Sense of Self / Frederick W. Feldman

Sense of Self Frederick W. Feldman

You

are at the dentist and look at the fish swimming in their tank, leaning in to watch them paddle up and down, captivated—maybe like that unforgettable painting by Matisse. The fish dissipate into flakes and particles, and the bubble pump waves the hydrophytes. You catch the vector, reflected on the glass, of your own face, holding within it the water, the bubbles, the shining scales, the ichthyosiform Monad holding together other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts, imbricated in gaze, your indivisible light a skein.

Now look at you, deaf, dumb, and blind amidst the ringing bells on your island of self, staring at your own face in the mirror, drawing a self-portrait and filling it with blue and red watercolors, entranced by your own bulbous eyes and blank face as if, in youth, you’ve just discovered a world entire of itself, like Narcissus plastered to his pool, other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts foaming over your bluffs, your damned old “universe” tossing and turning, expecting to tell you where to go.

I sit in the pews amongst the sea, the sense of self comprising other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts, waiting to imbibe the elements, the bread and wine; for the crowd is untruth, the body collective, and to receive a mind, a body, a sense of self is to become like everybody else, for a life is everywhere on the plane or field, and only one habits obscure this stricken frame, virtual, in salivation, in water, in blood, looking to stand a moment on top of the salted foam of unmemory, beheld in the eye of God.