and get back in a wise-ass voice “we’re all here” I ask… “do you know why I called this meeting?”
“haven’t a clue mate” “oh, I do, I do” “you called the meeting?” “what meeting?”
this is my ship of fools I can open the floor or zero in on one…
“you over there” “you mean me?” “yes… what is your occupation?” he stumbles trying to make up something that is a combination of seamster, seer and shamrock but can’t meld it into a word, so he just sulks
“ok then, what can you show me or tell me?” “I didn’t know we could show things” “why not? like a talk, a chat, then someone tilts their shine to reveal a portal into a 2d audio visual montage they wish to share, tiktaks or something “like this?” I see a dull, rusty, red metal wedge from probably farm equipment stuck halfway in the dirt “uh, yeah, thanks”
Crazy confessions. I don’t mind wielding knives, I carry one whenever I’m out. I took tactical workshops practicing knife defense and using knives for self defense, but I don’t trust myself by myself around really sharp objects. Just like I don’t trust myself near the edge of cliffs. It’s not a fear of heights but a crazy sense of exhilaration, which I’m sure is just some perverse re-framing of the fear of falling into the compulsion to leap and it’s being interpreted as a “WTF MAN?! DON’T MOVE ANY CLOSER!” So when I bought this mandoline, an evil little guillotine device for fingers, I also bought level 5 protection gloves, one step down from chain mail. Mainly because chain mail gloves are a little hard to slice a sweet potato paper-thin with. I would imagine. And because I’ve cut myself with a knife before a couple of times and still carry scars that aren’t just due to carelessness.
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
The last night to party. then a week to restore; more discipline, training, a building up… which in theory, perhaps in practice, more than offsets the shorter periods of debauchery. Being a weird Libra, I could not tolerate either to the exclusion of the other. Two steps forward, one step back. Is the way I dance. It’s my jig. Time for another ale
because sometimes thoughts are like tumors there are sicknesses and aberrations of mind far more determinant of our well being than the strict biology of our bodies and far less recognized except in their most pathological manifestations this redressing extends beyond “positive” thinking and the most insidious sores appear most common-sensical to their hosts but if you are a creature of spirit if you recognize the importance of thought in constructing our reality —then walk your talk or I may be cruel in pointing that out and will not pamper convictions of gloom and inevitability or sycophantic clinging to toxic thought-forms
the aspect of this I must deal with personally besides walking this talk myself is to assess whether my statements are to assuage my own fears and inconvenience at your helplessness or whether they are said with integrity. And then not to second guess in the name of forced harmony. And deal with the backlash of being an unpopular messenger without lashing out in defense of character or retracting in acquiescence to absolve conflict
… it is curious how we outsource our identity and buy it back in product, entertainment, services and brands. And how what sources we consume, be that fox or cnn, comedians or artists, sports teams, religions or nationalities —define us to ourselves and each other. None of us are brainwashed, all of them are. None of us are influenced, and yet we still desire to consume.
That’s why shattering our identity a few times before death is a good idea. To give us a breath of freedom before we go, perhaps. Our friends the psychedelics can help with that. Most come from plants, but some from mad scientists. In any world of illusion it seems, there is always a red pill somewhere. Universal rule maybe. I look for it every night in my dreams. Last night I found it. Some anomaly that points out the nature of the dream.
I forget what it was, but I collect “dream signs” in my dream journal. Situations that recur that flag things as possibly dream like. A common one is trying to get somewhere and finding it impossible to get there. Another is being back in a scenario from an early phase of life. I think last night’s was being naked and walking into a store for clothes. Usually at this point I’ll do some test, to make sure it’s a dream, like look at my hands closely. As soon as I confirmed it, I was off exploring, changing focus and trying not to stare. Staring sucks you back into non-lucidity quickly. My goal is to have these frequently and use them as a base for conducting explorations deeper in the woods. Look for the red pills
my epiphany on the heart of writing is that writing is not about technique or knowledge it is about finding a why. about something bringing us alive that initiates adventure a calling, an agency —writing provides not discipline but a beautiful vice
so if motivation is a function of energy…as in, increasing energy increases motivation. then what is a function of energy? some claim it is purpose.
which implies that, to the degree we discover, create and follow our purpose so follows the gradient of our energy supporting our passion
a bead of contemplation i reflected with a bit this evening
“We assume death to be the worst thing that could possible happen to any person. How very wrong this idea is. … Death is a natural step.” -Einstein God Model
Loving god is not about loving a god that needs adoration that’s an eisegetic plot it’s rather loving creation and the act of creation, the beauty, the fragility, the temporality, in all its manifestations it’s a reverence of being present in mystery, accepting things as they are it’s about coming alive to what can be experienced to the flowering, creeping, crawling, jumping, dancing, verbing, snaking into this existence to rhythms we hear meant for us it’s being comfortable in our skins that’s what loving god is all about to me