breakup epistle

Dear Self,

This is it. I've had it. We are breaking up. No, that does not mean I am descending to a new or amplified brand of mental illness. Besides, I get confused: Do split personalities have too many selves or not enough of one self? No matter. Doesn't matter. We're not here to argue or debate. There I go again. We. What's with the "we," right? We? Who is we? Who is I? Who is you?

Back to the breakup.

I don't want to be that person anymore. I've grown tired of him. I've reached a point of autonomic fatigue. Anomie without anime.

Don't be so facile or quick to label this depression. Don't be so quick to label it anything.

When did our relationship start to sour?

Hard to say. 

How about pee running down my legs in the gym in kindergarten on the first day of school? No one chided me, not that I recall. I can't remember if they gave me dry clothes. The urine was hot and cinnamonny as it streamed down my left leg, along part of my rear, and onto the shiny waxed wood floors. The gym smelled of lacquer, at least until my contribution.

I was ashamed.

I still wish I hadn't done that.

Not until, what, fifty years later did I discover physical reasons for this voiding.

A voidance. Avoidance.

But that's hardly a reason to break up, you say. And you're right! It's bogus, completely fabricated. Arbitary.

I needed an excuse.

I know, I know, it all seems so rash, if not irrational.

You say, you didn't know, you couldn't tell. Isn't that what they always say about the breakup? "I had no idea. No one told me. If only I had known." Those are the standard lines. I suppose it's more than a little true. I mean, even I didn't see us breaking up.

No worries.

This is officially an amicable divorce. No shit. It really is. What reason would I have for being inamicable?

Oh. The obvious question. What new self am I hooking up with? Who's the lucky rebound self?

Can't answer that.

Come what may.

Que sera sera.

More shall be revealed.

I shall be released.

Sayonara, you ol' selfie.

Anchors aweigh.

Sincerely,

Moi

anonymous

Literally without a name. Or without a literal name. How about a metaphorical name. Nameless. Not "name known but unspoken." No, not that. No name at all. Was there ever a name. Was a prior name shorn and shucked, offering a new self. Or was the anonymity there from birth. Did the anonymity serve as a blank canvas to paint on, to create an identity, a self. Dead to me. They say this or that one is "dead to me." A phrase nurturing either resentment or detachment. Take your pick. But who are "you"? Who is "me"? The power of anonymity. What exactly is that power. The unheralded secret, random kindness. The so-called selfless act that is never truly selfless despite what they say. Who are "they"? Anonymity as a shield, a shelter. Anonymity as a brandishing (surely not a brand name). "Anonymous" being the author. "Anonymous" being the donor. Handy for purposes of humility. Purposeful for adoptions. Anonymous the voyeur. Anonymous the spy. Anonymous the unknowable divinity, the unspeakable divine, as the ancient chosen tribe resorted to an acronym rather than utter the Sacred Name of No Name. That power of anonymity. Protector. Refuge. Savior. No name. Before name. Beyond name. Beyond noun or pronoun. Beyond adjective.

Just verb.

hear ye, hear ye

Did town criers really say "hear ye, hear ye"?

And did they ever weep, or did "cry" always refer to voice volume?

As for me?

Read all about it; or rather read all of it.

My latest book.

My ninth: Journey to the End of Love: In Search of Leonard Cohen -- and My Self.

arriving at the ultimate

The signs say PLANET SELF STORAGE. I wondered: Where indeed is that planet where you store your self? Do you store your old self in hopes of finding a new one? I suspect it is a planet without a name, perhaps not yet discovered. If you store your self on this planet, is it like a pawn shop where you can get your self out of hock in exchange for a metaphysical fee? Perhaps I am wrong, and the signs refer to Planet Self, where everything but self is stored there, in bins and large portable containers waiting to be pried open as the performers do on those faux-reality shows. Old bureaus, photos, silverware, eight-track tape players, magazines, moth-eaten fur coats, 78 rpm records, diapers, corn husks, rusty fenders, baseballs, petticoats, linoleum, gold bars. But no self. Self is the name of the planet, and it is the only celestial body in the universe called Solipsism. No, that's a stretch. Then again PLANET SELF STORAGE may be a coded message, a preachment to get right with the cosmos, figure out whom to serve, what to keep, what to let go. Naw.

Next door to PLANET SELF STORAGE is ULTIMATE ARRIVAL. ULTIMATE ARRIVAL may be the key to the riddle of PLANET SELF STORAGE. Or else it's a merely a tease. Because down the street a bit further is the GEM. And the GEM may be the answer to all these conjectures, though I forgot what they are.