Approach

Approach my writing carefully, thoughtfully, slowly, as it each word counts. Please pause in between each thought, as demarcated by commas and periods.

Approach my writing lovingly, curiously. You are approaching me.

The Pursuit

Green-ish apple with peanut butter, which took approximately four attempts, three knives, and a whole lot of perseverance to stir, if only partially. (Mental (and now written) note: buy another brand next time). The air conditioner unit's hum is overwhelming my senses while the hummingbirds have all taken the longest siesta known to bird-kind. OK.. Having sufficiently complained, I am ready to move on to my next paragraph. It can be seen and enjoyed below.

Why do I write? Let me count the ways. (Gotta love that poem! Incidentally, it was not written by Shakespear, as I so ignorantly believed).

Because I can.

Because I have too many words in my head.

Because I like to see how the words congregate together to form an image.

Because I have time on my hands.

Because it's exciting to see an idea drop into life out of thin air.

Because I have a tool for it, known as my laptop, and before that, I had pen and paper, and before that I have no idea, because I wasn't alive before the late '70's, and I don't know what came first: the pen and paper or the writing. When was it decided that the oral tradition had become flawed? After all, the best soup I have ever made was learned by watching my mama, not by reading a recipe book. Whew! Having sufficiently pondered life-changing topics, I am ready to paint the next paragraph, also to be viewed below.

Why do I write? Dance? Talk? Check my Facebook account? The list is very extensive here. Oh! Get angry, drive fast, look through my old memorabilia? Why do I do anything at all? In my short and fascinating time on this planet (since the '70's, in case you've forgotten the earlier statement), I have found myself to be devoid of any action under very few circumstances. I would put them under the umbrella called "Utterly Captivating Repose." (Sleep is not included). Please continue to the next paragraph for further explanation.

I do stuff, and I do stuff compulsively. 

I do stuff, because I have energy to use up. I move my body. I entertain my mind and feel various emotions. 

I do stuff, because I feel compelled.

Because I have to feel useful.

Because I want to be productive (except the goals are not all that well-defined).

I do stuff, of various proportions, because of one reason. Are you ready for the massive profundity? Drum roll...The moment you have waited three and a half paragraphs for has finally arrived. The truth, the "I-can't-believe-this-is-the-plug-I-have-been-so-eagerly-anticipating-to-read" truth is this: I am restless.

I also seem to doubt that, when on my beautifully decorated, ornate deathbed, I will be happy knowing that I had spent my life running. From here to there, everywhere, and elsewhere. 

Well, the thought process has entered its maturation point. The not-so-original conveyance has been conveyed, bringing me to the end of the creative process, exiting it through this portal of words. Yes, also to be found below.

I'll see you all at the gym of life. The latest news is that the monthly rates have increased, and I would urgently recommend finding another possibility.

Gentle Men

Dictionary.com defines aggression as: 1. any offensive action, attack, or procedure; an inroad or encroachment: 2. overt or suppressed hostility, either innate or resulting from continued frustration and directed outward or against oneself.

"Hostility against oneself" is one of my favorites. We are quite insane for doing that. I am sure that, if we could, we'd much rather direct it outward, but those civilized (or not) social mores will not allow us, for the fear of being ridiculed and considered insane, which we already are, so, in the end, it's a no-win situation. Beyond this unpleasant and easy-to-grasp understanding, there is the source of hostility. This is even more insane, if insanity were a spectrum akin to that one of light waves (I am "seeing" a beautiful array of colors....). The source, of course, is being completely (or mostly) out of touch with what is. It's the perfect soil for growing frustration and pain. The reality doesn't match up with the internal desire. The internal desire is driven by some insane expectation of what the situation should be, fed by everyone and everything around us, and that expectation, is also based on the insane misunderstanding of life. It's a big messy cycle, needless to say, breeding more subtle examples of aggression, which appear as control and manipulation of the external environment, of another human being. "Hostility directed outward." Another insane activity. 

And really, my whole rant on the subject boils down to one thing and one thing only. Gentle men and women, may I ask that we tread....gently?

 

Just Ask Me

At this point of my adventurous existence, I'd like to go on record and state that aggression is not the tea I am interested in drinking. I don't enjoy it in any way, regardless of the flavor or the cup that it's in. Poison is poison. And I did not choose this word unconsciously. Aggression is poison. It converts the other into an enemy, or assumes he is an easy prey. It assumes the other can be and will be controlled and bent into the desirable shape to serve the needs of the aggressor. It seeks dominance and power. It respects no one. And, most certainly, it works as an electric fence, protecting the scared little puppy that's doing all the yucking.

I'd like to record another statement. Just as violence begets more violence, so does kindness beget more of the same. You want respect? Become respectful. You want fairness? Be fair. You want recognition? Recognize. And you want what you want? Give it away. 

Aggression is a symptom. Aggression hurts humanity. And, in reality, there is no need for it. None. Just ask me nicely, and I will flow with you resistance-free. That simple.

The Cynic

Movie no. 1. Finished.

Movie no. 2. Just finished.

Movie no. 3. To be finished.

Except the upcoming theme is of no surprise. It goes something like this:

"Don't you get lonely sometimes?" "Don't you get scared sometimes?" "Please don't leave me." "You make me feel alive." "I love you!....?" "Don't you love me, too?" The hug ensues, the passionate kiss follows, the credits roll, and all the world is teary... They have all been there, done that, and appreciate the drama.

But the previous and the upcoming themes are of a surprise. They really say something like this:

"I am going to use you as a band-aid for my feeling inadequate." "I am scared of who I really am." "My well-being is dependent on you serving me." "I love you but only if you love me back. If you don't act the way I expect you to, I will no longer see your beauty and will say nasty things about you."

Of course, the real theme is hidden by the romanticism of tears, cute outfits, and hormonal outbreaks.

The world eats this stuff up. Sees itself in the lie. Validates its behavior while continuing to find solace in that which does not work. Power is not the answer. Control is an illusion. Possession of the other diminishes the likelihood of honest inner expression.

Movie no. 4, 5, etc. To be written.

Its theme is yet to be. It will convey something like this:

"I want to know me." "I want to learn from you." "I love you for you, not for what you do for me." 

And I? That's simple. I just want to be free. Free in the world of self-deception...

Ouch!!!

Seriously, people (myself included)! The paradigm we're living in! Ouch! The drama, the endless drama, the going-down-the-rabbit-hole drama has buried us. Can you feel it? The pain of existence has permeated the very fabric of our being. Seemingly, not dead. Actually.... that's just a matter of honesty. The men throw themselves into action. The women throw themselves into acting out. All that just to feel like we're OK as we are. While the communication between the two is hardly sophisticated. The bodies grow while the child inside remains just that, a child. Perhaps, birthing a child is a great thing, a chance to see a reflection of oneself. 

Stepping out into the world. Taking a bird's eye view of the system. The healthcare system, the political system, the religious system. Repeating the line- the paradigm we're living in! Action abounds with its reaching tentacles of control, power, force, and aggression. The unfulfilling glory of getting There. Except There doesn't exist, it's undefinable or experiential. It's a figment of one's imagination grown out of the paradigm we're living in. While the child inside is screaming for that bone. With words of recognition permanently etched in.

Zooming into the home. Taking a microscopic view of the human system. The system of acting out. It sprawls out like a spider's web, swiftly and gracefully and un-noticeably, entrapping all that comes into contact with it, taking over the tree of life. Acting out suffocates humanity. It thickens the air and wastes precious life energy, as the child inside is begging for a unconditional word of affection.

And thus, the paradigm of existence implores to be re-evaluated. It has served its purpose. It is outdated, outmoded, outlived, over-milked, and has gone to decay. The human drama is unnecessary! The acting (over-acting) and the acting out can be halted. Just some willingness to want to know.

Aha!

He told me about them. On numerous occasions. In spoken words, in written words, in illustrations. Yet, it remained in a distance, I was unable to grasp it until I saw it form in front of my very own eyes. This page is about stories. Stories we first tell ourselves and, consequently, live out. 

She's lying in bed. I could tell she was still strong, even at the age of 92. Her bone was broken after a fall. She wasn't allowed to place any weight on it. 

She's lying in bed. She's telling me something happened to her other leg, some new pain, of unknown origin, and she's unable to use it. "I don't know why. Maybe I stood on it too much. What do you think? I don't know why it hurts." 

Two minutes later, she's back to pondering as to where the pain came from. I listen. I tend to the leg. It feels better. 

Two more minutes later, she tells me her other leg hurts, and she's unsure of how it began. It never hurt before until today. Could be that she stood on it too much the day before? She's looking for reassurance.

Two more minutes later, this solidly built 92 yo woman informs me that her other leg has been hurting since this morning, because she stood on it too long the day before. She didn't want to do it, but the "other woman" insisted on it. It is stated as fact. The cause and effect have been firmly established. The story has been formed. Her truth has been spoken. We now have the ingredients for a fully developed plot: the villain, the victim, the circumstances, the memory.

Two more minutes later, my words are: "There is nothing wrong with your other leg. You will be ok." I see a face relax and lips mouth: "Really? I was afraid I wouldn't walk again."

She is afraid. She needs a lifeline. She seeks stability, reason, something to hang on to, as the wave of uncertainty crashes over her head, taking her into the unknown. She is afraid of losing her life. She needs to find stable ground. She finds refuge in the story.

I see a story form in front of my very own eyes in a matter of minutes. I am watching it unfold, fascinated by the process of creation. A story created out of nothing, based on nothing but the creator's interpretation of the events, driven by our most fundamental emotion. Fear.

Fear creates one story. Perhaps, love writes another. If I am to live with stories, I'll pick one by the latter storyteller. But the real question is... can I live without any?