Suppression of the Id

Effigies shuffle past in a steady liquid mechanical gate bringing to mind words like stoic, mauve and sutra. The electrostatic miasma perpetuating organically, decomposing altruistically and fornicating unabashedly. Confluence of animal warmth and cold human distance renders cracks in the cosmos where reason seeps through space rising up towards infinity in a chaotic spectrum of numerical casualties and myopic circumstance. On the death ground of the individual grows the life force of compassion. It is not the decomposition from strength to weakness but rather the transition from singularity into plurality. Eventually, hopefully, into solidarity, but that is a lot to ask. But then…

She touches my hand sending signals to my brain captured by nerves that send electrical signals traveling at 8/10 the speed of light up my spinal cord and into my limbic system birthing a smile across my face. This volition transaction happens without decimals or dollar sings. From conception of thought to reaction no more then one second passes. No moral quality but for the sanctity of genuine human emotion can be rendered. This act that registers just above reflexive on the chart of connectivity, a chart that does not yet exist, creates a general reaction that would rival atomic combustion relative to the bodies affected by the explosion.

When a seagull lands on the crooked darkened paving stones and tries to eat a cigarette butt you have to give him credit for trying. It is the unsophisticated nature of the seagull, the salamander, rat, maggot, and human being that has allowed their species to proliferate limitless variations. Without the rigidity of stone a general self manipulation occurs. Impute drives output. Causality breeds learning. Culture expands like a balloon. With its thin layer of delicate super structure encompassing the volatile perceived emptiness which supports the preconceived notion of the structure itself. That the structure exists for some other purpose then to contain. To inhibit. To suffocate.

This is the essence of the suppression of the Id. The Ego and the Super Ego are construct-variables relative to the disposition and relation of the “owner”. They are imaginary constructs so far as we cannot pick them up and dissect them like an organ, we cannot probe them with a telescopic lens, nor can we point out a place where they reside. The Id on the other hand is more concrete. It is in each finger separated and relegated to its specific purpose. It is in our useless appendix, our ancestral tail bone, our growing cerebral cortex, language, geography, sexual preference, use of catsup, style of dress, direction of iris, bone structure, skin tone, lifespan. The Id is that which creates, bonds and simultaneously separates us from the global culture which connects us. The desire to fight or fornicate and forever maintain our own essence, our own Humanness. The beauty and the ugliness. The air inside the balloon.

Out of the cultural coma bursts the Id. From the flimsy shackles of the totalitarian balloon rushes expression producing only a high pitched whine. The small hole is pressed upon by the residual pressure and potential energy of the captured collective. Until all of the air is let out and the dead thing is flat and sorry looking or the pressure becomes so great that the whole thing is blown to smithereens in one great violent pop.

These are just words. When people ask me what I write about or why I have written what I have, where is the meaning in the jumble of bullshit vocabulary and painfully long sentence structure? My answer is always the same. They are just words. Words never have any true meaning. They are just symbols strewn across an open landscape. Rising up from nothing then falling back down into nothing. An ironic representation of life itself but without the physical action it is nothing. The truth is that I write in order to incite something in someone else. Anything at all really. Be it love or disgust. To incite salvation of the soul or mass murder. The building of a city or the retraction of attraction. I bear no witness to this reaction and I can only assume that there is in fact no reaction at all. That I am stupidly throwing stones at a steel edifice, one that cares not and wants none of what I have to offer. A door that will forever remain silently shut while outside I laugh and cry like some lonesome lunatic awaiting at the gates of Saint Pete.

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