Self-love is the take-home message of this video. Jung talks about how every human has a beggar hiding in the recesses of their psyche. And how, it is only by loving the most broken and decrepit part of ourselves, this beggar, that we can transform and fully become ourselves as integrated human beings. Without loving what is lowest in ourselves, it is impossible to fully love others. But, in loving oneself, without remainder - one can also love others in such a way.
Tuesday, 27 October 2020
Thursday, 22 October 2020
A Lovely Date - In the Hard To Find Second-Hand Bookshop - On Symonds St
Reader, I went on a date earlier in the week.
My date and I visited a giant, orange, brick building near the top of Symonds Street. A business leases the building and sells second-hand books out of it.
It's worth a look; mountains of books across all the different disciplines and branches of knowledge. More interestingly, there are fun little cubby holes and secret rooms, one stumbles into with innocent, child-like wonder, while hunting for that ever-elusive book. My date bought four books. I saw one book I wanted and decided I'd buy it another time, once I've finished the book I'm studying. The book that caught my eye was: 'Ivanhoe', written by Sir Walter Scott: it's a famous novel written about the lives of wayward aristocrats if I remember rightly.
By all accounts, the date went well. We were in the bookstore for two or so hours. My date has light hair, hails from America, and is of European descent. In fact, she seems a bit sweet on me: if I am to indulge in my own intuitive fancies. To be honest, I was a bit nervous before the date (you know, in anticipation of getting to know someone). However, once it got going, it flowed rather well.
And yes, I even ironed my shirt for the occasion.
Sincerely, M
Wednesday, 21 October 2020
A Video Outlining The Road To The Deep Self - Grail Thinking
https://youtu.be/w7OqEFc0Wrs
Man, thank you so much, this video is kicking my subconscious ass. So many beautiful points. I dig your idea of 'the frame'. I can vouch for this. I lost a friend who was scared and in fixed frame of struggle and self-imposed unhappiness. In fact, just thinking about it I have lost many friends in such a way. I'm going to create a self empowering audio tape, and write down how I want to be as well. When you mention having a goal. I actually feel it is something deeper, more organic. A goal is a term that is loaded and carries a negative charge in the west e.g sales goal. I like to think of it more as one's 'deep self goal', which is a beautiful thing and carries with it a certain sense of spirituality. We're talking about one's life goal. We're talking about the essence of being and becoming melding together and the growth of both simultaneously. Its about manifesting one's true self. We to often bury our ideal. Our own personal conception of the Holy grail must be dug up, cleaned and drunk from daily. The quest for the deep self, one's hidden ideal, that's exciting. To assume one holds the grail before it rests in our palms and reinforce this feeling, idea, belief and thought: this is profound. To assume we did it fast and effortlessly evokes us being in alignment with the deepest, organic of the universe - the dao. It reminds me of the sword in the stone. You allow yourself to become who you want to be, before you are - this guarantees you will be. I transformed. Thus, I did. My world transformed; and I took my place among the ranks of the great. For they knew I was great and had reserved my chair. Remember the chair of the round table that was destined to seat the greatest Knight in the world. Remember how Lancelots son took up this seat as quickly and with as little effort as possible. Remember he was the one who touched the grail and was transported to heaven to live at the side of the holy father. Lancelots son's evolutions were momentous. He is a good role model and archetype. I have aligned myself with him.
Sunday, 18 October 2020
A Shadowy Night On The Town
After observing for a while, my friend and I then began chatting with the women in front. She twisted her head round to talk to us before swivelling her petite body. She was in business, and subsequently, bored us with complicated and dull jargon. The minute aspects of back end software sales and development were beyond us. Clearly, the woman was intelligent. Sadly, it appeared she was prettier on the outside than within. What caused me to come to this conclusion? Her rigid body language and flitting eyes. She seemed to say one thing and think another. I grew tiresome over her. When the women's male date returned to his seat, the woman was still all too willing to chat to us, or perhaps more accurately, to chat about herself at us.
I grew bored and left after a time. I didn't feel like wasting my time talking to a persona. Despite this, being very much a fool, I tried to intercept the women as she was leaving. I managed to do so for all of 20 seconds. Like a speedy and ill-fated ninja, I quickly asked her out, and horror of all horrors, she just stood there and steered at me blankly. I didn't panic, much. For I could see little cogs clinking away in her head as she furiously tried to compute the situation. Either that, or she was just plain drunk. Her eyes dug deep grooves into me. Then suddenly, she ran away to be once again reunited with her date (who was only meters away - standing behind a concrete pillar). She did not so much as utter a single syllable, and as you can guess this didn't go down well, I got to feeling the tiniest bit rotten for all of three minutes.
In a state of superficial melancholy, I revisited how moments earlier, my friendly patron and I had talked to the woman who had fled. She had bagged on her man that had accompanied her. The man did seem to be missing something possibly some self-respect, after thinking about the whole charade that had unfolded. I decided the woman was living in 'bad faith', and in deeper than she cared to admit with this man she apparently deplored but refused to throw off. Perhaps, she needed a transportable human supply of adoration? Regardless, what lemony bitterness brew up in my heart. To be fair, the women had looked exquisite in her white dress. I had told her as much when meeting her verbally. Although I did question whether the symbolic purity of white matched her nature. She seemed the women to have been in harmony with red, if not black. I felt foolish for allowing her to have power over me. Would you believe it, I didn't even like the women's face.
In fact, it can be jarring, when one comes across a woman whose face grows ever beautiful the closer and longer one stares at it. On last nights adventures, there was one such woman I can remember who was like this, but, if I think harder there were likely countless others.
I only exchanged a few words with this apparition of women. She was younger than 22. I knew this because she had been bounced by the bar who denied too younger patrons. I met her languishing outside the establishment in a state of disbelief. She had dark, longish hair and a pleasantly angular face with freckles. Her makeup was applied sparingly, but effectively, and the tone of her voice was agreeably husky. She wore a leather jacket and leaned against the wall when I struck up a conversation. Talking to her, it became clear that this woman wasn't a dullard, she had a sense of humour, and there was life in her that operated beyond the vacuous mask of the persona. You should've seen her male friend as I chatted to her.
He instantly grew hostile, threatened by my presence. I felt a mischievousness euphoria rise up inside of me. He misread the situation. I was just being friendly towards the woman. But, even then, the woman's beauty quickly began to draw me in. I felt as if I were a piece of driftwood floating on an ebbing tide already lost in the depths of a blackened sea. For her beauty was a siren's call, unbeknownst and what a classic archetypal ruiner of men it was.
Friday, 16 October 2020
A Gastronomic Hellhole - The New Britomart Food Court In Downtown Auckland
I saw my friends tonight; one is leaving to refurbish buildings in the South Island.
So we all got together to see him off. The place we ended up travelling too was the new food court downtown in Britomart.
I hadn’t been there before. It was a peculiar place. Imagine a giant building crammed with 20 different restaurants shrunk down into miniature, kiosks. It was like going to a comic convention; but, instead, of video games, the wares were an eclectic mix of food and drink. The immense variation in the different types of food on offer was staggering. So to was the genetic variation in human beings dining. Many were quite pretty to my untrained eye. I did a lap of the entire floor to try and map the geography. Just imagine people everywhere yelling, chatting, eating, drinking and carrying on. I had never seen a more gluttonous group of people in my life. These people meant business. They were shovelling food down their gullets like it was the last night, before another level 4 lockdown. I had to pinch myself, as I felt like I had unwittingly fallen into a flash and newly renovated seventh circle of hell.
The vice of sloth was all-consuming, why? Because it was obvious, people were eating not out of any great need for sustenance; but rather, for pleasure and conspicuous consumption like the beautiful, ideologically brainwashed, western creatures they were. I don't mean to be too harsh, perhaps they were just being their natural ape-like selves and completely overpowered by hidden evolutionary forces. God, how hungry they were. It was like they all hadn't eaten for a week. I wondered how many could cook? Maybe, the litany of moorish food shows on Netflix had done there damage. I had no idea what was going on that was for certain as I was half-preoccupied with my day's work. Yet, the whole experience was undeniably jarring.
The expensive lights flashed down on me from the metallic ceiling, and I fell into a daze. Men and women sat at tables everywhere eating hamburgers and drinking beers, or fried chicken, or whatever the hell they desired. The whole thing reeked of ‘persona’, brazen superficiality, ageing desperation, stock standard vice. The place was the furthest thing from Zen one could imagine. It was as if the entire place was buzzing, humming, vibrating with a distinct sense of anxiety and unhappiness. I don't remember seeing one tree or plant anywhere. The place was distinctly post-modern in architectural design with its cacophony of black steel, grey concrete, aluminium lights, the whole thing reminded me of an accursed castle with modern amenities.
To cope with the whole experience, I sailed over the hard granite-like floors and saddled up to the ‘Public’ bar and ordered a drink. Two lost souls behind me were hellbent on ordering their drinks at breakneck speed, so I waved them ahead of me. I contemplated my order and then spoke aloud to the bartender, a young man, who was rather tired looking, overworked and likely highly underpaid. I thought that just to be in this giant hall of people shouting and drinking and carrying on demanded a generous pay-packet. Where I was music was pumping out of speakers at volume. A bald, big-headed DJ was spinning some decks. I recalled a thought from a paper I had read documenting how loud music makes people drink faster. The paper was on the dangers of loud music and hearing damage. Both insights a to all who were present. I quickly placed my filtered ear-plugs in my ears to protect my hearing. Then, the drink appeared on the black wooden bar. I paid the price by tapping my card on the hungry eftpos machine, the bartender thanked me and I walked off. I was then forced to navigate my way back to the table where my friends were. I felt funny walking about drink in hand.
Halfway back to my table, I saw a beautiful young woman dressed in green jeans with strikingly fair paper white skin and a pleasing symmetric face. Her partner was ordering a burger; they seemed happy enough on their tired consumptive Friday night daze. I tried to eke out some insights from their body language. It was clear, they liked to be in close physical proximity to one another, which was satisfying to see. In my opinion, there is nothing worse than a couple miles apart from each other. When you see such a couple the end is near. I forgot about the couple and went on. I was grateful to have avoided the Kisoki the couple had chosen; vegetarian burgers, are worse than awful; although, I applaud the ethical position. I still remember chomping into a vegan burger, whilst in Wellington, and experiencing instant heartbreak and dismay as the whole thing tasted like a ghastly homogenised mush.
Within this man-made consumerist hellhole, I quickly found my hands full of things I only half desired; I had unwittingly ordered, against my better judgement, a chicken hotdog with pickles and two slices of cheese. It was enjoyable but deeply unsatisfying. Thankfully, I adored seeing my friends, as exhausted as I was. To tell the truth, I didn’t mind going to such a strange and sinister upmarket food court, despite, how horrendously bizarre a place it was. The place made my skin crawl, it felt like I had witnessed something crude and grotesque. I still feel like I need a shower to wash off the bizarreness, the longing, the craving, the desperation of such a hollow and insatiable realm. Visiting the food court was like entering my own stomach, a disgusting, novel and wholly inappropriate experience, the terrifying part is I am unsure when I will visit next, and whether I have much say in the matter.
Thursday, 15 October 2020
Jobs, Persona & Adulthood - The Gift Of Not Writing For A Living
I think it's good to have a job that explores different parts of ourselves.
The role one plays in society and who we are in our inner world can be quite distinct, and perhaps, ideally so.
It is tempting to choose a role or job that aligns closely with our sense of 'self', but I'm not sure this is the best strategy.
I believe the psychologist Carl Jung, agreed.
The writer Kafka was a bank teller. Bukowski was a post office worker. And, I'm sure there are countless other workers come artists.
In fact, why not bring up Hemingway. Sure, he was a journalist.
But, in one of his most-read stories, the protagonist, states how he dissipated his writing energy when he married into wealth.
The problem was this: the process of writing became overly associated with money-making, and when he no longer needed to write for financial reasons, the desire to write vanished.
So either one voluntarily enters into a tight spot and is forced to write for money. Or one works in a different area, so the lines between passion and work do not blur.
On this point, we can also mention Dostoyevsky, who was a professional soldier, and who only much later in life, forced himself into a corner, dooming himself to write forever.
And even for, Dostoyevsky, one of the greatest writers of recent (all) times - the road was excruciatingly troubled; the number of letters he wrote about money was innumerable.
Some late-night thoughts. Best taken with a hefty pinch of salt.
Sunday, 11 October 2020
Saturday, 10 October 2020
Miracle of miracles this picture got finished
Truly pleased this messy chaotic fun picture got finished. It was touch and go. The picture had been scribbled over after I'd added some clean colouring in. It was just crying out be finished. So it was. I enjoy the chaos and order in it.
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