January Without Self

Photo by Kelsey Chance on Unsplash

This year for the month of January I am cutting myself off.

I am not cutting myself off from alcohol which is a thing a lot of people do and maybe something I will try one day. But right now what I intend to do is more difficult, because this January I will cut myself off of me.

Myself is very against this, of course. It likes where it is—in the center of the world, completely sure that it is the smartest, best self in the room, that it has the most to say and because of that, should say the most. Which is what it does whenever two or more are gathered and trying to converse.

Myself loves to converse! But only if that means that no one else is talking because that involves listening and one thing Myself does not have time for is listening. That takes effort and who wants to put in the amount of time necessary to follow another person’s babbling? It’s work. And the only work Myself wants to engage in is the work of proving itself to be the most insightful, most informed and most right about everything Self ever. That burden of proof is light and easy compared to the burden of hearing about someone’s bad day, or new idea, or crazy story.

But the main reason for me going without Myself for the month of January is because I need a break from it. I’m tired of Myself and all its stupid opinions. I’m tired of going to a social event and then coming home and realizing I never asked anyone else what they were up to. I never ceded the floor because Myself had the microphone and did not want to give it up.

Which is why I am not giving up alcohol for January because I would really like to go to a cocktail party with alcohol but without Myself and get into a conversation with a small group and show the group that I can have a glass of Chardonnay and not start talking non-stop until the group dwindles down to just me, Myself and I.

I would rather have the group comprised of my own I and the all the other I’s, or at least the I’s that want to converse. What I really want is for the other I’s at the party to know that they can talk and be listened to like normal people in a normal conversation.

I am very sympathetic to these other I’s because I remember all the times Myself did all the talking and my own I had to sit in silence along with all the other I’s who were trapped out of politeness or love of severe penances.

I had never really thought about the other I’s until I began to notice the regretful feeling I would have the day after a gathering took place. As I reviewed the previous event’s conversations all I could remember would be my own contributions to the discussion. I could scarcely remember a thing anyone else said. And this made me sad, and bored. Bored because I knew all of my own opinions already so I wasn’t hearing anything new, and sad because I missed an opportunity to listen to another person and perhaps gain a new perspective.

Another reason for the sinking feeling is the memory of those other I’s fleeing as they slowly woke up to the fact that Myself had little interest in anything but its own stories.

But this was not entirely true!

I love, love, love hearing personal stories, all of them, even the long, drawn out ones. It’s just that Myself ruins it every time by thinking while the story is being told, “hmm, that calls to mind a similar story about Myself that is almost the same, but better.”

You may wonder where I came up with the idea to go without Myself for the month of January. It came from feedback--from the feedback of seeing the backs of other people as Myself would “win” at dominating the conversation. It also came from witnessing other people getting overly involved with their own selves, and how that never fails to produce the same unfortunate results.

But, by far the most effective way of getting through to me was to read about other selves, like this passage from my copy of George Saunder’s A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, which I read aloud to Myself:

The instant we wake the story begins: “Here I am. In my bed. Hard worker, good dad, decent husband, a guy who always tries his best. Jeez, my back hurts. Probably from the stupid gym.”

And just like that, with our thoughts, the world gets made.

Or, anyway, a world gets made…

..The mind takes a vast unitary wholeness (the universe), selects one tiny segment of it (me), and starts narrating from that point of view. Just like that, that entity (George!) becomes real, and he is (surprise, surprise) located at the exact center of the universe, and everything is happening in his movie, so to speak; it is all, somehow, both for and about him. In this way, moral judgment arises: what is good for George is… good. What is bad for him is bad. (The bear is neither good nor bad until, looking hungry, it starts walking toward George.)

Other than the part about being a dad or going to the gym, this sounds exactly like Myself!

I know my January spent away from Myself sounds extreme, but that is probably because your self is not as puffed up as mine. I am craving a time where I can have a little fun without Myself ruining it. I want to be like Lou Reed, when he has his Perfect Day:

Just a perfect day, drink Sangria in the park

And then later, when it gets dark, we go home

Just a perfect day, feed animals in the zoo

Then later a movie too and then home

Oh, it’s such a perfect day

I’m glad I spent it with you

Oh, such a perfect day

You just keep me hanging on

You just keep me hanging on

Just a perfect day, problems all left alone

Weekenders on our own, it’s such fun

Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself

I thought I was someone else, someone good…

What really hits is the part of the song where he notes that his perfect day is when he forgets himself. Someone made him forget himself and when he did he saw something, or someone else. Someone good.

I want to forget Myself, at least for January. But to forget Myself, I need to consider something else.

So I decided to throw myself into my art which is reading and talking about what I read.

Recently I read this written by Dame Iris Murdoch:

Love is the perception of individuals. Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real. Love, and so art and morals is the discovery of reality.

I take this seriously because it was written by a Dame and also because it’s good to do difficult things like realize that something other than oneself is real.

I also think this is a good way to start the year.

The Dame goes on:

“Good is a transcendent reality” means that virtue is the attempt to pierce the veil of selfish consciousness and join the world as it really is.

Which sounds great, even though (i)t is an empirical fact about human nature that this attempt cannot be entirely successful.

I think I am prepared (even though I know I can’t entirely succeed) to pierce the veil of selfish consciousness and join the world as it really is.

I do know that the world as it really is is probably terrifying, at least to Myself who will have to learn that it isn’t in the center of it.

This will make for an interesting January, but we are not there yet. There is still the rest of December and that means Christmas and New Year’s Eve so Myself will have a few more shots at being the most interesting self in the room.

If you would like to hangout and witness Myself doing what it calls conversing before it gets cut off for the month of January, look for it where it always is, plopped smack in the center of the world.

Photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash