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Monday, July 2, 2012

Dream with the feathers of angels stuck beneath your head

The human mind is an excellent tool, considering.

Considering what exactly? The "natural" state of affairs for the human organism, termed Homo Sapiens, is "stuck" way back in natural history. Predating on and gathering other manifestations of life, our species ended up realizing that Mother Nature's Tits are exhausted and the Keep Walking motto would be used again with lightness many millennia later.

So, what then? We had to share, organize, lead, advance, you know the story, more or less. Societies begun to form and with them, rules. Did we need them? Nah, not really, every social species sooner or later learns how to behave within and between other species (see LIONS TIGERS CHIMPANZEES BEES OH AND DON'T FORGET THE DOLPHINS).

Our rules had to balance out the fact that each member of our kind had not necessarily the access to the satisfactions members of earlier mutations had.

So, how the human mind did cope with the rules? It's one thing to obey, and another to concur. Agreeing with the moral and legal framework of society saves you a lot of energy and happiness, contrasted to sticking it up to the man where the man consists of you being buttfucking outnumbered.

And most of us decided to agree with the status quo, the New Big Tit, Civilization. And all of us want to play one. More. Turn.

This magnificent tool, the human brain, managed to trick itself into agreeing easily with most, or at least with the least agreeable, Terms and Conditions for Civilization (I am so enjoying the images I am conjuring up for all the geeks out there). The mind slapped itself into thinking that most "stuff" today is okay, that most emotions it feels are to be ignored, discarded, "controlled" and managed.

An adolescence and an adulthood later, the mind may give up. It shouts FUCK THIS SHIT and the true self starts showing through the cracks. While you were dreaming with the feathers of angels stuffed beneath your head, put there by the united social script - the cultural coding, your true self was spitting said feathers until it could utter WTF IS THIS SHIT.

We are amazing at tricking ourselves since the dawn of time. You may covet the neighbour's ox, but you enter a religious mindframe, suddenly, the ox is no longer in your mind. Magic, really!

What is the price we pay for being false, fake, faking it, putting a mask so close to our face it bleeds? Not much. We still survive, we can still enjoy our lives more or less, we can still make great things.

But there are nights like this I can barely take it - the realization of how much conditioned to The New Tit sinks in hard, and there I go again, still trying to transymbolize, fly from one reality to another, searching like an old but clueless sage, doubting I know anything and at the same time seeing it all, in a way.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

The Journey so Far

Carry on my wayward son.

...the voice seems to say, IN MY HEAD. Day 281 in the gloomy but inspiring London.
And I am inspired to do what?

To contain, to analyze, to empathize. These are the goals of the aforementioned aspiration. They are an ambition professionale wrapped in one-stone-two-birds viewpoint regarding "normal" life as well.

But normal life seems to shrink and dilute every other week, with the occasional exceptions of going back home, losing a part of myself (quite literally sometimes) and then back to adulthood, as it were.

The only thing I can hope for is the personal acknowledgment of all these 281 days as a trial-by-fire for financial independence, for building up and internalizing evaluative processes that allow for confidence building (yet so far from the self-made-man, so fucking far....): for meticulous searching and obsessive finding of evidence for a stable and persistent self that evaded me for years. An acid test for aspirations, dreams and symbolizations that traveled freely between Athens and Sanctuary, London and Middle-Earth, Larissa and the World of Darkness, Clapham and the Normandy.

Self-reflection has become an everyday irritation, like an itch that does not even bleed: if it did, it would be easier to stop.

And then, the idea pops back in my head: this is psionic training, this is wizardry manifested. The transymbolization between reality and myth kicks in, spills a prep talk lasting several milliseconds, and vanishes again in the first sight of real trouble. Bang! Your esteem is dead, go back and repair.

But alas! One cannot simply indulge in self-pitty, quit for a while and then push the bed sheets away, and this is probably one of the good aspects of proper adulthood: there is no time to whine!

Apart from tonight, I guess.