I fear the brutality of truth, its uncompromising honesty and undeniable existence Selected for slaughter I am summonsed by its prophecy Then it gashes into me with razor like fangs Sometimes I think I have become its parody Laid on a butcher block, my private thoughts are hacked by the invincibility of truth’s shock The fresh blood of my ignorant existence squirting denial onto the mirror that reflects the lie I lived since my birth Impaled by the truth The living flesh of my deceived soul stabbed with an edged knife splits open into wound like a cleft Exposed now, the raw, oozing me reads: “there, the truth, you see.” Truth is like fresh blood: hot and sticky in its honesty, and unforgettably red. I fear it, yet I want to know it like I know about death An intimate hatred to past events burns in my breath Inescapably true and insensitive that truth may be, tortured, agonizing and upset, I still wish to see Truth knows not diplomacy nor does it care Its words are whiplashes castigating any pretense Sentenced to truth, even death would be less intense Even armed with a dictionary of swords no mortal will ever ably defend Truth doesn’t blurb or make a scene it confronts me naked, ugly, sore and mean It's the sadistic crusader silently wielding its honesty boiling my being to scream Behind every frontage the truth can be seen, hidden only from the mind in delusional dream I fear the honesty of truth Bitter, vile, — sweet and beautiful The truth cuts me in two: One piece, the truth, is my book The other, the lie, is the way that I look
I mean you read a lot. A hell of a lot.
One copy of yourself should be dedicated to reading 24-hours a day and provide feedback to yourself. It should then populate that infinite dormant memory in your head, indexing everything and getting on with it, ploughing through all that is readable and available, at thought-speed, — forget about sluggish light-speed, we have very (much) surpassed that.
You see a lot too. Maybe even more than you read. But, don’t underestimate the written word. With reading also comes seeing.
There is so much out there that you actually don’t have to think ever again. It’s all been said and it’s all been thought. And what remains, surely, is in a pipeline somewhere to be revealed shortly (on Netflix or some blog or in a pub).
And, the more I read and see, truly I feel, the dumber I get. Why? Because in some way by having all this input I don’t have any output anymore. I do, but it’s others’ thoughts, words and ideas.
I clearly know that I have to extend my 24-hour day. I have to create parallel days and still manage everything even if it is four-fold now. But, I don’t want to be a manager. No, shit no! I want to be involved in every little bit of those multiple 24-hour days, and I also want to get on with other stuff that interests me. I want to spend hours flying, soaring in the air, 3k feet above the ground, or landing in my neighbor farmers backyard on a penny for a cup of Wienermischung Arabica coffee. I want to immerse myself in music and play it and compose. I want to travel to every remote and beautiful corner of this magnificent continent called Africa in my Land Cruiser. I have a love affair with Africa and another one with another one. I have to create, split, multiply and slice the time I have available.
I literally have to drag myself away from the latest doing, reading and seeing, — which I am blatantly honest about, is all extremely enjoyable, — back into my chambers, close the door behind me and open the one in front of me. The one that opens into my world from my mind. You see, here goes another 24-hour day.
My function in life, — having come to this astounding realization of the ninety-six hour day requirement, — is not to write more initially. We have agreed that there is too much already for the twenty-four hour limited human being.
We have to find ways to condense time, expand time, multiply time, fornicate time, forget time, — ignore it, any which way, — and get more done in the moment of life we have so we can absorb, digest, create more and become infinitely more of ourself.
What other point could there conceivably be to continue with life once such a revelation has shone upon us, but to invent new methods and aspire to hitherto unknown heights of accomplishing the impossible?
Do you really want to slip back into your twenty-four hour drudge-day which practically gives you perhaps two hours to do your stuff, instead of figuring out some multi-parallel reality?
Fine, go for it. You won’t find me in that asylum.
Yes, there are schools of thought that we should do one thing and one thing only at a time in order to do them properly. (utter rubbish loser talk) Admittely, I have tried and I have made a mess of it. My first novel, a fictional memoir called ‘beyond Cloudia,’ touches on the subject. And, there are always those ‘I told you so’ encouraging cheer leaders. Instead of getting multiple things done, nothing was finished, except the bottle of red wine or the J, in the end. That however is no sentence not to try again, more evolved, and with better or more Jwine. I don’t smoke so there is no J in my wine.
The current steam locomotive of progress has become terribly, frustratingly slow and this has watered the seed for further exploration into the matter of parallel 24-hour days, or, at least one ninty-six hour day to start with.
Very few things, if any, have ever worked the first time around. How many rockets have gone up in smoke? Right. We have to start somewhere.
I think we have to be blind movers sometimes, believing that our movement gets us there, although we can’t see it, or explain the logic behind our (absurd) behavior .
Mostly, when the flame goes out the candle is left. Maybe, once upon, it flickered and burned bright. Its reflection casting life onto the screen as I write. Like the sun it shone wherever I was. Perhaps it had its own soul? Not a soul we humans understand. Of a beauty that mesmerized, it was so grand. Not a composition of science, oxygen and chemistry. A soul of burning mystery. And then I left it alone, ignored and forgot it. Or, I extinguished it with a thoughtless breath. Cruel, you could say. It was so motile and alive. Blue, transparent, deep orange, dark and light. Shaped like a hand, as if reaching out to somewhere — to a place we can’t see. An x-dinguished gesture axed the flame. The candle's journey abruptly finished. Were there conversations with the candle? Flaming or not? Dialog or monolog? Probably, but rarely. I told it my story and asked it to publish my wishes. I did, — but only in recent oratory. I put my hopes into the flame. Then I watched it write, with the tip of its light, onto the backdrop of the eternal night. I blew it out, letting the white smoke add its credentials and reshape the message to the essentials. Quickly I lit it again, so the flame could rise from the dead and proceed with the next message instead. My message was sent. Should I remain? Am I waiting in vain? Some of my candle is left, but what happened to its flame?
What is (longterm) happiness reliant on?
On me being happy of course.
However, basing happiness on something/someone has a catch. When that something disappears, happiness goes with it.
Soever a bad idea.
Definitely, happiness is amped when I have what I want, and I wouldn’t want to live without what I wanted because that makes me happy.
Want – have – happiness, not-happiness, want – have – happiness, not-happiness, want …
The frequency of life. Roll-er-coast-er.
I pursue happiness. I run after it. Sometimes I catch it. I find that ‘…happiness…’ and I am ecstatically happy. Forever. Yeah really! — ?
I’ve got health, job, girl, cabriolet, aircraft, house, money galore, — G-d am I happy, over the moon. I float in transcendence.
Alas, that is a fleeting ecstasy. It’s a pill. Pills’ effect is not lasting.
Health gone, happiness gone.
Job gone, happiness gone. Girl gone, happiness gone. Cabriolet stolen, happiness gone. Aircraft crashed, happiness gone. House repossessed, happiness gone.
Everything gone, happiness gone with it.
Not being happy doesn’t necessarily infer that I am deadly, depressingly unhappy, but to me, not-happiness would be somewhat vegetating along. What’s the point? To get through a crisis and then find happiness?
Isn’t it that the accomplishment after the successful pursuit of pleasure makes us feel happy? Ahh, satisfaction. The consequence of taking a ‘pleasure pill’ is, well, pleasure, and that’s when I’m truly happy.
Uh, that word truly. Rampantly, crazy happy. Really? Or just overboard, cloud-nine walking till the novelty wears off?
Real, lasting, unblemished happiness is the product of the deliberate thought, “I am happy,” without a condition.
There is no “I am happy if… or when…” there just is “I am happy.”
You gotta beeee happy, you can’t find it. You create it by saying that you are. You instantiate, actualize, effect and realize it.
Wait a sec. How can that be? I need my sailboat to be happy. I need my Yorky to be happy. I need, I need…to be happy. You gotta be kidding me with this “I am happy,” unfinished sentence.
Maybe the great sages can be happy without any condition, but I, hmm?
And yet, whenever I think about it, and lately more often, I think being happy is a disposition, like a pizza base. I need to create the base. Tomato, cheese, olives, and artichokes without a base to put on are like pills, but, when you provide the base you have a real meal in your hands.
A base of happiness garnished with the ingredients of my liking. Now my mouth is watering and life is dancing. Scrumptious stuff.
Unattached and still happy, yeah, and then heap on the blessings.
Don’t just think it, say it out loud,
“I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.”
Now I’ve just created the base.
Words are expressively powerful.
Saying “I am happy” eliminates the desperation to find happiness by pursuing evermore garnishings.
Having an unconditionally happy base, being unarguably happy, un-joggle-able, allows me to gather my focus onto that which is important to me. The amusing thing is that suddenly I don’t want a thousand things anymore but literally just a few, — to make a really delicious pizza of my life.
Happiness is such a solidly good base that any decision reached in that state of happiness can only lead to more of the same.
Happiness from outside is makeup. Admittedly beautifying life immensely, but it washes off. Happiness from within is an unshakeable foundation.
Let’s all set our human cruise control to “I am happy.”
Imagine the impact of all us happy people in the world?
Rising as a reaction to ruling indifference and indoctrinated acceptance, the question is like a bubble of methane gas released in a swamp. The question comes into existence. The question has a life of its own and a reason to be there.
You’d be moseying along minding some business, probably in semi-automatic mode, and pop, here comes the question:
“Is this the best way I can live my life?”
The question serves to remind us to revisit what we want, — and then compare it with what we have. The wider the discrepancy the more persistent the nagging, to the point where we often become impatient and ignore the question, falling back into inherited mediocrity.
“What am I supposed to do now that I am so deep in it?” you might say.
“I need answers where none are forthcoming and not questions to upset my life even more.”
The question is actually an observation of my own life telling me that the path I am on is not in agreement with what I want. It becomes a billboard above my eyes. Softly interrupting at first, patiently persistent, and eventually pounding me with all the force of pain and frustration when it continues to be ignored. Ultimately, however, even the energy of life will succumb to the anguish of being disregarded and overruled by the mind and retreat into depression and disease.
Why let it get to such a state of stuck desperation?
The moment we acknowledge the message (the billboard) that Life* has, no matter how hopeless we think our situation is, we become our own ENABLER.
When I thus ENABLE, I BELIEVE in Life. My Life.
The only honest, concerned and able guide I have is my Life. Suddenly, as if by some mystical arrangement I will be doing it the way of my Life.
During the times that I follow the way of my Life I am given a limitless view and a feeling of perfect alignment. Nothing is missing. It’s the way. The only way for me, — exclusively only for me. Why? Because I am like none other.
Now the magic happens: I forgive; I am free; I let go; I understand; I help; I decide; I act; I love; I achieve and progress; I create; I win; I am kind; I am complete.
The way of my Life is harmonious and flowing existence. That is happiness. Everything comes together.
In turn, you might have a pertinent question too that you want to ask your Life at the present moment.
Ask: “Life what do you suggest right now?”
Behind the ego and emotion, Life’s answer will be loud and clear.
*Life (with capital ‘L’) an intelligent existence within us with an unbiased concept of our being; an entity or a part of us who guides us to the utmost benefit in the context of our individual super-reality.
A quote by the late author Michelle McNamara.
Since I heard it first mentioned by her comedian husband, Patton Oswalt, it’s been like a fishhook, it won’t let go of me.
Mayhem, disarray, havoc.
We can argue, and you can “yes but you are so negative,” and “can’t you see the positive things for a change,” …whatever, whatever. I, however, don’t need any more arguments or justifications. Really. When I look just a bit outside my comfort nest the chaos already starts. It becomes frighteningly more chaotic the more and further I look.
Admittedly, there is an immeasurable amount of beauty and wonderful stuff and there is an unfathomable amount of chaos. I don’t even mean the natural state of the universe. I mean the chaos man has created and perpetuates with his mind and ego in the name of anything from religion to power, greed, expansionism, exhibitionism, survival and primeval urges.
So in my little world, there is no chaos, nor in the worlds of those I associate myself with. I also pot-believe in the critical mass that has swung the scale already in favor of the unchaotic good.
Wonderful blinkers. My head is dug so deep in the sand.
I am such a recluse, living in my mountain wilderness or coastal stilt-log cabin. There, in the natural grandeur and peace, I deal with very different chaos, — not the human annihilating one.
No matter how head-deep-in-the-sand or reclusive I might be, eventually, the energy of chaos will vibrate me out of my oblivion into the contrasting stark reality of now’s chaos.
Eventually, the noise of chaos is even in the water that I drink and sixty percent of my body is high on chaos. Even my virtual world of earphones and screen vibrates to the chaos.
Inescapably I am confronted with chaos and there are times when I even become the personification of chaos. Chaotic is my name, not caring is my game.
To muster the ability and counter chaos with kindness is a remarkable achievement of evolution, of understanding and self-control. That is a deed worthy of headlines, prizes, accolades, and it’s own ‘Noble laureate.’ (Different to the Alfred Bernhard Nobel laureates, — notice the twist in spelling.)
“In the beginning, Man created God.”
Jethro Tull, Aqualung.
It was an ingenious, resourceful idea that has not been surpassed by anything since.
There it suddenly was: this glorious, omnipotent deity. Someone to lump everything onto, blame and exploit. We can now rinse our hands in ‘innocence.’ We are faultless and ‘It’ is the best-advertised problem coated in the irresistible flavor of a fail-less solution. A marvelous finguck excuse.
It was God. It is God’s doing. It is God’s will. It is for God. My God is the real deal, not yours.
(Replace God with any name that your God is.)
God, God, God.
Since then, whenever it was when we created God, we have been spinning and regurgitating this very frigging broken record. Fervently and aggressively we climb onto pulpits and continue to pronounce God’s eternal life by sacrificing even our own lives and others’, — creating ridiculous chaos in the name of a deity we have enthroned and can dethrone any time, — evading responsibility and absolving ourselves in front of this artificial altar instead of taking ownership, accountability and most of all, being kind.
Some interesting people have had words around this subject: Carl Sagan, Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Stephen Hawking, Michio Kaku, Stephen Fry, Brain Greene etc. etc. and me and you.
The crucial, pivotal moment in one’s own life is when — without the influence of anyone else and brought on by an incessant lifelong pondering, — we realize that God is not the faulty one but that we are entirely the only ones responsible (for all the chaos) and therefore better start practicing to ‘be kind.’
Kim Jong-un and well-known others, Syria, Iraq, Turkey, Yemen, Somalia, DRC, Isis, Rohingya, refugees, on&on&on. Discord, suffering, and war on an astronomical scale on our tiny earth.
Chaos on the planet: in countries, in tribes, families, businesses, amongst lovers, in the traffic, at concerts, on the sidewalks, — chaos inside you and me.
Kindness incorporates all attributes of caring, compassion, allowance, understanding, even respect towards everyone and everything. Acting from a basis of kindness enables us to respond in a manner appropriate to the circumstances. The alchemy of kindness converts chaos and aggression into caring.
I got the message to be kind, loud and clear, — did you?
As always, this blog voices my personal thoughts and ideas on subjects and does not mean to offend.