Portrait of the Artist as a Poetaster - Book I - Incompleteness of self

I will attempt comparing you with me
Although in this I feel unable to
As there's no common frame of reference
And this a feeling I should emphasise.
Plainly said, I am me and you are you,
Sometimes united by an "us" or "we" -
But these few words disguise a complex world,
The communality of human kind.
I'm mystified as to relationships
Of self and other, straight perceiving strife
And differences in place of that concord
Which leads to mutual aid and harmony.
Most differentiate or distinguish
Themselves from others, but for me there seems
To be no overlap - no area
Permitting me to make comparison.
Failure to apprehend the other's mind
Is not a failing of degree or kind
But is an absolute - and I cannot -
Whilst others all possess, are able - can.
From what I comprehend of you and I
One is a tune, the other's my deaf ear -
An introduction into you and me
I think would show our species not the same.
You have a will - if confronted or met
By opposition, you will overcome,
And so present yourself as obstacle
Or modulating force to other's wills.
You have a personality - by which
I mean you have a set of ways or rules
(Or stated otherwise a fixed psyche)
Which regulates behaviour - rain or shine.
You have a continuity - if changed
The circumstance then something stays the same -
Not just your personality - also
Foundations basic to all human kind.
My will is weak - so much it may not be:
My personality is poor in growth
And continuity erodes with mood;
I lack all three - I ask if I am man.
So failing these divides me into parts
(Some ones disjointed and disjunctive each)
The situation brings forth this or that
In me - patchwork of clashing scraps of rag.
This is the outset - absent lines in sand
Have need of demarcation: you and I,
Difference outweighs the similarities -
Almost as if comparing chalk and cheese.

As seen I can't know others as they are
And thus I dive into solipsisms,
And with such views (when all is said and done)
I am consoled in that I am alone.
I postulate that all is but figment
Of my own mind - a sheen which may control
My self and is beyond my power to change
But still my mind's figment, and that gives strength.
Such stance may sound to be both fanciful
And grandiose - to state that I am all -
Though will of comprehension is required
To see that it is neither whim nor boast.
The self does not control though it is all:
The speeding bullet that may pierce my skull
Is imagined by me which does not mean
I can prevent my one impending death.
These views, simply a shift in emphasis
From we to I, from us to me, with I
Becoming we - this shift should fit the style
And paradigm of this millennium.
It makes no odds if object seems to be
Figment or otherwise reality:
It makes no odds if person is or was
An actuality or mind's product.
Regardless, universal laws apply
Physical and of our society,
As these are laws, products which come from self,
Every and each are manifolds of mind.
From youth I've craved to be the cynosure
And by adopting this philosophy
I am of self, plainly though, not of all,
And thus I seem to reach half way at least.
And with this stance my views of other's lives
Are simplified - their innards don't exist:
And if they do they're just created by
Imagination's over-active play.
Admittedly my trite solipsism
Is not a tree of life that I've researched -
Home-grown, I like to think of it as earth
That might harbour some growth if tended right.
Philosophy is not a master plan
Or blueprint by which I would will an act
Or formulate my coming deeds - it comes
And goes as cognitive, mostly obscured.
I've seen these views laid out in black and white
In public patient information sheet:
They spoke of them relating to disease -
If held as true the person can be seized.

Such thoughts logically progress and form
Theoretical idiosyncrasy
Which questions how language assumes a role,
And raises worth of putting things to verse.
A wealth of personal experience
And lack of common frame for thought exchange;
That which I feel, cannot be spoke or said
As language is a tool too blunt for use.
My words just seem to scratch the surface thought
And don't convey the meaning that is meant,
There lies a world of aching tragedy
Below my words and their futility.
Intending to engender empathy
I raise a laugh or worse I raise concern -
My audience decipher spoken words
And disregard the feelings as first meant.
I saw and loved a piece of modern art
When I was young which seemed to resonate,
The artist (I forget) explained himself
(At least in art my stance is not alone).
This was a mechanised life sized sculpture:
A mannequin on bicycle in suit,
Rear mount the speaker of a gramophone,
Once in a while man peddled on his bike.
And when he peddled in attempt to move
A disjunctive cacophony of sound
(So bumps and clunks) emerged from speaker-horn -
Provoking title for this work: "Language".
And so I find I speak and I'm misheard,
Misunderstood, sometimes for best, ignored;
It seems to me, language is God's poor joke:
Endeavour is ordained to fail in spades.
People whisper and talk and shout and scream,
Deliver blunt or fine soliloquies
To an audience that's deaf, mute, or both
And talk on talk is talked for its own sake.
This chat's as cheap to be superfluous -
If I'm to gain enjoyment watching soaps
(In resonance with my views on language)
I find them better when the sound's turned off.
And through my seeming incomprehension
I'm drawn to metred verse, sometimes in rhyme -
I feel somehow constricted not constrained
As if a splint supported broken bone.
And I re-read, re-write, re-work my verse
And show to others in the finished form:
I gain precision through the measured word,
I'm comprehended, who knows, even heard.

But these solipsistic views, linguistic
Attempts at thought, all fail - the crux is me -
The solipsist requires a functioning self
And I'm dysfunctional before all else.
The dictionary defines the word as thus:
'View that the self is sole existent thing' -
What if the self is not at ease - the world
Is fraught with all the failings from the self.
Adopting such a rare philosophy,
To emphasise the self when self is damned,
Mistakes the place to lay foundation's stone,
And raises framework on unstable ground.
At times I feel profound self-doubt, unease,
At times like this I wade in self-neglect,
At times like this my self abandons faith,
The self is source of all - how can this be?
On other days I'm well, such thoughts give strength
I see a universe in harmony
With my system - all actions resonate
Arranged in comprehended categories.
Such days are few and most the time my doubts
The upper hand - this, my philosophy,
Has failed - it touts systematic whole,
Although results are basic fatal flaws.
I think such views bear fruit if he who holds
Them courts success and all her hangers on -
If most with self and life goes well, such views
Become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
With me a rotting useless branch sets forth
The wonder and prowess that is a tree -
The germ and cause of this or that disease
Lays claims as its the body it attacks.
I liken owning such views to money -
If you have enough, all is good and grand:
But if you're short, the construct makes for hell
And you but wish for more of that which fails.
I place myself upon a plinth of stone
And fail to give myself the shard of worth
That others emanate and so would grace,
Though others baulk at placement on a plinth.
These views hold me at times in state of trance
I see the world through tinted spectacles
As one accustomed to substance or drug -
The stance becomes habitual anodyne.
Perhaps solipsism causes problems
Above and over those I hold and know -
It seems a whim requiring sweat and grit,
Perhaps wisest, I should abandon it.

I feel a fragmentation and a lack
Of self which continues on, regardless
Of what philosophy and attitudes
To self and life - some canker takes a hold.
I'll treat of fragmentation and of lack
Separate, although the two conjoin and merge -
Thus pain and want produced by some disease
Are to the man who suffers, both as one.
My will is weak - so much it may not be:
My personality is poor in growth
And continuity erodes with mood;
I lack, I lack, I'll say a second time.
In so many respects to have a will
Is but a synonym for getting your
Own way - in general things don't go my way -
And will frustrate equates to failing mood.
And then I acquiesce when first opposed -
Foundations so unstable that I shrink
To put my view across and can't assert
Myself as sure when differences arise.
Sometimes I'll curse and rail against my lot,
All seems unfair designed to drive me mad,
But such outbursts of anger never gel
To plan of action or an act of will.
My personality is like a mist -
It clouds and obfuscates, residing in
Half truths, presenting but obscurities
And cant theories unknown to me and most.
In groups I don't define my point of view
And if I do my stance is ludicrous -
I crave extremes and it's no matter which
I occupy on spectrum - left or right.
And consonant with this I say things to
Provoke, with lust for bitter argument,
And fail to apprehend the basic fact
That to offend is not a proof of self.
With shifts in mood so shifts in views of life -
In mood that's critical towards myself
How harsh I'll criticise my company
(Ignoring bible's tale of speck in eye).
And then at other times I'll bear insult
To maintain basest rags of company -
Desire is such I'll acquiesce to Paul
And then to Peter, though they disagree.
And thus (with lack) I contradict myself -
Consistency or continuity:
Both seem to be beyond my ailing grasp -
Hypocrisy devours with its firm clasp.

And that is lack, now fragmentation too,
Although the two are one - any fragment
Was part of whole at time - the absent whole
Likely exists in fragments, when it's dashed.
It seems within myself (if me exists)
Persist and thrive a numbered different me's
Each one the same and, equal, not the same,
And each has drawbacks and advantages.
Most strikingly, each comes and goes with mood
And fragments show or pass or hide themselves
Depending on myself - depending on
My cloud or hail or shine internalised.
If just a mood or feeling - it runs strong
And subjective sometimes will overlap
With objective - with others pointing out
To me, that which I feel is known and sure.
If they comment as such, it tends to be
Pejorative (an intervention would
Likely be suggested) - occasionally
They will comment or dwell on positives.
Each self is like a bubble filling mould
In parts, but never occupying cast -
It seems to be that there's a child-like me
Inside myself with gaps between the two.
I'm me and I'm this failing cast of me -
I could and should relate and interact
But there's this space - there's what I should project
And what's inside - this pad of nought restricts.
Some days this void perimeter is small -
I'm confident - at other times replaced
By other self the gap of space is large -
And I am left devoid of certainty.
And if this self (or lack of self) were one,
Possessing temporal continuity,
There'd be a scope for some development,
Problems and failings could be worked upon.
As each replaces each from day to day,
Sometimes from hour to hour, I have no hold -
The task's as answering some complex query,
With question changed as you begin to speak.
These selves may be facets of just one self -
If or not it's usual to feel such things
I'm not aware - and this I will repeat -
I lack a common frame of reference.
Each one is different, so too similar,
Each one is me - not out of character -
Subjective things - perhaps they're just my mood,
Which swings so strong sometimes as to delude.

And with this, situation plays a role,
A role which could be seen as causative
As it so rears a head and plays a part
Greater than that of some attendant lord.
And so when I'm at home, I'm me at home,
And walking, ambling down the street I wear
A differing hat, but me varies the most
In diverse company with change on change.
Placed in society of some I'll thrive,
Flourish and bask as in my element,
Have confidence, have things to say, have wit
(At times) appearing thus a normal mind.
Placed in society of other type
I'll put my foot into my mouth unkind
To me not others, that or cause offence
Attempting to discuss a point or two.
I am at ease with some, their influence
Extends or reaches out and cradles me,
They play the part of catalyst in fond
Reaction making me the best of me.
But others catalyse the opposite
A sour reaction bringing forth the faults -
The worst in me - with it self-consciousness
Which undermines the good, provoking bad.
In truth I seem to be an instrument
That's played upon by others as they wish -
A given person may extract the good
Or bad dependent on their will or mood.
Above, effects of people stand discussed,
Though I'm affected much the same by place -
To overcome surroundings is the dream
Of most, though my surroundings worse than some.
I feel a joy akin to ecstasy
The day I walk the park in bright sunshine:
I feel a low and ideate on voids
To sit and watch the rain from hostel room.
And these extremes I find hard to console
With thoughts of just one self, of just one me -
These two extremes can't be the one, the same,
Doubly so when both happen in one day.
Difference of place - difference of company
(Word situation covers both of these)
And I'll display a part of me distinct
From what you'll see at other times or place.
The faces thus exhibited as I,
Don't form united personality -
Facets are fragments, chaotic blurred stripe,
Rather than example, of person's type.

And this piecemeal fragmented lack of self
Is worsened by a lack of binding class -
Whilst others draw succour from social group
I isolate and draw on my own faults.
Take one fragmented cook - he's still a cook -
But take fragmented me - there never was
A being - pieces clash - as earthenware
And Portland Vase assembled to a whole.
To illustrate: I'm neither unemployed
Nor satisfied postgraduate student -
I fall between the two with fraught research -
Denied the joys of each I join no group.
In life each type is recognised as type,
Is recognised by same as similar,
By others seen as part of greater group,
But me, I'm seen as weird or strange or odd.
And this ability to play a type
Is weak in me - and it's connected with
The artistry of taking roles, although
The role is one of self and not assumed.
Without a role I fall upon my wits
Which need improved - perhaps an overhaul -
Some days my banter keeps me well afloat,
But most the time I ooze awkward silence.
And much of this results because I lack
Profession, trade or craft: I lack a class -
And so I am some crushed empty beer can:
Useless reminder to indulgences.
If to define myself - my quintessence -
I'd need focus on failure and on lack:
No wonder that, when I project myself,
It's not in role of social acolyte.
I think to count myself as déclassé
I must have fallen out from being in,
Have lost a class, have lost a partnership,
The trappings and the rule of social group.
When young, if I belonged to, had a class
The bond was but allowances of youth -
In that respect I never knew a join
Nor membership, nor union with a kind.
I want to find the word for one without
And one whose never had - it's not 'outcast'
As where's the casting out - a 'down-and-out'
Is material and my needs are met.
Extremities are often furnished well
By our language, but where's our wanted word:
'Social misfit' - if I am, let us say -
But better lets invent one - aclassé .

I've said at times that I compare myself
To bubble filling mould in part, although
At times the bubble outgrows self's own mould,
Exposed to outside world is prone to burst.
This happens when becoming confident,
A notch above my usual downcast me,
And thinking thoughts of elevated self
I enter worlds both ludicrous and false.
I think myself as one who's competent
Above and over my abilities
And try to play the part of dilettante
When role of ignorance would better suit.
I (with this whim that I describe) collapse
It sets me back below the former state:
No modesty - I grow - and then retract
To nervous ways reproaching self and mould.
I guess that others are and feel themselves
And having this (or just knowledge of it)
Prevents the oscillations that I know
And stabilises like the guys I lack.
With no stability my thoughts of self
Approach the fraudulent - I see me great
And good - I see myself as popular -
I see myself a cut above the rest.
Somehow my mind tempts me to play the game
An elevated mood encourages -
And sure as sure is sure the role's assumed
I start to think I'm born remaining free.
I guess, all told, this pattern's known to most -
Although I mark a difference in degree -
The scale on which I rise and fall is grand -
With others scope's restrained through constant self.
Sometimes I'm grandiose and in that state
I ideate how great my wit and charm:
This certainly the pride before the fall -
Fall measured out in span of days and nights.
I feel the two extremes of pride and shame
Beginning to appreciate that one
Begets the opposite - they seems a flux
Of moods from realms beyond conscious mandate.
Although I start to know stability
(Or more of it than I have known before):
I think it's key that moods no longer are
As elevated as they've sometimes been.
I blush to think how grand I've felt at times
In harmony, at one with one and all -
But then I realise that it's a sign
Or symptom caused by this disease of mine.

And this fragmented self reveals itself
To others whose response then seems to be
Dislike - no great surprise that for my faults
I'm treated differently and stigmatised.
Pronouncing unclearly, I hesitate,
My hearing poor, I feel I fail to grasp
That which is said, and when I do I miss
The thrust of sense: conversing makes for work.
And others note these inabilities
And think me source of fun that's to be had
Or worse, an object of contempt to scorn,
Or both (receiving patronising mirth).
Misunderstood (in terms of speech), and too,
So often failing to express my thoughts
Coherently, I blush, I look bemused,
And find it hard to interact with ease.
And others seem to take these signs as signs
Of some deficient status (zero plus) -
The interplay would indicate to them
To make little, so, to make light of me.
Sometimes reaction so habitual
I think to check reflection in a glass
Expecting something physical (a mark)
Upon my face that makes my treatment strange.
This noted, there's an ethos where I live
(As there's an ethos almost everywhere)
Of proud community and memory
(I've lived in same locale one year and half).
Last year I had avoided hospital
Although my mind was in poor health some months,
And though I caused no harm to anyone
I made a nuisance of myself at times.
Now I've gone seven months in better health
But still because this came to pass I sense
I'm known - of course I sense I'm known for old
And now misguided grounds of infamy.
And if this were the case, then it would straight
Explain the stigma that I feel I feel -
But either way, at times, responses that
I get: beyond the curt, beyond the brusque.
Perhaps they think that I'm washed-up, a tramp,
Or they dislike my face, perhaps I smell,
I do not talk the same, seen arrogant:
A million grounds with one certain result.
Whatever's causing it, I can't escape
That cordial exchange of greetings makes
My day - I can't believe that others so
Congratulate themselves on crawling slow.

This sword wielded against me's double edged
And cuts both ways - there is a stigma keen,
And then for faults which move some others to
Inflict this pain, I lacerate myself.
And I could understand that I'm at fault,
But fate, requiring social punishment,
Goes on to taunt with biting self-reproach;
So others stigmatise, and self condemns.
I guess the problem's my mentality
But how do I augment a change in mind
But with the mind which is the damaged part?
With mind correct the mind which pains itself?
The self-tortures arise in everyday
Vignettes - at times I dread to enter shops
For fear that I'm disliked, or if I'm not,
That they somehow will take dislike to me.
I said the problem's my mentality
Which is inferiority (or near)
Associated with the hollow boast
To claim and feign those things I don't possess.
And so I feel a gratitude when served
In shops and more when with some courtesy
But side by side with this I feel above
Those keeping shops (my hollow boast that's feigned).
Regardless if I feel above or no
I still will sternly castigate myself
If in a shop I say or do something
Which jilts exchange of words or pleasantries.
I blame myself if man who serves is curt
(And though inferiority to now
May be extreme but within normal range)
This is a failing seeing faults in me.
And so I've given an example here
And what applies, applies elsewhere also,
I tend to blame myself in company
And see in self the reasons that things fail.
The poles that are inferiority
And stigma have a grounding in the real
And in imagination too - and it's
A task, to distinguish the real from thought.
And if the thing's a product of my mind
It is a self-fulfilling negative,
And if it's not I have been stigmatised
And through my ills I'm treated differently.
As each one situation comes to pass
I see self-torture's tails and stigma's heads -
I yearn the day when both sides evanesce,
When both sides fall and fade to nothingness.

And with all this I lack a sense of self -
Not just a lack of self, a lack of sense
Of self - I question if I know what's me -
I question who or if indeed I am.
Sometimes when stepping out into the street
I double-take and pause and ask myself
'What feels odd?' and the reason's my psyche -
Stunned by a normal change of circumstance.
Through presentation with the open air,
Or through spatial juxtapositions, I
Am brought to question my existing self -
I am surprised and wonder who I am.
As you can see from this, fragility
Is something mine - if I am overwhelmed
With change of scene imagine what the task
When I at times present in company.
Sometimes with others I retreat into
A shell of stupefaction, blank my looks
And utter nothing with my mind almost
Shell-shocked from conversation's interplay.
I feel as one who can't project himself -
Inside I seem a void internalised -
The resonating cord is lax or snapped -
My thoughts supine or prone, they sink to silt.
To say that in this state I have become
Essence of nothingness compares to death -
To make comparison would flatter me
As there remains in me an inner self.
This inner self but waiting, hoping for
Some word in surround's alien exchange
To be directed sole and straight to me -
Much like the spoilt infant expecting sweets.
And alongside this self which lacks a sense,
As partner, I'm a stranger to myself -
Although I feel as if the two were one:
The self is not, and therefore can't be known.
I don't know me, unable to predict
Those situations which give rise to stress,
And then if stressed I don't know how I should
Placate myself - though able others can.
I know myself poorly and so little
That I'm unable to control my moods -
Some days my moods are good - I thank my luck,
Some days my moods are bad - I persevere.
Now you can start to see the ways I view
And understand myself: this self-portrait,
Perhaps it shows technique, though lacking grace:
I hope that painting, sitting, lights my face.