Glass Polish by Joe Dees

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(1) Surfing the Moebius

...and he found himself in blind meaningless ritual, attention so strongly focused upon the task that, until the recent self-realization, he had been egoless, performing mechanically according to the subconscious nonlogic of rote. That was behind him now; he had himself firmly in hand. He did not question the sudden remission of nonselfawareness, but bent his energies upon tightening that tentative hold, consciously striving for mental recuperation, searching for the cogitus interruption, to untangle the snag. That had been a pun; he still had his wit about him. But if the problem, and one still existed, was not within his self-consciousness, where was it? It must lie deeper; he must analyze, investigate. That's right, he realized, he was a psychologist. Identity, responding to his careful coaxing, returned to Dr. Rustland. Having established the intersubjective appelation for his point of view, the prognosis brightened, and from a more self-confident perspective, he re-examined his referential frame.

But, although his thoughts were lucid, the conclusions crystal clear, they still did not reflect reality as perceived. Our concepts are grounded in our percepts, some insightful philosopher had said. But the methodology, not self-consciousness, but consciousness itself, must be perused. However...but what was the perceived reality against which it must be checked? He couldn't see the referent, thus he couldn't delineate the parameters of the problem at hand...he couldn't see at allKant! Wait a minute! He was getting sidetracked, the philosopher's name was not the condition without which, and neither was all this reflection upon it. Self-discipline, self-discipline, one must do what one must do, the tautology held, tautologies always hold, he was neither invalid nor unsound but if it's not self-consciousness and if it's not consciousness could it be understanding? No, he understood well enough that he was sick - or was that just another self-deception? Another? Why had he said that; what was the first? Was there one? Of course there was - his slip had meaning, it simply must. Oh, yes! Eidetic memory came into play, he thought (Kant) he couldn't physically SEE. But he was always myopic where were his glasses? In his hand you dummy! What do you think he is inSANE? Could he...yes, he could put them on. It didn't help could it have been his mother, his father, himself? What was the obvious, yes, what...well what do you know? Right in front of his nose (all the time (not all the time)) the lenses must be unclean, unclean...No, dirty. He must he knew he must polish them sparkling, correct and complete, a schema must be begun, a rhythm must be set, "The novocaine was a mistake" why had he DON'T GET SIDETRACKED! Think of a ditty so (un?)familiar no yes, I dropped a sheet of windowpain/ Through my I to my brain/ And the grinding glass has driven me insane/ I dropped a sheet of windowpain/ In my brain through my I/ And the shattered shards are slicing me awry/ da-DA, da-DA, da-DA, da-da, da-DA, da-DA, da-DA/ da-DA, da-Da, da-DA, da-DA, da-da!/ da-DA, da-Da, da-Da, ...

The same damn pattern, thought Dr.

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