Okay, so the guy seated across from me isn’t all there; he’s drifting in and out of a fugue, his mind a scrabble-board missing several indispensable vowels, a few consonants, too. He’s jabbering on about a long lost brother who’s been exiled from his father’s house, younger or older, I’m not sure, and a sister-in-law whom he finds abhorrently abhorrent. The way I see it is he’s making all this up, splitting up his ego into idealizations of people that he either hates or adores, the two seemingly interchangeable. The way I figure it he’s so far gone, so scrabbled, so lacking in vowels and consonants that he can’t differentiate between a contrapuntal fugue and a real honest to good memory, so he’s making all this up in an attempt to create a liveable world picture, a safe haven for fugues and missing vowels. If this is Husserl’s middle-stream where self-reflection is carried out, the phenomenological watershed, the epoche, then I’m in for big trouble. Maybe, just perhaps, what Husserl was referring to was a fugue state, a contrapuntal fugue where self-reflection and split-egos come together to form some Derridian gramophone. Okay, so I’m seated across from myself drifting in and out of Husserl’s gramophone and the sign over the cistern says, directions for the collection of midstream urine. What to do next? What to do?
