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.
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
Right in the middle of mentalizing: STOP. Reground, regroup in stillness. In other words: Notice when you get caught up in an agenda (scheme of certainty) at the expense of the truth (scene of uncertainty). The specter of scarcity that haunts [~suffuses the idea that you have about] your self follows you around like a shadow. Notice when the scheming self (that is forever seeking its way out & about) picks up momentum again and (ar)rest all movement right there, suspend everything right then. STOP. Fall right back in front of your grasping/recoiling. And simply regard the GIVEN: the sheer immediacy that envelops you this moment. Linger. No edge. No center. No ground. No time. No rhyme. No reason.
every time that sneaky subconscious (performance-)anxiety seeps in and over-saturates
where I find myself in a state of rush, slowly turning hyper, shifting into a mode of chasing, seeking, wanting, becoming a moving target, trying to dodge some invisible bullet
as if to evade or mitigate some kind of tension,
a sense of guilt or shame or falling short, etc.
every time this happens
sooner or later
my consciousness addresses my ego along the following lines:
let it come to you
every point you score is an own-goal
because the more points you score
the more you become attached to an outcome
and the more you become attached to an outcome
the less poise/presence you have
and the less presence you have
the less of a chance you stand to score more points
of course you are hung up on winning the game
of course you enjoy chasing your tail
of course you drive yourself “blind” and “lame” from time to time
because it’s fun
it is (busy) being human
but then, come on
instead of constantly trying to get better at scoring
train yourself to relax,
to sit back and witness