Rather than getting lost in the grip of self-grasping: Self-massage during bad moods. Sit with it and wait until you can give voice to your emotional pain and once there is a voice to it just let is speak & then make fun of it, by gradually amplifying the phoney, whiny tone of it.
In terms of the personal struggle nothing will ever resolve itself. Their content may change but the same neurotic patterns will keep cycling through and flaring up. I will experience the same frustrations over and over again, the familiar push-pull texture in my interactions, the fixation on (the latest) Her, the paranoid attachment to unadulterated freedom, etc. The more clarity comes to shine on these patterns—with each consciously appropriated iteration—the less intensity will be involved in them, perhaps. This prospect feels quite daunting and intimidating still because it basically means that the struggle will never cease, I (as a person, as ’me’) will never make it, except in this moment. I will never make it. Except for this very moment I am doomed: to living a regular human life, painfully involved and blissfully detached at once.
The distance between the genius and the muse is ego.
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.
When you obtain something out of straining, out of grasping for it you can keep it only by holding (on to) it. Anything you manage to get hold of is something that’s hard-won and needs constant maintenance. It’s doomed to break down and fall away in the end. Think of your ex. Ill-gotten gains require ill at ease games. Let things come to you instead—no matter how long it takes. Relax into the truth.
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.
I can spin the wheels as much as I want. I can spin them as intensely as I wish. I can feel cheated, unfairly dealt & treated, victimized and abused. I can argue with the truth of this moment as much as I wish. I can argue that I merit more. I can argue that I deserve better because I’ve put in plenty of effort and I sacrifice a lot more than others. Again, I can spin the wheels as much as I wish. I can dismiss the truth as much as I please. By all means. I can argue with it till the day that I run out of any emotional gas to spin my worn-out wheels in the quicksand of my nonsense, I can. Nay, I can dismiss it till the day I give up that spent ghost of mine. But the fact still remains: till I hold back, and up & out and off & on, life holds back too.