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Tag: identity

The Five Pillars

I’ll write this down because I might forget, and in the morning not be as profound. The pillars underlying everything, at least the point of view that shapes my world, are time, essence, identity, impermanence, and illusion. These five interconnected themes mean something when examined separately, but look quite different when viewed as a whole. Of course, they all fold into each other. Time, for example, is critical to the definition of essence, identity, impermanence, and illusion. Those things exist only in or outside of time. Likewise, all are illusions, made just slightly less ephemeral through the lens of identity, which is itself impermanent and without lasting essence. Who we are, or rather how we identify ourselves, is a trick of the light. We imagine ourselves as some primordial space dust come into being before the advent of time and destined to continue after the stars turn cold. But even that illusion does not last our entire lifetime. Lifetime: that’s another tricky word. It implies that the ticking clock is the primary means for measuring a quantity of life. It can be useful, indeed. But despite a deep, unrelenting desire to be of use, to be more than just a simple cog in a mindless machine, most folks, as Thoreau pointed out, lead lives of quiet desperation. They want time, essence, identity, and illusion. They just want them permanently, unchanging, and fixed in the heavens like stars to set your sails against. They are desperate because that ain’t gonna happen. They are quiet because to question the status quo, the societal norms, the will of the gods, is to further reinforce your impermanence. By the same token, considering your quality of life without including all five pillars will likewise lead to imbalance, inequity, injustice, and insignificance.

03 Aug 2025

© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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On Sharing the Wealth

If you do not add something of yourself
to everything you choose to pass along,
what kind of an inheritance is that?
Why should your downstream children give a damn?

What good is simply sharing more bad news?
How does that help us to improve our lot?
There is no solidarity in that,
just mindless repetition, nothing more.

If all you do is blithely sing along,
what matter if your protest is heartfelt?
If you would fight the mindless, faceless crowd,
it must be with your own identity.

So share a little something of yourself
when you repeat some bit of what you’ve seen,
or else what difference that it comes from you?
You have a song to sing like no one else.

Why did you share that last report or meme?
Do you have nothing of your own to add?
It must mean something to you, after all,
or else why waste your time and energy?

27 JUL 2025

© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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Anti-Amergin: chant

I am not just my name and sign,
I am not just my sex,
I am not who I voted for,
I am not where I’m from,
I am not just the work I do,
I am not just a son,
I am not from a somewhere else,
I am not just like you,
I am not where I went to school,
I am not what you taught me,
I am not playing on your team,
I am not your opponent,
I am not a mind or body suit,
I am not here forever,
I am not my integrity,
I am not my backstory,
I am not who I seem to you,
I am not a somebody,
I am not a celebrity,
I am not educated,
I am not old and wise and gray,
I am not mid-way through it,
I am not a child prodigy,
I am not a late bloomer,
I am not something that you’ve heard,
I am not just my language,
I am not some well-hidden lamp,
I am not a state secret,
I am not female, am not male,
I am not someone’s father,
I am not better off than you,
I am not part of something,
I am not one of your old friends,
I am not a religion,
I am not what you label me,
I am not through with living.

Who claims to know me, as I am?
Who thinks their claims control me?
Who else pretends to give a damn?
Who wants their cage to hold me?

What does the world want me to be?
Who out there claims to get me?
What good do all these labels do,
When I am neti, neti?

29 APR 2025

© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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Nothing But Us: echo verse

What happens at the point the point
when we get in our lives in our lives
where decisively, we choose we choose
something to believe in to believe in
much greater than ourselves, ourselves,
and with surprise we find, we find
instead of a great something something
out there, giving us a sense of worth, worth
that we waste our lives seeking, seeking:
nothing but us. Us.

03 MAR 2017

 

 

© 2017, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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You Don’t Know Me

We exchange pleasantries online or on the town;
you’ve read my poetry and perhaps you have found
some similarity between yourself and me,
but you don’t know me.

We talk of politics or turns that life may make;
something I say perhaps prevents a new mistake;
but nonetheless it’s wrong, because you’ve heard my song
to think you know me.

How could you know unless you’ve felt my pain,
from a life that is not your own?
All that you have is your experience;
not my life – that is mine alone.

We’ve shared a meal or two, maybe a glass of wine;
not quite enough to know just where to draw the line.
I’ve not been in your shoes; you’ve never sung my blues,
so you don’t know me.

Almost acquaintances: that’s all we really are;
I wouldn’t push the definition all that far
without me cheapening what should be deepening:
no, you don’t know me.

How could you know what makes me tick inside
in a day, or brief afternoon?
There’s more to me than shallow “seem-to-be’s”,
that simple melody is not my tune.

We’ve only just begun to plumb the hidden depths;
as far as I’m concerned sometimes, it seems we’ve barely met.
There’s so much I don’t know about you, and I know
that you don’t know me.

My number’s on speed dial, and yours is likewise stored;
but it’s a simple truth, and cannot be ignored:
you want to call me friend, but just “sort of” pretend.
Well, you don’t know me.

26 JUN 2006

© 2006 – 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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What’s My Name?

What’s my name?
You may have seen it in the papers
Saw the lines ’round my face
and you read about my latest capers

What’s my name?
It’s on everybody’s lips
Who’s hip, who’s tripped, who’s slipped,
who’s got a case of the vapors

What’s my name?
It’s on the cover of a magazine
And the headlines read “Is He Live or Dead?”
“Is it him you think you might have seen?”

What’s my name?
Maybe you just can’t remember
Because I’m not someone toting a gun,
or dating Miss September

It doesn’t matter if you can’t recall
Sometimes it’s safer in a faceless crowd
When I think of all the stupid things we believe
We may be learning, but we’re not too proud
To put it off until tomorrow.

What’s my name?
You may have read it in the Bible
A fine line on the sign of the times
between obscenity and revival

What’s my name?
It’s on a billboard ’round the corner
A poster child for the wild and wooly side
against which parents try to warn you

What’s my name?
Maybe I can’t even tell you
Except as part of a slogan for some new product
I’m trying to sell you

It doesn’t matter if you can’t decide
Sometimes it’s better if you just don’t know
When I think of all the stupid things we believe
We might be better off digging a hole…
I guess I’ll start that tomorrow.

Memphis, Summer 1992

© 2006 – 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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On Dialogue with Self

When does a dialogue with self cease being a monologue?

At what precise moment does the epiphany conceived of self-deliberation end its foolish premeditation on some inner change of being and address itself to the self in others, recognizing in external, living beings that same life force that propels it along the path of least resistance to its indeterminate conclusion?

When does that personal philosophy (or love of knowledge) come into being that requires the death of philology (knowledge of love, one could propose) and must of its own accord stand naked, alone and shivering on the mountain of endless esoteric academic masturbation and let loose its seed to propagate the action of love?

On what basis is the foundation for living laid?

On the cold and calculating pillars of what we think wisdom, but is in reality mere logic and more of the same false illusion separating the observer from the observed?

Or on the fetid swamp, crawling with unseen slime-in-the-making that marks its time of evolution simply absorbing the dry coastline and turning it to scores of miniature Atlantis fragments?

When does the monologue, the endless harangue against unseen foes and perceived slings and arrows that pierce the wondering mind with necessary doubt and wavering conviction, cease to be a speech released to the waiting air alone, and listen, beyond the echo of its own Doppler castings, to the response in the ears (any ears — one’s own, or someone else’s) that comes back, like a Messiah encased in the triangulating pulse of myth’s strange sonar, like a quiet ripple lost in the cascade of the sea at high tide?

At what precise moment does the angle of the jaw when open start to close the portal of the ears?

When does a dialogue with self cease being a monologue?

18 AUG 2004

© 2004, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.

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