A Journey to the East (Of America)
Sunday, August 23, 2020
Glendale, California
A Journey to the East (Of America)
Some readers ask:
What exactly is the purpose of this blog?
I know not.
Obviously, and given its title of Psychoanalyzing Life, much of the posts involve psychoanalytic ideas.
Often, they are political in nature.
Equally common, they cover various intriguing philosophical or literary ideas.
This time I commence an entirely different project, one intended for psychologists, philosophers, physicians, poets, and especially for those lucky people who fail to identify themselves as in any class of somebody.
(We begin our lives as nobody, then we go into somebody training, and if sufficient maturity is attained, you revert to being nobody again; I find myself on just such a journey, seeking my nobody-ness).
And, speaking of journeys, and because of an intra-family dispute about the safest way to travels during this Love in the Time of Covid Era, I am:
DRIVING FUCKING 2700 MILES DUE EAST STARTING THIS WEDNESDAY.
The phrase, journey to the east, brings Taoism to mind, or Buddhism, or at least the works of Hermann Hesse.
In my case, it means literally AMERICA, west to east, Pacific to Atlantic Oceans.
Here are the kinda planned stops:
Wednesday night, August 26: Flagstaff, Arizona.
Thursday night, August 27: Amarillo, Texas*.
Friday night, August 28th: Fort Smith, Texas.
Saturday night, August 29th: Nashville, Tennessee
Sunday night, August 30th: Charlottesville, Virginia.
Some readers, whether somebodies or nobodies, may be wondering:
Why not keep a Facebook (FB) page?
Because FB is, well, quite literally evil.
You write to everyone, in a highly narcissistic way, showing off your fancy dinners, your right wing viewpoints, your heated pools, and then you also post many pictures of your somebody friends smiling broadly.
Not for me.
I promise, however, for those seeking psychoanalytic of philosophical or political insights, to offer some along the way.
My plan, since I never anticipated a 40 plus hour drive at this tender if mature point of my life, is to:
- Comment on the sights I see;
- Observe the types of somebodies and nobodies I encounter on the journey;
- Include the occasional picture thanks to my genius assistant, Andrea, who actually knows how to post pictures on websites, and;
- Describe whatever musing spending hours upon hours in a car brings to my mind and which, I can only hope, will be of interest to you readers.
Meanwhile, heads up:
I’m in the middle of reading James Joyce’s Ulysses.
The project will not be finished anytime soon, and meanwhile consists of reading, literally, THREE other books of commentary about the book. I read about a chapter, then read the chapter, etc., etc.
Prepare yourself, therefore, for unexpected streams of consciousness, for neologisms, for mimicking musical intonations or mythemes or more.
Right at the end of chapter 5, for example, and please note that he didn’t initially title any of the chapters, Joyce writes:
Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.
Or, just at the start of Chapter 9, later named-by-him Scylla and Charybdis,, Joyce writes:
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
Or, finally, and emerging from the reality that James Joyce was himself interested in Buddhism and Eastern philosophy, he writes:
No one is anything.
Please wish me safe travels, as I shall wish for you and yours, and stay tuned!
*Tried everything I could to avoid this town but it requires driving four hours more or less to get to, well, no where else.
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