I have 30 more minutes left on my hourglass. I'm trying to confirm if what they said was true. I'm listening to deep vocal Ahmet Kilic and once in a while looking at the sand trickling. It's super satisfying. I feel a bit normal and like I have to be somewhere.
I recognize this feeling. It's quite similar to flow. In flow, although I'm aware of my surroundings, it doesn't affect me. Then is it true that I can get flow at will: a bit of caffeine for eye and mind alertness, a bit of deep house to put me in the rhythm, and an hourglass to calm my brain down that this too shall pass?
I remember one afternoon in winter I solved the whole of Loney trigonometry problems. Just that badly printed Russian textbook, a pen and a notebook and me. No music, no caffeine, and yet no distractions.
On Writing
Does long-term stream of consciousness writing help anyone? I don't care. I used to do it earlier and it was fun. I can type for hours like Cage with his peach-eating habit. Now that I'm struggling to write anything, I looked around for inspiration.
What good can it do? There is no truth outside you worth knowing, there is nothing permanent to be found in an impermanent existence. But the impermanence makes it so much more valuable. If one could dream and achieve anything, eventually one would become bored and come back to where they are today. And realize satisfaction was not outside but could have been right where you are.
It took me 7 minutes to go from the first line to this right here.
I've been trying to stick to a daily writing goal. Difficult to stick to non-specific goals. I think realistically I can do 1 hour of stream of consciousness writing every morning. I think sticking to actual writing and time and routine would be a big win for me.
Come rain or death or shine, I write, meditate and sweat every day. Just like one doesn't forget to eat; one doesn't forget this. These are my anchor habits that will carry me through.
Ideas will come. Projects will evolve and die. Mediums will change. Adulation changes to hate in a minute and vice versa. Actual net worth and good relationships forged through genuine warmth and human connection are the only ones that last.
On Time
I don't know how much time I have left right now on this hourglass. It's funny though. One has no idea whether the next hour is all I do for this particular outing of my observer, yet most of the times we act like we have infinite time.
How would someone who has truly internalized the fact that one is going to die live? Would they choose to speed it up, or spend their limited time trying to slow it down? Would they want to serve others or would they want to maximize their own happiness? No one really knows. All valid responses I believe to the human condition.
On Being
I was afraid of being boring—critically, of being boring to others. Yet to find someone who I would care enough to have them find me interesting. I used to think I was a people pleaser and then I realized it's not working—no people including me are happy. I should just do what I want to and let the rest of the sand fall as it would.
A wise character in Harold and Kumar once said the world has a way of unfolding as it should. What has happened, has happened. Are these just coping mechanisms or is there any truth to all of this?
I become greedy whenever I experience purity. These words are making me salivate at the thought of having this turned into a blog. Who would read it, and why would they care? And if they ever did, why would I care?
While I enjoyed using a turntable and curating the evening for people, the best fun I've ever had is just playing for myself and enjoying the drops—both as the observer and the observed. Thus the act of creation is what I enjoy. Any sort of results gained from it might just be gravy.
On Practice
Where are these words even coming from? Sometimes conditioning, or mostly conditioning. Or all conditioning. Is there anything different from me, or is everyone everyone? When was the beginning, when does it end? Has this been forever or has it just started?
Judgment sits in the same grey folds as does redemption. Or are we just a receiver for what is out there? And what is out there which was not born inside? I for sure don't know anything. But then again who really does but for a moment in time?
What is indescribable as grace or kripa could be the universe intending to unfold as it wants to.
Now the thoughts seem to be slowing down a bit and I notice I'm thirsty. I need to work, I need to fix my relationships, I need more money in this world.
On Objects and Action
Ever since I could remember, I always enjoyed the finer things in life. The nice notebooks, the beautiful sketch pens, the semi-formal clothes. How it makes one feel—a well-designed object. That is more important than any amount of money saved experiencing the same on a cheaply made mass-produced object.
Dhyaan can lead to cowardice and inaction. Sikhs identified this a while ago—if you do not use this mortal body to do immortal deeds, what was the point of achieving this body? Dhyaan you can do when you are a tree in your next janam. Becoming addicted to the method is not the path.
The path does not exist because the real is all that exists. The only thing that exists is a veil which needs to be pushed off and kept off using exercise, meditation, study and helping others. Then the path becomes clear. And once it is clear, one recognizes it goes back in. It has always been here.
On Value
There is inherent value in all of us, not more or less by any means findable on this earth because it is all the same. The thorn on the forest floor makes the same forest as much as the beautiful smelling flower on top of the canopy.
Theo expressed it beautifully when he once said, once all of this is over we will again meet all of us and realize we were never separate from each other and it is all going to be okay.
On Endings
Forcing myself to sit and focus on one thing is a really important part of my practice. Endings like beginnings are abrupt. By their very own nature. But you learn it's okay—because the beginning was just a re-entry and the ending was a mere pause.
It's fun like that. And might even be circular.
Who the fuck knows, Sally.