Me

Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun

Me, a name I call the rational, conscious part of my brain. Freud called this the ego, or self. So what are the parts of me that aren't me? Do my subconscious thoughts share my existance, or just interact with it? Can I (being »me«) assume responsibility for the uncontrolled actions of my id and superego? And if this is »me«, then who the hell are »you«?

I finally found that the force at the center of the universe is not me.

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

I am, therefore I am. Me Myself and I.

Me is all I've ever wanted to be.

They were asking what I think about me. But I was afraid of what they would do with the information if I gave it to them. In truth, I was afraid to discover it myself, too. So I probably prevaricated for a while, pretending to tie my shoelace, check the timetable I always carry for such moments – yes, such a challenge *was scheduled but they are never usually on time – and enquired of one, whether we could have met before, at such-and-such a conference or interview. After a bit of this, the atmosphere changed. I could teleport, or I could try and cooperate, as we all wanted. Me, I said. I think it's gone astray.

In Neal Stephenson's »Snow Crash«, he says that the ancient babylonians had tablets on which were written »me«, which were sort of the equivalent of computer programs for humans. Reminds me of Dawkins' term, »meme«, referring to a self-replicating idea. Perhaps if you infect the assoziations-blaster with enough of your memes, the assoziations-blaster will come to resemble you. I suppose it would be easiest to infect something or someone with your memes when they're young, before they've had a chance to encounter other people's memes.

Here's me writing on a coupon
the value of me in book form
made strange to a handtowel
nakedly without goods
an angel told me through pads
through a screen the angel
of speech was me

When I wrote of the women in their dancec and wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is no memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.

No more masks! No more mythologies!

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.