Ok, ok, so know your maggots but for goddess’ sake don’t go around dissecting everything that just LOOKS like a maggot … some things just are, some things are not in your control, some things do not respond to the rationalist analysis.
I’m sitting on a chair. Why am I sitting on this chair? It’s a bit uncomfortable. Ah, I must be punishing myself and this stems from my Catholic upbringing and the inherent guilt. It wasn’t my fault. I was brought up Catholic it was my mother’s fault. Ergo. It is my mother’s fault I am sitting on this chair.
I’m eating breakfast in the kitchen and not in the living room. Why is this? A living room is for relaxing in, therefore I am not giving myself permission often enough in my life to relax. This is because of the work ethic I was brought up with. It wasn’t my fault. My mother is German. Ergo. It’s my mother’s fault that I sit in the kitchen to eat breakfast.
It’s raining today. The weather report yesterday said it would be sunny. I feel disappointed that it’s raining. Why is this? I thought it would be sunny but it is raining; the meteorologist lied. This supports my belief that everybody lies to me. It’s not my fault. My mother never warned me that life is unpredictable. Ergo. It’s my mother’s fault that it’s raining.
Do you see what I mean?? And do NOT come back and congratulate me for this blinding psychological discovery that it’s all my mother’s fault! I am J.O.K.I.N.G. Geddit?
I can be as intense as the next person, but I sprinkle it with humour and the ability to laugh at myself. While writing this I am giggling away. The RH came into the office and said, “Are you laughing at yourself again?” He says that I find myself the most amusing subject matter, more so than anybody or anything else. It is true. I see the ridiculous in myself and it makes me laugh. My humour helps me climb mountains, and even when my feet are bleeding I am chuckling because I have wide feet that look like duck’s feet and my mind will start to envisage a duck quacking up a mountainside. When my ex turned up on the scene recently I was terrified, but I could still laugh about it at moments because it felt like I was Penelope Pitstock legging it in thigh-high pink boots from my adversary who loped behind me in a black cloak while twiddling his moustache …
Life is ridiculous. It is not always (or ever!) to be controlled. Other people cannot be controlled … So another person needs therapy and they won’t go for it? So what? Let them stew in their own complexes and when their life self-combusts maybe they will reconsider. Harsh? Pragmatic. If someone is ill and then refuses to take care of him-/herself but expects copious amounts of sympathy and emotional balm; leave them crippled. How else will they learn the simple lesson of cause and effect if you keep leaping in like some divine abrogator who deflects the consequences of their actions, sooths, calms and sacrifices your self on the altar of their ego (this does not preclude helping people with everything you have when they truly want to be helped – but believe me, not everyone does want help – some people actually like their life a bit shitty – apparent victims often hold all the power!).
I am right royally sick of it. And there I was yesterday saying I would control my urge to use the blog as an outlet for my vitriol. Oh no. Did you believe me? Do you feel betrayed and hurt? Have I just confirmed the ‘fact’ in your life that everyone lets you down? Glad to be of service.
Have you heard the one about the Jew who every time he dropped his buttered toast it fell on the buttered side. One day it fell butter side up. He was elated. Was this to be a change of fortune for him? He ran to the rabbi and said, “Rabbi, whenever I drop my buttered toast it always lands on the buttered side, but this morning I dropped it and it landed butter side up. Is this a sign from G-d that my fortunes are changing?” The rabbi pondered, and hummed and ha-ed and consulted various Talmudic reference books. Finally he came back to the man and said, “You buttered the wrong side of the bread.” Oy vey!
I am just recovering from one of my sugar crashes. It hit me rather quickly following emails I was writing. I lay down to read Aghora Vol. I, thinking I was tired, and found myself spiralling into the awful in-between state of unconscious-but-conscious, incapable of doing anything except feeling the extreme cold in my body. When I enter such crashes (as I call them), my thoughts get stuck circulating around the last few things I was considering; like water draining down a plug, the thoughts turn high-speed in a vortex deeper into my subconscious. Most often I am caught in conversations with work colleagues, or about household concerns, but today I was stuck on something I had written and the last few words of Aghora that I had read.
I had written to a friend about how I am struggling with the concept that some people just do not have the capacity to understand and embrace certain esoteric knowledge and concepts. In a world that tries to ensure equality on all levels for everyone and where any difference is laden with sub-clauses of how the difference makes them equally valid, equally ‘good’, equally … well, equal, it is a difficult subject area to discuss without sounding like a fascist. As in my post Fill the void with sensual pleasure I compared certain people to rats, that the level of their being was firmly entrenched in survival and distraction: food, sex, food, sex, entertainment. Firstly my comparison must be understood against the fact that I have a very great love of rats. My own rat is my cherished friend, and I have already spoken about how I tend his shrine to Karni-Mata in his role as her kabbas. His being may focus on animal urges, but his value as a spiritual being is evident. Also, I call to mind another comparison I made (in a post I can’t find!) about this path we walk and that sometimes we walk parallel paths and have company; sometimes we shout to the people behind (encouragement, directions or a plain ole Hallooo) and at other times we look to those ahead of us and gain our support and focus from them. But there are others even further back on the path who would not hear us if we shouted, and people much further ahead of us who are not even aware of our existence. This is not a value judgement, but a description of the different passages that sparks from a fire take as they ascend into the sky to join with the stars. Some extinguish as soon as they separate from the fire, othes make a valiant effort but are lost in the dark, while others take the solo flight holding the upper lights firmly in their sight.
And then my spiralling thoughts caught the energy of why I get so frustrated when I brush up against another’s fantasy … This is not because I am a Creature of Truth, somehow less susceptible to weaving a more palatable chimera around the unpalatable fact of my weaknesses that I face each day. This is personal to me: I have been the victim of certain people’s recreated ‘truths’, a mere player in their fictional story and as such I have a knee-jerk reaction to anything that exaggerates or belittles the way things really are. I have seen people recreate the past in a way that makes it bearable for them (thus denying admission of their role in their own and other people’s downfall – a bucking of responsibility, sugar-coating and icing over a mouldy, rotten, maggot-ridden cake); and I have seen people just plain lie to make themselves out to be more important, more connected, more more more … because they feel less less less. I understand the motivation. I have a certain compassion. But my own experience as a victim of others’ chimeras makes me hate untruth with a passion … imagine someone painting a chameleon neon-yellow, smothering its own natural ability to adapt and change colour because neon-yellow suits their tastes, desires and projected wants … I have washed off most of the paint, but I still get palpitations when I come too close to a paint pot …
So I understand the cause and the effect, and I know that in my practice there are certain chakra meditations that would be beneficial to me, to soften the jumped-up, shout-about-it, get-my-knickers-in-a-twist reaction that I have to seeing sugar-coated maggot cake. Sometimes blogging doesn’t help as I have an outlet and an audience for such vitriol. And here, in my sugar-addled state of mind I decided, Right, I must stop blogging then. But that’s just running away; and I don’t do that. This aspect of me is both a weakness (leading me to judge others too harshly and too quickly) and a strength, because it generates an intense passion and enthusiasm – I CARE about the truth. I see and understand the fear and panic that makes a person reach for more icing when they see yet another maggot wriggling through to the surface. And don’t think for a minute that I don’t have my own colony of maggots, I do, but I wear them honestly about my neck and in my hair. Occasionally they get in my eyes and I see wrong; in my ears and I hear wrong; in my mouth and I speak wrong. But I try, try, try to be aware of every goddamn maggot on me, to know them by name, as it were …
This is a weekend of uncovering for me. Yesterday as I mentioned in a previous post, I was told very nice but very challenging things about myself. This chipped a hole in my own self-perception. Later that evening I was looking through some old photos and I came across a card from a friend. The words she had written (maybe 4 years ago … perhaps longer) drove a wedge into the hole and split me apart releasing a dam of grief, recognition and understanding.
It’s exhausting at times continually brushing the maggots out of my face, seeing when an egg-sack births yet another maggot for me to name and acquaint myself with. But I would rather this than fake it. We are living corpses. The fact of our death is inevitable … more inevitable than our birth ever was. Eat or be eaten? Allow the maggots to consume you or be consumed? Isn’t there a third option? Know your maggots by name and maybe they will whisper it to you…