Buy the ticket, take the ride

  There's a part of me that believes that this path chose me, and not the other way around, though I have no way of really knowing because it's all subjective anyway. Whatever it is that you believe in, shapes your beliefs. I, personally, have always put more faith in the mystical spectrum of things, trusting my instinct and feeling my way through life; to me, there is no other way, and it puts me in a tough position to successfully understand where others are coming from but this isn't about beliefs, it's about walking the path that, depending on your beliefs, chose you or vice versa.

  The path in question is that of being a writer; I saw a quote from Kafka recently that says, "a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.", and it blew me completely away. It's true, of course, and I haven't been writing. Without its releasing quality, things change inside me gradually and left alone for a long enough timeline, permanent shifts and changes in psyche follow suit. Before you know it, you're not sure you've ever been a writer and have lost yourself once again, deep in the woods of your own heart and soul.

  And this leads me to believe that this path has chosen me, just how naturally it came to be. And lately, I am that monster.

  It goes in spells though, creativity; it ebbs and flows. Periods of intense mental lethargy follow periods of intense productivity, perpetually chasing after one another like Ourobouros and its tail. It's frustrating, and even though I'm no Stephen King with even a single published book, the times they are 'a changing, and there unfortunately are not a lot of people who have or take the time to sit down and read a book. So, despite there always being those (like myself) who realize the power of holding a great book in their hands and appreciating that over any other medium, one cannot fall behind the 8 ball when so much of everything is digitalized these days.

  My dilemma is this: I like analog. I like doing things by hand, the old way or the hard way or whatever you wish to call it. I journal. I entertain myself with my own internal life and have a stack of personal manuscripts filled with time and energy, tracing my writing "career" back to its inception. My life in books, as a book. But none of it will ever be published. It's not for anyone but me. This, however, this is for everyone. And no matter how much my pride goads me to write an epic novel in the vein of Dostoevsky or a grand philosophical tale that would make Nietzsche proud, this is all I have for now. And that's enough.

  I'm getting a little more discerning as I go, now taking more time to finish thoughts and create cohesion than before, though I still hold fast to my sentiment of the rawest original thought and feeling as being the best, and most genuine. For the sake of my readers, I will be constantly keeping up with my checks and balances to keep evolving my craft with my own psycho-spiritual development.

  Like so many other things, it's a constant work in progress. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

therapy.

1.

Therapy. 

Death metal and violent video games style. 

Hey, I spend the other remaining hours of each and every day mindfully, or at least attempt to, so a little mindless self indulgence once in a while never hurt anyone. Sometimes that’s all it takes, all a person needs is some fun.

Getting playfully plastered with your best friend, circulating the wonderful toxin around In your body, enough of which to kill that bug that’s taken residence up your ass, loosen the knickers a bit. 

We’re generally way too up tight; not saying getting drunk is always the best therapy but for someone like me, it is. I’m not a drunk or an addict or a junkie, I just like to get out of my head and have some fun on occasion, alcohol being the best answer, most times. It’s not always pretty, but with the right people and the right place, it can be a thing of beauty. 

It becomes less a social experience than  it is a shamanic one, feeling as if I’m taking part in some ancient ritual, passed down through generations, with its intent in contacting the other side. I feel that way because it is that way. You could look at the science of it and bore yourself to sleep or you could look at the spiritual science behind it, the one our Western minds can’t touch. 

2.

Ritual. Loud music and chalice style. 

A seance of slurred words and liberated bodies, freed from anxious shackles. Psychic bondage. 

Getting freer now, movements become more exaggerated, staggering and swaying. Dancing. Bobbing to the beat either in your head or outside of it, caught up in a feeling, emotion takes over. This is where it gets tricky.

To those who aren’t comfortable with their inner worlds, drama ensues; loud, emotional outbursts of jealousy and anger. One shouting voice becomes two, then three  or more in but a matter of seconds. The fight response dominates and everyone is suddenly very brazen, more so than usual. This is an unusual circumstance. Conversations become passionate, heated; logic gives way to charisma and you see the person behind their mask. Some masks are better left on, however; take heed and pick your drinking partners carefully.

To those who are more comfortable in their inner worlds than the outer, the experience is perceived very differently. Insight deepens, the heart expands and shines bright, healing light on all those it touches. Blood vessels dilate, the pulse evens out and the edginess you carry around as your shield dissipates; there’s no need for it here anymore. You’re free. You’re safe. The negative becomes numb so the positive can come forth. Shy ones and quiet ones experience it this way, the thinkers become the feelers the know they are. Relax, little one, for you can breathe easy now in this acceptance, for we are all drunk here, let that be your shield for the night. Find your security in yourself again, speak your mind and heart, let yourself be truth. 

3.

Theory. Armchair philosopher style. 

For therapeutic purposes, it’s best to choose a partner matching your own temperament, such as two reserved types or two un-reserved types. This lends to greater understanding and appreciation of each other’s thoughts/feelings and lessens the chance of misunderstanding, which greatly improves the positive impact of this work. 

Things always get off to a slow start but there is no need for haste; we have all night. 

4.

It’s now an arms race into slow oblivion. It’s no longer quite known if time is slowing  down or speeding up but is irrelevant, either way. 

Pathetic poetic politics

Poetry is not about rhyming, it's about the rhythm of the soul shining forth in small, concentrated bursts; it's the best and worst of us, but that we all share. 

It's a well trained eye fixed on the beauty in everything it sees, even in ugliness or disgust. 

It's strength and weakness, mixed with uncertainty.

It's life, and it's our story to tell.

8.19.13

An Office Worker pt.2

6. 

Slave or not isn’t really relevant anyway. THEY always find a way to get to you in the end, THEY being the little voice(s) inside your own head…

There was only ever one voice I heard tell me that I'm not good enough, and it was my own. No one ever told me not to reach for the stars, to find my own happiness or live this life the way I truly need to to let me be me; if they did, I never heard a word of it because I was too busy listening to my own self tell me these things. 

To some, I imagine this may seem a bit woe-is-me; that's fine. You can think that if you want, I don't blame you. If I didn't know me I might think the same. But I do know me very well, so if that is how it sounds then thats just how it sounds, but to me it's very different. 

Perhaps you don't have this problem and were blessed with high self-esteem and decisiveness, perhaps you're not so introverted and neurotic as to fly into a wild sort of thought paralysis over very simple things. 

These tangents I go off on mean nothing, but I feel them so viscerally; I feel the anguish, the emotional turmoil I create in myself over what? Speculation, on my part. I can't say with any certainty that anyone in my life would react to the news of me leaving with shame or disgust the way I envision it. I am my own worst enemy, truly, and it's this constant inertia that contributes to my intense melancholia. Each day I'm becoming more of what I hate about the world. I’m a job with benefits, financial security but none of it means a damn thing. I'm ungrateful in my first world kind of way.

I am, however, not as selfish as I once thought. I hurt so because every day I give more of myself away; to my parents, to my friends, to the people I work with and for. I kill a little bit more of myself by modeling myself to the image I think they desire. It's not me. It never was. This is not something you can hide, deny or run from for any length of time. You can't run away from yourself; you're always right behind you. 

So this is me now, and I'm learning this, but nothing ever gets any easier; not that I want it to, though. I just want the peace of mind and trust of my own heart so that I can live guilt-free in my own image. 

7.

  My own image consists of sexual tension and intelligent emotional reserve. Cougars like me. I like me too, what a pity. It looks so easy in the movies, with the partner of choice already on their back, legs spread, anticipating. It takes a lot of work to get to that point, work I am not as good at as I would like. Saves on trips to the clinic, however. 

  It’s not all that bad being sexually frustrated; some esoteric practices will even tell you how abstaining from releasing the sexual current will do all sorts of nifty and beneficial things for you. I believe most of them but they’re really just full of shit and need to get laid themselves. Too many headstands leech all that semen into the brain…

Watching porn on my phone just to stay awake.. Nodding.. Feeling the flow of currents I’ve been instructed to suppress. Time for a headstand.

  Ineffective technique results in an awkward boner while inverted. ‘This is therapeutic’, I think.. 

  This is what happens when you realize you will never live up to your ideals. Options present themselves and avenues open up, almost magically. Try door number 2.. Oops! Just excuse her, she’s breast-feeding. But she’s.. Doing… a….. Headstand? America’s got talent, sure enough; if you need more proof, there’s a television show, must be true then.

8.  

Is any of it supposed to make sense? Who came along and decided to start making things orderly anyhow.. These fucking fascists are trying to kill my creativity, leaving me late and locked in back here with a dangerously flatulent mentally ill man. Nudity is the least of anyone’s concerns.

Normally I carry around my fancy little notebook but this creature is different; it prefers chaos to order, pocket-mangled pieces of printer paper to 90g Clairefontaine, gel to fountain pens. It’s raw, there’s something even slightly devious in it, like lusting someone hard imagination-style when you’re sitting right next to them in a crowded room. It’s ok, we all do it; consider it a compliment. You know what they say, great minds fuck each other. Or if they don’t, they really should.

Boredom. Lability. 

I can’t even sit down right, I’m so loaded with bullshit ideas filling this drunk head of mine, even though I haven’t had a drink in days. I’m afraid my spine might break under the pressure, snapped clean in twice or thrice by the weight of ideas sloshing around up there, best to remain standing and at full attention. 

I’m asexual now, that tends to happen over long periods of not getting it on. It’ll pass. 

Finally the ideas let me rest my ass for a little and I sink back in my chair, smoking a mental cigarette. Great minds fuck each other..

9.

 Lunch is over now, so it’s time to drag my carcass all the way back across the hall, resemble someone who is actually doing something other than nothing. I don’t know if anything ever gets done, really; it just seems that way, playing a part in some grand conspiracy straight out of the X-Files. 

“The case of the disappearing work”. 

 -Did you do it? I did it. No you didn’t. I did it. Where is it? It’s right.. Shit. You didn’t do it. I     didn’t do it. 

-If you didn’t do it, someone else must have done it. Nah, just let it for tomorrow. I might be dead tomorrow. You’re dead today so what does it matter? I’ll let it for tomorrow.

Tomorrow: “Fuckin bastards always leave this shit piled up here for me. Sick of it!”

  Another day of more of the same: dodging authority, escaping responsibility. It’s not that I’m opposed to any of these things, it’s just that I don’t give two shits enough to go out of my way to do it for a system that doesn’t give two shits for me. Unfortunately, most people have adopted this mindset and so no one wants to give a shit about the no shit-givers. The beatings will continue until morale improves, a sign once said. When you put it like that, the beatings will never stop.

10.

  Finally made it through the day and out the door. It’s good to see everyone else sharing the same enthusiasm as me for leaving. Some stay and slowly commit themselves for eight more hours at a time, securing their failing health and mental status. It’s pretty bad when you have to go to work to escape your home life. Just saying. I really do feel bad.

  Me, I just go from one plane of tedium to another, different one. Most people do, I guess. Sure, there’s lots of motion and goings on but for the most part it’s just the second wave of animated boredom. It only really hits you when you stop to think about it but it’s not so bad, at least there’s more enjoyable sources of entertainment at home; we can console or kill ourselves in any manner or speed with many methods available and easy payment options, to boot. It’s win-win.

 Me, I choose to drive myself slowly insane by degrees of creativity. Sometimes I listen to angry music and give myself miniature concussions by chronic head-banging, sometimes I listen to nothing but the rats gnawing away at my own grey/gray matter. Most times, though, it’s a combination of the two. 

 I’m allergic to television, seem to have picked up the condition sometime during young adulthood, though watching other people travel enthralls me. I like to fill my head with knowledge of places I’ll probably never see anyway, but that’s depressing. I don’t really need to go there anyway because my heart and mind have been there, tasted the food and the culture; a part of me is there already. To travel in the physical sense seems a tad redundant, not that redundancy has ever stopped me from doing anything.

  After feeding my travel tapeworm, I lock myself away in my room and thoughts for a few hours before bed; reading, writing, recounting, discounting. 

 Things start shutting down, gears grinding to a halt..

  I fill my lungs with some form of contentment and let my dreams sort out the rest. 

Goodnight.

An Office Worker pt. 1

1. 

  By the time my alarm screeched, my uncle was dead. Well, he wasn’t really dead, I found out later, but it sure seemed that way; I’ve always had strange dreams, so to call them weird is redundant. What else is new? Mornings have never been a favorite, and there's always a bit of grumbling and a lot of negative internal monologue on the drive in to work. “What grand conspiracy is this, and whose ingeniously devious idea is it?” I wonder; it's disappointing I hadn’t thought of it myself.

2. 

  The phone rings, something about the tone on the other end of the line makes me want to curl up and die but it's probably just the fact that it's a Monday and I'm not sleeping in bed. I think of Office Space. I think of Fight Club. Then I stop thinking. This, I feel, is a sorely overlooked talent in people, that by all outward appearances you can have a conversation with someone but they’re not hearing a word of it; they’re off snowboarding and probably having sex or whatever it is that goes on inside a person’s head when they space out but it’s usually better to remain in the dark about such things. You can read subtle body language and recognize cues in the voice, seemingly placed there purposely so that the other person can feel validated that their words are being followed and assimilated. A primate could do it. That’s where I come in.

  With the aid of my opposable thumbs, I place the receiver back on its base, record and report the information given me and proceed back to my corner to hide; or think I can, anyhow. It gets me through the day to imagine a cloaking device shielding my work area, keeping me safe from prying eyes. I think of Predator. 

  How come we don’t have cloaking technology yet? Or do we? I’m sure it’s confidential. I don’t work for the government, though: I work for the crazies. The patients are here, too. I know it’s not PC to say such things but whatever appropriate catch phrase they’re using these days escapes me at the moment. Mentally ill seems accurate, or handicapped; that’s how I feel walking out of here so I’ll go with that.

  The thing about working in a psychiatric facility is that the lines of sanity blur and soon enough, you're milling around rather dumbly in another world that doesn't exist outside of your own mind. There's a good chance you have a touch of it already, for even considering working in such a place. It goes to say that the staff is more looped than the patients but this creates an interesting dynamic; It’s funny, but it hurts to keep laughing at it. Would it kill a person to just act fucking normal for once? Normal. Right. Whatever that is. 

  My name is not an incredibly important fact; I exist, like everyone else, even if I do try to deny this fact most days. You can only rationalize denial for so long; after that, you can't help but notice it gets a little ridiculous (not that I haven't tried, though). I am employee #676433, for short; aka Shane. Lol. Jk. It's a very abbreviated society we live in, there's never enough time to form even words anymore, and that makes me feel rather indifferent. Whatever is going on out there affects me in only an abstract way and in a detached manner; it seems irrelevant, certainly doesn't seem real. People give such strange looks when you inform them  of your unwillingness to stay up on current events, like you're some kind of fucking alien or ignoramus. Well, I'm not but reserve the right to think this of you by your desire to "stay in the loop", and if in doing so it doesn't leave you bitter or filled with hatred, I commend you. 

3.

  It's necessary to live two lives; one for business and one for everything else. People need their vices, please don't take it away from them; office life is bad enough, they shouldn't have to be subjected to dealing with shit without the help of some kind of slow poison. 

  You're stuck in a cage with the best and worst in people for eight hours a day, five days a week and sometimes on weekends. You have no say. 

  You have even less to say due to the knowledge of its uselessness; to call it desperation is an understatement. 

  Some days you just want to hurt people, but you don't. And you won't, though some do and you always seem appalled at learning of workplace violence, as if you're somehow above it. Fantasy can be its own slow poison. Whatever gets you through the day without a body count and/or criminal charges. 

4.

  There's a fire in your belly; don't just do something, stand there. It's ok, someone else will know what to do so you rely on that faint glimmer of hope to carry you through all this. Another day, dripping with hope and reeking of aspirations to reach the stars, crushed yet again under the oppressive foot of the demigod you call your boss. And it's never just one, is it? There seems to be an endless line of command, people controlling the people in control. Everybody's looking for something but there's nothing to be found; not where they're looking, anyhow. 

  Authority only makes you look silly. It means nothing. Treat me like a human being and you will have my respect, despite our differences. The best one in power is the one who doesn't have the power, at all. You're swimming with sharks every day, and there's blood in the water. Your blood. Swim faster. Better yet, stop moving and let your self sink to the bottom, this way you're forgotten and excused from daily living. 

5.

  So you're wondering, "if you hate your job so much, then quit. get a new one.". I don't hate it, quite the contrary. I hate the realization of the futility of my existence that it imposes on me every day, and that's just not something you can escape. It's all made up like bad fiction, this work "ethic". Sure, I have morals too. And responsibilities and obligations and everything else we made up and strapped to ourselves as some unquestionable law, but the whole thing is just funny to me. It seems more like voluntary slavery. Worse, obligatory. And this is our life.

  It's expected of us to show up and possess superhuman abilities to summon smiles and ooze jolliness through our pores like some bloated toad. This all seems real, but every once in a while we're faced with something that slaps us square in the mouth with a glove and challenges us to a duel: to look inside ourselves and find the missing link, to understand that this is not all that there is, that there is something out there and within us that makes sense, and that is what we must do. But then comfort sets in, and suddenly, slowly, the image gets further out of reach and then you're 72 and your health is failing because you ate shitty food and drank shitty drinks and were just not nice to yourself. When you retire, all the ones who don't care about you, never did, and some who really do will come congratulate you and wish you well on your way. On the drive home you have a massive heart attack and the car you're not capable of steering anymore causes an accident, permanently disfiguring someone else you never even met, whose life you also just ruined and inherited all your bad karma. It's fucked up the way things happen.

  It's a job, it's not your life; it's not even real, no matter how long you hold your breath or cross your fingers. Somewhere, someone is creating their life right now; drafting their own great spiritual architecture in their own image. They're not a slave and neither are you.

21st Century Yoga Man

  There's a bit of a stigma attached to being a yogi in this day and age; I guess to be fair, it was that way in all days and ages but especially in this one, only because I'm completely caught up in it. By the way, a great big nod to King Crimson (in the title)..

  The stigma of being a yogi is something I'm not at all uncomfortable with, as I've always walked a different path in my own life, perceived and translated things differently than possibly the norm. So, the social stigma does not concern me so much as the personal stigma I impose on myself.
  You see, I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to things, and am very much an all-or-nothing type of person. I remain a bit cynical of technology (though undoubtedly hopelessly yet willingly bound to it, and recognize its importance, or at the very least, merits, in our modern society) and tend to reject most of what is considered popular opinion in favor of anything "traditional". I'm a bit old-school, in that sense.
  Now, this is really not TOO much of an issue unless you are as neurotic as I am, and insist on tracking down that unicorn of perfection: It simply does not exist and I remain painfully aware of this, further complicating and contradicting matters. So, I have a confession:

  I love beer. Craft beer. I love the culture and the "scene" and everything about it, even the snobby ones who smell grapefruit and buttered toffee in the nose.

  The conundrum is that alcohol is about as un-yogic as it gets. It really does nothing positive for the body or mind or humanity in general, for that matter. But I love it. Ok, at the very least I just highly enjoy it, because I view it from the culinary and alchemical perspective: It's a process to brew it and takes quite a bit of ingenuity, basic knowledge of natural ingredients and definitely an insistence on high quality to make it in this market. There's also a lot of passion in it, and I can speak for myself and many others to say how rewarding it is to track down a long sought-after beer and enjoy it either with good company or good food; preferably both.
  All these things are contra-indicated to the path of the yogi, however, and as I do not like to do anything half-assed, this creates a bit of inner turmoil in me. I generally do not mix the two; I will do my yoga early in the morning or before the last meal of the day, then treat myself to a beer later with said meal, or just abstain altogether, depending on the day. This method generally works but I still feel that nagging in the back of my skull that tells me, "clearly you are not a yogi at all, and don't you dare talk of yourself as one". But here's the thing:

  I AM one, a yogi.

  No one has ever said anything to the contrary or tried to tell me otherwise (mostly because it's not something I broadcast in my daily life) but no one has to because that voice comes out of me, and even if someone else were to, I probably wouldn't hear a word of it anyway.

  The point is, if I have anything resembling one, that the fact remains how we do NOT all live in India, or in caves, or can afford to practice every nuance of a tried and true yoga practice every day, though it is good to read up on your classics to have a fucking clue as to where it all came from and what the original intention behind it is; knowledge is power, after all. (And it's sexy, too..)
  We live in a pretty confused time but I think it's probably always been this way. It's just not practical to give up all our earthly possessions and vices and become strict ascetics. Some do, and succeed and seek what they sought to find but for the rest of us morning, noon, night and weekend warriors, well: It's every bit as important to have a life, too. All considerations taken and put aside, once you start to restrict the things you love, especially that you may only enjoy occasionally, you create more anxiety and resentment within yourself and this can manifest in any number of ways, none of them good.
    Without getting into a long discourse of what a true yogi is and is not, let's just say that it is likely for all peoples' best interests EVERYWHERE, despite belief sets or personal dogma, to take care of their bodies and their minds; this, of course, meaning through intake and output, in all manner of ways. Food, water, air, clothing, expression, emotion, conduct, etc; it's a lot more than just funky postures. No one ever said anything about not being able to enjoy the things you love in life. So, I suppose the age-old maxim "All things in moderation", is really the most practical advice of all (granted common sense is being utilized).


  I'm no closer to an internal settlement with this little personal debate but for now, I will continue to love BOTH beer and yoga, each in their own time and place.