly vocationally exceptional. As such, one is simply mistaken to assume we are our museum keepers and its visitors in this world. Perhaps, at times, voluntary archeologists or professional curators of  a show or another but, in essence, we are profoundly devout constant gardeners.

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There is a time for words and a time for their aspects. Ideally, you should not aim to switch modes; simply reject all Baroque mental furnishings and  always opt- (with)in contemporary, minimalist inner decorations, clear sleek lines, neuter or pastel palette. Aim denotatively, keep the bubbling connotations under duress and march onwards. In fact, most tend to live and judge with this clear expectation, yet they rarely let it steer them in their unequivocal commonsensical pursuits and gracious conducts.

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 We do not listen. We mainly seek to recognize our words within the other's: extract them wholesome - decant the others - and pile them reassured in the " constructive" mound for further fail-proof reference and later use. In the amazing race, the construction of the self often entails the purposeful de(con)struction of the other. Hence, we must move synchronously within the same register, twirl around the same speech acts at once, or else cry sotto voce turbidly: bias, offece, untruths, nonsense, mockery, dishonor! In any given encounter, " the other" sits on an Ikea piece, while you slouch on a Louis XIV, lavishing in golden- embroidered azure silks of seamless, unsized self-acceptance, esteem, and righteousness. In times ebullient this is our perfect withness, the mutualism we deem decorous. Yet, exceptionally, under siege, the warring self will stand and deliver its work as our only loyal constant gardener.

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And who said this withness of ours was pretty? Or, looked flattering in the mirror?... Which  is why we choose to gently turn it on another and make it our diaphanous withotic quest. To intromit a more sagacious voice and its secretly admired chalkboard: " You don't think this will last forever, do you?".

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.PS with embedded disclaimer: To make my point infallible, this is neither a response, nor a conversation. It is a mere timely nod and reverence to the besieged, the warring, self - via PT, NS, Pr.S and SB- in constant gardening of the meek, the mild , the austere and the pithy. It is obviously not a mockery, either. At best, it is a diffuse daily self reflection, when not an explicit self - irony. Actually, highly recommended to all the better selves, too; it is known to recalibrate both the austere and the ebullient self''s radar.

To make my point fallible though,  I wrote the most winded, lengthy sentence yet; it is my intentional offering to the perfect withness we so humbly flaunt. Only because when we are alone with our thoughts we all know this withness is but the made-up face of our loyal inescapable withlessness.

In all truth, however, it is a thankful note to the unparalleled, beloved U2.