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For me, there is always gonna be those moments when I wanna give up on everything I'm trying do. I know, of course, that I can't let that continue, but while I know it, I don't gnow it. Gnosis don't work that way for me. Knowing something is cultural, gnowing something is guttural. The last four letters are the sa-me. Cul-tural and gut-tural. Knowing and gnowing. Dying and growing.
This morning I feel discouraged about where the piano thing is going. I seem to be attracted to a method of chording promoted by this guy who goes by the handle of sesameseed77. Here is a link to his channel on youtube:
http://www.youtube.com/user/sesameseed77
The author of this video explains his system for figuring out piano chords in a seemingly random manner as one's fingers wander across the keyboard. At least that's what I figure he's teaching, or maybe that's what I'm filtering for to learn. Maybe I do this in the same manner I challenge authority I know that's not supported by the presence of the prevailing rabble.
This might be difficult to explain. Perhaps, in keeping with the notion of writing 50,000 words in the month of November during the National Novel Writing Month:
http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/node
I should have a character for the "novel" I'm gonna start writing novel next Sunday describe what I've been reflecting upon. There is no doubt in my mind that the only thing I intend to do in November is write to meet the goal of 50,000 words. The hosts and rules say the "novel" doesn't really have to be good or make any sense.
I kinda don't know how to create a character to describe or explain what he's trying to do by teaching himself to play the piano by the information and tutorials he finds on the internet, but I'd bet my bottom dollar he'd end up looking and sounding like... me.
Putting words in other people's mouths isn't that easy for me to do. Even if that person is not real, but imaginary. This involves the concept of projection, and people do it all the time without knowing they're doing it, and there is no blame in that. Sometime watching that happen makes me sad.
I've been cussed out before and called a retarded idiot more often than I care to remember. Most of the time I didn't bother to deny it. What would be the point? Of course I'm a retarded idiot sometime, who isn't? That doesn't make me sad, and I don't usually get mad at the person who accuses me of being themselves. How could that help?
The sadness arrives with my realization that they're not talking about me, but themselves. It's the sa-me dynamic at play with most of the people I've met in real life. People "see" what they would think of themselves if they acted like they think I act. They expect me to obey their own rules of conscience when that's not possible.
It's impossible because I can't know what their rules of conscience are. They can tell me with elaborate details as to the particulars of what I should be doing so as not to offend them, but despite that supreme effort (maybe), I can only "hear" what I "think" they're saying.
These others are telling me the truth as they understand it with absolute sincerity, but they seem unaware they're betraying who-they-think-they-are and blaspheming their true identity for which they cannot be forgiven. The crazy thing about it is that I do the sa-me thing even though I understand the dynamic as thoroughly as humanly possible... for me... only for me. I only pretend to do it for the other because they simply won't have it any other way. Why would I not? "I am not a crook."
Maybe creating some fictional careactor to say what might be imprudent for me to claim as a matter of political expediency or even to make a good impression upon some shill for the etiquette crowd.
People only seem to want something you got in excess by methods so close to your bones you don't give credit where it's due. They think you won't even miss what they take from you, because what they take from you they figure you don't have to do anything special to get.
Rich people are merely the janitors of their possessions. It doesn't matter if what they're rich in isn't money. They hoard mental wealth too, and put it in treasure troves so other people have to pay up to see that it's actually there.
Why would they not? It's just something they can't avoid doing if they don't want their treasures stolen. If they're responsible for something that keeps you alive in the interim, and some thief comes to take their stuff while you're out on a limb, they'll protect their money before they'll think about saving your life.
I'm like that, and that's okay with me. It has to be or I won't get the things done that seem to be important to me currently. That's because in some ways I'm autistic. There are times when I don't feel your pain or care much if what I'm doing is putting you in distress. It's only later, when I get off by myself and contemplate my life, that I realize I might oughta have considered your emotional investment for living inside my nod.
I'm still trying to figure out how to have novel characters say and perform the thoughts and actions that define me as this or that. I mean, in reality, I do this exclusively and constantly without exceptions. I've learned a little statecraft, and had my public discourse shaped by humiliation and shame, but in my heart of hearts the other is always only there to play the roles I assign them to help me fulfill my heart's desires.
I think my heart of hearts may be a little burned out on being heartless. It's mad at me because I won't let it dance the wild fandango. No blame. I'd be mad at me too if had to toe the line of some morbid rules of conscience that was never designed or meant to take for true.
I haven't been running this autism rap for long. I think maybe it was a definition for Asperger's Syndrome that caused me to question myself about how that might fit. The whole deal revolves circuitously around how ti-me seems to fly when I'm having fun.
For instance, there are periods of time when I'm definitely gone from the present day situation, and I've known about that for a long time, but it wasn't until recently that I realized that what I do to have fun, but just in order to make ti-me fly.
When I return to Beta consciousness and realize that I've been gone for a long time without being aware of current events in the sensory dimension, and upon that startling return I sometimes remember that what just happened, did happen, because I was having fun swimming around at my leisure in the cosmic soup. 1197
I have to ignore everything that's going on in the sensory dimension to do that. "To ignore" is the root woid (word, woe-to-the-id) for the terms ignorant and ignorance. Ignoring the sensory dimension in order to have fun swimming around in the Akashic Oceans is three orders of magnitude more pleasurable than wading around still carrying my body weight in the cosmic soup.
That metaphor sucks, but I mean to indicate that there are levels of ecstasy so profound they can't be remembered because it takes all of my attention to focus on wot's what for me to exploit any more of the unknown or unknowable.
It seems to me that the abstract world I deliberately created as my whole world needs for me to deny the other for my own sake or I lose consciousness of that constructed world. I've become aware of the term "paradox" in a more vivid way recently that encapsulates a certain moment of confusion that I have to accept with some sense of equilibrium in order for me to transition for One to The Other.
The trick, it seems presently, is to carry the I-am-is along for the ride. So, can the I-am-is ex-is synonymous with what I'm labeling "consciousness"? What's it like to not associate intimately with the I-am-is? Lost? Away from ho-me? Or is it merely a state of Being that offers polarity to Is-ness.
So-me say I-am-is is all there IS to it. Is Being the sa-me as is-ness. If all that can be said of consciousness is that... It is..., then how can One ex-is. How can one exit is-ness? Ya gotta be outside of is-ness to Be aware IT is. To be conscious there IS an It. That's the paradox. It is what it ain't, and it ain't what it is. Rest and motion need each other to have separate me-and-thee-ings.
Maybe my real point of entering the National Novel Month thing is to find out if I have any more to say that I haven't said or written before. Writing the same thing over and over drives me nuts. Is this all there is? I feel a little stupid for proving I don't really have much to say. 1577
When I start writing for this contest I'll be posting what I write on a new blog I created just to save the title of an e-mail discussion group I finally deleted for lack of interest. I seem more interested these days in writing to anybody rather than for specificity.
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
