Certain female facial features function as massive triggers for me. It’s typically the soft round ones framed in shorter hair. I get crushed (on), I crash. A good example is Dana Delany in Light Sleeper (1992) and the voluptuous Nastassja Kinski in Cat People (1982). Faced with these particular shapes, I seem doomed to lose all poise and fall for choosing to be smitten and tormented by fixation and grasping and gasping. I want to have, to possess, to grab, latch onto and disappear in Her. Even if I know better I am willingly tripping—painfully dripping emotionally. In effect, I do to Her what I want from Her: I adore and obsess about Her because I want Her to dote and fixate (on) me. And I ask myself why? And I know that my ex had a face like this and my mother looked similar when she was younger. But I ask myself why? Where is this madness coming from? What is the source of it? Femme fatale. There is a deadly darkness to it. A fascination. A kamikaze move. She lures with the hope of bridging the gap [of separateness] perhaps. She is my last strand against the darkness, leading precisely into the darkness itself. The darkness of absolute abandonment. She pits me against utter solitude. For She is destined to leave me. For She is there to kill an illusion of me.





There is always the choice between going with the TRUTH or HOLDING BACK (aka feeding into the fearful ego). When a girl arouses you and you feel like engaging her but hold back instead (to maintain your cool and not risk losing face while hoping for her to initiate) you deny the TRUTH and more importantly you refuse to GIVE her BACK the GIFT that she is giving you by her arousing presence in that moment. Her presence triggers a SPARK in you that can be shared (instead of trying to keep your ego spared). Of course, it’s not necessary at all to do so especially when yo ain’t single, but that can be your truest gift to her: giving back the spark that SHE triggers in you by telling her how she makes you feel (inside and out)—no agenda, no pressure, no demands, no strings attached. Embodying the jolt of the moment. Aligning with the truth and sharing it. She will either appreciate it or she will react out of her own fearful ego and reject or even try and humiliate you. Both ways are OK since it is the truth that she responds to. Nothing is ever personal. If there is a SPARK it is your privilege as a man to initiate engaging her and it is her privilege as a woman to either receive or reject your truthful thrust. For this you must keep your poise and be grounded in your gut, engaging her from the truth of the moment—steering clear of the images the scheming ego automatically starts projecting. If she resorts to playing games with you she is doing so out of frustration over your failing to stay true to her and the truth of the moment. Simple as that. Now go and harass her ass. See where it goes…


I’ve started the practice—the admittedly quaint practice I should say—of looking at people as if I was looking at flowers (partly as a countermeasure to the chronically clingy nature of my strategically aloof personality). Whenever a cute girl, for instance, turns me on and I feel a surge of an urge to pick (up) and possess or at the very least fixate on her from a safe distance I know that in a sense I enact the death of (the spirit in) both of us—as in: (neurotic) attachments retard relations (the dynamic unfolding of authentically relating to self & other): an image of ’her’ and an image of ’me in relation to her’ takes the place of the truth of the volatile moment. By making a mental note of this I manage to curb my fervid enthusiasm.

And gradually it’s starting to dawn on me for real what my spiritual savvy ego-mind has been telling me for a while now: that there really is nothing inside us. Nothing. We are truly empty—plain, hollow forms undulating, just like flowers or blades of grass in the fluctuating flesh of the air—we simply exist. In other words: there is no-one but ’only’ some body to us, we are no-one but some body. There is a subtle but all the more poignant sense of this creeping up on me now that just blows my mind—I wonder what happens when the recognition descends deeper into the heart and the gut: Nobody is special. There is no substance to (the idea of) anyone.

And yet, there is me and there is the emotional attachments plaguing me. There is me and there are the compromising (social, financial, health) conditions of me. There is me and his recognitions—A face grasping against the mystery of its abysmal depthlessness.

How come?

David Lynch

“I get ideas in fragments
it’s as if in the other room there is a puzzle, all the pieces are together
but in my room
they just flip one piece at a time to me
and the first piece I get, is just the fragment of the whole puzzle,
but I fall in love with this fragment
and I love this fragment and it holds the promise for more …
and the more that come in the faster the rest come in”

look at David Lynch squinting as he sits put talking:
apparently, he gives interviews the way he creates movies
he is feeling into (his) intent
he is making room for ideas to bubble up
much like Eckhart Tolle or Adyashanti are mediating stillness in their seminars

the ART of life

stick with it?
I say sit with it rather:
in sitting there is much more space
there is room for things to emerge

your duty is to make room
to create a frame
(i.e. to iterate with intent)
until the frame gets strong enough
to accommodate spontaneously arising contents

your job is to notice what comes forth
(within the frame of your routines & repetitions)
and let it mold the style in which you iterate


i like to think of artworks in terms of the internal
as a depiction of the dynamics brought forth by the disintegrated parts of the psyche

take Moby Dick, for ex

think of Ahab as your ego
the control-freak part of your self that’s wrapped in its hurts

Ahab is after the ineluctable white whale (of his soul)
Ahab wants to eliminate Moby Dick
in other words:
your ego wants to reduce you to a story, an entity
to something manageable

but the soul is irreducible
it is the fountain of creativity that, in effect, drives the ego..

nice tangent.. will riff on this tomorrow in the next post

/for those interested, here’s some related literary stuff from the old blog: