it isn’t okay and that’s okay https://youtu.be/DXal4V335AA
There are the faces around that we all are, faces, already fading, about to be forgotten faces, blooming, withering and vanishing sea waves of faces, my face and your face to be lost sooner or later we are to lose no matter how hard we try to save it on facebook, from humiliation and utter oblivion, always already fading from the face of the Earth, every single face you ever face faces to be replaced, by other faces, as our faces have replaced the faces flowering before us, under the sun, nothing special,
Do you see?
Do you see them now?
Do you feel the love you actually feel for all of them? The faces up the streets, in the shops, in the parks and on the trams. The faces at work and the faces at home. The faces from the past, opposite, behind and next to yours, the newborn faces. Out and about. Take a look. Variations on a theme. Beneath all these faces we all share the same essence. Underneath the myriad faces there is only one sameone there.
nothing stays, on the face of it
What remains, in the end, nothing else remains but awareness, of this moment, above and in front of all the toyful joys and the soulfull sorrows of the person who is losing everybody and everything, slowly and surely, all that it—as an I—has ever attained or missed and all that it has ever grown fond of and loved, sooner or later, falls away, and then the truth meets the truth… this heart is breaking and oozing gooey pain at the thought of my parents fading, at the thought of an ex and the countless unpursued prospects blending into the impersonal mass of the female flesh I’m so mesmerized by day by day: nothing remains that I could hold on to, nothing that I can grasp, nobody, noone, nothing to fixate on, nothing that fix(at)es, nothing that grounds me, nothing to write about really, all the writing blurs into noise, another iteration of the same old, same old, everything pixelates, with me in the middle of it all, alive, a heart, ready to burst, or stop, almost, for real, and it’s beating on, for it’s only the mind that is blown away by the overwhelm called truth
Whose freedom am I protecting so desperately?
Outside the cloistered world of private practices such as ’sittling’ (sitting in/with stillness), journaling and strolling in solitude I tends to feel about to be engulfed and hemmed in by the demands, errands and duties of social existence. Outside its airtight little bubble—in an effort to make a living I gets caught up, much like a fly in a spider’s web, in interpersonal strings attached, unavoidably. I constantly seeks to fend off binding communal duties and obligations to offer phony terms of endearment. But then, this I that struggles so desperately for its precarious sense of peace & freedom is but an idea that needs constant maintenance too, and even though it’s merely an idea (that is entertained to keep the ’me’ feel real & separate) it’s, in effect, quite a costly one, in that it takes tremendous internal tension and lots of gut-wrenching & constipating melancholy to maintain. Which stands to reason, of course, given that outside its (buffering) practices the I as such would cease to exist. Now, imagine how devastating would that be? The prospect of no more suffering. It’s just too much to take, I guess.
At any rate, I still tries to reason its way out of its irrational ways and so it occasionally reminds itself that: No matter the type of reality tunnel one happens to inhabit it too will have its ups and downs, its inherent opportunity cost. The idea of protecting one’s freedom is totally nonsensical in this respect. Inside the insides of one’s sprawling rabbit hole there will be joys and there will be sorrows and the desire to protect one’s privacy and delicate freedom just as much as in any other rabbit hole out there. It’s all the same from an ego’s point of view. We all play the same human game. All the tension over the mental noise echoing and reverberating off the walls of our private holes, however, is completely redundant and meaningless.
The very effort to protect anything is what creates the reason for that thing to exist in the first place—it only exists in the effort but not beyond it.
I remember as children we used to swing back and forth on all fours sitting on our shins in the bed with my brother to lull ourselves asleep every evening. In retrospect I see it as a compensation [for the unmet need of a parental ’’lullaby’’ or something] that arose naturally and organically.
Last night I went to bed quite early, I felt sleepy but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was tossing and turning and there was an escalating urge, essentially, to reach. In other words, I wanted to escape the situation: to preoccupy myself with some [more productive & useful] activity and get distracted from the pressure of this dead-end moment… So, what did I do next? You bet: I inquired.
Here’s the swift gist of the flow:
—Pressure. Lots of pressure. In fact, there is pain here, in this empty, depthless, pitch-black space of endless idling. It hurts, actually.
—Where does it hurt? Locate it in the body.
—I don’t know. It hurts everywhere. It’s diffuse. I just want out. It’s weighing heavy on me and it just feels so ’distressing’. It’s everywhere: In my neck, in my back, in my gut. I want out.
—What is it telling you Márk?
And roughly this is what it told me: First, it told me that I wanted to be held [like a little child] because I felt stranded in the dead of night. Then it told me that in reality the indistinct, diffuse pain I felt was nothing else but pure energy which finally got enough room to be noticed and acknowledged, and which I finally recognized for what it actually was. To put it bluntly, I sensed that this energy—as all energy, always—is the energy of love gently but persistently pressing against the foil of my mask, my persona, my denial—like a repressed spring pushing against fraying upholstery. I understood that this is the very same energy that all my life has been transmuted & transformed into a subtle form [a hormonal cocktail] of anxiety and that has compelled me to compulsively exhaust myself through various means of surrogate activities to find momentary relief before the next impending ’’nightfall’’. What drove me to swing myself to sleep as a child was this [emotionally un-expressed] energy too. I realized that this is indeed the same energy that pushes us all to prove ourselves and achieve things in life to find some measure of release in the approval of others. And I also saw that this energy is the same energy that could transform into the most wonderful chemical drug on the planet too when we merge—as we’ve all had a few times in our life when we felt seen, accepted, unconditionally met, accomplished, etc.—with the moment in ecstasy, when it freely bounces and flows and floods everything and time stops as we melt into the moment like butter melts on hot steak. In brief, I realized that what I was dealing with was nothing else but the movement of energy. And given the shift in the intent it could be transformed into a narcotic agent [state of mind] in an instant. It’s just energy and the way I choose to relate to it, or it chooses to relate to itself, rather. And it has always been just that. Energy. All the rest a play of shadows.
I love wallowing in blue bouts of self-pity. I love melancholy. Because it feels reassuring, to put it tersely. Self-pity is but a way of re-assuring the cherished idea that I have about meself. Fact of the matter is: the bittersweet blue molasses of melancholy and the overall sluggishness that accompanies it feels so deeply soothing precisely because that is my preferred way of maintaining a sense of separateness. Others have other ways of dismissing the truth [of our being] I happen to be choosing the sweet asphyxiating molasses of melancholy. To be honest, though, I’ve always thought that my melancholy was in fact the truth in the guise of a bit sad but still small voice—until the recent recognition that for the most part it’s merely my ego’s way of re-assuring itself and its sense of separateness. I saw at once that I’m heavily addicted to it too. When the going gets tough the compulsion to scamper back into its insulating confinement and then allow my harried self to mellow the duck out feels quite overwhelming at times. Once there, I’m on cloud 9, no doubt. The outside of it does feel unsafe but on the flip side the inside of it feels cosy and refreshingly familiar—I loves the sense of being taken back there, no matter the depth of isolation.
I feels cheated. I feels unfairly dealt & treated. I thinks I merit more and deserve better because I put in more effort and I sacrifice much more. They [socially inept flatmates] spend almost all their time sitting and lying in front of a computer screen, get up around noon, eat all sorts of random stuff and still have bowel movement at least twice a day while here I am ’struggling’ to produce something at intervals of 32 hours at the very best. And yet, unlike valiant, noble me, they haven’t paid their spiritual dues, none whatsoever.
Overall, I feel directionless and a bit confused as well as pretty clueless and deflated and dejected and misjudged and misunderstood and so on. In short, I feel unsure. And so does my body. Constipation reflects a systemic ’uncertainty’ or hesitation in/of the bodymind—It’s a loop, no doubt.
It’s a matter of looseness, really, of the willingness to lose face, status, respect, approval, admiration, support and sympathy. To effectively deconstipate I must go loose, all the way. I gotta go with the truth, not me. Till I go with the image I cherish about meself I’ll hold back around the edges of that image and till I hold back, life holds back. There is no two ways about this and there is only one way to find out about it.
The fact that I have put so much effort into resolving [systemic] constipation may be one step forward but it might at the same time be two steps back as well in that I get more and more frustrated over failing at resolving it. The thing to keep in mind is that it’s not something personal, as it never has been, but more like an unfolding of an ’inherited’ trajectory.
But what a perfect trigger this is. You have no idea. Few things rattle me in (social) life and I rarely if ever feel envious let alone outright agitated by what others have going on for them. But this just takes the cake, my friends: Right on cue, my flatmate has just flushed an effortless fruit of the loo as I’m writing these very lines. The second time today and it’s only 4 pm for duck’s sake. He got up at noon and dropped a slick one right after his morning tea and now after a couple of hours of his late lunch he decided to toy with my poise anew. Man, what else is a deconstipator to feel but destroyed by flatmates like this. 😉
The ego is like the ultimate search engine—slick, sleek and stunningly swift—designed to seek and invariably find new frontiers to keep reassuring its own raison d’etre. That’s how yesterday’s selfless flow turns into today’s fixation overnight (especially among folks of the spiritually/transpersonally inclined). Even the gesture of total transparency and exposure—like the one attempted on this confessional type blog and other transpersonally oriented sites—quickly turns into a posture, a new way of reassuring a sense of separate self in control. But at least I (!) know that LOL.