"True sanity entails, in one way or another, the dissolution of the normal ego, that False Self competently adjusted to our alienated social reality . . . and through this death, a rebirth, the ego now being the servant of the divine, no longer its betrayer." —R D Laing

The pathology of American culture is as ubiquitous as its strip-mall ugliness. It is abundantly evident in almost every aspect of contemporary life. From the predatory practices of the pirates at the helm of the corporate/governmental ship of state, down to the anomie of its galley slaves languishing in their soulless cubicles; from the genitalia-devoid mascots at Disney World to the genitalia-obsessed torturers at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo, the soul-sickness spreads before us like George W Bush's executioner's smirk.

Ronnie Laing's profound dictum at the top of this column leaves us confronting many questions regarding the true nature of the psychic lives of us so-called ordinary citizens of The United States of America and our ability to function within this corrupt and crumbling empire. In short, is it sane to be able to adapt to an insane culture?

Moreover, if an individual’s conformity to group, cultural, and national pathology is rewarded, how might one, stranded within this dysfunctional dynamic, resist it and begin to work towards an individual reckoning?

First of all, what leads to the formation of the False Self? Laing grasped it: When we were children, authority, in the form of parents, educators, and clergy, loomed before us. Alternatively both menacing and comforting, these powerful figures could just as easily have crushed us as comforted us. Tragically, all too often, it was the former. Hence, to accommodate the demands of authority, we learned how to curry favor from these baffling, seemingly implacable forces by creating a cipher persona, a False Self, a tricky, obsequious, tap-dancing little apple polisher, who strives to garner approval and acceptance, thereby avoiding punishment.

The victims of False Self adaptation are the quintessence of the consumer citizen. While they are compelled to show an agreeable face towards unyielding authority, this trope merely serves to mask a mind seething with misplaced resentments and shallow subterfuge.

The process can create irreconcilable anxieties within us, because the actions of authority figures seem as unpredictable as nature itself. Add this to our already haunted landscape, our present day government’s campaigns of perpetual fear, plus the dominant corporate culture's modus operandi of commercial exploitation, and we’re left with one freaked out populace. Consequently, this fear-ridden existence has rendered us a society of grotesques: Children have grown fat as steroid-fed, corporate-farmed livestock because we overfeed them a diet of steroid-fed, corporate-farmed livestock, as well as a myriad other variations of nutrient-devoid, calorie-laden faux food dispensed at a mall's food court, through a drive-thru window, or out of a cardboard box delivered by a franchised junk food chain.

Our motives are no mystery: We habitually shovel junk into their mouths in a futile attempt to stuff down the boredom, the anxiety, and the lassitude they suffer from their confinement inside the commercially branded and repressed facsimile of childhood we have created for them.

Why do we accept this? The price we would have to pay for confronting authority would be far too prohibitive; hence, we displace our anger and fear onto outsiders. The Clash of Civilizations is unloosed, and slouches, by way of the Washington Beltway, to Iraq, Iran and beyond.

This is how we came to “compromise” on acts of torture committed in our name, and not still fear the loss of our souls as a result of this complicity. This exchange insures us that we're given a "safe" place within the community. The False Self is a variety of imprisonment. The world is spread before the self, yet we prisoners cannot leave the confines of our small, self-involved anxieties; therein, mind, heart and imagination become atrophied by a lack of experience, empathy and spontaneity. The bars of the cage might be invisible, yet the sense of confinement is palpable across our corporatized culture. A collective numbness and apathy settles upon the land leading to our desensitization to genocide and torture.

To begin to free oneself from the bondage of the False Self, one must become aware of one’s own fraudulence. Self-knowledge can provide us with a point of entry toward the act of empathy. Yes, even by extending it towards one as loathsome as George W Bush. Years ago, he put on a mask in a vain attempt to shield himself from being crushed by power. Imagine having his parents: that soulless cipher of a father and blood-freezing Medusa of a mother. Try to imagine the psychological carnage involved. It’s the same trauma we experience daily due to our own powerlessness against the dictates of the corporate state and its threats, both implied and overt, to cast us into the howling wilderness of financial ruin, poverty, and homelessness.

Even in this fear-ridden era, there are some among us—nonconformists, creative thinkers, and artists—who welcome (rather than cower before) the metaphorical wolves. But instead of being eaten by the wolves, they are suckled and raised by them. The wilderness of political activism, of poetry, of art becomes their home: they don't clean-up nicely for polite company; they don't let themselves be bred down (as a few domesticated wolves did) to yapping Toy Poodles, in exchange for a few food scraps. (When you’re looking at a Toy Poodle, you're looking at a former wolf, as when you’re looking at the corporate press corps, you’re looking at folks whose ancestors long ago were journalists.)

One moment, you're loping through the woods, snout held high, smelling the scent of fresh game on the wind, and the next thing you know, you're being led around on a leash and collar encrusted with tacky rhinestones and salivating at the sound of an electric can-opener. One moment, you're a child, entranced in play, hardwired to eternity, and the next thing you know, you're sitting at work and your passions, hopes, and yearnings have been shrunk down to Poodle-sized agendas. You're truckling for your boss's approval and you're counting the minutes until break time, when you can devour some junk food. Like a domesticated pet, or an unfortunate animal incarcerated in a zoo, you are no longer a noble animal, you’re a Thing That Waits For Lunch.

To resist, we must cast off the fear of being an outcast. I remain hopeful: There is yet a molecule or two of the wild wolf left within us cloying Toy Poodles.

philangie2000@yahoo.com

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