I was only 19, when I dodged a working-class bullet (feat. Redgum)

I just realised I am perhaps the first and only person whose publishing career began at Port Augusta power station, scribbling stories in an Atco hut between shifts involving the use of heavy-arse tools we called ‘handbags’, which are made from spent uranium and designed to spew radiation on to welds to take photos of their insides. I was given The Unbearable Lightness of Being by one of the NDT technicians on that job ~ NDT stands for ‘non-destructive testing’, which is irony at its finest

(we had to wear radiation detecting badges … because the testing was non-destructive, because in the old paradigm, seeing is believing).

The rest is history, and to quote Redgum out of context, I was only 19. As it happens, this song was made 19 years before I was 19. I also just realised it’s March 19 today. 10:55AM.

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it’s alive, I”M alive! (genius rebirthing)

Just quietly … SHIT! I might actually be making, now, the (or an approximation of the) hypertextual, multimedia, anti-linear, pro-circular, super-dooper rLOVEutionary mega e-novel of epic proportions that I have been dreaming about since … 2011!?
 
Now, I understand that in The Illustrated Family Doctor, Samuel Johnson’s character likened the [creative] practice of pre-emptively sharing embryonic creative ideas with the [spiritual] practice of masturbation, but ya know what? I’m having hands-free orgasms these days, so I’m really not going to care if any swinga-dick comes in here and tries to waste my seed in some kind of pre-emptive move to behead the tall poppy.
 
Because I haven’t been this excited since I nearly died at birth and thought I was going Home immediately.
 
My only vague concern is that IF the technology really does exist (in Wix) to produce this thing, THEN I won’t be able to continue going around identifying secretly as a literary genius. I will have to start being extroverted about my genius, and clearly I feel uncomfortable with doing that.
 
But what to do.
 
*shrugs*

monday musings of/on the masticating machinations on/of the mega-ego

chew this cud baby,
and then spit it the fuck out:
swallowing other people’s shit is neither healthy nor wise

Mondays are supposed to be my Sabbath/Uposatha days and I’m supposed to be going inward, and writing from the soul is a way of doing that, because I will combine yoga with shamatha meditation in pursuit of samadhi, with long writing sessions and eventually I will be doing equally long sessions of analytic meditation, wherein many ideas are teased out before I hit the Staedlers or the Mont Martes.

I’m able to write more slowly now, even though I’m extra-ordinarily excited about doing this soul-writing course, with Jeff Brown no less.

This man has inspired me so much, and this course is going to be as formative as the creative-writing courses I did in Adelaide all those moons ago. My attitude has returned to something more original, and I’m glad I got the publishing-career aspect out of the way, the same as I got much of my rebellion … my misguided rebellion … out of the way early in my adolescence.

I am remembering this now: by late high school, when I perceived a lot of goodie-goodies going the way of the bottle or the way of the bong, I recall feeling glad that I had got this out of the way early, because by late high school I could already hold my drink, and my marijuana habit was well enough underway that no one really knew about it.

When I say I got this out of the way, I guess I was deluding myself, because what seemed then to be a moderate recreational practice was actually already a rather extreme and potentially dangerous habit. Nonetheless, I was a happy drunk and always have been, except when I’ve been a super-sad drunk, but never a punchy drunk. As for my ganja habit, it’s enough to say that I sincerely once believed that I was using ganja for fun, not to escape from anything.

I seem to have been blessed always and early with a strong constitution, both physical and psychological. Ruby Lucy (my resident naturopath and Chakradance sheila) was always vaguely and reluctantly impressed by my ability to maintain composure and eloquence in altered states of consciousness, and last night my friend Samwise (my resident expert in Christian theology and philosophy) concluded our quality Facetime with a comment about how I seem to have been able to jump off the deep end numerous times without going permanently insane.

He said, “Your sanity must run deep, because I’ve seen too many others jump off the deep end and never come back because they jump off without a leash.”

I was able to express to him that on some deep level, the presence of friends like him in my life are a big part of my leash.

On some deep (albeit temporary) level, we know our selves through reflections in others, and during times of wandering in the dark woods of the soul without an easily accessible leash back to my true self, it is remembering how others love me that I have come back ~ at least, that’s one mechanism I have discovered. When I can’t remember who I am because the Hairline Fracture has [h]opened into a Chasm of Chaos, I have been able to remember, at least, reflections in others, such as times when Samwise and I sat down at the Exeter to tease out the nature of manhood (which we concluded can be summed up with the word “responsibility”) over a few pints. That’s just an example, of times when I have sat down as Ryan Paine with Other Names to talk with other physical human beings called whatever.

When I was in the psych-ward emergency room feeling afraid that I would not wake up if I fell asleep, I did wake up, hugging my passport, drivers licence and Medicare card. Literally, I woke up in the foetal position, hugging my passport wallet. I didn’t fall asleep this way, I happen to know. I feel asleep with … oh yeah, I also had my bankcard … but I fell asleep with these three cards in my hand and my passport wallet in the backpack someone had grabbed for me as I was getting into the ambulance. In the ER I used some of the hospital’s “valium”, which seems to cause me to sleep walk. When I woke up hugging my passport and began the process of calling the nurse and shuffling my way to the ward in the best Ken Kesey impersonation of my life, I asked the guards if I had been violent or aggressive while I was asleep. I didn’t know – I had been fearing death by poisoning when I feel asleep, and, sadly, I do know the violence I am capable of. They all smiled at me and said, “No mate, not at all.” I guess they had been watching me as I scrounged around in my backpack in search of my passport wallet. Maybe I said something funny in my sleep like “Where’s my hamburger!?” Who knows.

Anyway. I do know who I am now, and something beauty-full about this knowing is that it’s a knowing that I am, for now, both the identity on my passport and everything that Ryan Paine is not. I both feel and think that this is a knowing OF, compared to a knowing ABOUT or AROUND.

I feel I am closer now than ever, to knowing the true nature of my Original Face, because just now the word “face” made me think of the word “interface”, which now reminds me of Thich Nhat Hanh’s idea that we “inter-are”.

Our human identities are an inter-face ~ a user interface (UI) if we want to go full matrix on this: our human identities are our earth-facing constructions, the complex of beliefs we have accrued about who we are in human form, so that we can tell the time for long enough to make use of this, our fortunate human rebirth; our UI is not something to be ashamed of or afraid of when we begin learning (with our human mind) that we are also something else entirely as well.

Although, with that said, if you do get an opportunity to stare directly at your UI with the full force of your true and actual Consciousness, I do highly recommend it, because the way I see it we have two options:

  1. continue suffering the low hum of misery that comes from suspecting our human IDs are not our whole constitution, without having the courage to actually face the false beliefs of our poor little ego

or

  1. face the music and understand that although our ego plays a demonic orchestral shit-storm of chaos a lot of the time … of ignorance, greed, hatred, fear and shame … our Consciousness plays a song so beautiful that you will never, can never, look back

You can’t see the back of your head yeah? In the same way, you can’t see the face of your receding ego once you have stared fully into and said, as you have yearned to do for so long, “Fuck you arsehole.”

Note the absence of an exclamation mark (which a dear friend Kathy Kitchen once called an explanation mark), and understand that to me, this kind of internal self-expression is far more an explanation than it is an exclamation: when you confront your ego and say just something like this, it understands something like what Justin Bieber said:

My mamma don’t like you,
and she likes everyone
[something something]
so you should go and love yourself

It doesn’t have to be an angry missive like mine was when I was doing the yoga of the perceptually challenged at the stupa of enlightenment, but it does have to be assertive. I just happen to have a lot of with-held anger, and that’s okay.

It’s true, of course, and don’t get me wrong / don’t project your beliefs onto me please: I understand that we need our ego, our human interface, for the time being. But once you’ve seen your ego for all that it is, in all its heinous glory, something fundamental shifts and suddenly, as if by magic, you become the master.

That’s all for now. I’ll do some more meditation now before I start on the next post, because this morning has already been a massively insightful Monday, and if I don’t at least try to process some of it internally I will wind up in the loony bin again, which, touch my wooden noggin, I actually wouldn’t mind ya know … I made some killer friends in that place.