BIDING TIME

As it is true that we make ourselves, we also must unmake ourselves. Our lives ultimately do us in, closing around us until we just can't live them. To the extent that we are compelled to "put ourselves together," such is done in the awareness that it is all a farce. If we are of this mind, we are unable to see "the point of it all," including the point of our own existence. I am one who has fervently believed so many things that explained life and "the point of my own life." I believed I "knew" so many things about Truth and Reality. And I was certain. It all "made sense" and was "quite logical" to believe what I believed. It was certainly easier than not believing, than not have any particular "point" to my existence. Belief and hope are a very weak crutch. And without them I found myself in despair. When one is young and healthy such despair can be quite fashionable; one can praise the "darkness" and romantically feel the pain of such lostness. But as one fades to oneself and loses any momentum, which is actually faith in the "proper turning out of things," there is nothing to hold onto any longer. And I don't believe that this nothingness is any kind of a passing state; one does not "get better" in life. Living loses any inherent fascination for us; we bide our time.

A BRIEF MOMENT

God is not quite reaching to save me but then this is something that I have to deal with and get through before life gets through with me. The situation is not ironic at all; it is simply the process of life—which ends on the physical level. It is not personal but much greater than that. It often feels personal, partly because I was indoctrinated with this notion of a “personal God who cares about me.” One who believes such things, even “just” deeply and even if they “understand” it is false, is bound to have expectations and consequent profound disappointment as well as disillusionment, for it is a most insidious illusion. However, life is not unfortunate; it simply is as it is. Life is not to be blamed. False teachings of a God of Illusion by religions of delusion are to be blamed. The fact that we are stupid and unable enough to possess the discrimination through which to think adequately is absolutely unfortunate. But some of us are able to escape the cave and its darkness and falseness, finding ourselves initially absolutely blinded by the light of the sun, which may last lifetimes and lifetimes, but ultimately we do see. All is not lost.

THERE AND NOT THERE

Once he had “made a name for himself,” and then rather quickly discarded it, for it was false to him, he was false to himself, and the name that came to be on a small but real pedestal, the personage that he now fulfilled and had to keep fulfilling not unlike a balloon full-filled with hot air, had become an overinflated role that he could keep fulfilling or could just let the air out and walk away, which is what he did. As much as he enjoyed the power, the image he now had built, had earned even, he knew it was false and no longer to be maintained. He understood the meaning of “false images” and conceived that perhaps all such idols in the eyes of men are false. While he didn’t necessarily want to be invisible, he realized not been seen or known to be much closer to the truth of things: to be empty of self is truer than to be full of self, for self has its own way of claiming and identifying with power, thus becoming the role it plays, the masque it wears. We all become what we think we are, often to our great detriment, be it notable or notorious, famous or infamous. And now, in his old age, though he regretted his invisibility at times, he also relished it; for he could walk in the forest unseen and unheard, like a breeze among the trees, or saunter upon the beach in the surf, watching his footprints vanish behind him at each step he took. That was invigorating to him. For, in looking back, he could see so clearly now all the mistakes he had made in his life, all the hurts he had inflicted in his self-absorption. For he had been so blind to others and their needs, never knowing or caring who they actually were or how they cared for him. He felt this now, deeply in his heart, in his soul. And he could not “make it right” to those others. As for the sorrow within him, he didn’t know if it was due to his sins of omission or if it was a reflection of the great sorrow of humanity itself in its own lostness.

THE INHERENT WHOLENESS OF BODY AND SOUL VS. THE NEED TO ADD CHEMICALS

Of course the question is: Adding these chemicals, the drugs to my body for the purpose of having a certain effect or a counteraction in my body including my mind, does this actually improve my health and functionality? What of the “pain-killers”? Am I to actually have my pain diminished? The symptom placated, as it were? Does my experience of the pain as it is have a “higher” or, for that matter, “natural” function that is necessary for my human experience? Is serotonin, which reduces symptoms of sadness and depression and their particular perspective, actually to not be taken, so that I might feel certain things and attain perhaps a deeper and more comprehensive understanding and experience of myself? For the serotonin taken in this way seems to cut my consciousness off from the pain within the depths of myself which seems to hold certain kinds of awarenesses and revelations for me. It seems to me that many of my bodily ills come to me as a result of a adding these noxious chemicals to my body.

          In the exact same vein, as it were, there is the world of technology that takes control, that takes over society and culture, replacing, it seems, a vital “natural connection” within us. People become, in many respects, as almost crazed automatons, addicted to the electronic devices that come to control their minds and their behaviors. I can see that this kind of monitoring and supervision could improve the human race but that it definitely has not; it seems that this cyborgian reality has disconnected humanity from itself and each other, at least on a deep “human” level, far more than bringing it together.

The body begins to fail in all its pain and in all our loss. It stops working properly, required medical external treatments, some of which seem somewhat effective. One never wants them for one finds oneself more and more less human. Is this part of God’s Plan for: to us to see these meds and drugs that effect us in the body as they do as part and parcel of God’s Work? We are much better off if such is our experience, if our “improvement” is simply another expression of the goodness of “what is”. Or have we become cyborgs, part literally machine and chemical with a rather smaller claim at “being human” and a “greater need” to see ourselves as “less human/less natural” and more mechanical and lacking in human qualities like emotion and, in due times, intelligence itself—as WE become worked on, manipulated, even controlled by forces greater than ourselves. What we once called miracles are now part of the treatment for the machine that we become.

          In my mind I still find myself actually “praying for miracles” entailed healing in my own body and in my wife’s that enable me to endure as her companion and caregiver. This is my biggest prayer and it seems there is much rejected of the reality of “what is” in existence and specifically in my life and other’s lives. Most often, people who are “afflicated” must follow their afflication “to the end” without either recourse or alternative, though if a “still greater context” is found and experienced dependably, the existing rules, as they were, may be alleviated if you know how. I see myself as “somewhat advanced”, both my focus and preference, but also by a “faith in what is” perhaps even more than a faith in God, though what God is, or perhaps the function of God, is quite squarely present is all that is, denoted a level of faith at least as strong—and by my criteria immeasurably stronger than that of Christianity simply because it is not based in sentimental, magickal, elemental theory but it foundation laws of existence.

          But now I begin to tire and consequently fade quickly, having gotten up and finally taken the meds I use to help me get through the night with sleep and reduced pain: glips, hydro, and zolps. I suppose they are now part of me—as much as I’d prefer otherwise. Part of my dream now, though I think I can skip the “happy pills” and just let my depression down dips drown me a bit before I return to a semblance of human once more. I don’t know if “crushing the soul” on a regular basis weakens its fabric and future performance or if has the effect of consequently keeping it “flexible” and able to “go with the flow,” or hopefully create its own. The latter is what I ultimately count on. “Happy pills” make too much of a buffer between myself and myself able to be in the world; such buffer becoming a “wall.”

PAIN: ITS WISDOM, GUIDANCE AND VIRTUE

I would much rather believe that this excruciating pain is punishment from God for my transgressions and that it has the effect of purifying my soul, thus washing the karmic slate clean. Otherwise, I am to accept the pain simply as it is and with no “productive benefit.” The medieval belief that one’s suffering purified one’s soul and thus brought one closer to God and to Heaven helped to maintain the status quo of the innumerable slaves of the masters who were consequently accepting of their lot in life. The fat priests did their job of making sure the populace were willing to keep their backs bent and their untold suffering between them and the Lord, who was a great listener and who was waiting in Heaven for them when they finally loosed the crushing yoke of their meager lives. But they held their suffering and loss in this context and thus we able to live good, even happy lives, even as they were being crushed. I only wish that I could hold and believe that my profound physical pain held meaning and purpose for me, that it was purifying my soul at the expense of my body. Does this severe, crippling pain act on behalf of something sublime? Does it bring me a certain understanding? Obviously it does—in one way in particular: it severs my identity with my physical body, thus enabling me to be quite willing to let go, to even look forward to it, when the times comes to pass beyond it. This is one major benefit, for such physical pain puts one in a quite different state of mind and being than the normal bodily state. And I suppose that this being moved, almost against one’s bodily will, into a different, more “spiritual” state of mind and being, is another way of explaining the benefit of such. To be able to consciously disidentify with the physical life to a life beyond that, more sublime, as it were, than that is a blessing, for the physical life is inherently transitional and temporary, if not short and brutal (Hobbes?). To disidentify with it enables one to make the transitional out of it so much easier, and then to whatever follows so much easier as well. To be in the “proper reality” is like being able to speak the local language and thus communicate and relate oneself within it. To be able to speak the language of Heaven enables one to belong in it.

          Of course, I speak too metaphorically, not literally, though some, perhaps many, would take all this quite literally. I do wish it were as literal and as simple as the stories I have been told, that the Loving Father will reach down and pick me, his child, up in his arms, for we all know that he is a great giant and that we are as small dolls in his hands, or perhaps even as grains of sand in his hand, though I knew a woman, Roxanne, who suffered in Alaskan Outback as a child and had to beg for food at the Salvation Army and various churches where she had to sing for her supper. She had to sing, He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands, but she knew she had fallen through between his great gigantic fingers. Her younger brother, whom she took care of, stranded in a cabin in the deep snow, where they almost starved to death, came to my hometown, dressed himself as a clown, and went through the town putting a nickel in the parking meters that had run out of time, thus saving the owners of the cars from the impending parking ticket. He was soon arrested and jailed for this act of kindness. I don’t know what became of him or of his sister, who was a waitress and a poet of profound depth and beauty. Certain things, certain people, certain stories stick with me, in my soul, in my heart, in my mind, and become a part of me. Love demands this; love of our fellow human beings, who are not only as ourselves but are ourselves.

          So I seem to have answered my own question as to what may be the benefits of this most severe pain in my body. It may be that pain opens the heart so that the pain of others may be enabled to flow into our own heart, that we may be able to see that there is not “your heart” and “my heart,” but, in truth, only our heart. When I finally had to accept that my daughter had “severe and profound” autism and that she would be and she would be, the walls around my own heart crumbled and I felt myself to be the father of every single disabled child in the world. One’s heart does not usually open willingly but its walls are destroyed by the missiles of whatever life itself brings. And so, I prefer to believe that the gods themselves send those missiles to open us up to all life and expand us to include all life, which, I believe, is necessarily a most painful process since all that we have come to believe to be ourselves is absolutely destroyed. And in our devastation, we are shattered, but learn how to rebuild ourselves with the pieces we choose to pick up and put together in a better way until the next time. So I find that I am able to have this pain that is so in my body speak for itself here. I had no idea that this would happen, though I was guided by that same pain to come to my desk here, sit down, and write these words. In this respect, my pain has direction and it leads me. I could speak of pleasure and that I have had a life of profound pleasure. But pleasure wants more pleasure. Pain, I do not think, seeks more pain, rather, pain seeks to express itself and tell us another kind of truth about ourselves and our existence. I would like to say that in this expression of pain through me, through this mind and these fingers, the pain in my body has diminished. It has; I am less pained in this moment, in body and mind and feeling. If only it were so easy as that. But time will tell.

From "fragments" to "pieces of the mosaic eternal"

I have changed the blog title. Life is no longer “fragmentary” to me; it comes in pieces, in colors—all integral pieces of what I call the “whole,” the “mosaic eternal,” for, in time and space, it will come to be evident, though it is evident now only to those who are able to see it in non-time and non-space, which I am calling “eternal.” I suppose I have my own version of my own vision, which I do not relate to any particular belief system, though I suppose I must credit many of them for perhaps providing passing experiences of such “vision,” which I have consequently used in the creation of my own.

          I believe that one must be able to “find peace” in one’s life, not by self-deception but by self-revelation, self-discovery. If you will read my previous blog, you will see that I made the following choice: “I would much rather have gods who are “task masters” (on my own spiritually developmental behalf) and who care (in my own mind, if such must be the case), rather than no gods at all, because I know I so often do not know, am so distracted (by the drama of my own mind and emotions) and may be too hurt or too angry to care (about myself) at all.”

          As a result, I am finding that I am in fact very much in a state of peace of mind, emotion, and body—which is rather amazing to me, for I never expected it whatsoever. 

THE FAITH I POSSESS

Life and its demands, its requirements, its rules, its regulations, even its well-worn patterns-become-beliefs-become-traditions demand their pounds of flesh, their money and angst and submission. It is a deadly game played, a stupefying and numbing game, a giving up of the soul in bits and pieces until one must not only play but be … dead. The body itself requires that it be fed, that it’s teeth be cleaned, that it be made to survive healthily as long as possible, that its bed be comfortable, though it is the mind the requires that the body be attired fashionably and that it maintain an attractiveness in society. It all requires the maintenance of a certain level of control of all external and internal forces as if there could actually be such a thing, as if we could respond instinctively and intuitively and most appropriately to all stimuli, like a sunflower’s trope towards the sun. And so we end up in contrivances of all sorts that will give us the impression and belief that we are in control and possessing the image of success, of this control, whatever it may be. If not material wealth and social power and fame, then at least savoir faire, a convincing pretence of such, or perhaps a little of each, though a small amount of pretense properly applied can cover a surprisingly large area and last a goodly amount of time.

          I once more consider “taking all my writings and publishing them in an actual book.” At least partly so that I can bury or otherwise hide a few copies in a redwood trunk and then find that said redwood trunk next lifetime so that I can be further bored out of my wits. If life cannot be “tongue and cheek(s),” it has no purpose. My life has purpose. To be able to be self-denigrating in a most humorous manner allows me the wherewithal to successfully denigrate other selves as well. But why? Why would that be a life purpose? To remove the one thing we are most proud of and that we hold onto to prove that we are worthwhile in this world: self-image. Self-image, which is false at heart, self-deceitful, usually mean-spirited (especially in its showy, smiling, goodness), superficial and simply stupid. We are good creatures at heart though generally know no better in mind, though which we sin against the God of our own being, not because we are evil but because we just don’t know what’s real, because we are so utterly ignorant of ourselves, especially of ourselves in the world. Even the world is not evil, though the devil best dwells in our minds and souls here. To be in bodies with which we come to identify is utter and complete temptation to become what we are not, and to cause a rift, if not an abyss, between our true selves and our false selves. We make wrong choices based in wrong identity, mistaken identity, and only life itself, or, the gods acting upon us through the exigencies and emergencies of life, has the effect of sloughing off our false skins and our false notions and identities, returning us to a true semblance of our being. It is not that there is “hope”; rather, it is that truth does will out in the end in spite of us and our stupidities. And it is not that “life is cruel”; we cannot blame life for our own blindness: life just comes at us, as it were, and we just respond poorly until we finally learn, by trial and error and perhaps even by divine grace, how to respond appropriately, according to our true nature, true being.