An examined life is not worth living. True appreciation and relish of life comes from relaxation.
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
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. 😉
You may dodge a couple of bullets by having recourse to neurotic forms of preventive & proactive contraction (i.e. fixating on leading a healthy lifestyle, restrictive dieting, stress management, etc.) but why bother struggling when getting hit by lethal shots is a guarantee. Sooner or later—and in the relative scheme of things it doesn’t matter whether it’s sooner or whether it’s later—we’ll all have to face the break down of our bodies. Why not fixate on the truth of (y)our being instead? /Once you align with the truth of your being the habits of a truly healthy lifestyle emerge inevitably & effortlessly anyway.
Admittedly, sweet juicy stuff triggers me bad because I need it bad. I have been all too dry & salty, deprived of the invigorating juices for all too long and have duly developed an over-sensitivity to them refreshing liquids, no doubt. When I drink apple juice or fresh OJ with a sprinkle of salt or sweet lemonade or milk with molasses or some coke with a lotta lemon or whatever, I can hardly stop the sip, sip, sip, sip and the resulting dip, crash, overheat. In like manner, around a juicy, attractive female I spill my poise all over the place. And it happens just in response to her responsive presence. Imagine the depth of mindless zombieness her p*ssy juice would render me to. Nay, even an innocent sentence turns me massively on, like the one I read the other day: Good panna cotta should jiggle like a beautiful lady’s breast. Good Lord, what a combination. A sweet, gelatinous dessert and a beautiful lady’s supple breasts. It’s just too much to take. Alas. It’s high time for the juicy stuff but I gotta go extremely slow [as if that was possible] otherwise I’ll end up in frustrating cycles of overkill [not that it’s avoidable]. Either that or I’ll dry out, crack into several pieces and crumble away alive. Seriously.
When something works in one instance we want to apply it in the next irrespective of what the next moment actually calls for. We are of a very sticky substance and reality ain’t exactly Teflon either. The superfood of one moment is well-nigh the poison of the next, the perfect stretch of one moment may easily be an overstretch the next. Each and every moment calls for a different way of relating.