Exegesis of Existential Angst

ex·e·ge·sis, pron. eksiˈjēsis is defined as a critical explanation or interpretation of a text. Stop there. Interpretation and explanation, in my view at least, are quite different beasts. An explanation invites little argument (case in point, when your parents ‘explain’ why you can’t go out, there is no logical discussion that follows, it is simply an explanation to file in the large file box of explanations you will receive in your hopefully long-enough life).
An explanation is “scientific.” It’s proven with theorems you are supposed to memorize (but not understand or ever use in your life, except maybe the Pythagorean theorem or when you heat up a beaker in your kitchen to make meth like Walter White, but otherwise, I can’t recall the details of these experiments, but I remember how to set up a ‘problem’ and then wank off for a homework session trying to figure out what ‘solving’ said problem actually means. We’ll move on to why I had such problems with ‘absolute’ solutions in a minute, I guess.)
An interpretation, on the other hand (why not foot? who decided hand? a judge no doubt, or someone who didn’t work with their hands), is something that is ‘believed’ to be a possible ‘explanation’ and by its very nature, a humble, meek sort who wanders around with a cloak on mumbling ‘interpretations’ that can be revoked upon the first sign of disenchantment from those who will judge said ‘interpretation.’
I think there’s more leeway with an interpretation. Say, for example, “Interpretative dance.” There is no “Explanatory Dance.” Or is there?
Now, to add another layer to this maniacally cryptic run-around:

Obviously, only exegesis does justice to the text. Eisegesis is a mishandling of the text and often leads to a misinterpretation. Exegesis is concerned with discovering the true meaning of the text, respecting its grammar, syntax, and setting. Eisegesis is concerned only with making a point, even at the expense of the meaning of words.

First of all, I love any expression that is trying to ‘teach’ something that begins with the universally condescending “Obviously.” Secondly, who determines the ‘true meaning’ of anything? If there is an all-knowing entity (which is the subject of the controversy, of course, because humans love nothing more than fighting over who’s right about God, a being we can’t see until we die, so the possibilities for propaganda are endless), what if he/she prefers Eisegesis, because making a point is better than not.
The idea of breaking down the notion of existential angst, as if to counter act all the other publications of truth for which people kill and hate and pray they are right in their killing and hating, as an ancient text appeals to me. But I am only making a point: the love of language is holy in and of itself, because who gave us the ability to mess things up between us with words in the first place? If God hadn’t wanted misinterpretation and messy beauty, why would he/she allowed the first poet to be born?
This was not at all what I started off writing today. It started with the use of ‘exegesis’ in a novel I am reading (yes, an actual book, kids) which I had to look up. When I returned to the novel to see how the author had used the word, it was no longer as important as the other words on the page. Like integer. “Mathematically insoluble.”
“If life is a wager, what form does the bet take?”
-Julian Barnes
The Sense of An Ending
Perhaps I have escaped the all-mighty wrath today because OBVIOUSLY this musing has no point whatsoever.

My eyes are numb

I have not slept but I did go through the physical catharsis I guess you could call it that and spent all this time re-furbishing my accoutrements on the floor I am having an out of body experience as the omni-present siren passes by in the distance, why do I torment my body this way? No furniture? Same as my parents? Who knows? I am giddy with possibility because I know it could go away in just one day. That’s how day-to-day this existence is and how I have to embrace that and it’s been a whirlwind and I feel like I’m hallucinating my life right now.

Tomorrow will have been a week since Barry Walker, M.D. died at 2 p.m. in the afternoon, David, Marilyn and I were all there when he drew his last breaths.

I’m very tired, have been up from Cleveland to Detroit to drama in LA all night now about 24 hours since I have been back but today I drove to south central (a blur, numb, all that) and did the nasty and took care of business on a menopausal sex drive level because that was all my brain power could handle that and going through photographs and sometimes organizing the crap on the floor that has come out of the bags I don’t remember packing in Oberlin.

And the sad thing? Just like that perfect poem I composed while walking quite deliberately across a cross walk somewhere I can’t remember if it was here or Ohio but I wrote the perfect Poet Laurete inaugural speech — I nailed the honor and weight of Toni Morrison but made it less pretentious than the Hispanic dude I heard read probably for Bush.

What you are supposed to say and hear no surprises. No Billy Collins freshness, Philip Larkin wry test your logical love of language and that new guy I read in that too heavy book who nailed the first four lines.

Poetry and its appreciation are my butterflies.

I ask that you the lord shall keep me safe and sound when I sleep.

SO that I can live to take on another day with resilience, a positive helping attitude leading me to be alignment with who I want to be and then brandishing a way to dig out of hole, pay off all debts and re-start so I can do something productive and enjoy life more in my last 20 years before it’s all downhill from here, which it is already but I’m trying to be positive and give thanks for the fact that I can walk to the shower even though I choose to sit in the most ungodly uncomfortable position, just like my father.

I love him and I miss him greatly.

That is not what was in my mind to start this post about an hour ago. But this is what it became.

Butterflies and fairy tales

Well, she’s walking through the clouds,

With a circus mind that’s running wild,

Butterflies and Zebras,

And Moonbeams and fairy tales.

That’s all she ever thinks about.

Riding with the wind.


Jimi Hendrix 


When I’m sad, she comes to me,

With a thousand smiles she gives to me free.

It’s alright, she says it’s alright,

Take anything you want from me,

Anything.

Fly on little wing.

No one cares

No one really cares about your woes and the truth is you don’t even tell them because the further rejection of your needs to survive, just throws you further down the hole. And so it’s best to just hide it all and try to escape with nothing — and mourn and grieve the loss of everything. I cannot seem to get along, there seems to be some attitude against me based on things that have been said over 5 years, despite the 44 years before that and all the things that maybe I could add for understanding, but understanding is not sought. Just judgement, selfishness and a certain expulsion that I am getting so tired of. To be kicked out of houses and homes in so many instances and for no reason other than they don’t want you there–they never really wanted you there, you were adopted, they felt sorry for you or you were a pudgy little trophy ’til your life took a turn they didn’t expect or endorse, and how after denying your talents for the first half of your life, so you started from ground zero multiple times, they are poised with evidence of your failures. And that’s all that matters to them. And this is why quite honestly I am done with my life, it’s not getting any better and I’ve tried, I’ve done, I’ve worked harder than anyone around me because I thought that was what it took, my work ethic and energy were indefatigable. I was too kind to assholes. I have let everyone take advantage of me. And now here I sit Henry Miller broke should feel like a clean slate (but he was young and in Paris) and now it just feels like a wasted life. I don’t want to be here any longer if this is all it’s going to be, this past year has been nothing but bad, bad, bad and after building myself back up to try to have some sort of life, I’m back to nothing again, no prospects, $ 100 to my name, no jobs, no home, and yet, it won’t stop. No one will call and recognize my talents and say they need me (even though I am sure my skills and personality could benefit someone I can no longer sell myself, especially since I am crying all the time now).

I write this not to complain but as a form of catharsis. There is not one good thing in my life right now and it’s been like that for a very long time. I am wearing out and cannot even do the drill of asking for work anymore. I don’t see how I am going to survive. Surely there should be a service to just erase a life that is essentially worthless.