i don't know what to say. today was somewhat busy. i took care of things. i did the calls that i felt were important. i attended a meeting for the fifth grade teachers. i even sent out a bunch of mail, payment for some stupid bills...
i initially had the mentality of being constantly active, of making each touch with the world a resistance against entropy. but i had the idea (perhaps i mentioned this yesterday) of passive resistance. of the resistance of freedom, of infinite possibility. you lose your - well, i was going to be explicit, but just stopped myself- but you lose your- i'll be a bit tasteful here- libido for the world when too much of it is offered to you. well, when there is nothing left to do. the best way to live, the moment that i tend to identify with, is the one where i have a direction, a vector, a purpose. something to do, and a way to do it. but of course life isn't like that most of the time. it loses us. we lose it. i don't know. and that confusion is so hated for me. it makes me turn in on myself. it makes me hate myself. why is it that i can't abide by that sort of situation? why is the hatred so restless to cave in to me?
why can't i be innocent and stupid?
there were moments that i wish i could be a child. i wish i could play. i wish i could appreciate this life. but something constantly compels me to put a purpose to things. i don't know if it's a good or a bad thing. i mean, it's the truth, that if you want to get to certain places, then you need to prepare, and you need to work. but it's also the truth that you fail to appreciate your reality if you constantly abstract yourself from it in order to pursue something else...
***
i'm not sure what else to write about.
are we always either in the moment, or out of it? so engrossed in what we are doing that we can't speak? or so out of the moment that we can no longer understand it? no longer relate to it? i guess that has always been my quandary. "now that you feel it, you don't."
***
the things that compel me, maybe, are fear and sex and beauty. truth isn't really a motivation. i mean, if we're ever really honest (see what i did there), we don't really want the truth. it's just there. it's waiting for us when we drop our illusions. and much of the time, for me, anyway, it's kind of a disappointment.
***
there is a feeling of perfection, of immanence, in the doing of things. the reason we like beginnings is because there is little resistance to the action, and the immediate necessities compel us to move, they shape our pathways. i guess that's always comforting. when the story goes deeper, and things become far more ambiguous and less clear, then we get lost, and we get dirty, and we know longer like the story so much.
necessity.
the way that the walls get put up around a situation and compel one. that is exciting. that is compelling. it is like the walls of a hose, that force water in a direction. motive force. the walls make the situation, as much as the motive force does. in fact, you need both.
freedom isn't necessarily what we want, for freedom is the release from the walls that give us shape and force. sure, we might say we want it, but the consequence is a loss of form, and therefore a loss of meaning.
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Monday, April 13, 2020
4/13/2020
i believe this is a new day, and i'm not double-posting. but if i am, i apologize.
this morning, there were a few meetings (some of which i failed to remember). those meetings are like faint calls of that other world, the world of responsibility and duty. i hearken to them on occasion. but there is also a kind of helplessness to the situation, and i sometimes capitulate to that helplessness. i lack the firm resolve of youth, i suppose. now, i have other concerns. concerns about what? about maintaining. about meaning. i don't know.
i liked the post by miles maeda, accompanied by the picture of some itinerant zen master in zazen. something about advice to a practitioner. something about how the times of solitude are for getting your affairs in order. in real and practical ways. it's not necessarily of some spiritual quest, you see. it's facing life, in all its boring and terrifying reality. those are the true "demons."
i have demons too, you see. so many of them. the predilection for- i don't know- an ecstatic existence far removed from my own. the obligations that i fail to live up to. the notion of death, and of wasted potential. memories. and an emptiness that i carry about with me. maybe i should speak of the kappa in that sense, that he is an emptiness made aware. you're hollow too, you just don't have it on the top of your head at every moment. people like me, creatures like me, we are painfully aware of such things, of the danger of drying up, or evaporating, or pouring out. we never bow. unless it is worth it.
i worry about my stories, about whether they are any good. i worry about where they are going. whether they are just tiresome stories. or whether they have much of any point. what's the point of my lamentations regarding my brother? is there any real resolution to it, or is it just- i don't know- whyning?
***
death is coming for us all.
***
and before that, old age. well, not true, necessarily. because some die young and beautiful, before the fall. before the decrepitude.
i worry about that. about losing a point. about dulling. once you lose a purpose, you lose a reason to exist. that's what i have thought about. life is best when you can somehow maintain that pressure, even if it is fictitious. for life, in itself, does not often compel us to do much of anything. we are like water that wishes to maintain its "motive force" (i don't know where i get that idea of "motive force"; sounds like a physics or even electronics sort of thing) but is confronted by the resistance of the quiescent water. or even the wayward currents. you want to push towards something, but life is always, if not completely dismissive and ignorant of your wishes, then seemingly active in its resistance...
and so we make up a purpose, over and over and over. life always resists. we always have to come up with the fight to make our control and our intention "real." that is the problem. and it grows so tiring. it wears upon one. it makes one think, "what's the point?" (like again, a dulled needle. where's my point? where's my point?)
sometimes there are feelings that seem to compel one to live. feelings that seem real. but as i grow older, maybe hormonally deficient or something, sometimes even those feelings just seem less compelling. and if that wellspring truly dries up, if all feeling becomes bland and insipid and lifeless, then, well, where is the life? what is the reason? then we live for principle or for the benefit of others or something dry-boned as a zen master.
i like the image of zen masters, because they seem to posit a life beyond what we would normally consider life. i mean, for one thing, they're monks. i mean, duh, how could you exist without sexuality? especially as a younger man, i would always gripe about that, even as i sought that life. i was still entranced by women, and believed they held some secret key to truth, or at least happiness. now, i'm not so sure. women are definitely a draw, but they are just ordinary people too. they haven't any particular monopoly on wisdom... so if you come looking for it, for an "answer," you're bound to be as disappointed as anything or anyone. and maybe it's true of the zen master too. in the end, the truth you own is the one you must work for. i guess that's the only real thing i've learned.
this morning, there were a few meetings (some of which i failed to remember). those meetings are like faint calls of that other world, the world of responsibility and duty. i hearken to them on occasion. but there is also a kind of helplessness to the situation, and i sometimes capitulate to that helplessness. i lack the firm resolve of youth, i suppose. now, i have other concerns. concerns about what? about maintaining. about meaning. i don't know.
i liked the post by miles maeda, accompanied by the picture of some itinerant zen master in zazen. something about advice to a practitioner. something about how the times of solitude are for getting your affairs in order. in real and practical ways. it's not necessarily of some spiritual quest, you see. it's facing life, in all its boring and terrifying reality. those are the true "demons."
i have demons too, you see. so many of them. the predilection for- i don't know- an ecstatic existence far removed from my own. the obligations that i fail to live up to. the notion of death, and of wasted potential. memories. and an emptiness that i carry about with me. maybe i should speak of the kappa in that sense, that he is an emptiness made aware. you're hollow too, you just don't have it on the top of your head at every moment. people like me, creatures like me, we are painfully aware of such things, of the danger of drying up, or evaporating, or pouring out. we never bow. unless it is worth it.
i worry about my stories, about whether they are any good. i worry about where they are going. whether they are just tiresome stories. or whether they have much of any point. what's the point of my lamentations regarding my brother? is there any real resolution to it, or is it just- i don't know- whyning?
***
death is coming for us all.
***
and before that, old age. well, not true, necessarily. because some die young and beautiful, before the fall. before the decrepitude.
i worry about that. about losing a point. about dulling. once you lose a purpose, you lose a reason to exist. that's what i have thought about. life is best when you can somehow maintain that pressure, even if it is fictitious. for life, in itself, does not often compel us to do much of anything. we are like water that wishes to maintain its "motive force" (i don't know where i get that idea of "motive force"; sounds like a physics or even electronics sort of thing) but is confronted by the resistance of the quiescent water. or even the wayward currents. you want to push towards something, but life is always, if not completely dismissive and ignorant of your wishes, then seemingly active in its resistance...
and so we make up a purpose, over and over and over. life always resists. we always have to come up with the fight to make our control and our intention "real." that is the problem. and it grows so tiring. it wears upon one. it makes one think, "what's the point?" (like again, a dulled needle. where's my point? where's my point?)
sometimes there are feelings that seem to compel one to live. feelings that seem real. but as i grow older, maybe hormonally deficient or something, sometimes even those feelings just seem less compelling. and if that wellspring truly dries up, if all feeling becomes bland and insipid and lifeless, then, well, where is the life? what is the reason? then we live for principle or for the benefit of others or something dry-boned as a zen master.
i like the image of zen masters, because they seem to posit a life beyond what we would normally consider life. i mean, for one thing, they're monks. i mean, duh, how could you exist without sexuality? especially as a younger man, i would always gripe about that, even as i sought that life. i was still entranced by women, and believed they held some secret key to truth, or at least happiness. now, i'm not so sure. women are definitely a draw, but they are just ordinary people too. they haven't any particular monopoly on wisdom... so if you come looking for it, for an "answer," you're bound to be as disappointed as anything or anyone. and maybe it's true of the zen master too. in the end, the truth you own is the one you must work for. i guess that's the only real thing i've learned.
Sunday, April 12, 2020
4/13/2020
another day. i am conscious of certain things, like this routine that seems like a lifeline to me. there are certain things that i do that are private, and other things that are public. most of the private things are somehow essential to me, even though they are things that cannot or should not be shared. they are also the irrational things, the things that i cannot justify by reason. thankfully, they are not things that hurt other people, or at least, they do not hurt people physically. perhaps they hurt concepts. perhaps they hurt my conceptions of things, and in that sense, they are not innocent. but they are necessary nonetheless.
i think i should write about such things, about the things that compel us, but do not necessarily make sense. but these are not things i am necessarily comfortable writing about. sexuality, for instance. that is something that is difficult for me to convey, largely because i am- it is hard for me to discuss such things. even to myself. there is something- i don't know- still shameful about it. particularly for a male, but particularly so for someone like me, who by nature tends to keep things at a distance, and tends to only look at and deal with the surfaces of things...
i don't know why, or what was wrong with me, to not be seduced over the course of my life. some might consider it a strength, but it really wasn't. there was such a naivette, and an oblivion, to me. and even if i had been aware (and i know, i know, a part of me was aware, or else i would not be able to look upon such events with- nostalgia?), it simply was not possible for me to summon the desire at those particular moments. there were images of hair, and the smell, and the darkness, and i simply wanted things to be clean. stainless steel. it is only later, in those other moments, that i can summon the feeling, and the fire. it is so strange, how there is not that synchronicity. how we often do not live up to those moments. and it is not that i would not want to have had something happen. it's just that the timing was not perfect. it's that i am two (or more) different people, and that was the wrong person for the wrong moment. a split infinity, as it were. i wish i could be whole, and consistent. but maybe then i wouldn't be honest. because honesty is what fragments us. (or is it?)
to look upon the gaze of a woman, to see the want in it. it is difficult. is there a desire sparked only from the impossibility of a woman? why is it that there is something that dies when that gaze is present, and there is a vulnerability? it is almost as though we desire the impossible. and when it is no longer impossible, but possible, perhaps the proximity to something so ignored and despised, perhaps it is when the desired occupies the same reality as myself, that it becomes- sullied, somehow. and no longer- wanted. why is this? and is there some sort of deception in the capacity to act upon desire? as though the only way is to pretend that it is the other story, that other reality, that one where desire can still live and breathe?
why are we so broken?
the coldness is on my back. i write. sometimes the ramblings of my son (who is in the same room) annoy me. i no longer feel obligated to- correct or train or educate him. he is (and perhaps always was) his own person.
tonight, i'm not sure what else to write about. people. certain people. i guess i feel a certain disgust towards religiosity. the fact that it allows some people to "stand above" and speak with authority. it disgusts me, about that. the capacity to judge. i guess that is why i'm reluctant to join any group. because it posits itself as above others. and allows judgment. which is not true. i prefer to remain outside, not to be difficult, but to maintain the capacity for truth and compassion...
and their fucking "bravery." it is not bravery, but the reliance upon the fiction of the group. socially derived notions of right and wrong. i hate that. i hate that beyond hating.
i think i should write about such things, about the things that compel us, but do not necessarily make sense. but these are not things i am necessarily comfortable writing about. sexuality, for instance. that is something that is difficult for me to convey, largely because i am- it is hard for me to discuss such things. even to myself. there is something- i don't know- still shameful about it. particularly for a male, but particularly so for someone like me, who by nature tends to keep things at a distance, and tends to only look at and deal with the surfaces of things...
i don't know why, or what was wrong with me, to not be seduced over the course of my life. some might consider it a strength, but it really wasn't. there was such a naivette, and an oblivion, to me. and even if i had been aware (and i know, i know, a part of me was aware, or else i would not be able to look upon such events with- nostalgia?), it simply was not possible for me to summon the desire at those particular moments. there were images of hair, and the smell, and the darkness, and i simply wanted things to be clean. stainless steel. it is only later, in those other moments, that i can summon the feeling, and the fire. it is so strange, how there is not that synchronicity. how we often do not live up to those moments. and it is not that i would not want to have had something happen. it's just that the timing was not perfect. it's that i am two (or more) different people, and that was the wrong person for the wrong moment. a split infinity, as it were. i wish i could be whole, and consistent. but maybe then i wouldn't be honest. because honesty is what fragments us. (or is it?)
to look upon the gaze of a woman, to see the want in it. it is difficult. is there a desire sparked only from the impossibility of a woman? why is it that there is something that dies when that gaze is present, and there is a vulnerability? it is almost as though we desire the impossible. and when it is no longer impossible, but possible, perhaps the proximity to something so ignored and despised, perhaps it is when the desired occupies the same reality as myself, that it becomes- sullied, somehow. and no longer- wanted. why is this? and is there some sort of deception in the capacity to act upon desire? as though the only way is to pretend that it is the other story, that other reality, that one where desire can still live and breathe?
why are we so broken?
the coldness is on my back. i write. sometimes the ramblings of my son (who is in the same room) annoy me. i no longer feel obligated to- correct or train or educate him. he is (and perhaps always was) his own person.
tonight, i'm not sure what else to write about. people. certain people. i guess i feel a certain disgust towards religiosity. the fact that it allows some people to "stand above" and speak with authority. it disgusts me, about that. the capacity to judge. i guess that is why i'm reluctant to join any group. because it posits itself as above others. and allows judgment. which is not true. i prefer to remain outside, not to be difficult, but to maintain the capacity for truth and compassion...
and their fucking "bravery." it is not bravery, but the reliance upon the fiction of the group. socially derived notions of right and wrong. i hate that. i hate that beyond hating.
4/12/2020
it is now almost mid-april. the covid-19 stay-at-home orders have put a pause of sorts on normal life. to be honest, i've been quite happy to stay at home. i've worked a lot in the yard. i've fixed it up, cleaned out a lot of weeds, did a lot of pruning and such. and now, i have grand ideas of planting more food crops in the planter boxes, and also starting a hydroponics station in the garage. i guess i sort of got into the mode of focusing only on certain things, on certain projects, so i detracted or got away from doing my routines. i also, i feel, got away from a certain mentality of mine, which had its pros and cons, its positives and negatives. i suppose, in a certain sense, i lost my motivation for a lot of things... i have thought a lot about motivations. my insights sort of come and go, ebb and flow. but for a time, it seemed as though i "got something" about doing long, unending tasks like the yard work. there's always a tiny voice (actually, not so tiny) that says "why are you doing this? what a waste of time!" and i attribute it to a lot of different people, or i imagine a lot of different people saying this of me. people like my brother, or some people at work. people, who i imagine, are living lives of worth, active lives. and then there are counter voices. one that persistently comes up is that of my friend shari, who used to tell me, in response to a lot of my "whynes": "why not?" i love how that sort of voice, and tone, sort of short circuits a lot of the thinking in my head. ultimately, what i do is what i do, and that statement sort of allows me to sink into myself, deaf and blind to the mini-critiques of the world around me (imagined or otherwise).
i have imagined myself as a hole. i have imagined myself as some sort of storm drain. the water falls through me, and echoes into the dark and empty places, carried away to something else. nothing accumulates in me, in a way that matters. i have imagined that that is my problem, that there is somehow a hole in the bottom of who i am. you need to plug up that hole, says the kappa. otherwise, there is no saving you. who says this? why is there that ghost? what is the point of him, if it is only to- what? why couldn't it be a kappa? someone who cares for him? i want it to be the kappa, but there was a problem with him. what was his story? what was his motivation? maybe it was better to have randy drink from those bowls. but why? what is the purpose of doing that?
there are different mentalities. there is the mentality of trying to do things perfectly. of having a reason or a way to do things, and not just doing things "on the fly." and then there is that, the spontaneous way of dealing with things. the thing about the latter is that eventually it makes me feel dirty, it makes me feel as though i have sullied myself by acting in an uncontrolled (unfocused) manner. but then again... i think that there is maybe a problem when i "switch" over to that way of thinking, the "whatevers" kind of thinking. and i do do that, a lot, particularly when there are other people involved. for example, when i play in a game with my son, i automatically switch over to this mode where i just accommodate him. for better or for worse. i don't "care" about it in the same way.
i suppose that that is part of the problem. the response to other's voices. do i just back away, or do i assert myself? it is such a messy thing, to be involved in the lives or wishes of others...
there is also this consistent hatred of certain people that keeps popping up. i don't know what it is about me. i know the hatred is irrational, but then again, so are they. i think that there is a problem with uncritical thinking. i think there is a problem with the "group" mentality. i always stand outside and alone, because i have seen firsthand the problem with groups, with thinking you are a part of something, and with identifying with that. there is always the outsider, there is always someone who is left out, i don't care how inclusive the group thinks it is, and if you don't always radically pay attention to who that is, and how you can help him, then you just become a part of the problem...
oh well, just some random thoughts.
i have imagined myself as a hole. i have imagined myself as some sort of storm drain. the water falls through me, and echoes into the dark and empty places, carried away to something else. nothing accumulates in me, in a way that matters. i have imagined that that is my problem, that there is somehow a hole in the bottom of who i am. you need to plug up that hole, says the kappa. otherwise, there is no saving you. who says this? why is there that ghost? what is the point of him, if it is only to- what? why couldn't it be a kappa? someone who cares for him? i want it to be the kappa, but there was a problem with him. what was his story? what was his motivation? maybe it was better to have randy drink from those bowls. but why? what is the purpose of doing that?
there are different mentalities. there is the mentality of trying to do things perfectly. of having a reason or a way to do things, and not just doing things "on the fly." and then there is that, the spontaneous way of dealing with things. the thing about the latter is that eventually it makes me feel dirty, it makes me feel as though i have sullied myself by acting in an uncontrolled (unfocused) manner. but then again... i think that there is maybe a problem when i "switch" over to that way of thinking, the "whatevers" kind of thinking. and i do do that, a lot, particularly when there are other people involved. for example, when i play in a game with my son, i automatically switch over to this mode where i just accommodate him. for better or for worse. i don't "care" about it in the same way.
i suppose that that is part of the problem. the response to other's voices. do i just back away, or do i assert myself? it is such a messy thing, to be involved in the lives or wishes of others...
there is also this consistent hatred of certain people that keeps popping up. i don't know what it is about me. i know the hatred is irrational, but then again, so are they. i think that there is a problem with uncritical thinking. i think there is a problem with the "group" mentality. i always stand outside and alone, because i have seen firsthand the problem with groups, with thinking you are a part of something, and with identifying with that. there is always the outsider, there is always someone who is left out, i don't care how inclusive the group thinks it is, and if you don't always radically pay attention to who that is, and how you can help him, then you just become a part of the problem...
oh well, just some random thoughts.
Friday, March 27, 2020
3/27/2020
so, in another blink, about a week has passed since my last posting. in that time, the entire covid-19 thing has gotten increasingly serious (or rather, the state response has). we are now in shelter-in-place mode, and all nonessential businesses have closed up. that includes lynn's store, and, for that matter, most stores, aside from perhaps those selling groceries, or things like hardware and auto supplies. as far as school is concerned, we were supposed to be "working," but aside from constructing a packet for each of my students, there hasn't been all that much to do. i've tried to keep myself busy by doing yardwork, but the weather really hasn't been cooperating. actually, for two weeks now, we've been having truly dismal weather: a lot of wind, and a lot of rain. i've managed to set up the aquaponics system better. now, we actually have three motors pumping out of three fish tanks, and four grow beds (one of the fish tanks serves two grow beds). i don't have anything to plant in the third grow bed yet (the one from my classroom), but i hope to plant the zucchinis i managed to sprout from seed.
i had an insight of sorts (but of course all of these "insights" that i get are probably pretty temporary). it happened while i was weeding the yard. i must tell you that weeding my yard is an eternal, interminable task (one might also call it a chore). in the face of that task, i usually adopt a very scattered approach. that is, instead of focusing and directing my efforts on specific tasks, i tend to wander around the yard, doing my kwai chang thing by solving little problems everywhere i go. some might say it's not particularly productive, and it doesn't "accomplish" anything, but i think that that's part of the game here. from my experience, there's a cost of guilt whenever i push too hard at something. i don't know if guilt is exactly the right word for it, but that's how it feels. it's as though i were constructing a fiction by setting up this goal that i'm trying to accomplish, and the more i work at it, the more it seems that the fictitious nature (the "lying") just gets to me. it fills me with recriminations (although these originate, probably, from myself).
anyway, back to the insight. i started hearing the voices of neil gaiman and margaret atwood, voices of experienced writers, who said, among other things, that finishing things was essential. and that's when, aside from my scattered efforts, i made a decision to "stick to it." yes, i wasn't targeting anything specific, but i had committed myself to the task of cleaning up the yard, and didn't just back off when i encountered obstacles. instead, i kept moving on to the next task and the next task, and i eventually wore things down, like water eroding something hard and solid... i also started working on the nanowrimo website, and began writing for 1 hour every night. and because i had decided to write some of my short stories as plays, i had an easier time of it. i no longer got hung up in describing the setting or articulating the inner thoughts and motivations of characters. i just focused on dialogue and action. things seemed to move a lot better, and i was actually able to finish (of course "finish" is subjective and relative) "the backwards carp." now, i'm attacking the "kappa noodle" story, and i hope to finish it sometime soon.
i had an insight of sorts (but of course all of these "insights" that i get are probably pretty temporary). it happened while i was weeding the yard. i must tell you that weeding my yard is an eternal, interminable task (one might also call it a chore). in the face of that task, i usually adopt a very scattered approach. that is, instead of focusing and directing my efforts on specific tasks, i tend to wander around the yard, doing my kwai chang thing by solving little problems everywhere i go. some might say it's not particularly productive, and it doesn't "accomplish" anything, but i think that that's part of the game here. from my experience, there's a cost of guilt whenever i push too hard at something. i don't know if guilt is exactly the right word for it, but that's how it feels. it's as though i were constructing a fiction by setting up this goal that i'm trying to accomplish, and the more i work at it, the more it seems that the fictitious nature (the "lying") just gets to me. it fills me with recriminations (although these originate, probably, from myself).
anyway, back to the insight. i started hearing the voices of neil gaiman and margaret atwood, voices of experienced writers, who said, among other things, that finishing things was essential. and that's when, aside from my scattered efforts, i made a decision to "stick to it." yes, i wasn't targeting anything specific, but i had committed myself to the task of cleaning up the yard, and didn't just back off when i encountered obstacles. instead, i kept moving on to the next task and the next task, and i eventually wore things down, like water eroding something hard and solid... i also started working on the nanowrimo website, and began writing for 1 hour every night. and because i had decided to write some of my short stories as plays, i had an easier time of it. i no longer got hung up in describing the setting or articulating the inner thoughts and motivations of characters. i just focused on dialogue and action. things seemed to move a lot better, and i was actually able to finish (of course "finish" is subjective and relative) "the backwards carp." now, i'm attacking the "kappa noodle" story, and i hope to finish it sometime soon.
Saturday, March 21, 2020
3/21/2020
in a flash, almost two months have passed. i have been very busy, with a lot of robotics things and a lot of other extracurricular activities, all with disappointing endings (but then again, success in those ventures wouldn't have gone far, considering the extent of the corona-virus closures). i also had a lot of iep things to take care of. life, for a time, was all about surviving until the next day. i dropped all of my routines, and sort of drifted zombie-like through each successive day.
it was with great reluctance that i started my routines again. i think i drifted through the first week of spring break (actually, it is the only week of spring break; but the virus has made a mess of things, and extended our time off). i slept a lot. i played minecraft a lot. i think i was seeking something of the past, that feeling i once had when the three of us, aiden, willow, and i, would play minecraft in survival mode. we would create a house together, and venture forth into the wilderness together. i believe the kids remembered that time fondly; at least, it seemed so, and the fact that they were all willing to do it was a sign of that fondness.
after a time, it seemed pointless. we each were independent now, and could create our own houses, and survive without significant assistance. sure, we helped each other out. any supplies that we had, we shared with one another. but we no longer needed to be "together." even aiden, who, in the past, would venture out alone and get lost and get killed; well, he still followed a similar pattern, but unlike before, he could manage on his own, and this time, he would discover significant things for himself, like villages, or how to cultivate bees. it is both reassuring and sad at the same time to discover that your children no longer need you.
*****
some nights i would wake up and feel as though i were drowning. it is a real fear for me. not literal drowning, but this kind of existential drowning, where you lose your self in the shapes and forms of others. i don't really know how to describe it, but when i wake from those half-dreams, bleary-eyed, i feel terrified. i mumble to my wife about how i love her, and then stalk off to the sofa in the other room, where i talk to god or to my grandmother about my concerns.
in one of my acupoints classes (a recent one), i babbled about the wood element. i said something about how the nature of wood is to grow towards the light. i also mentioned the two forms of imbalance of wood. wood excess involved believing in one's individual perspective so much that it canceled out or negated the perspectives of others. wood deficiency, on the other hand, involved an inability to take or defend one's own perspective, always kowtowing to the perspectives of others.
in one of my early morning panic attacks, i recalled that i had said that, and that i had actually been talking about myself. only, it was not simply a matter of defending one's own perspective, but involved not being able to see through my own eyes. it meant not being able to identify what my own perspective was. i don't know what i feel about much of anything... and in that sense, i am like a plant, frustrated by the inability to see, much less grow towards, the light, and afraid of getting smothered by the others around me.
come to think of it, my obsession with my yardwork has involved saving a fruit tree from being smothered by vines. i have pulled the vines from their tangled mess on the foliage and branches of the fruit tree. i have weeded their prolific roots from the hard, detritus-filled ground. all of my efforts (largely in vain when i really think about it) were to liberate and clear space for this one tree...
when i think of gardening, and i think of life, there is a sense of despair within me. none of my efforts ever seem to get to "light", to this feeling of openness and accomplishment. i always move "gentle," because there are so many bears stalking around me. if i am too active or pushy in one direction, i will offend something within me, and there will be this resultant guilt that consumes me. i am therefore always being gentle, but never getting anywhere. but then again, is any accomplishment ever permanent?
it was with great reluctance that i started my routines again. i think i drifted through the first week of spring break (actually, it is the only week of spring break; but the virus has made a mess of things, and extended our time off). i slept a lot. i played minecraft a lot. i think i was seeking something of the past, that feeling i once had when the three of us, aiden, willow, and i, would play minecraft in survival mode. we would create a house together, and venture forth into the wilderness together. i believe the kids remembered that time fondly; at least, it seemed so, and the fact that they were all willing to do it was a sign of that fondness.
after a time, it seemed pointless. we each were independent now, and could create our own houses, and survive without significant assistance. sure, we helped each other out. any supplies that we had, we shared with one another. but we no longer needed to be "together." even aiden, who, in the past, would venture out alone and get lost and get killed; well, he still followed a similar pattern, but unlike before, he could manage on his own, and this time, he would discover significant things for himself, like villages, or how to cultivate bees. it is both reassuring and sad at the same time to discover that your children no longer need you.
*****
some nights i would wake up and feel as though i were drowning. it is a real fear for me. not literal drowning, but this kind of existential drowning, where you lose your self in the shapes and forms of others. i don't really know how to describe it, but when i wake from those half-dreams, bleary-eyed, i feel terrified. i mumble to my wife about how i love her, and then stalk off to the sofa in the other room, where i talk to god or to my grandmother about my concerns.
in one of my acupoints classes (a recent one), i babbled about the wood element. i said something about how the nature of wood is to grow towards the light. i also mentioned the two forms of imbalance of wood. wood excess involved believing in one's individual perspective so much that it canceled out or negated the perspectives of others. wood deficiency, on the other hand, involved an inability to take or defend one's own perspective, always kowtowing to the perspectives of others.
in one of my early morning panic attacks, i recalled that i had said that, and that i had actually been talking about myself. only, it was not simply a matter of defending one's own perspective, but involved not being able to see through my own eyes. it meant not being able to identify what my own perspective was. i don't know what i feel about much of anything... and in that sense, i am like a plant, frustrated by the inability to see, much less grow towards, the light, and afraid of getting smothered by the others around me.
come to think of it, my obsession with my yardwork has involved saving a fruit tree from being smothered by vines. i have pulled the vines from their tangled mess on the foliage and branches of the fruit tree. i have weeded their prolific roots from the hard, detritus-filled ground. all of my efforts (largely in vain when i really think about it) were to liberate and clear space for this one tree...
when i think of gardening, and i think of life, there is a sense of despair within me. none of my efforts ever seem to get to "light", to this feeling of openness and accomplishment. i always move "gentle," because there are so many bears stalking around me. if i am too active or pushy in one direction, i will offend something within me, and there will be this resultant guilt that consumes me. i am therefore always being gentle, but never getting anywhere. but then again, is any accomplishment ever permanent?
Tuesday, January 28, 2020
1/27/2020
hard to believe that it's been over two weeks since my last posting. i think a lot has to do with my hangups in writing. i've also been pretty busy, what with lynn's sister visiting, and robotics stuff, and school responsibilities. i'm still hanging in there, but the cost has been some of my routines with regards to caring for myself.
i still struggle mightily (???) with writing. there have been times when i have been completely stuck, and i just sit there, trying to push one more disgusting word out after another. and it makes me so loathe myself, and the writing that i produce. i wonder at that little statement i heard from david sedaris that he goes to write every day WILLINGLY (his emphasis). would i do that? for me, it has become something that i dread, because it slams me against the walls of my prison, of my own limitations. i feel boring and ugly after such sessions. i feel as though i have nothing interesting to tell.
*****
then again, there is an abiding. even when things get difficult, there is a way to stick with it, and be patient. i'm hoping to reside in that, no matter what. i don't know, or i don't think, that it would guarantee me any further benefit, in terms of something beautiful that is written, but at least it makes my hand steady, and doesn't have me continually recoiling from myself, as though i had just touched fire or electricity.
*****
dreams, fantasies. sometimes these dry up, and you are left wondering through a desert. the only water that appears is a mirage, a kind of vibration and illusion in the air, with nothing substantial. i think i am wondering through that sort of country right now. it is kind of like that cure song, "prayers for rain." (i recall that song, and its neighbor, and those gray times in my room, or in the lounge, under that sort of light, that half-light, a kind of dreamy feeling).
i am tired of it, but i feel compelled to search for it, no matter what. to chase a feeling. it is impossible to be content with not feeling. it simply doesn't work. a hunger begets action, not quiescence.
*****
i have a flash image of the back corner of the old house. there used to be a bottlebrush tree there? and i buried a mejiro once. i think of that corner for some reason, wondering at its size. was it really that large or was it actually a tiny scrunched up corner that i idealized in memory? i also recall poki and limu, my sister's dogs, wondering in the darkness through the tangle of ferns. i wonder where they are now (dead, of course). i wonder what became of them. i remember liking poki, and how he would put his head in the crook of my armpit. it's something i like musubi to do too. i actually hated (or didn't like) limu, because she was too boisterous. i also recall coco, that chihuahua, that i used to torture by giving him a bath in the furo. why did i do such things to torment the animal? i'm not sure.
*****
oh well, it's about time to get to work on my writing. wish me luck.
i still struggle mightily (???) with writing. there have been times when i have been completely stuck, and i just sit there, trying to push one more disgusting word out after another. and it makes me so loathe myself, and the writing that i produce. i wonder at that little statement i heard from david sedaris that he goes to write every day WILLINGLY (his emphasis). would i do that? for me, it has become something that i dread, because it slams me against the walls of my prison, of my own limitations. i feel boring and ugly after such sessions. i feel as though i have nothing interesting to tell.
*****
then again, there is an abiding. even when things get difficult, there is a way to stick with it, and be patient. i'm hoping to reside in that, no matter what. i don't know, or i don't think, that it would guarantee me any further benefit, in terms of something beautiful that is written, but at least it makes my hand steady, and doesn't have me continually recoiling from myself, as though i had just touched fire or electricity.
*****
dreams, fantasies. sometimes these dry up, and you are left wondering through a desert. the only water that appears is a mirage, a kind of vibration and illusion in the air, with nothing substantial. i think i am wondering through that sort of country right now. it is kind of like that cure song, "prayers for rain." (i recall that song, and its neighbor, and those gray times in my room, or in the lounge, under that sort of light, that half-light, a kind of dreamy feeling).
i am tired of it, but i feel compelled to search for it, no matter what. to chase a feeling. it is impossible to be content with not feeling. it simply doesn't work. a hunger begets action, not quiescence.
*****
i have a flash image of the back corner of the old house. there used to be a bottlebrush tree there? and i buried a mejiro once. i think of that corner for some reason, wondering at its size. was it really that large or was it actually a tiny scrunched up corner that i idealized in memory? i also recall poki and limu, my sister's dogs, wondering in the darkness through the tangle of ferns. i wonder where they are now (dead, of course). i wonder what became of them. i remember liking poki, and how he would put his head in the crook of my armpit. it's something i like musubi to do too. i actually hated (or didn't like) limu, because she was too boisterous. i also recall coco, that chihuahua, that i used to torture by giving him a bath in the furo. why did i do such things to torment the animal? i'm not sure.
*****
oh well, it's about time to get to work on my writing. wish me luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)