Safe and Sound in the Mist of Meaning

My best guess is that life has no meta-meaning. No big, grand narrative holding it all together. Any stories that appear to do this, I believe are our own fabrications. 

The moment you lose the illusion of being eternal (or special, or whatever), meaning is from then-on, laid down at the feet of us ordinary individuals, and we are given the chance to take responsibility for it. We can no longer look for meaning to be handed down to us (as from parent to child, state to citizen, or priest to congregation). 

Well, we can look for this, and many of us do, but it is this freedom that I reckon we fear. We would often rather play the child, and have someone sell us a story, at the expense of some sort of freedom. The more afraid we are of our own participation in our world of meaning, the more we call the stories of others (Parents, Priests, Politicians) that we buy into, grandiose things like TRUTH.
 
The real illusion (and this is a great act of self-trickery), is that all those blankets of meaning, no matter how much we find ourselves struggling under the weight of them, were knitted by us, yet we perform the best disappearing act in history. We CON-vince ourselves we were not involved in the illusion. This is why I think, we humans, are great illusionists, magicians and tricksters. We all get something out of buying into the illusion, even if they are illusions that are seemingly to our detriment, and even if it is for gaining something as mediocre as comfort or convenience.

Until we fully accept our individual participation, in the knitting of our world of meanings; we will not be fully free, and we will limit our personal growth. We will continue to be like children wanting to be parented, buying into someone else's meanings, narratives, stories, reasoning, understandings. I believe it is a human predisposition to do this, because we have all been children, but I believe we can only grow as we slowly let go; as we let the stabilisers of other people's ideas be taken off our little emotional bicycles. Although, that is not to say that we won't craft our very own stabilisers and bolt those on as a replacement, which may be a temporary fix, however, I just don't think we really need the stabilisers.
 

My best guess is that we were always participating in the warp and woof of those worlds of meanings, and I am suggesting that we own up to our own handiwork. The moment we stop passing the buck, we begin to participate in the hard task of finding out who we are, and what we prefer, and decide what we want for ourselves. This is the moment we begin to take a little more charge of our lives: how we choose to be, where we choose to be, the way we choose to be, in relation to ourselves, others, and life in general.

I actually don't think we need much meaning in our lives (even if we may be addicted to it). I reckon we generally just go along, and do what we do, with or without grand schemes of meaning. Many of the stories we have secretly written are probably not even that beneficial for us; for our mental health and for our ability to deal with all that life presents. These kinds of meanings, are ones we would be best to free ourselves from. If the stories we hold are effective at helping us get on with our lives, and flourish (if it is indeed flourishing that we want to do) or damn ourselves (if is is indeed damning ourselves that we want to do), then, we may carry on unquestioning.

I do think that part of the human experience, and human need, is to find stories with which to interpret our experience of our life. However, I imagine that we are best to keep the stories simple, related to the ordinary, which might prevent the destruction caused when the meta-meanings collapse and can no longer sustain the life they are supposed to be expressing.

One of my hardest trials in life, came when I let go of my meta-meanings, like a child letting go of a bunch of pretty helium balloons. I stood there feeling abandoned, and choked up with a sense of loss. And then came the dawning that I was still the same person, with all the same habits, and reactions and feelings, but, I was now just feeling a lot more alone, a lot more naked, and a lot more exposed. I was the empty-handed child. 

So, there I was, unadorned. I was without the meta-meanings but I was still the same. The smokescreen had cleared, and there was the once-great magician: not that great afterall. He had just been hiding in the smoke, in the mist of his words, but he had never left the stage at all.

Desire at the Helm

Desire feels like a promise 
A promise of great riches
Desire feels like truth
The bringer of certainty and ontological stability
But, we forget that the desire says everything
Desire is a ventriloquist.
And we, the desire-ers,
are the dummies in this act.

We aren't making love to ourselves as such
but there is some deception at work
it is a trickery
an optical illusion
it's a sleight of hand

are we fools who pretend that we are in charge
we make the decisions,
quasi-decisions
hazy-decisions
based on the twisted information;
the propaganda of our desires.
I wonder in the midst of this
if there is a democracy within
or if it is a rouge of democracy
that spins the truth
and we get drunk on the rhetoric of freedom
when all the while
we are being driven by our desires
and we have no real choice in the matter
and whatever we end up deciding
we will justify after the event
keeping our scriptwriters in business.

And maybe I am the last person in the world I should believe

Giving Birth to Eternity

I wonder
when the word "eternity"
first passed human lips,
did it spill out into the air
did it burst forth
or slip out like a whispered secret

was it an utterance 
burgeoning with hope
or a painful prayer
spoken by someone 
whose back was breaking
under the weight of their life
the spine splintered and lacerated
under the cross of their existence

or

if it was the yearning of a lover
freshly sweating from the tangle of passion
to never let it end
pained by the thought of
endings

When Tenderness Hurts

I just can't get there
I feel trapped in me
There is a better place
but it is beyond me

I can feel this thing around my heart
the emotional cling-film
it's suffocating me

clammed-up and stagnant
the stifling humidity
of this concealed world
that even my own eyes cannot
pierce

I cannot muster enough light
with which to penetrate
that dark

if only my eyes looked upon myself
with the tenderness
that I wish I had known
yet
all I do, and continue to do
is to amplify and echo the harsh
voices and verdicts
that accompanied my childhood
at least
they are the ones I remember

how do you learn to do what you have never done?

were there redeeming memories?

this is true
but
it's not true enough
there have been faint whispers
from time to time
that although barely discernible,
were tender enough
to bring tears to my eye

because tenderness hurts sometimes
and sometimes its the last thing you want

The Last Spell in the Book

There is a feeling in life that we don’t like to feel. There are many of course, but the one I am talking about now, is the feeling of being out at sea, with no land in sight…or something like that.

It is that feeling you get when you have no more words, to communicate anything to the other you are meant to love; no words that could make it any better. When the world that once felt solid and secure, has given way to a fluid world of molecules. When you have got to the last page in your book of spells, and the last spell fails to do anything. The chaos continues and we are impotent to change it. The conflict simmers [whether inner or outer; they both feed each other], and we feel helpless; at a loss, longing for some solid ground…like a fridge to clean, or a good dose of self-harm…any way we can reduce the world into something so small and manageable, as to give a feeling of control; to feel like there is a world that exists, that is so small, we could make it better.

But, I am guided by that bright shining North Star of human contradiction.

Even though there are times when we want to have control…to tidy things to within an inch of their life…and put the CDs in alphabetical order…there are also times when we long to pass the buck for our lives onto someone else’s shoulders; like the shoulder’s of a big parent in the sky…like Fate or Circumstance. We mutter the words like a mantra, “but it was out of my control”, or "it wasn't my fault", as if saying these words were a charm that would ward off responsibility.

Sometimes we are playing the child, with are arms held outstretched, hoping for the sweetness of relinquished control, and sometimes we are sitting, arms folded, refusing to talk, curling up in a red-faced tantrum because we are being ignored by that Big Parent in the Sky. The world is not playing ball.

Sometimes we are playing the parent, and we have forgotten how to let go…we have been clinging so tightly for so long, that we would need hugged into submission, or convinced by some life threatening disease, or relational upheaval, that we are not in the pilot’s seat, we are not master and commander…we are not in control, and we can’t Harry Potter our way out of it.

Great Expectations

If we are looking for coherency or constancy we are looking at the wrong species.

If we are looking for stability or security, we are looking at the wrong species, and are living on the wrong planet. Yet, despite this, we have these kinds of expectations, and the requisite disappointment when human beings do not live up to our expectations. But, where do these expectations of human beings come from, because it seems like they were forged on another planet? We often expect human beings to be better than they are...to be other than they are...or when they are not performing according to our expectations, we live in the disappointment and the sulking. We call it unfair, and take it out on the world of human beings, because they do not conform with our desires. We desire them to change. We hope that at some point, the offending other, will start to get in line with our pre-existing expectations.

The bizarre thing in all of this mix, is that we rarely ever question our expectations. It is as if our expectations were preordained by an immutable God, and if we let go of them, the world would crumble. We cling to our expectations like a child to a pacifier. When if falls out of place we play out the tantrum, until we get our way, or something closer to it, or alternatively we just keep sulking even when we don't get anything back. These sulks can last for years or lifetimes. Instead of information gathering in an act of existential curiosity about the world that exists around us, or the people that float in and out of our lives, we glue ourselves to our expectations with ever greater resolve...and suffer the pain of the fracturing. We will do this time and time again. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, as if we were addicted to the pain of the disappointment. It would be admirable if it weren't so painful to watch, or to experience.

When we enter into relationships, we enter in with a million little expectations, hidden in our creases, bulging in our pockets. They pre-exist the relationship. When we encounter a human being, we may at first, make some effort to see who they are. To see if they are the kind of other, who might come close to satisfying us...to see if they are a safe bet. If we can tick enough of the prerequisites, then we venture in feeling vulnerable and exposed. Our refrigerated desires start coming out of the fridge of our hiddenness, ready to be projected onto another human being. At some point we stop asking who the other is. We stop asking questions fuelled by curiosity. Instead, we drop the curiosity, and start colonising the other with our expectations. The other can be a little shocked by this...assuming of course that they have not been doing exactly the same thing. They may well have been expecting an other, who did not expect too much of them. But, they soon discover they are in a relationship with someone who does expect something other than what they are giving. What do they do?

What do we do? What do we do when the our expectations and our experiences don't match up? What are the "that always happens to me"s that punctuate our stories? Do they tell a repetitive tale of a faulty existing world, or faulty expectations?

Hang on for dear life to our expectations of course. That is the human prerogative isn't it? We would rather keep our ideals and the complimentary disappointments, than suffer the ultimate disillusionment of that other reality. We will find a million reasons for why we can never unearth that reality, and how it is arrogant to talk about it as such. Who is to know what reality is afterall?

Our expectations were our first love. Our hearts are not fully open to the world and the people in it, because they are still hankering after the love of the first love...the expectations...the wishes.
 
Then, there are longings. These aren't expectations, just a struggle with the world as it is, and not letting go of the security blanket of the "world as we wish it was". But, where did this idea of a world, any other than the one that exists, come from? Is it just that we perceived this world differently at some point? Of course we did. When I was a child, feeding at my mother's breast, it was a radically different world than it is now. Sorry, lets rephrase that, I perceived it as a radically different world. My experience was radically different. I am no longer a child. I am no longer parented, badly or otherwise. I am my own parent. I still want my needs to be met, and I would still rather I didn't have to communicate that, and that my desires would be known and sated without me having to do anything. But alas...that is also not the world I live in. Yet, it seems, that some people gauge the world that should exist, based on their perceptions from when they were nursing at their mother's breast, or being looked after (badly or otherwise) by some parental figure/s. They think that is the way the world should continue to be. A world that corresponds with their needs and their desires.

So, what can we expect? What is it ok to expect? Is it ok to expect honesty, and openness in an intimate relationship for example? Well, I will be controversial and say no. We can't expect it. We can request it, and as I have often been heard to say, "the opposite of expectation is request". I may desire honesty and openness, but I can not make that happen. This is where I can get frustrated, thinking, "how the hell can we relate to eachother, if you won't be honest, and open?!!"...but, really, I need to be assessing the information I am getting about the person I am relating to. If they are not on a place on their journey, were they feel they can be honest (the way we determine), or open (the way we determine), then that is just who they are and where they are at. Shouting, nagging, or getting angry won't change a single thing. There is no lever big enough to change that. It also leaves me with the ball in my court. Which is usually the last place we want it to be. Why? Because then we have to make a decision based on the information we have received. Freedom, decisions, responsibility. Ah shit!

Making a request of someone is much more egalitarian than it sounds. It allows the other a voice, and a response. It allows the other a voice and a reponse, that we have no control over. It allows them their separateness, and in being open with a request, we face the risk of the negative response coming back. However, at least we are treating the other like a human being, with their own needs, own desires, and own ideas. Instead of trying to maintain some sort of toxic symbiosis, we allow the breath of air to come inbetween, and we wait for the response. This is much more humanising, and much more egalitarian, and dare I say more loving, than having expectations of the other person.

So, does this mean expectations are out the window? Well, what use are they? When they are not informing us of anything...when they are taking templates from a world of wishes, and overlaying them on the people and events in the world of is-ness.

If our expectations are of any use...it is simply, that they tell a story about a world that existed for us once, and tell us about our desires. But, when we start projecting them onto the people in our lives...especially the people we claim to love, then what are we doing to them? It seems that when we are heavily laden with expectations, we don't see people for who they are, and let them tell their story as they wish to tell it...instead we squeeze them into a pre-existing formula...a pre-existing dance...a pre-existing pattern...a pre-existing ritual...a pre-existing drama.

We no longer see people for who they are, but how they can fit into the world we need to feel exists.

The people we love, become, simply the people we need to reaffirm the world we hope exists.

People become our little charms to ward off the world of is-ness.

Little amulets. We care little for what they are made off, only what they can facilitate for us.

Myths, Puppets and Cobwebs

Why do we ever tell ourselves that we see things clearly, or even, see things as they are? What kind of myth would we need to tell ourselves in order to believe that? What kind of story would we need to assume to allow ourselves that kind of sight. The sight of the fool, who believes he sees.

Aren't we all just tangled up in little spider webs we have spun; little silken webs of connection. We don't even see things at all, we just feel the tugs of the webs that we use to attach ourselves to the world around us, and the people that inhabit it. Close-to-invisible threads, that have us hooked and glued to the others in our emotional landscapes.

I watched little Sisyphus the spider, rebuild his web again, seemingly exactly like the last one. As fascinating and arbitrary as before. If for some reason, his web were destroyed every hour for the rest of his existence, I am certain he would do the same over and over and over again. And he would not think that the world were set against him, and he would not feel that the world was conspiring to make his life a misery.

I admire his lack of projection. There is no Murphy's Law. There is no luck, good or bad. The world is no more for us as it is against us. Even the negative stories, which can be much easier to pen than the happier ones, give us a feeling of being more than we are. I am no more than little Sisyphus. The world does not see me. The stars do not look down on me. There is no God in heaven shedding a tear at my nihilism.

Puppets and puppet masters, tangled in our strings, choking ourselves on our connectedness.