The RPM, like ‘me’ and all illusions, is doomed to be miserably inadequate, which in turn evokes sympathetic sadness, sorrow, and pity. This word ‘pathetic’, of course, is a cognate of pathos: in art, music, literature and life, a sense of suffering, and of compassion.
Yet we’re all pathetic also in the simplest sense, as emotional; in the fundamental sense, as sentient. As much social or political oppression as we feel in our world, we are foremost sensual beings– our root bondage is sensate, in each one’s own body and mind; it’s visceral, in our bones, guts, and heart. True freedom is likewise pathetic, in that it’s under one’s nose all the time– through the touch of one’s own breath.
Above all, therefore, no matter its appearance as intellectually earnest or mischievously playful, The RPM insists simply on being sensible, on making sense. Its sensibility is entirely experiential and radically reflexive, in the sense of being sensitive to that sentient itself. When that sentient is able to observe with objectivity the sensations it mistakes for its ‘self’, it goes beyond compulsion for any stability, solidity or independence, beyond making sense of even its peace, pleasure or liberation as any particular, privileged illusion. In this sense, to be pathetic is to be fully free: That Sent(ient, without arrival.