The September Soliloquies/Son of a Ditch

Photo: The land of Cockaigne, Pieter Breughel the Elder. An image of what is supposedly a land of plenty. It has lots of puddings (or pies?), which seem to represent value. That impression is reinforced by another Breughel painting, that of the peasant wedding:

Puddings make the world go round.

To presume I might have a value begins with the presumption that I could know what a value is — and the simple fact is that that’s already confusing, because of my upbringing and the persistent surroundings that deliver an endless stream of delicious puddings and pies and other tangible things for me to enjoy.

I’m generally confused about value until an energy of a different quality enters me; then things become much clearer. So perhaps, instead of pondering the desperation of my condition and the need for more puddings in my given situation, I ought to spend more time simply attending to the quality of my attention and where I am.

Value, after all—what I’m worth—can only ever be created here in this moment. If I don't turn my attention towards it, I’m worth nothing.

I can be worth something in an external sense, surely; deeds can be inscribed on clay tablets or posted on Instagram to extol my virtues and demonstrate the deft nature of my abilities to do this, that, and the other thing. Yet the nagging sense that that is not enough secretly bothers everyone, especially creative people; as the trope insists, nothing I do is ever good enough. Not only that, the egoists who believe they are superhuman and boast public of their accomplishments and power are, to human beings that still have critical faculties which function in a more or less normal manner, a complete embarrassment and an example of what it means to be subhuman. This may well be another form of ego, my sense of superiority over such trivial fools; but there’s also a grain of truth in it, just as ego is necessary to navigate the rough waters I routinely sail my little sunfish in as I look for smaller fish to eat.