The Infinity of Opposing Mirrors
2006-12-21, 16:26

Well, I've gone and done it: I've started re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, this being the beginning of my third journey through the book. I can already feel the wheels of hypercritical self-analysis lurching into motion in my head, a Freudian Big Brother sending out agents into every aspect of my mental being, ready to nit pick at a moment's notice. I have no idea why I do this to myself, other than to feed the never-ending, relentless and self-destructive need to understand my own existence and the nature of existence around me - which both are and aren't one in the same.

I try to believe that the search for true understanding isn't ultimately futile, but it's a hard belief to hold onto, especially when there's so very much untruth pervasive in our culture, in our beliefs, in our politics, and most everywhere else. Just reading the new introduction to the anniversary edition of Zen by the author reminds me of just how much I relate to Phaedrus on a social and emotional level, even if I could never come close to matching his intellect. 'Staring into the abyss' is my standard definition for this process, but I've also come to analogize this drive for understanding with standing between two facing mirrors, and trying to reach out to the myriad selves that stretch out into infinity in both directions.

I remember well being boggled by this effect as a child while sitting at the optometrist's office, getting fitted for glasses (I've worn glasses since I was five - discovered so soon because I was an early reader - so I've had many, many opportunities to get fitted for them over the years); trying to look around my closer reflection to get of a glimpse of the me's farther and farther back. Even with the novelty of eternal reflection swinging its long tail off in the mirrored distance, I think that I could, even then, on some subconscious level, sense some sort of fundamental truth hidden in the experience, this magic reaching out forever in two directions but really not being anywhere at all except for the small, booth-like area where I sat for the nice lady to bring me my new ugly plastic frames and thick lenses that would be my social albatross for many years to come.

I have no idea where I'm going with this, other than to say that it feels like another piece of a universal puzzle which I will never be able to finish, but which keeps calling me back to the table to try and fit another piece in.

Which brings me to a question: how in the hell to I get myself out of this ages long rut of perfectionist fatalism that I'm in? I've nearly always been one of those people that think, "If I can't do a thing perfectly, why should I bother doing it at all?" This attitude has kept me from doing all sorts of things, and still does to this day; the only positive side effect of this is that it keeps me from having any interest in gambling.

How does one learn to accept mediocrity and imperfection in one's self? And when I consider that my non-acceptance of imperfection is in itself an imperfection, that's when I start spiraling down the Golden Mean of minutia and psychosis. Happy spin spin.

As a pitiful example of the whirlwind that is my thought process: after a moment of silence last night while in the living room and sorting pictures to give to various family members of the kids, I look to H and say, "I think David Lynch should take over on The Price Is Right after Bob Barker retires." I won't bother to try and explain the train of thoughts that led me there.

-- End Transmission --