the mechanism of suicide

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It occurred to me this morning, during my extra-longer-than-usual bumbling phase, that I hadn't said enough about the Floyd Patterson accidental exposition of a great truth, of enlightenment. Maybe some of you who have some familiarity with the mechanics of Zen are nonetheless clueless about all the references to terms like "host" and "guest", "master" and "slave", "horse" and "ass", "rider" and "ridden"... and more... and more. So you have to know that the you you're certain clicked onto this page just now is definitely the lesser, the second-named, in any of these terms, whichever pairing makes the most sense to you.

"It is not a bad feeling when you're knocked out," he said. "It's a good feeling, actually. It's not painful, just a sharp grogginess. You don't see angels or stars; you're on a pleasant cloud. After Liston hit me in Nevada, I felt, for about four or five seconds, that everybody in the arena was actually in the ring with me, circled around me like a family, and you feel warmth toward all the people in the arena after you're knocked out. You feel lovable to all the people. And you want to reach out and kiss everybody—men and women—and after the Liston fight somebody told me I actually blew a kiss to the crowd from the ring. I don't remember that. But I guess it's true because that's the way you feel during the four or five seconds after a knockout.

This one who is just coming around from being knocked out is you. The host. The master. The horse. The rider instead of the ridden. The one you can never realize is supposed to run this show. The one you spend your whole life talking about wanting to find and know and live. The one this lesser, this second-named:

"But then," Patterson went on, still pacing, "this good feeling leaves you. You realize where you are, and what you're doing there, and what has just happened to you. And what follows is a hurt, a confused hurt—not a physical hurt—it's a hurt combined with anger; it's a what-will-people-think hurt; it's an ashamed-of-myself hurt, and all you want then is a hatch door in the middle of the ring—a hatch door that will open and let you fall through and land in your dressing room instead of having to get out of the ring and face those people. The worst thing about losing is having to walk out of the ring and face those people."

the guest, the slave, the ass, the ridden, keeps piping up to insist is you... and you, you trained monkey, believe it! That drives me so wild! No amount of talking dissuades you from this deluded bunk the world drilled into you.

The one you insist is you is thin air. An ugly construct of nothingness... no matter what kind of sweetheart everyone agrees you must be. The substance, your substance, is left useless to everything because it remains unrecognized, even by you. This jackass guest, who is a slave to appearances, who might be sarcastically referred to as your Guest Host, does shit like hang you in a Brooklyn playground because of the ugliness of the concerted nothingness all around... all the concerted nothingnesses that go by assigned names, and carry ID, carrying on a sick ruse for, pfeh, "personal gain"... "to get along in this world"... conform.

This, by the way, is why Iraq is in ruins and people are starving to death as well.

Nice goin'.