What’s up?

Or as the O’Pumpkin would say: sup. What is new? What are the news? What is going on? What on earth will lift the misery of boredom?

I do not know, and I do not have a clue as to what will ever alleviate boredom for the animal that we call the humans. I am however fascinated by the subject of boredom and why it is that we judge our inner state as one of being bored. I am not prone to boredom, but I am allergic to it. That is, contrary to what my ego would like to believe, I too am human. I have been away. I have been reading. I have been writing. There is nothing new. Not really.

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Weekend: Mindless Monkeys

Me loves you all, you all know that, or sorta know that. But now imagine all the films that I have missed while writing up my own. Writing up? It is a long story as usual.

Recently I told somebody very dear to me who was stuck in a certain dearly and tightly held position to look at what could be given up. “Give up? Give up what? I know I am right!”

You know that this is the time when I look at you – you know who you are – and just wait for you to listen to your own words again. Then I do not tell you what to do, if nothing else it is because even if I did, it would not help. Not that I would know what it would be that you could give up, only you can decide that one. Well, I am at this point myself right now. I need to listen to my own words, what is it that I can give up?

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From This Side of the River

While Theoretical Man and Public Man debate each other within the intimacy of an hard-drive, I keep on hacking language. This month I took an unusual family break and jetted down to where my folks live. I had long conversations with nine persons, all of whom I have known for at least twenty years, and I picked the brains of a few strangers who happened to cross my path. I put an available single man on the spot after my mother was foolish enough to introduce him to me with all the manipulative prefaces indicating in no uncertain terms that at the age of 50, it is high time that I settle down with some reasonable fellow living next door. After all, why is it that I seem to go through men like some go through Kleenex? It amused me, it left me indifferent even if some elements of the above left me deeply saddened. I like my unsettled state. Appearances deceive. If you have not lived through something, it is not true (Kabir). So what do you do with what you observe?

I brought back quite a bit of baggage, as one usually does from such journeys. After all, you can not go back home, it is a bit like revisiting the scene of the crime. My crime is that of having been born, and to be passionate about life, headstrong, wayward and not over-socialised. When I discover that I have been seduced by compromise beaconing at me from some social neurosis that I picked up along the way, then I wake up. I go then through a process that is rather messy and that in due time I will map out. My intimate environment ends up getting a few pieces of the debris here and there, but most of the mess I sort out within my own world of fiction.

I do not like being seduced by compromise, and that is only because I resent compromise. Compromise is deceptive, and even if informed by good intentions, those are what paves the road to hell anyhow. It is one hell of an attitude for a politician working within a system of consensus, but it makes it all the more interesting. Not that I have much to do with heaven and hell beyond a concept that most can relate to or create a mental image of. I am more into ecstasy and nirvana, and neither of those are in exogenous chemical forms.

It is challenging to me to put it in simple terms accessible to all not familiar with the concept of quantum humanism, that the essence of my present scholarly work is about relationships. Given that my instrument of choice falls under the category of action research and interactive human inquiry, then it may indeed be totally confusing how on this earth I manage to bridge my world of fiction to that of scholarly work. Those who know understand, and those who don’t will wonder about my sanity. It is all legitimate, that is, it is legitimate to wonder about my sanity too. We all do at one time or another wonder about the very own sanity.

The ego absorbs society’s ideologies, neurosis and psychosis like a storage bin to sort through and reprocess as needed. Negative as it sounds, it does serve a very valuable purpose, that of informing the self of society’s environmental psyche. When people fall in love they usually fall in love with one of their ego’s neurosis. This process gets triggered instinctively and then most of you know what happens. Personally I find the process to be a pain in the ass for I end up having to do some psychological housekeeping and that is often a stinky painful mess to go through that usually absorbs all my energy night and day. Given the kinesiological nature of my interface to experience and the developmental nature of the relationship between my body and intellect, very few people can stand the sight, or bear the brunt of what I express during that process. A few can, they are the few, the brave, the fools like me. The outcomes of this process of disentanglement, disambiguation and reconnection can be very different from individual to individual. Not many tentative relationships survive this stage, those that do survive may find themselves at totally different places in the relationship manifold. To allow one to flow though this process requires a certain level of detachment that has nothing to do with individual run of the mill ways of relating and suffering. It really is not about letting go, that is the pedestrian commercialised surface of what is a much deeper process that I call transcendence. If you have not lived through something, it is not true.