Soap Box

Yesterday morning

I had a Thought

A damn good one

All warm and soft, vital and clear

The product of good sleep, perhaps

To the city I’d take it

To the wharf where the birds and the people feel grand

Where the sun peaks through the stomach

Where the nice parts of the self can breath

A place where we make our way

When we have nowhere to be, no one to please

Not compelled like the rats we often are

This, this is where I will share my Thought

Amongst the sounds and smells of peace

Of rebirth

I dress in my best

Feeling some extra sobriety

Secure composure                                

Evenness in balanced weight

Atop my body

Clothes I’m reluctant to abuse on the regular day

But this no regular day

With lunch tucked away

In the pack over my shoulder

I ride my old mountain bike through the suburb

And as I ride out through nosier streets

Passing endless shops and homes

Passing schools, warehouses, traffic

I carry myself with stolid dignity

Back straight, slow breathed politeness

As though taking center stage in some ritual

As though I am meeting old mentors

The wharf downtown arrives

As does the mighty noise of crowds and cars

I leave my bike unlocked in the rack

If someone needs it that badly

Then they can surely take it

What meets me shortens my stride

Soap boxes

Soap boxes to every person

Thousands and thousands of soap boxes

Of acidic thought sharers

Talking, screaming, humming into the void

Did I come too late?

The Pulse Somewhere Hidden, a poem

Lonesome hike, that dragging, sagging will

And on and on into that ubiquitous Form

That stabs at warm, soft, stories alive

That quiets the Pulse somewhere hidden

That makes small the world

Consider: what is the greatest error?

Is it going on without Passion?

Being swayed to pose and pattern Form?

Lacking suspicion when forlorn?

Perpetuating mind and body to perpetuate mind and body?

Where we can we ought to be honest:

Man is no integral “I”

But focused horses migrating focused directions

Asleep and shackled in prison

Blood a dismal yellow

Isn't it strange?

That Great Evolutionary Pull

That drive toward ease

That brought single-cells toward surplus and city

Should now leave us neurotic and dis-eased

Observe the endless Pull

To tame the river, beast, seed

To eclipse the dirt, and branch

To harness the sun and wind

And still those veins pull to lead

I doubt that there is a single germ, which doesn’t feel it

The pulse to overcome and ascend

And yet how peculiar

Man situates his home and his hobbies

Situates to eat and groom and Sleep

He drives on, eyelids drooping

Steers from Formal hoop to hoop

Certified in poses, etiquette, and casual meek

This expansive menagerie doesn’t come cheep

Panic and enslave, perpetuate them bodies and minds

Grand Boredom, Confusion, and Waste

Acquaintances tired and stressed

Unconnected to a clear aim

We float from Form to Form

Suspicious that the effort is vain

Come, lets burn them tracks away

Pull up and befriend our poor inner arguments

We could migrate or stay

Dispense with the Formal Faults

Only Do what we mean, Be what we deem

Come, Divest with the political

Supercede the material

And from a leisurely gate

Stroll down the road

All quiet and sacred

Have you not glimmered whilst migrating north, south, east, west?

I remember the timeless

Into that ‘whatever is the case’

Outside of the City, State, World

Fresh with Vitality, Strength, Self-evidence

And from this I know that I ought to leave

Start from scratch.

From hand to mouth

Directly from the Source

Back to that vital Pulse somewhere hidden

To Depart, get off down that track to the reservoir

Voluntariness is my religion

If there are Formal Faults

A squashing of Pulsing will

To examine slowly, honestly, deliberate

To justify self-evidently

To trim and discipline

Quiet and peel away

From the ever distracting

Beyond that super secret-entropy

And on and on down that insightful exhaustion

I’ll envelop with the warmth and mutual disclosure

Bear the Cold Suffocating Frustrated Hard

Listen for the Pulse ringing in my ears

An alarm from deep sleep

Cycles and SelcyC dna

You don’t know how it worked out but it came to that you were doing the same things over and over. You’d get up late, feel stupid, feel disgusted about your parents, feel trapped, drink, drink too much, try to chill out, sit and try and get in touch, do this for a while, forget about it, come back to it, feel as if nothing really helps, feel mechanical, feel there is no way out, shut the fuck up, go on a jog, skive off commitments and drive out to the middle of nowhere, work on interpersonal skills, write about that thing that you were reminding yourself to think about, try to get close to someone, feel like its worthless, watch a lot of tv, recall that things don’t really matter, recall that this means that the self doesn’t exist, recall that feeding the self pleasure and shielding it from pain only escalates matters, forget how this makes sense, wash your truck, mow the lawn, clean your room, do the laundry, want to dress better, go to the library to sit quietly, pick out a billion books you won’t read, wish you’d grown up with a different family, masturbate, look at your cell phone to see if anyone called or text, feel lost, feel very depressed, watch old movies, drug yourself to sleep, try to get up really early, feel as though you must exercise much more than normal, think that its all about discipline, read something and think about putting it at the start of a novel or essay, feel stupid and dull, go back to something you wrote, remember how you still have to read this book someone lent you, remember its your mothers birthday soon, feel that you are too old to be disgusted by your parents, their habits, and the environment they bring with them, feel trapped, spend a few days away from home, notice how different you are while not at home, wonder who you are, remember that you never figured it out when you were first burdened by the question, feel stupid because you don’t know what is important, think that sensitivity is a virtue, feel okay, want to destroy the vulgar bullshit in the world, want to throw yourself into a spiritual practice, feel neglected because you haven’t met an experienced practitioner that could help you, resolve to get to sleep earlier, resolve not spend much money, face some fears, feel okay, not feel able, not feel warmth, believe in yourself, hate things, fuck them, notice how weird it is…

Sort-of-Friendship and the Path without Risk

There is an emerging pattern: you fall into sort-of-friendships. And as such, you wonder if it’s possible for you to have genuine friendships. What would that mean?

At first the other arrives on the scene, and there is a genuine eagerness to explore the possibilities of the other, to see what the relationship may bring up, to see how far it can go, and so on. You encounter; you test the water; you manifest what you imagine to be your highest tastes. In short, you enter into the scene very conscious of how you are being understood by the other. The other has a narrative about themselves and the world and you try to feel it, feel what its like to be that person. If you see some possibility, if you sense that there is a meeting of interests you get the other to like you. You do a lot of stuff that you really don’t want to do, but it is done with the view of opening yourself up to the others way of being, to bring out into the scene your deepest way of being. You desire something that will only come when it’s possible to say anything and to be utterly honest with the other. So, you are flawless for a time in your relations. You pay debts, you yield favors for favors; and then, as if you’ve come to the end of a chapter, something invariably happens: you cease to care. You sense there is nothing they may teach you. And it’s a chore to be with them; the same tendencies come up, the same awkwardness. Trapped. There is both a wanting to hang out with the other and a notation that it will be a waste of time. The aloneness makes you look around and think about what to do with yourself: what books to read, what to do this afternoon, this evening.

This, of course, occurs with individuals as well as with groups. But the upshot is usually the same, you tend to look about you and see how off your situation is. You always walk onto a path or stop at a street corner and wham – an attractive couple talking softly. The yearning comes. You berate your awkwardness, your lack of confidence. You blame poor parental upbringing, yourself, society, and god. The mixed-up quality regarding the faltering sort-of-friendship becomes more apparent and pronounced in your thoughts. Blah, blah, blah, right? It goes around and around. Stupid thought, the body dull, irritation, on edged-ness, and yet you are apathetic.

And through this process, you just want yourself to shut up. You’ve heard all this before, the circular sensational thinking. You want to operate differently, on a higher level. Quiet down.

Down the path you forget the intention – It falls out of the pouch strapped to your middle. And since it’s the intention that points the way both the heat and the wind start to get to you. You start hiding behind big, mangled trees along the side of the road to block out the piercing of the sun. When the wind picks up you take to throwing yourself onto the ground and covering your body with your sleeping bag. And behind the tree and under the sleeping bag, you complain about the state of the path: it’s lined with sharp bushes that hurt your legs, and the road itself is washed out and rugged, which doesn’t help much, either. And you go on complaining until its dark and your cold. You fall asleep. The next day you can’t remember which way you were suppose to be heading – it looks the same in every direction. So you keep up the game: you duck under the wind, you hide from the sun. On and on it goes until you stumble upon the intention. You look at your pouch and notice it was empty. You pick it up and feel it. And so it goes.

Friendship dies so long as there is hiding. Risk. Risk is good.

Recent Unfinished, Unpublished Fragments

It would be helpful to begin a story or to start a film with dialogue going: But, I mean, don’t you get the impression that… And from here that which is to be examined will be stated. This will relieve the narrative of having to set up a whole bunch of superficial crap. A film that starts out in a similar manner, though instead of employing dialog employs a monologue, is the film ‘I Heart Huckabee’s.’

Here is what you wish to relay of the last few days - some parts in fragments, others narrated:

12/20/10 (typed, never finished, never published)

The rain prevents you from jogging in the morning. You get dressed, prepare some food for later, and drive to the Café around noon. Since preparing for and delivering your presentation on Wednesday, you have been exposed to the possibility of engaged-care. Previously you had surmised that ‘commitment’ to a meaningful project would allow for flourishing. Now you genuinely follow this line of thought. Perhaps this is what Gurdjieff refers to when he submits that only when there is conscious suffering is suffering of value.

You are still on the fence about what to do regarding Vanessa. It doesn’t help that the weather has denied you jogging to clear your head. You will probably go to the gym tonight if the rain doesn’t let up by then. Maybe when Shane gets in town you’ll talk it over with him. Maybe you’ll text her, sort of flirt with her. What you want is to talk softly. Disclose self and invite the other to disclose self.

What do you see in this movement that draws you in?

Yesterday you go shopping with Mom – a planned trip to San Luis Obispo to purchase something that she can wrap up and give to you on Christmas. You go to four clothing stores; you try on jeans, long sleeve, collared shirts, and sweaters. At noon you both decide to drive out to Morro Bay to eat lunch at a favorite spot on the marina. There arises talk about her Grandmother – Elma – who happens to be you’re great grandmother, addiction, your childhood experiences with Dad’s alcoholism, and the notion that responsibility and action are abilities that must be developed, and that are not given at birth. You’re interested in Mom’s relationship with Elma. You get her to talk about her personality, why she talks so fondly of her.

12/22/10 (written in brown notebook, never published, night)

In the back of the mind you are still concerned with the notion of right conditions for growth. That is, are extreme conditions needed for awakening? You read a memoir about a women’s life in socialist china, working hard labor, strong willed, supportive, doubtful, etc. The Self of history experiments. The conditions will be hard now – will the self awaken? And now the conditions are soft, the distraction possibilities high, easy, no pushing from outside really – will the self awaken? Or maybe rhythms, when school starts back up, then rest, week – weekends. Night, day.

12/27/10 (typed, never published)

Meeting with Nick at 6:30pm. You eat early and drive to the library an hour before normal. You buy a coffee and sit in the lobby sipping. You read a bit of ‘The Transparent Self’. You take off the lid of the coffee so that it will cool down. Nick shows up and asks if you want anything. You two sit at a table and talk for an hour before going up stairs to a study room. He says that when he orders a coffee he knows that by the next day he’ll be able to drink it.

As usual you cover many things. After chitter chatter about Christmas he brings up the tendency for our culture to justify its movements statistically, that is, through an average level of measurement. Happiness is quantifiable. You express your confusion regarding the source of this tendency. You wonder about the fear that channels people into adopting the mores of the culture, its etiquettes and life-projects.

You both discuss ‘diffusion’. You wonder if the word is too complex – that it stands for you to mean out of touchness with oneself. He likes the word, though. Later he defines it as ‘to dilute one’s focus, leading to misdirection and the inability to set priorities for self.’ You spend most of the time talking about the causes of diffusion. You notice that some of your dullness of the last few days may be attributed to your lack of anxiety.

The source of diffusion is largely the culture. It is increased when the culture is broadly defined as in a democracy or in cultures that are in transition. Such conditions omit in their narrative any meaningful advice as to what to go about doing with one’s life. This is necessary for diffusion: the omitting of a sense of meaning from the culture. We locate a few movements in the culture that trigger diffusion, the sense that one is out of touch with one’s own self and drives. There is for instance, the ‘tight schedule’ of our culture. College ought to be 4 years, in out. There is the three stages of life. Everyone in a hurry. Olympic sprinting.

You mention to what an excessive level entertainment plays in modernity (or postmodernity). This directly leads to the underdevelopment of the ability to deal with pain, with one’s own pain. You just go watch tv when the problems set in. The ‘last man’ tendency is the tendency to always strive for comfort. You mention that bad art, art without heart, without a way out, and with teenage logic leads to unnourished and enriched individuals.

12/28/10 (written in brown notebook, never published)

Talk with Trish about Garrett at lunch. You get up to help transport a t.v. from the store to Nana’s house. When you walk out there is a lady who is having some kind of temper tantrum. The security guard says in a calm voice, Mam you are out of control. Nana hands you a $20 when you’ve finished unloading the stuff out of the back of your truck. You make plans to come back tomorrow to work on some gardening. You make plans to go to lunch with Trish at the Bistro in the mall.

After initial detailing about her parents checking out, turning off, becoming dull, some talk about the memoir you just read, and so on, there comes about a discussion of Garrett: his internet indulgences, his weight, and related things. You advise her to look at her fundamental intentions in regard to limiting or eradicating his Internet gaming time, to write them down, and to articulate her concerns to Garrett only after further evaluation of his likely reaction to the disclosure. If you are in-touch with the source of your trajectory you will not weaken your resolve when adversary applies pressure.

You talk about the major role that ‘entertainment’ has in our culture, how it results in our inability as selves to deal with our own pain; how we always seek out the comfortable. You mention the need for ‘care’ or passion to balance the self. There is discussion of college. You reiterate that you are only concerned to go so that you may interact with people who are interested in similar matters you are interested in. She says that you are probably the only person that she can discuss these matters with.

12/30/10 (written in brown notebook, night, never published)

Yes, a lot of time in spent in reactive, stress-relieving, intentive, distraction-centered-movements. ‘Constant Movement’, means that there is without the quality of ‘trajectory awareness’, which is stillness, the skill of watching ‘thought’ as opposed to being possessed by ‘thought’.

The way of warmth – the warm way, the golden path. Also, that time spent in the cycle of ‘what to do?’

To practice dealing with your pain. The important question is: And why are you on the project really? The purposive-movement way.

You don’t say to Shane that you think that his present to Autumn is nice when you think it is nice. Also: ‘And this is perhaps that side of me I don’t let out often. I value the inappropriateness of your act – that it would seem to require a good deal of ‘care’ to enact.

And what is the ‘after’ness of which is drawing you in – that is, what is the ‘now’ project that the instant impression justifies itself with? What is wanted?

Red Azalea and Experimentation

You feel cut-off and cloudy. You write down some points. For instance, you want to eat better. Less beer. Today you felt so dull. Maybe just two times a week have a beer. Maybe eat less red meat. You’ll get up before 9am. You’ll be ready by 11am. You’ll intend to be to bed by midnight. You want to bring back meditation and at-hand awareness. You want to cap your Internet time.

You have a month to work on yourself before school starts up again. You’ve been over this a few times. You have not addressed yourself. You have not committed to an experiment.

Being around the familiar, around home, induces a deadened tone. You must be in-touch with yourself in order to spot this. It will take over.

You leave the house around 1:30pm. You realize while a few streets down that it is Sunday, that things are not open. You stumble around until buying a café latte from McDonald’s and sitting in the park. You walk across water filled grass to use the restroom. You read ‘Red Azalea’ on a park table in the shade. You get cold and move to sit in the sunlight up against a large pine tree. After some time further coldness persuades you to walk across the water filled grass back to your truck.

You make some tea. You watch a bad movie on the Internet about a small town, a casino, and when to move on. You heat up some noodles and spend the rest of the evening reading the rest of ‘Red Azalea’.

The book is a memoir logging the early life of a Chinese woman during the Cultural Revolution. It is about commitment, the longing for intimate, growth-centered relationships, entrapment, disillusionment, and passionate life-projects. It is written in simple prose, remarkably simple prose. You recognize the quality of in-touchness that would be necessary to write such a thing. There is much that you can smell here. It is well beyond vulgar bullshit. The style focuses your attention: it says shhhh, can you hear it? The Cultural Revolution is displayed not for political commentary. Your life is not yours, it is ours, and it is forced upon you. You will do this and this. It is for the people. You find yourself hating yourself. There are tigers in the room at all times. You fashion yourself silent, fluid, compromising, complimenting. You do things to people that you start to hate, but you feel paralyzed. In fact, everything is a war. No way out. It’s a show. History is the emperor telling the people, the working, shuffling, corpses what to do. The people follow along, blaming who they are suppose to blame, praising who they are suppose to praise. So it goes. Revolutionaries are reactive. Reactionaries reactive.

You will probably re-read this book. It does small, heavy things. Its not concerned with directly talking about the destructiveness of other-determinedness on the ‘individual’. There’s no need to talk about it: its there. Author Anchee Min discloses herself as a Self. The Self is caught in gears, is tide down – rows and rows of knots bury the warmth. It is spirit. The Self notices the Aliveness in others. It is not bullshit. The Self feels passion and injustice like the sting the body feels when burnt with a red-hot iron. But there are authentic pulses, nevertheless, in this maze and confusion. The public self wishes to dissolve itself so that both itself and the private are no more, so that there is only one. The ‘Supervisor’ is a master of illusion and yet wields passion, recourses to the bare pulse. Fear and inferiority do not weigh him down.

You notice the need right now for you to commit to an experiment. To work on self in a special way. Perhaps you will study the way of knowledge for a month. You will see if it will sharpen and vitalize. There has been a tendency toward spontaneity that has prevented full movement in the way of knowledge. You will structure a month of reading, writing, and meditation. You will journal daily. You will test this path.