Of no fixed address 4

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I call Him-Her ‘Õ’.
I cannot address Õ in the third person in English, because Õ is not He, nor She, nor It.
Õ is the Hungarian word for the third person.
This same word can refer to either He or She or It or to a combination of them.
I think that the Õ, that hijacked me is a combination of He and She and is therefore androgynous or neutral, yet it is also a kind of live ‘It’.
But English has no word for a live It, because ‘It’ is never a live subject in English, like He or She, yet Õ is a live subject. Õ is the subjective in me and I am Õ’s object.

Õ hijacked me in my moment of conception and will discard my body with my last breath.
Õ has no fixed address but uses my body as the vehicle for Õ’s terrestrial journey during my life time.
I would not be surprised if Õ is billions of years old.
Õ may never have been born and may never die, so Õ could be an eternal traveller.
Õ must have journeyed in an incredible number of vehicles throughout Õ’s eternal life.
I must say, I am puzzled about Õ when I refer to myself.

Am I really Õ, the perennial hijacker, or am I the creature that Õ hijacked in the moment of my conception, or am I both the hijacker and the hijacked?
I must be both perhaps: the eternal Õ and the temporary Me. Then, I am made up of both the transcendent Me, the Õ, and the transient Me: my mind, body and emotions.
I cannot be just my mind or emotions because they change all the time, nor my body, that is entirely replaced every seven years.

So the only permanent Me is my Õ, my eternal subjectivity, but again the eternal is not eternally with all of Me, that is my mind and body too, because Õ will discard them when I die.
Hence I cannot in all honesty say that ultimately I am Õ, because even though Õ is travelling in me from my moment of conception till my death, Õ was around before I was borne and will be around after my death.

But suppose that the ‘real’ Me is this Õ, this perennial traveller. I mean, who would not love to flatter oneself, that he or she is eternal? But if I am really Õ, then I must be a kind of ET: That hobo ghost, who forever hijacks bodies for their ghost inspired life times and trades them in at death for an eventual, brand new vehicle. I say eventual, because the ET Õ might not necessarily re-incarnate after discarding a terrestrial body. Õ might park Õ’s self, God knows where, maybe even in outer space, from where it surveys Earthlings to decide in which offspring to re-incarnate, next time.
And if you doubt the reality of re-incarnation you might just be a fact denier, as there is massive, valid empirical evidence for it.

This, of course, makes the ‘Who am I?’ question even more mysterious. Does that then mean that this so called Soul of mine, Õ, is just the latest edition in its endless serial, in which Õ made ‘Me’ involved, by occupying me as its latest vehicle?
I touch on this puzzle in my poem:

From Billions Of Years Ago!

Oh, glorious infinity!
I worship thee, I worship thee!
Who are you to me?
You are in me, right in me!
You’re my Mum, Dad, ancestors and the dust,
Through a lengthy chain of family trust

Handed to me over billions of years,
A privilege so great, it moves me to tears!
Fancy being ancient like the Wollemi pines
In my genes lives eternity from timeless times,
I was born millions of years ago,
Me, tiny me, this blows my ego!

Yet I’m also a titan from times immemorial
In a never ending story, an endless serial!
My brain’s kept evolving and now I am Homo Sapiens!
A mystery so strange to me as a bunch of aliens!
Ah, the human brain: fancy, I’ve got one!
It keeps exploding, like a human sun! (Backfires on me, that son of a gun!)

As soon as I start thinking: ’Hey, I might be smart!’
It burns me to smithereens, it tears me apart!
My brain’s got me, but I’ve got no brains,
Revelations prompt computer games!
But who is playing with me? I really don’t know.
I am just a dumb soul, from billions of years ago!

And if you agree with the Buddhists or Hare Krishnas, that the soul keeps reincarnating in order to reach perfection, you might want to pause for a thought:

A renown past life regressionist had this client whose partner wanted to kill her, yet she could not bring herself to leaving him. The therapist regressed her to many past lives.
It turned out that as far as she could be regressed, to a whopping 21 past lives, she was murdered by her lover, every time!

What is your take on the soul? Share your thoughts with us.

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Andris Heks

Andris is a former journalist, working on 'This Day Tonight' and 'Four Corners' -- ABC television's top rating current affairs programs. He has been a social worker, psychodramatist and yoga therapist, and enjoys singing and playing music, especially Hungarian Gypsy Music. He also enjoys swimming, cycling and writing. Andris is currently working on his memoirs. He welcomes feedback and comments on the opinion pieces published at Starts at 60.

  1. Hmmm, good one Andris … I think ???? Mate, what WERE you trying to say?
    I know I’m only 80c in the $1 but … oh boy, that article lost me. Great poetry though.

    1 REPLY
    • Glad you liked the poem, Guy.
      By the way, please see my reply to your and my spam concern, where you commented on this.

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    1 REPLY
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