A bunch of random

So, I’m going to start this entry on a sort of random whim that I’m not really sure what exactly I’m going to be writing about. I’ll probably just mention a number of different things going on outside of the internet world. By the way, I think it’s obvious that the internet is a real place. Maybe not something that you can physically be in or experience by the five senses, but for sure it tweaks your state of consciousness. I know it does mine.



I really want to start challenging my mind. I’m using my left hand to do things my right hand would normally do. I remember back in high school art class I made a drawing with a pencil in either hand going at the same time. I drew a little cartoon person. It was interesting. One half was decent, the other a little more nervous. I think I’d like to revive this for regular exercises. Also, I heard that if you write in yellow, your inner critic will have no idea what to correct while you’re writing. For writers, this is fantastic.

I still have hemorrhoids. Yeah, by now we’re good friends. Frequently I’m needed to address certain issues, like “What is that smell?” or “what is that awful pinching feeling?” or “Toilet paper is making this worse.” When I first started getting these symptoms, I felt like I was one of those hopeless young adults with failing health, that this was just the beginning. Earlier in 2009 I felt like I had an evil presence in my body towards my stomach. I referred to it as cancer, and I frequently dreamed about it. When my hemorrhoids came about, I thought this was its ugly head rearing itself. And then I was ashamed of myself and embarrassed because the idea of telling others about this felt like I would have to be pitied. Maybe it’s no one else’s business. It’s certainly a little gross, so I can understand why it would be taboo.

But I think having hemorrhoids is a way to get in touch with my body. I’ve been asking my body questions at certain times. How do you feel? What’s up? And it certainly responds. I’m uncomfortable here. You’re sitting on me weird there. Move a little bit this way and the pressure will ease. Thank you. And I breathe deeply more. A lot more. I read from Andrew Weil, M.D., that he had never met a healthy person who did not breathe deeply. That helped me. And reading on hemorrhoids has clued me into certain bad habits. I’ve been aiming to share time on my feet with my ass. I go for walks. I think I eat healthy.



I’ve been thinking about that musical side of my mind – I would really like to record what I’m hearing in there.

I have this dream that gives me goosebumps whenever I think of it, and then following this rapture of good feeling is another feeling that one day I’ll do that. One day. What does this mean? The dream is a film, it’s full of color and moods and motions and pantomime and it just moves me. I should probably elaborate. I’ve been having this experience since a very young age. Bus rides to school were more like meditations of the imagination. I would listen to my trance music and see extraordinary things playing out in that universe of the mind. Imagine a part of a song or a scene from a movie that gives you the chills of your life. I mean, chills that run down your back and up from your legs and into your arms and then up into your face. I regularly gave myself goosebumps and I would hide them because I thought someone would find me weird to just be getting goosebumps on the bus. In the end, I don’t think anyone even looked or cared.

I’ve been using this skill (I’ll call it that) to work on my projects. Most of my drawings come from this meditation of the imagination. I capture the key image in what I’m seeing, in what I’m hearing, and I put it to paper to see what it looks like out there.



I’m probably not that important. But then I am. What is that? I’m important as far as the limited scope of humanity is concerned in that as one of a great common, the small part that is played by me actually tips the scales. But concerning billions of microorganisms and billions of galaxies, I’m not that important. I think of this paradox as a blessing. And maybe it holds the tinge of what freedom is. Old adages hint to this, things like “God has a sense of humor,” or “I’m sincere about life, but I’m not serious about it,” or “row, row, row your boat…life is but a dream.” I think we needn’t fool ourselves. We already know the truth. I also think that’s why I liken to reincarnation. Nature is cyclical. There are no wastes. There is no linear way. So why is consciousness different? Why do our souls transmigrate to judgment and face what is essentially black or white?

I suppose it’s the Ishmael trilogy that has me chuckling to myself. I always wondered about the story of the Fall – it just didn’t seem right to explain our existence. But explained from a different perspective, from indigenous cultures, it makes all the sense of the world. We abandoned God, our union with perfection, 10,000 years ago, and whatever we did to do that, was best told in an allegory. It has to do with how we grow our food, why we’re driving other species into extinction, why we shit on thrones, why we send our children away to factory schools, why we have cancer, and why most of us hate our jobs.



I’m not sure what it is, but I feel like there’s a mental block in the way of fully understanding The Crack in The Cosmic Egg (“Yeah, it’s called stupidity”). But really, there’s some truth to what my inner critic (also known as The Voice of Treason) has to say. The Crack has a language that makes sense, but I couldn’t tell you after reading a chapter what in the bloody hell I had just read. I could tell you more of what I was thinking about – books that don’t exactly “capture” tend to lead the reader astray. There’s a level of interest and curiosity that keeps the book in your hands (you want to FINISH it!), but while your eyes drift lazily from line to line, your imagination is looking out the window. You’re daydreaming. That is what is happening here. I’m not saying the book is badly written, I’m saying that my comprehension level isn’t there yet, or maybe the subject matter hasn’t yet reached significance in my life yet.



I recently adopted a macramé hanging basket from my grandparents and immediately transplanted the spider plant we had gotten from our neighbors. The photo shown here is of it three days later. It’s definitely showing some new growth. And the soil I used? I combined the old stuff that came with the pot with compost I harvested from my worm bin a few weeks earlier. This probably goes against some old gardening adage, but I’m experimenting.



I guess that’s it for now. I never really have just one thing to write about.