I can’t afford self-pity any more than I can afford put-on sentiments of commiseration. Assuming the emotional pain of others won’t help anybody to deal with the fallout of their personal tragedy. The best gesture I can offer is to lead by example, which is taking the thing impersonal: directly to heart, deep and at once released.
I see myself as a human (at)tuner of sorts. I tap into higher frequencies of presence and I expose others to these frequencies through the way I engage with them. I intend to tune others into these subtler frequencies within, to be more present themselves and feel loved and loving as a consequence. Tuning takes time and it takes trust. The stronger the existential momentum one happens to be caught up in the longer it takes to come to a sufficient standstill where true intent arises to orient subsequent actions. It takes time, trust and patience, but the rest takes care of itself. I am there basically to help make room for the deceleration to occur.
Here is a list of some of the (intertwined) practices that I [as an introvert] typically do to cultivate inhabiting subtler frequencies of energy:
- social isolation and minimized distraction (no TV, no news, using the internet and social media once a day for an hour @ the local library)
- sufficient recovery after ’social exertions’ (taking a nap, resting)
- writing (journaling, composing blog posts and bon mots to share online later)
- standing and sitting still (as a way of active meditation)
- humming & singing to myself
- stretching, foam-rolling, rippling and rotating my limbs and my hips in a spiral and wave like fashion, all movement directed from my core, swinging a clubbell occasionally
- listening to monotonous music (Basinski) or a track on an endless loop (e.g. Earth is Gone by Slugabed)
- listening to speeches by Adyashanti, David Deida, Owen Cook
- eating a relatively clean & balanced diet (Ray Peat inspired)
- engaging others mindfully and as authentically ’’as it gets’’ @ work, the shop, the café, social events, etc.
Being alone feels like home. It’s a [neural] pattern that got imprinted early on. Solitude is where I feel I belong. Let me explain in glib victim-speak: According to my mother as an infant I was left alone a lot to my own devices so to speak. Apparently, mother played ego games with me and refused to jump to my cry-calls for she believes in the importance of methodically breaking down the will of a whimsical infant. Supposing that this is indeed what happened I would infer that in the face of the overwhelming emotional pain of the darkness of solitude I resolved to cope with it by relying more on my dreaming mind. When occasionally she appeared to comfort me—timed on her own terms—I felt overexcited [and bewildered I guess]. Engaging mother thus involved anxiety: hence the over-excitement. It became a big deal for me. Alone I’ve found relative peace and equilibrium while engaging and relating with [m]other involved imbalance and ambivalence. This imprinted a pattern in my neural makeup that decades later has determined the trajectory of my social life. Today I seem to compulsively seek solitude and a respite from the company of others. I deal with lots of stress in the realms of friendship and intimacy for I’ve adapted to relate from a state of neurosis there: a state of [hormonal] imbalance and [emotional] ambivalence. Exposure to the attention of others usually triggers a massive neurotic flare up in my psychology. Attention—I surmise—turns me on and overexcites me to the extent that I grew up deprived and starved of it. The chronic observer shuns attention but chronically pines for it—flip flopping between intense bouts of avoidance and indulgence.
Admittedly, this is nothing more but a neat little story that I could comfortably believe and use as an excuse to live love-poor as a recluse rather than lovingly, against the grain of my pain, feeling home everywhere and any time with any one: within the timeless dimension of the present moment. If there happens to be any grain of truth to this unilateral account the narrative most certainly goes back [multiple generations] deep down our family tree and involves an infinite amount of incomprehensible variables. This is where victim-speak falls short. What’s more, these very insights are borne precisely from the pain of the neurotic patterns I inhabit. It is what it is. It’s a given. All the precious pearls drop from the eyes of our mortal wound. Our neurotic pattern is the fountain of true love.
A couple of hours ago I sat down to relax and to see (more clearly the truth of my current situation) and what I saw after 2 hours of squirming and restlessly turning was that what, in effect, I sat down with was an agenda to see. It took me around 2 hours to opt for the truth over the self-induced fit of confusion and frustration. My mind kept flashing images from the past and the potential future to which my body responded in kind and the I felt eager to go into the texture of these sensations to let them resolve themselves. I wanted to spend the time productively and do some healing. Yet again, I sat down to resolve and transcend the internal mess that defines feeble, fallible me. In other words, I didn’t sit down to relax initially, I sat down to struggle rather. Much like in writing these posts where usually there is a hidden agenda that sparks the intent to engage in articulating them—namely the agenda to get past and transcend the weaker version of myself by sharing and thus taking ownership of it—more often than not meditation is abused to the same narcissistic end.
/I wonder, though, if I am still around and decided on a whim to reread these posts in 10+ years from now how will I relate to them? Will I feel embarrassed? Or amused? Or fascinated? Or puzzled? I have no idea. Probably, for better or for worse, I’ll have much less free time on my hands to indulge in chasing my elusive tail like this. Probably the concept of ’transcending me mess’ won’t make much sense either by that time. Who knows. I’ll report back, I guess. But then, all I’m doing here is playing the game of the truth and this is where it’s at right now.
Eat—whatever the fuck you wanna eat—for heat. Google—for starters—Matt Stone & Ray Peat.
Never listen to a woman’s nonsense but do appreciate her essence. No superfood or lifestyle hack can substitute for the magic of the feminine essence. You may be fixated exclusively on her p*ssy, her apple tits and firm, round ass or you may be addicted and emotionally attached to the comforting idea that you project about her (validating presence) but there is so much more that a woman can offer a man.
Every man needs a woman.
A woman, a true woman—a woman grounded in her truth—has the power to heal a man with her touch, her kiss and the warming caress of her juicy depths. And to truly relish a woman the man has to be grounded in his truth respectively. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to localize the emotional pain, the energetic wound in his body that She can heal by the application of her fingertips and her soft lips.
This is one example.
Whenever you feel wired sit down in a private secluded place as soon as you possibly can. Sit with your sensations and start scanning. Localize the area of the tension. Zero in on ’’the energetic wound you have sustained’’ and once you can sense the seat of it keep your attention loosely there and hover, hang around there as long as possible. You may feel an intensification of the sensation to the point of some form of actual pain and that’s a good sign. Certain ideas, images, memories may spring into your mind as well which may or may not have something to do with the particular manifestation of that pain in the now. The more that you can rest into that pain the softer its coils go. /If you have ever massaged your muscles with a foam roller or a tennis or golf ball or something, you understand the principle. It takes finding the tight spot and lingering there until the neural holding twitches & gives up its ghost.
Linger and see.