Me

Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun

Me, a name I call the rational, conscious part of my brain. Freud called this the ego, or self. So what are the parts of me that aren't me? Do my subconscious thoughts share my existance, or just interact with it? Can I (being »me«) assume responsibility for the uncontrolled actions of my id and superego? And if this is »me«, then who the hell are »you«?

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

I am, therefore I am. Me Myself and I.

I finally found that the force at the center of the universe is not me.

»Me, me!« cried Mimi.

She was that kinda gal.

Me is all I've ever wanted to be.

When I wrote of the women in their dancec and wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is no memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.

No more masks! No more mythologies!

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.

That's me!!
That's me!
ooh!
ooh!...oohhh,
you voluptuous Manhattan Island clit...
Take me...
I'm yours, you hole...
Fulfill my... wildest...dreams!...

(Mothers/Fillmore June 1971)

The other day, someone  – the late Wittgenstein, actually, via a newspaper – told me that I couldn't have a private language/conversation, or any kind of life really, until I had been sufficiently 'used'. Well, I've been feeling very 'used' of late, so here I am: Me – approved used (as they say in the VW advert) – so who's going to start a private conversation with me? Lots of philosophical jokes guaranteed!!