If you don’t know my name is Dave, and I write under the “nom de plume” MrMary. I am coming up on 1000 posts soon and I thought it would be nice to visit the concept of authorship. Who is really writing the pieces you read or are reading now?
If I am honest with myself then I would have to be forced to admit that this concept of who I am is a bit of a mystery. I am familiar with the memories and behaviour patterns, not to mention the familial/national/societal/cultural conditioning that express themselves frequently in my life. But of course we are more than that? We are constantly growing and changing so really at no point do I feel that we are anchored in an experience of ourselves, which is why I ask again who is the author of these posts.
Yeah this is superbly metaphysical. In class today we broached the metaphysical idea of determinism. Determinism is a large umbrella for a host of ideas which of course are centred around the main point that reality follows a sort of predetermined path. These family of ideas have a kind of charm to them if you think about it matter itself is finite as are the rules that governs the conditions under which matter can form/shape/arrange itself and yet time is ‘seemingly’ infinite ( are you up to date on the latest on string theory?) When I reflect on it like that I can imagine that my life should be replete with serendipitous synchronisations (sometimes a synchronously) of major themes. Does this sounds like rambling , lemme see if I can clear up what I am saying with a very brief writing from Borges – the guy from which I learned to write, not blog post but other stuff I write
To make his horror complete, Caesar, pressed to the foot of a statue by the impatient daggers of his friends, discovers among the blades and faces the face of Marcus Junius Brutus, his protege, perhaps his son, and ceasing to defend himself he exclaims: “You too, my son!” Shakespeare and Quevedo revive the pathetic cry.
Destiny takes pleasure in repetition, variants, symmetries: nineteen centuries later, in the south of the Province of Buenos Aires, a gaucho is attacked by other gauchos. As he falls he recognizes an adopted son of his and says to him with gentle reproof and slow surprise (these words must be heard, not read), “Pero che!” He is being killed, and he does not know he is dying so that a scene may be repeated.
Yeah I have more to say but Im tired. Teaching drains me like the brothel women used to sailors back in the day. Well not like that but you get me stay tuned for part 2