The Anthony Project (after Buber & Benjamin), Part One

I. Heraclitus never said, you don’t step into the same river twice; that might have been Cratylus. Heraclitus did however say, “The river where you set your foot just now is gone – those waters giving way to this, not this.” II. It is important to be earnest, to be truthful; I would be remiss if I did not say being Anthony Connolly is difficult; I mean, which one? III. You are never alone with a schizophrenic and since we all have a consciousness and unconsciousness within us simultaneously, “I am as I am not,” Heraclitus most definitely said. IV. There are times when I am fully committed to being Anthony Connolly, but then there are intervals where I realize I have become what psychologist Ralph Klein calls, “a secret schizoid.” I am externally engaged, but I am internally apart, sequestered in some covert place of unknowing. It does seem that at times I have simply been playing a part, like an actor. V. Giving way to this: When I was five, six, I was John Wayne. VI. I was a bully in elementary school, and on days when I did not throttle a classmate a sticker was bestowed upon me, placed on a card of some kind. It was not a gold star, which you might have imagined, but a sticker of an animal or a fruit. VII. Class clown, my report card read, class clown. The next year, I was cast as Joseph in the play “Joseph and his Coat of Many Colors.” VIII. Donned a dress, panty hose and sported pony tails in a grade eight talent show and rode fame to junior high school presidency. One night me and some teammates from my hockey team got drunk before a school dance; some wandered through the hip-high snow; some of us nearly drowned in our own vomit; I drank lemon gin in the deep freeze and watch my breath rise in the bible-black air; some of us died, and were brought back to life; some of us made it to the dance to stumble crazy Irish crazy dumb saint; falling, falling at her feet; some of us said, I love you, and some of us blacked o— IX. At the core of my being there lies not myself, but a swarming miasma of light in motion; I see my childhood as a vortex with, at its gyrating center, the shining figure of a loving mother. This childhood, which I see and feel pulsates behind me, in particles of experience; in front of me waves of possibilities. In those particles arise my dead brother with a cracked mirror in his hand.

The waves nothing but darkness and unknowing…

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