I am writing a book about consciousness. While I thought I knew everything I needed to know about this subject to complete the book I find I am caught in the throws of a show stopper so huge I cannot see a resolution to it.
My manuscript contained some 30,000 words of complex arguments for and against various concepts which have been put forward over the years. I have no doubt to someone it will be a good read. What I notice is there is a block. And again in my experience a block usually means a "not being truthful about something". I have writers block and I am not being truthful about it. Obviously I am writing this, though in writing this my hope is I am writing a key to unlock a door. The door I need to unlock is a door which is hidden behind an intense set of feelings I am not always honest about. I am deeply frustrated and perplexed by the nature of my own consciousness. While I believe I have had direct experiences of what constitutes my true nature, the seeking of it seems to create a wall which in itself becomes impossible to break down. I have a clear logical understanding of the nature of self, yet self always needs to be there. It would seem that self is the context in which I hold awareness and experience itself. And even this over complicates it. I am annoyed that I can't get AT it. I am annoyed that I can contemplate in the bath for hours and conceptualise over IT. It is and always was the case and the seeking of it makes me blind and angry to it. Here is what I notice. I pretend I am not angry about the amount of time I have taken to get to grips with IT. The pretence gives me no access to the anger. Without access to the anger I have no experience of the one experiencing the anger. It's just like a frustrating never ending quest for something that I almost never get. And when I find 'the zone' I dare not go to sleep for fear that it will be gone when I wake up (and often it appears to have). I cannot write a book from my experience unless my experience constitutes and expert opinion. I would not expect to read a book about riding bicycles by someone who has no idea how to stay on one and occasionally does by sheer luck. Yes, practice may be the key. But the key rarely fits the door directly. Where I got to today. When I stand in front of a mirror, there are two of me in my visual field. I only identify with the one that appears on the three dimensional side of the mirror. The flat one in the glass is not "me" but it is "my" reflection. The three dimensional one typing this message is not "me" but it is "my" body typing. Clear as anything logically. When I move my hand I feel movement in my hand. There is no feeling at the "me" end of the nervous system. When I look at the chest of drawers in the bedroom there is no feeling there either. The chest of drawers and the "me" doing feeling of hands feels the same. The illusion might be I am the chest of drawers. Is advaita and zen a concept? An illusion. It appears I am one because I am not. Answers on a postcard please. Frustration spoken about from my place of truth. What's missing? Thanks Mark
