Me

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

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«?

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

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

It is funny but over my life of 63 years (so far!) I have always been the same me. I recognise some changes in my decision making abiliites, and my hopes and desires, but I am still the same me I remember about 58 years ago. (I don't remember much before then.) Maybe others who have actually grown up into adults have changed more. I have had a problem with growing up--to bad I have no problem with growing old.

I wonder if anbyone else feels the same?

They were asking what I think about me. But I was afraid of what they would do with the information if I gave it to them. In truth, I was afraid to discover it myself, too. So I probably prevaricated for a while, pretending to tie my shoelace, check the timetable I always carry for such moments – yes, such a challenge *was scheduled but they are never usually on time – and enquired of one, whether we could have met before, at such-and-such a conference or interview. After a bit of this, the atmosphere changed. I could teleport, or I could try and cooperate, as we all wanted. Me, I said. I think it's gone astray.

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)

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.

babies do not have a concept of me / i.
that is why mothers say mum when they talk about themselves. it actually makes sense and is not only cute shit. otherwise the baby would start calling the mother me or i. get that?
babies live in oneness. separation comes with getting older.
and the problems with separation start with the getting out of hand / development of the ego.
ego lives on the energy of others. that leads to the idea of power games and manipulation in the adultworld.
that again started when religion especially christianity rose. the one god -power. the one rightness. the blocking, pointing out evil.
the judgeing.