Modernity, Kipling and psychoanalysis

I can neither forget nor erase from memory that in a spirit of militaristic pride, my father gave me any of the good things in life,  quoting Kipling.  In a spirit of militaristic defeat, he took them away again, quoting nothing at all.  I do remember that as a basic lesson.  You get defeated and anything good is taken away.  Maybe you are rolled down a hill, or pyramid, to teach you a lesson.  Nothing is good enough for you a vanquished warrior.  But everything would be still perfect if you hadn't allowed yourself to be defeated.

As standards go, that was pretty absolute.

Another afternoon I had the most extraordinary dream where two delightful cherubs were playing footsie with each other.  It was amazing and it really drew you in, the perfection of it all.  Like being spell bound.  But it was too human and too warm, because you had to return to the numbness of war and switch of your mind and your body to make it an instrument of a higher cause.  As there were only a few seconds remaining, you had to pull yourself away from the amazing spectacle of life. 

And I don't normally dream about soft cherubs. My brain must have made an exception, for some reason, to point something out.

I don't expect you to understand that, because that was a weird contrast more evoked by a shift in knowledge and in mood than anything else.  There is the mood of wanting life to go on forever, and then there is the mood of reconciliation with the facts, some mood of death.

One of these things is not like the other.

There's no point  crying over spilt milk.

I love the way that everything within modernity is just reduced to a standard cliché.  I could blame the moderns for this, but they'd just go right ahead and blame me right back.  Tit for tat.  Toe for toe.  Nothing doing and no-one has the right to know.

Anyway, what was I saying?

So my brain was on fire at times, but I always felt like I had been defeated. 

I once had a standard dogma in place but it was run over by my cat-ma.

What's hardest about describing knowledge gained through texts is that you can acknowledge patterns in the writing, but those patterns are only evocative if you have already established very intimate terms with the writer, but otherwise they're not going to leave much trace.  There's such a thing as not being for public consumption.  Like Marechera's brain, if you peeled it off and looked inside, you wouldn't find much going on.  You'd have to have a peeling mind and brain, and then whatever you found would be significant, but you would never be able to tell anyone about it.

Command or defeat perhaps, but I am rambling.

Did you look inside of it yet?

So that was my story as I am able to relate it.

I came across these patterns that stood out.

I hope you like them too, but secretly (between you and I) they are not for you.  I really only need them for myself.

I hope you like them too!