sundry realizations circa early 2018

  • I enjoy flow more than happiness. Flow has a very specific meaning, a task that’s appropriately challenging, employing skills I enjoy mastering and the activity absorbs my attention in an enriching way. Sometimes this may be learning just the right difficulty of material.
  • The less I like people, in particular, the more I seem to like them in general. There’s probably a section in the DSM-5 about this… that recommends strong pharmaceuticals and adult supervision.
  • Meditation keeps me sane.
  • My posture reflects my state of mind and my metaphysical status of alignment, presence, connection, sinking, expansion, confidence, and relaxation. It’s a physical koan I puzzle on during waking. My stance in the world is always changing and it’s my anchor into the now and portal into my psyche.
  • My conscious awareness is but a fraction of being; learning to communicate with the larger field is part of my life purpose.
  • There is nothing missing in our lives except the imaginary pieces in cookie cutter shapes of our acculturation. To be content is the greatest wealth imaginable.
  • Preventing a creeping numbness of being requires my constant vigilance. Sometimes I feel like I’m passed out on the floor and something keeps shaking me awake saying “Don’t sleep! Don’t sleep!”
  • Most of what I write is superficial drivel but it helps my process.
  • It’s a far greater stretch to posit an imaginary world outside our head, that we can never know, other than its reconstruction through senses relaying data to the inside of our heads … than to just go ahead and admit that it’s all in our heads in the first place and realize our heads may be bigger than we think. Or rather, our heads exist in a continuum of consciousness much larger than our local eddies of identity. But it’s all the same stuff man.
  • I agree and support the construct of gender fluidity, we are evolving, that is our nature, I see it as a springboard, not a stopping point of identity. Polarity is a system of propulsion. Hegel cinches this.
  • “Blood is thicker than water”, is a biological construct at work deep in our evolutionary brain, telling us our genes are more important than others, thus we should sacrifice our higher faculties, common sense and true feelings to protect its propagation. But in fact, “The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.” as quoted and noticed by Richard Bach in Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah …and recognized by many others before and since.
  • Many things tend to stay in the same place. My room doesn’t re-arrange itself while I’m sleeping. The streets outside my door usually head off in the same directions. But magic has to be rediscovered anew each day. It’s seldom in the same place. But it’s worth finding, and seeking it out in most mundane of circumstances develops … abilities.

the bubble bath

I inventory this moment
niggling irritants like transient itches
the lay this day feels stodgy with vectors
finding excursion within

“…the ability to return voluntarily on a regular basis to that deepest level of reality – the Tao – as if it were a rejuvenating spiritually scented bubble bath.”

I slip out of mind
down body
somewhere near the heart
in the corridor of breath
posture vertical
anchors below, infinity above
the sides expand embracing
the horizon

a space in the between

exploring an unfolding
deep familiar longing
sinking further down into

tinged now with anger
enough bullshit!
cutting and
slicing at every clinging
cord fastening, securing
swimming free
of that floating island of garbage and tinsel
slum dreams of hope
no spiritual bubble baths here
only directions
the mind doesn’t fanthom
found in the body
beneath
disposable debris of thought

Sunday Sundry

A whiff of rosemary to clear the mind. My coffee cup, like lifting a barbell, solid enough to serve as a makeshift weapon should zombies pour over the windowsill next to my desk. Music I’ve never heard flows from tabletop speakers, a compilation somebody made for “Sunday Afternoons” and the first track playing is from Pink Floyd’s album: Endless River.

It’s the third day of the new sleep schedule. Lights out at 11pm. Lights on: whenever. Ten to twelve hours so far, catching up from the trip, perhaps. Or sullen protest to the new regime. Slowly waking up to dream recall, but still missing many an opportunity to record due to laziness and their memories evaporate.

Recently beginning to appreciate the connection between things. Which, at first, I thought only applied to external reality. However, while trying to gain more lucidity in dreams, it appears one must gain more lucidity during the day as well. Dreams are part of the fabric of life. Conversely, I realize, the importance of dreaming more while awake. The conscious mind lives so superficially. A small boy on the corner with a dog. A conscious mind notices just that. Meanwhile, in a larger plane of awareness, which encompasses consciousness but not vice versa, there exists a fabric, rather than a thread, of perceptions. The sad look in the eyes of the dog, the holes in the sweater, the shy fingers poking through and playing with frayed fabric, the red mottled with Rorschach stains, the memories evoked unfold in wisps and strands of unnameable feeling fragments.

Another whiff of rosemary. An interval of quietude within and areas of body checking in. Not with problems or discomfort but with a pleasant fullness, relaxedness that usually comes with a good stretch. I am grateful for this and thankful. It will not always be so.

The Old Man, Witches and Crosses

An old man at the restaurant keeps staring at me. Maybe in his late 80’s, early 90’s. Finally, I looked up and held his gaze, smiled and nodded hello. His eyes sparkled. Clear, vividly present, in a manner. He was slight of frame, his pants were too loose, working down a bit in his chair. He wore a soft flannel shirt and directed a stream of rolling mumbles towards me, animated. I caught something about “where are you from” and answered, “Colorado. How about yourself?”

He continued to talk in long rounded, subaudible mumbles, I could barely pick out a word or two. I scooted a little closer and tried to make conversation, asking him about his cane. It had an interesting grain. He was a bit hard of hearing too, so I repeated it louder. He started in on an exposition of its qualities, origin, utility…I think. I caught no words this time. But he seemed to enjoy talking to me, so I decided there was more than one way to have a conversation and smiled, giving him my full attention, just being there with him in the moment as company.

His companion, an older lady, but a decade or so younger than him, got up to pay and he got up to come over to our table, continuing the thread. As he got close to my chair, I apologized, confessing I was having trouble hearing him well due to the noise in the restaurant. His companion approached and helped him pull his pants up high, fixing his shirt. She too was hyper-aware, of his condition, of things going on around them and told me it’s not just that he’s hard to hear and mumbles but that he jumbles words as well. She was from Poland.

While she was explaining and he was talking I noticed he was very aware of Rumiko’s hat that she had hung on a corner of the empty chair he stood at, and was very careful not to bump it or disturb it. I wished them well as they left. Wondering what all he said, but feeling we had a nice conversation, of sorts.

Later, we wandered back home, through street stalls set up with curious wares for Easter. One with a lady from Syria, who looked like she had a lot on her mind, selling sweets and baklava. Another stall run by a happy fellow, not from Ecuador I think, maybe Peru, selling a variety of stones and crystals, little stuffed dolls of witches riding broomsticks and stirring cauldrons and crucifixes of Christ with the words I.N.R.I. engraved.

One booth had samples of coffee. As I sipped, I received a detailed explanation of the magical properties of this elixir. This time the problem wasn’t hearing, but my still rudimentary grasp of the language. It was organic, healthy, had amazing healing properties, you could make just adding hot water or milk, maybe a little sugar. But you needed a monkey. Or something like that. In any case, I dreamed I purchased 4 bags (they are kinda small) last night, so on the way to lunch today I need to make a stop.