writing about my life

Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass (…this bloody exam)

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I went with Bill to look at the gallery spaces on the pier. We went into one and there was a girl in there making jewellery. She was quite pretty and fairly shy. I complimented her work and told her about the stones I’d collected. She had designed some 3d printed ornaments. Her shyness seemed to wear off, which I put down to the fact that I had been able to put her at her ease. I think she liked me. we left and carried on walking. as we walked I started to think about her more, and a subtle sense suggested that she too was thinking about me. I wondered if she was falling in love with me. As I considered this I wondered too, in turn, whether I was falling in love with her. I waited to see if the thoughts started to birth pink dreamy feelings, but overall it stayed as a thought of love not a feeling.

I did sense though that this thought of love might grow, and wondered if I should go back after a day or two. I decided I would, and would take a gift of my best stones for her. I felt that Love was a magic that we all search for, and that requires an act of faith to initiate. I felt her presence and she seemed to be telling me not to have a drink that day, because Love was better than alcohol, now it had been re-awakened in my life.

But after sleeping I am looking back on the day. I went through my usual wondering whether I might fall for someone, when since Tesher that has not happened fully. I entered a period of choice with it.The timelines, the woven destiny strands were presented to me and I was zooming into the future on rails, where I could set the turning points one way or the other ahead of the train. The true pink cloud of bliss never came. I asked myself whether that would have been asking too much. There had been however the faintest whiff of magic. This magic seemed to be threatened when my typical semi-delusional telepathic awareness started kicking in and I sensed that with me thinking about her, and her about me, that a silver astral cord had been stretched between us. this cord was too thoughty though, it was two people wondering about each other. I don’t like sensing this link sometimes, because I tend to start to conduct spiritual “pressured-speech” to the other. endless conversing… words, words, words. words not feelings.

I’m not sure I have the will to record every aspect of it, but now I have awoken from a strange dream today I realise I won’t go back to her. Instead I am going to put everything I have into writing for a while.

My friend Joe rang me after I got home from the pier and we must have talked for more than an hour. Again, this morning I reached a conviction that the only way he can overcome the spiritual pressured speech is for him to write too. So in some way I am putting this passage down now to avoid any chance that my advice to him was ill-considered casual hypocrisy, of the kind that so many people give. “I think you SHOULD DO THIS…” “I reckon you OUGHT TO …” etc etc. Joe was so carried by his mood that I found it hard to get a word in edgeways, but I don’t really mind. I am prepared to suffer that because I know he needs to vent to me.

I am always more happy when I vent onto paper than when I vent to another. The telepathic potential girl seemed to be teaching me that I should not have a drink that day. I got washed by the endless current of complacency down the river of habitual trappedness into necking a pint of cider between calls with Joe. At first she noticed through the mysterious link (network cable? umbilicus?) and told me I had trashed my chances with her, but later she came back and forgave me. it entered my mind that we had to share one sin between us, so there could be forgiveness in the relationship. She obviously has had to wrestle with booze too!

So to set an example to Joe I write. But that’s not the whole story, it was really in telling him that writing untangles the karmic ball of string, that I remembered this truth for myself. So here I am and I already feel better.

My own feelings have been in such turmoil lately. I was banking on using the breathing techniques to unwweave them, but they would pretty soon start to get intense and troubled after that, so that now I am wondering whether a full-on conscious writing session would be a better bet as a solution.

I say solution and it reminds me of the chalked graffiti i saw on the prom a month ago. “You can’t google the solution to people’s feelings” someone had written… then they’d drawn an key – escape from the Matrix of online bullshit, I suppose.

Is my habit of using the word solution something that embodies an error in how I look at my life. should we expect “solutions” to feelings. Hmm an aqueous solution of alcohol in flavoured water maybe. This is a play on words rather than a real insight. I don’t know about a solution, as if you can zap troubled feelings and make them disappear. After all my efforts i must say that feelings need to be felt, and then… perhaps… you can get closure. so closure is my word for the day, not solution. maybe doing this will enable me to avoid the aqueous alcohol fluid solution. I had hoped I could spend the day in bed, but thrashing a keyboard in my bedroom is still a restful day.

no… now I see that analysing my chosen word is not so necessary. If I am some ultra scientific geeky analyst then that’s who I am. I do need a solution to my troubled feelings, fuck “emotional-political-correctness”. As if there is some all-knowing therapist in the sky who challenges the natural words I find to express my predicament. Maybe “solution” works for Joe too, I don’t know. Life as an equation that you need to solve. why not. after all that guy whose article I read critiquing Primal Therapy did suggest that one of its failings was that it was too anti-intellectual. hmmm.

So now by writing and analysing I feel myself edging closer to some kind of solution, but what about Joe? Maybe he has a different word to describe how he can move to a position of greater peace of mind. If that’s what he wants, that is.

The equation is your feelings and the solution is the insight that comes when they have been untangled. OK great.

People who don’t listen that well and then give half-baked advice are indeed quite common, it seems to me. Or is that me being superior and contemptuous? thinking that I am the great listener and a class above all the fools? Hmm

But the writing, I’d say to Joe, is a way to listen to yourself.

If Primal Therapy is anti-intellectual then I’ll write instead.

I am a victim of violence. I am drinking to deal with childhood abuse.

You can go to many different places inside. You can die to the world and begin to live to yourself. denial is when you say you aren’t in pain.

One more person prepared to overcome denial helps the world.


I came to deny “The Emperor’s New Clothes”.

This fairy story is a powerful parable and like with any tale that purports to provide a spiritual meaning, that meaning can be both misused and misunderstood.

Fairy stories provide empowerment and protection for the children who are told them, and sometimes those benefits stay with a person their whole life. But they are also a form of magic, because they have power. In my life the emperor’s story has been used against me by people who didn’t want me to possess knowledge, and wanted to impute that all my philosophical efforts were pretense and posturing. They are not, because my desire to understand the universe is reasonably sincere. I do of course possess the pride and the blindness that is any man’s when he buffers the truth to protect his tender parts.

“He actually believes in Magic” I can hear them say. Yes although not in terms of zapping thunderbolts and rides on actual physical dragons. Magic was humanity’s first variety of knowledge, and it is the first mode of thought of the child, as individual development recapitulates history.

Perhaps little girls are really the most powerful witches, and little boys the wizards.

I have known people who thought very magically, and I have known others who thought very rationally, and I strongly believe the two should ultimately be synthesised. The American Indians were not savages they dreamed in a different cosmogony, we rational moderns are not the only warriors of truth just because we have the scientific method.

I have swung between denying the intuitive feminine pole of magic, and denying the male objectivity of a science worldview. I personally need to harmonise and find centre ground, otherwise I am a double agent fighting on both sides of a cognitive revolution that steadily turns into reaction and back, again. In this cycle I do not learn, I just swing. Really its not even a centre I need but a series of acts of surrender where I concede a point and thereby enlarge my thinking, to grow gently out of a fundamentalist mind-set, that I formed because of complexity panic and lack of perseverance in Philosophy.

During this, one part of me concedes a point to another part, mirroring the way humans group into interest groups based on belief. and conviction. “I am large, I contain multitudes” said Walt Whitman. Let us hope ths division of inner debates is not so furious that the crisis comes more to resemble “I am called Legion for we are many”!

But I know that I have been cheating too! I have given up on taking a thought-stream to its conclusion many times. I need to keep trying strengthen my character still but I can look back on many failures by now, aged 44.

Ian came over yesterday and we talked all day. He asked a question that had been bugging him, and I tried to do my usual job of Oracle by struggling to clarify it. “Can men and women be friends without sex involved?” he was wondering. I gave up on navigating such difficult territory, and in defeat I said “I think this is an eternal mystery and meant to remain that way”.

Then a spiritualised moment came and Ian looked at me and said “Well done!”. We are teachers to each other as friends.

I saw how there is a time and a place for ceasing the unweaving of mystery, which comes as a perpetual rationalist addiction to people like me these days. I saw how Ian lives differently by appreciating Mystery, its subtle aroma, the atmosphere it gives like a mist hovering over daily events.


Written by Luke Dunn

March 5, 2015 at 12:36 pm

Posted in Prose

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