I guess we all have to do time being the people we don’t want to be. Wait out the irritation.
Good things come.
And what would also happen invariably adds splinters.
For example, my knuckle is now purpling around where I pinched it in the slide bolt lock. It doesn’t hurt but looks miserable.
I would be a pacifist down to the relevant level of heart — but then aren’t we all good at heart and patient so long as untested — were it not for the Christmas tune mandate punching into every public space. Pop music is bad enough but the rotation rate of carols is worse.
Oy. Reading Henry James is ruining my sentence structure.
What to do. Colleen pointed out lessons from Conscious Loving: From Co-dependency to Co-commitment
- By holding the peripheral muscles of the body in a state of chronic tightness, we block the flow of information that we could be getting from deeper inside us.
- You will be surprised that when you allow yourself to feel a given feeling, it usually does not last that long. Repress it or interrupt yourself in the middle of it, and it will usually last much longer.
Admitting things can become a risk of story-making, self-making, distorting identity and future acts, a form of cling presuming past thoughts have constancy or relevancy instead of a thing to just drop and keep moving. I know I’m in a distortion field. Cling-nature wants to keep it. Life-force wants to sigh and ignore the grump in the corner. Grump sez,
I have such dread at busses because of the rodeo drivers who make sudden braking and starting off as if startled each time as my hips, knees and back are yanked about as if under the enthusiastic but incompetent hands of I-read-wipipedia-about-this-masseuse.
1 driver was smooth out of 6 this week. I could walk. Have. I’d rather not walk where cars may veer into me, or at intersections watch only for other cars and bump forward not noticing me standing right in front of fender going at a walk signal. Seeing a human as road kill in his own blood pool. The twisted form did not help my sense of safety as pedestrian. I watched for him in the news. He never appeared that I saw. I appreciate rides but I’d rather not be in a car either.
I could go on. Like the whine as music of the spheres, the base note of the cosmos as melancholy.
But then, who would that list be good for? What is worse than someone writing about disinterest, disgust, boredom or trivial things, except possibly to read about it.
I thought of making a list of things that don’t matter and see how long I could write under the frame of dismissing my own perceptions as trivial under the grand scheme.
I could work up a sweat of enthusiasm if I persisted in a subject. Maybe add to the pile-on of paying attention to Mandela with that mayfly attention span of current events?
Behind the digital curtain I start posts, in my head or text, then decide they aren’t worth saying.
As Lesley Strutt said in last night work shop is we use the perspective of removing what is unnecessary — rather than the one of appreciating what works and why and assume it is for knowledgeable purpose — soon all would be deleted.
Is it the line that matters, or the procedure?
As Rosemary said,
I do my ‘small stone’ dutifully each day, mindfully looking outside myself. It works up to a point, to take me out of myself
Here is something that matters. I don’t know what to do with it, but *point*. An Irish setter does as much. (Which is aspiration to be as good as a dog, not a lowering of people.)
When full of sugar and chocolate I’m crisp and clear, life is easy and amusing. All things are manageable under the security blanket of sweet. Or when I’m with favourite people, fully exercised, well-nutiented, hydrated and doing something useful.
Until I go all nervous. From sugar or from over-stimulus. My body runs thru its resources too fast. I’m irritable then wingy and blurred.
Then I crash. Sleep. Except that eludes. Involuntary leg jerking though the night. C’mon body, work with me.
And who is that all good for?
Much I could do and say. How to get the log out of my own eye to do so? Moderation. Where’d I file that? Did the cat knock it off the desk with the books and headphones?
Wait for the good is to cramp chances. Watch for the neutral, the possible. To oblige oneself to be upbeat is an out of time racket. Let be. Stop shoving. To oblige oneself to align with the negative might propel neutral-ward. Or not. So be it.
Linky-Links: Got a sweater that has worn thin in the elbows? Make it into slipper boots.
From the same folks, for the new year, consider balance and compassion and where its not. Time to cut off toxic friendships or let it meh away?
While I was thinking about it someone was already invented bedding with a trough for the breasts.
From elsewhere, art is not your tools, but your vision.
Quote: “The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night, dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest.” – Seamus Heaney