❧
I don't have a clue why I'm so adverse to using pain-killers to deal with what is merely pain without a need to recompense. One of the mundane reasons has to be that there is no euphoria involved unless I overdo it and take two for one. If the saying "All is fair in love and war." is valid, then why do I have to declare war on the side effects of what has been designed to save me?
It's almost got to the point where it is redundant, even to me, to refer back once more to the period in my life when I wandered aimlessly around North America as a beggar and a bum. I didn't really know at the time I was doing it that my experience then would serve as a primary example and/or metaphor for how I might interpret life ever after that.
Candidly, even though it makes me look like a know-it-all jerk, I actually did know that what I experienced on the road would become the default go to if and when I ever did settle down. The most impressive thing about seeking my individual identity was that for the entire escapade that it was my individual identity that was conducting the quest.
My spirit quest didn't happen in one linear sequence. It happened for 7-8 years, but over about a thirty year period. It was an on-again, off-again situation. Part of it happened before my first Saturn Return, and the rest of it happened afterward. My last round trip hitch-hiking out to California and back was a celebration of all the times I had done it before during my second Saturn Return.
There was one particular sojourn of about a year and a half in which I hitch-hiked coast-to-coast ten times in a row. It was during that sequence of events that I got caught in a freak snow storm in Yosemite National Park and jumped off a cliff higher than Yosemite Falls, and didn't get a scratch on me.
There is one constant question that haunts me about my various adventures: Why am I always the last to know?
It takes years and decades for me to contemplate the me-and-thee-ing (meaning) of wot happened. Everything that happens to me is nuanced to hell. If I contemplated other men's lives the way I do my own I'd have rows of PHDs to my credit. For contemplating my own life, however, I never get nothing. Nobody knows what I'm doing when I do what I do. Even if I do it right to their face and explain myself in polished phrases.
It's not their fault. There has to be a "me" in order to me-and-thee, many don't seem likely to do what it takes to contemplate their own life because it takes a carrot on a stick to go for it. There is no reward for holding your life in the palm of your hand to watch it spinning. Nobody knows. Nobody gets no 'Attaboys!' when you finally conclude, "Egad! I think I've got it!"
The very gall of paper chasers, and to what end? Those paper chasers who take it upon themselves to reward others with pieces of paper don't contemplate your life. Somebody has to contemplate you life.
If you don't contemplate your own life, and the people you chase paper for don't contemplate your life, then you are uncontemplated. An uncontemplated life is no life at all.
I experience a deep unwillingness to exert effort to understand in real time that what I perceive, what I CAN perceive, in the world about me is merely what I make it into for the sake of appearances. My unwillingness appears to be there because I wanna blame somebody else for me being a fool.
If I wanna live a life of no blame, even if I am is always the last to know, then I have to realize I made the world, as I understand it, into my own image. I just hate that! The reason I hate it is that I know it's gotta go, and it's only me that can act as executioner.
I can't serve two masters. I can't serve an idol of myself (no matter how much extraordinary skill and insight went into the creation of it). Simultaneously, the image I made of myself can't institute a ground for being that doesn't depend on negation. Without a ground FOR being, then it's back to the cosmic soup (and nowheresville) as far as individuation is concerned.
Oh well, the Gnaural meditation sequence is about over. Gotta go...
❦
