I didn’t expect this, the self says
What do you make of a moment when you realize the you are a super-structure, or an outcropping, and that the foundations that you relied on blindly aren’t squarely placed on earth, but are adjunct and extraneous?
We are seduced by the fragile beauty of these images when we encounter them: beach cottages on stilts, gothic cathedrals, storks standing in still water.
The mad poet, the drug-inspired musician, the inspired genius all provide the human metaphor for the uncertain stability of inspiration.
Maybe we can’t see the crazed beauty of the universe without releasing from gravity.
Yet there are those moments in life when we recognize that our own personal structure — the sturdy peasant hut of our life — is really an oddly-conceived addition to the big column of mankind, and at that moment, when we look down and around, we feel the dizzying swoop of perspective vanishing, the jittery anticipation of the beginning of a fall, the naked vulnerability of light going to black, and we want to curl up, out our hands in our ears, and wish it all away.