~is the practice of relaxing into the truth of this moment & seeing the phantoms I had been chasing a moment ago for the phantoms that they actually are. It typically involves solitude and minimal distraction, idling and sinking into a kind of rippling that sometimes literally pops up through the stomach.
I’ve reached the point where the challenge is to bring the practice of unclenching into the realm of engagement, of social interaction. Clenching typically occurs as I engage others (particular faces) who mean something to me and I start to seek more validation and more rapport or to find ways to avoid further entanglement with them. In other words, there is a texture of push or pull type of energy taking over. I used to snap out of this happen-trance in solitude but now the next step seems to be to bring the practice of [transpersonal] unclenching into the thick of [interpersonal] engagement. This is, incidentally, how work becomes invigorating exercise rather than a chore. As MMA fighters know well recovery needs to happen during the lulls in the fight for them to be able to go the distance efficiently.
When you engage outside the pattern of collective neurosis you risk rapport constantly as you trick them into forgetting and surrendering themselves out of the safety of the familiar personal form before they remember to flip out and squirm and resort to try and guilt and shame you into assuming proper character or a relatable role on the neurotic terms of ego and so you get triggered and you spew fuckoff yall smallminded mo fos inside I wont play by no rules of yours I wont play no victim shit I wont engage no power hour no manipulation no emotional chess no drama whatso ever I wont budge to the pull of no expectation I wont play no part NO FUCKEN PART wont abandon the truth for noonessake for crissakes wont take your crap on wont take it serious wont take it personal and I wont be responsible I wont harbour no false conscience fuckoffyall closedminded controlfreaks all you uptight frustrated troll bitches fuckoff yall narcissistic insecure pussies am ready to lose face, respect, rapport and touch, am ready to mess up, to let down, to abandon and be abandoned, am ready to be mocked, dissed and ridiculed, I ain’t nobody for anybody any longer FUCK YOU is all I got to say to you FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCKTHEFUCK YOUALL is all I get to say as on the tailend it frays and fizzles out and the aperture widens and what trickles is love nevertheless instead the love that shines with no flinch and no wince an open pupil that dilates the love that pulls all in and through out, irresistible, real, for real
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.
The process of harmonization goes hand in hand with the development of sensitivity. If you start listening, for instance, to the nutritional needs and (pseudo)allergic reactions of your body you’ll inevitably become more sensitive to foods. The body is a powerful probe. Use it with ease. Or else… you’ll miss the mark. (As in: alignment gone awry. Srsly.)
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
The ego is an algorithm that is programmed to enact a catch 22 type loop wherein what it posits as desirable is rendered, by the same token, unattainable. Its function is to split the mind [so, evolutionarily, it becomes anxious enough to seek improving itself] and (ir)rationalize everything according to its agenda. That’s the reason why it wants to be seen by hiding and wants to prove itself by holding back—it’s totally illogical no matter how obsessively analytical it gets /as it’s so conspicuously borne & spelled out in my previous confessional posts/.