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Is it the disease of not listening, of not marking, that I am troubled withal?

Here’s a thought: I’ve recently begun to wonder why there are times when what I say is misinterpreted -or, perhaps less kindly, not believed. I mean, am I that far off base; are my thoughts so misinformed I should be embarrassed? Have I really gone through times with my mouth open and my mind closed?

I suppose it should be fairly easily detectable in the reaction of others to my opinions but that, too, requires recognizing whether they are actually thinking the way they seem to be; or, more likely, understanding why I think they’re thinking that way. It’s hard to know where to start without wandering into a liar’s paradox, or something equally difficult to escape. I worry about things like that…

Perhaps I should try to understand the range of subtle clues that we each exhibit when we interact. Perhaps I should practice radical listening; or if nothing else, radical watching; observing. Of course, that might be difficult to do without explaining why I am doing it and not giving it all away.

I need a person who is of the same mind as me; someone of infinite patience; someone willing to tolerate my peccadillos as if they actually understood; knew from whence they came -and why. Unfortunately, although my dog would have understood, he and the rest of my family are currently travelling in the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns, as Shakespeare’s Hamlet famously opined in one of his soliloquies.

So, I am rather short on knowledgeable volunteers. But the other day while walking along a sidewalk past a store with just-washed display windows, I caught a glimpse of myself innocently and perhaps inadvertently smiling at my reflection. I looked so natural as I strolled past; I was not trying to convince my reflection of anything in particular; I was not posing, or trying to pretend that it was how others actually saw me in the street. I mean I was probably just another of Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice in the looking-glass’ creatures for them, eh?

But then, almost as soon as the reflection began, I began to wonder if it was merely tolerating my presence; upset that I was disturbing its once unadulterated existence; being forced to subject itself to the whims of other once I appeared out there. As if it, not me, was the subject; as if I was its reflection who just happened by. After all, until I appeared, it was alone and reigned supreme on its side of the glass. Perhaps reflections don’t want reflections…

It made me wonder if it considered that it was hosting me in its home; if it wondered how long its obligation lasted before I, in turn, was required to host it in mine… Who was in whose house, after all? To whom did the obligation ultimately belong? Did I have something -anything- to offer it? Who owned which side? Who was subordinate to whom? Who had the agency…?

There is a tradition in some Middle Eastern cultures that politeness only allows you to be the guest for two or three days, after which, in a show of thanks, it is incumbent upon you, the guest, to become the host if possible; to welcome the welcomers. Where do reflections fit into politesse?  Or, I suppose more germane, where do I fit?

I mean is it possible to be firm with a reflection? Make it understand its place in the scheme of things? And how would I (or it?) know, eh? Anyway, I’m merely hoping to learn something from it: like how to act with strangers who insist on dressing like me and mounting phoney smiles as they stare brazenly into my eyes without permission. I hate that. But imitation has to start somewhere.

I suppose I have to get used to being scrutinized by someone (some thing?) who insists on mocking my every move. Some thing that seems more like an echo than a Narcissus wannabe. In a way I think I’d be more content with the technology of ancient mirrors whose images were often blurry and distorted from the polished metallic surface they used. You were in charge in those days, I imagine; you’d never mix agency; you were pretty sure you didn’t really look that blurred. Of course, you’d need someone you trusted to help fix your hair and stuff, though. Shaving would be a perilous journey…

But I digress as usual; I don’t think I’m any closer to solving the problem of my believability; of convincing others to take me seriously. Even my reflection is probably wondering whether to accept what it sees. I am, after all, merely its reflection and possibly no more to be believed than the scribbled observations in the margin of a book one of us read long ago: valid at one time, perhaps -but when…?

This, of course, brings me to wonder if my reflection and I share anything apart from appearance. I don’t think either of us can apportion agency, for example: it either belongs to it, or me. In other words, it could be trying to fool me. I mean, who is really in charge? Is it more believable than me?

I realize that I seem to be caught in a Möbius loop here; its surface has been given a half twist somewhere along its length so when it joins again, it seems to be the on the other side. So, is one side more valid than the other? Or is reality, in fact, like that: there is no other side; each of us is a part of an endless continuum, neither of whose identity is unique. I am the other side; its why it’s difficult, if not impossible to decide who is the more believable -me or my reflection. Perhaps I should just relax about the whole thing and accept the fact that there are no boundaries: I mean, where, exactly does the mirror end? Where does my reflection change sides?

No wonder Narcissus wasted away thinking about it; mind you, a flower apparently grew where he sat to admire his reflection in the pool before he died. Or did he drown… I can’t remember…

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