I’m a person who puts a lot of pride in whatever I might be doing. This is not so much an egotistical, “look at how wonderful I am” kind of thing, it’s more a matter of deciding to do a kick-ass job when committing to something.
Pride might be the wrong word. The game is about self-improvement. When you push yourself to be better despite being surrounded by people who don’t give a shit, you’ll always end up a winner, even if no one else recognizes or acknowledges your awesomeness.
Issues arise when you spend too much time with people who have no desire to challenge themselves or push towards any degree of excellence. Frustration and anger begin rearing their ugly heads. Stress and grief follow closely behind. It’s easy to slide into a nasty funk when you’re plugging away at a job to make a couple bucks to pay for a crummy apartment and something to fill your belly, but not a single co-worker seems genuinely pleased or inspired to engage their toil.
I’m not a big fan of weapons, but I’m considering purchasing a shotgun the next time the opportunity arises, because if one more person walks up to me to discuss the subtle nuances of the weather, the urge to splatter my brains all over the backseat of the nearest available automobile will become unbearable.
The only thing worse than the actual weather conversation is just how confidently authoritative everyone has become on the subject, all because of the fancy applications downloaded to their portable computer-phones. Amateur meteorologists reading radar forecasts have become more loathsome to me than people who tell me the bullshit they believe in has now become “scientifically proven.”
I remember a time when the weather was something that just happened, and you dealt with it. When it was cold, you put on a sweater. When it was hot, you played at the beach. When it rained, you brought a fucking umbrella. You laughed in passing at the weatherman jerk-off on TV because he was never right, and you moved on with your life, accepting of whatever the day brought.
The inspiration for this piece came to me repeatedly in a dream last night, but, because of a little laziness to put it down on paper immediately after waking, and a commitment to a shitty part-time job, I let a glorious opportunity for effortless writing slip slowly through my fingertips over the course of the day like a gentle stream of warm, pristine beach sand.
My bad. Still working on getting my shit together…
So, first thing I need to say is: Never let inspiration be sidetracked by other bullshit commitments. Your opportunity to do whatever yanks your crank should trump all other nonsense. And that’s what the majority of our lives in Western culture consists of – an endless dose of routine, bullshit guilt-factors that distract us from the true joys buried in our hearts that we will “get to” later.
I prefer to deal with topics on a spiritual, philosophical, or metaphysical level, but every once in a while a little ranting needs to be done – a bit of venting is a good thing for the body, mind, and soul.
Today we’re dealing with an idiosyncrasy that seems to be universal to every supermarket lineup. The issue? What the fuck is the deal with old people trying to pay for groceries? You would think that 95 years of practice handling cash would make you something of an expert on the subject. You would also think that it would cease being a surprise at some point in your life, like when you bought your first fucking gumdrop, that after your items have been tallied, that’s the cue for you to cough up some greenback.
First comes the massive pause between having their last item bagged, and realizing that the cash-containing, stupid fucking zipper purse they carry isn’t in their hand – it’s buried in an even bigger stupid fucking zipper purse.
If you are not finding a moderate to high amount of joy or satisfaction in whatever you’re currently engaged in, or experience from week to week, then you should probably consider making some changes in your life. What the fuck is the point in spending your days stressed, angry, or miserable? Our time here is far too short, and the wonders that exist on our floating rock are infinite.
If you’re a die-hard materialist, and believe you wink out into nothingness after this ride through life, you have the greatest motivation in the world to spend each and every second doing the things you love. You should be highly motivated to stay as healthy as possible and avoid as much societal toxicity as possible to keep your one shot at existence protracted, while maintaining the highest level of cognitive ability possible.
It’s difficult for me to understand why anyone who is vehemently opposed to a notion of an afterlife would spend any significant amount of their time imposing mental stupors or physical stresses upon their bodies using any kind of numbing drug, whether it be alcohol, food, or whatever – each wasted day piled up into a mountain of remorse to ponder when the inevitable end becomes a genuine realization.
If mainstream Western world material science is so utterly convinced of our limited lifespans and expulsion to non-existence after death, why does it foster lifestyles that support anything less than the best foods, cleanest water, non-invasive or non-destructive machineries/technologies/medicines/agriculture… the list is fucking endless. How is it possible that a group of people who believe in a limited amount of existential days spends most of their time killing themselves?
Many of our greatest masters, teachers, and philosophers throughout recorded history have independently concluded a similar basic understanding of this reality. I’ve heard the idea repeated over and over ad nauseum, not just by respected thinkers, but by the mundane and new agey alike. The concept is rather simple — Everything is One.
So they say….
Since the Earth reality is a perspective exactly opposite to this “understanding,” it stands to reason that, though the theory may be conceptually understood, not a lot of people will experientially resonate with it. Actually, while we’re here, it doesn’t seem likely that anyone truthfully could. The very nature of this realm seems to facilitate the provision of an egoic perspective to witness a physical reality of independent objects engaged in bizarre, interactive dances with one another, random and purposeful alike.
So much to discuss… but the process has to begin somewhere. It’s been an interesting run to this point, but now is not the time for backstory. Today is about a simple alignment with mother nature.
There are many times in this world when things seemed fucked up and out of control. Well, maybe most times, but the game is always perspective…
This morning was something sweet. A little warm wind, some hanging mist, and a small boat floating in the water… the 26-foot sailboat is currently my home, but I think I just said no time for backstory.
So many moments in life leave us overwhelmed, stressed, and worried about the future. We get so fucking absorbed in the nonsense of society’s game that we end up missing the most important things dangling 5 inches from our faces – the point of my inaugural post…
Getting lost in the brain serves no purpose. Fuck the past, fuck the future. Fuck the fictitious grief and the long lost good times. You know what counts? Right fucking now.
It’s 7 am. I’m sitting on a dock with the sun just breaking the horizon. My feet are dangling lazily, just barely reaching the water. The duckies are swimming close. A weird mass of happy gnats are swirling each other as if they want to prove to me they inspired the model of science’s made up atom. Ripples reflect back at me in hypnotic waves that leave me transfixed and speechless.
And then I realize to myself that a mindless monkey-mind thought hasn’t infected me for an eternity. Truthfully, it was probably a minute or two, but welcome to my point…
This game is about the experience of the moment. Any picture I share, any words I use are fucking useless. Unless you were here with me right now, this entire ramble is a shell. The magnitude of the experience is lost if you can’t hear the birds, smell the water, or touch the shitty sanded deck. And, more importantly, the physical sensations don’t matter one fucking iota.
The magic happens in experience. When you define it, you categorize it, when you snap lackluster camera pictures, you’ve missed it. I’m sitting here in all my glory, lost in bliss.