Honesty—like any virtue—is a double-edged act. You deploy honesty either as a kind of defence mechanism, to overwhelm and trigger awe in the other or you do it to totally unguard ’’your’’ heart, as a gesture of exposure, out of love for the truth of the moment. In other words, it either comes from a reckless, self-absorbed place at a bombastic, emotionally rushed pace or it comes from a place of playful, radiant presence, manifesting as a gentle, impersonal, spontaneous and creative style of interpersonal engagement. Instead of the restless neurotic rush, it takes place in a relaxed space in front of your reflexive compulsion to push or pull—where you know you have absolutely nothing to gain and nothing to lose but something to give. /This is something, actually, that I’ve realized after a job interview.
Take nothing at face value. See through the sur-face. See through the ripples. Rest with the truth of this moment. No matter the content it’s the context of your engagements that manifests in your experience. No matter their content it’s the context of your comments that determines the interpersonal trajectories involving you.
See through the bitchiness of women, see through the antagonism of colleagues, see through the heavy moods of loved ones, see through their trans-generational, trauma-induced compulsions to hurt and feel hurt, see through the ingratiating comments of your fans, see through your adverse and elated reactions—feel them, embrace them, fully, rest in them, struggle with ease—nothing’s a big deal.
As the ego is crumbling away a sense of solitude escalates. The illusion turns even more vivid and poor little me feels totally isolated, unappreciated, misunderstood, abandoned, misjudged, lonely and separate.
—If they only saw what I can see. If they only had the wherewithal to look within like I do. Etc.
The truth doesn’t hurt. The truth never hurts. What hurts is that there is nothing in it for me. The truth won’t validate or cater for me in any way whatsoever.
The price of the truth is the loss of the illusion of me (in the truth vis-a-vis youse).
It ain’t easy and it ain’t pleasant. I stands to lose every thing and every body.
Melancholy is a great way to bypass the truth (of the moment): Feels so good to wallow in self-pity and to feel the me being dissed, pissed, frustrated, misunderstood, abandoned, disturbed, annoyed, perturbed, inconvenienced and other ways victimized by fortuitous circumstances—jilted by girls, misjudged by other egos, bothered by noisy neighbours and enervating nocturnal emissions, etc.—it keeps everything deeply personal. It keeps the world revolve around me.
Without struggling and constant frustration nothing else remains but this moment, constantly, that turns on a dime, instantly—no guarantees, no hope, no prospects, nothing, really.
Things go awry (emotionally) when I take them personally—which is natural, this is what an I is supposed to be doing anyway. The I is geared towards experiencing frustration since that’s what sustains (the sense of) it. Once the recognition arises, though, that the person who takes things personally doesn’t exist and the world this person enacts and the struggle that it experiences in this world is only as real as an optical illusion is real then there will be less and less inclination to avoid the truth of the moment. Once the recognition arises that I can either rest in the truth or I can be driven by frustration: there is less and less inclination to do the latter.
I have a rule: If you wish to be seen, show your truest colors—the other stuff: that sticky, clingy, gooey, needy, personal, phony, affected, demanding, ambivalent, avoidant, shadow-play way of relating, no thanks, please. But then, this is a rule I myself am struggling to live up to. For all intents and purposes.