Not a notably successful day yesterday. Why this eternal clamor for
pleasure?
Or is it just a neuralgic complaint. A complaint about problems
somewhere in
the nervous system? It's worth noting that various high-strung
individuals here
have always reacted with extremely violent out burst to such
complaints. Most
hysterically a noisome bird called Skye. It seems to conflict with
their song of
self apotheosis. How to proceed? My writing doesn't really have to
proceed.
I can just sit at this key board resting my fingers. The enquiry
perhaps needs
no verbal comment? Or does it? What is enquiry? Is it not the
framing of
questions that guide the looking? The questions come out of the
looking. But
is there any benefit in typing them here? Perhaps the typing helps to
energize
the questioning? Or could it also do the opposite: distort it?
Probably it could
go either way. But such enquiry is not limited to one path, one
methodology.
It makes sense that a variety of approaches would all strengthen the
process.
But all this writing sounds like a cat circling around its bowl of hot
porridge.
Meow. Meowww. Avoidance is always welcome here. Any excuses will do.
Better to note my avoidance than to fall into it blindly. I think
there are
structures growing in my brain, nervous tangles, that block enquiry.
Perhaps
the use of pot has contributed to their growth. A jungle of
imperviousness has
blocked passages that used to speed comprehension and communication.
Dullness has grown denser and thicker, darker and number, heavier and
more lethargic, more sluggish. How to open up again this impenetrable
jungle of obtuseness? All it takes is patience, persistence,
willingness to
see, to ask questions. There is no secret. It's all piled up right in
front of me.
Look at resistance. Look into the eyes of resistance. It's me.
Resistance
and enquiry are natural play mates. They love to tussle and romp around
together. It the healthiest exercise ever devised for the brain. It's
not peace,
not beauty, not all that. But it's the best I can do. So do it - here
and not here.
On 24-Sep-05, at 10:09 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Pissy mood. Watching sports on tv. Things not going my way. How
silly
of me to keep handicapping myself in this way. But even sillier of me
to
call my practice silly. Calling myself silly won't do the trick.
Patience is what
I need. There are a number of unhappy causes, all wanting to plead
their
case. But I'm trying to avoid listening to any of it. For each case
has a drop
of bitterness that I cannot accommodate. Again pot says: choose me.
- I
know the results. I also know the results if I get serious about
this. But such
powerful resistance. A feeling of entitlement says: I deserve better.
I'm
entitled to pleasure. I need pleasure. Reality says: Oh, you stupid
fool. There
is no entitlement ever. You sentimental slob. You cry-baby. Reality
is your
only true friend. Anything but reality will make things worse. Leave
you
indebted to old errors. Will pile error upon error. So climb down
from this
fantasy of entitlement. - How can I? How can I climb down from what
I am?
Good question. But don't bring the question to me. It's entirely
your own
issue. You're alone with the question. Marry it. Live with it.
Trade all those
ill feelings for the question. The question with work for you. Will
earn you
dividends. But no cheating. Meet the question honestly. If it seems
too
tough, you're already cheating. Playing childish games. The question
will
work. It always works - if you become the question. Without
reservations.
I know, as soon as I leave this key board, I'll be back to the same
old same
old. It's up to me. All up to bloody me. I can't stay here all day
long, can I?
Why not, really?
On 23-Sep-05, at 6:20 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Yes, that was a poor piece of writing. More importantly the writing
reflects
a poor state of mind. I was beginning to feel a little better about
myself. As if I
had done some real work and covered some real space. But my dreams,
the
bits that still cling to me on awakening as a kind of afterbirth,
tell the same old
story. There has been no significant change. Some change yes. But
so
miniscule. Am I on the right path? This practice of hammering out
my bits of
text here every morning, what is it accomplishing? It is primarily
an exercise
designed to keep my brain alive. It is not freighted with the
ambition to
produce high quality work. Nevertheless the quality of the writing
is obviously
evidence of the quality of my state of mind. And the quality of my
writing is as
good as this brain of mine can do. Where then are the pitfalls? Why
am I still
in the same old ego environment? Or am I complaining for nothing?
Is it just
the old attitude of complaint that is perpetuating itself without
regard to the
actual state of my mind? Is the habit of complaining merely a form
of avoidance?
I feel too tired to answer. A new coffee. I think it may be true
that there is
avoidance in my complaining. How sluggish my mind? Sudden urge for
a toke.
A toke would indeed limber me up. But at a steep price. Maybe the
caffeine
can cut through this dull clotted feeling. Perhaps a better question
can?
Perhaps more patience? Perhaps I need to invite this dullness, this
avoidance,
this resistance to a party with good music and good liquor? I'm a
stingy host.
I must make it worth their while to visit me. A life-time of stingy
habits won't be
easy to shed. Take a course in generosity. I still haven't moved
ahead on the
Galloway issue. Time to get a move on. But I don't know how to
move. Have
never known how to move. Time to start. Start learning.
On 22-Sep-05, at 10:43 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Early meeting at the Goethe Institute about the German election. It
wasn't bad, but now I still feel disappointed. I didn't get
actively involved.
And at 12 my film class at the Academy. I'm far from elated. There
is some
regret about signing up. But I need to give it a fairer try.
Little problems are
niggling at my brain. Should I walk or cycle? What to wear if I do
cycle?
A sullen film is covering my senses. Perhaps a feeling of
rejection. Or
hopelessness or pointlessness? But perhaps it was a wrong move to
return to the Academy. I must keep an open mind. That way I come
away
with something new. My focus needs to be the reactions within.
Everything
else is banal. Out of those reactions a new flowering may be
possible. Not
out of those reactions perhaps , but out of an unbiased enquiry into
my
reactions. That's always the difficult part: the unbiased
observation. Poor
writing.
On 21-Sep-05, at 7:08 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Lame brain. Just a dull feeling. Surely I got enough sleep. So
what is the
cause? Feeling of incompetence and stubborn refusal. When I was
small,
I was always the lively one. It was Adolf who was always the
stubborn kid.
Strange how he's never outgrown that attitude of resistance.
Strange how
also most of the others have never outgrown the scheme that
imprinted itself
on them early. I'm not sure that any of them would be prepared to
look at
their lives in this way. Perhaps Helen and perhaps Rolf would.
The more
awake souls. Both died of cancer, both heavy smokers. Burned the
candle
at both ends. My life is just an unrequited mess. So much
promise, so
little flowering. Too early deprived of maternal care, too often
broken by the
inclemencies of life. A scotch pine on a barren cliff. None of
those fateful
events need continue to dampen my soul. If I learn to accept what
is without
a squawk of protest. But I'm perpetuating all horrors of my past.
As if I were
in love with them. As if I had to prove to myself that I can be
true to myself. I
need be true to no dead image. Neither my own, nor the prejudices
of
others. Life is a mean-spirited affair. All the clannish spite,
the back-biting.
And don't I too engage in all that? Perhaps less than those around
me. In
that sense I may be on the right path. And if I am, a gentler
micro-climate
should come into being around me. The air should begin to blow
softer.
The quicker I am to recognize what is, the more it will feed me.
Reality
feeds the one that's prepared and kills the one who isn't.
On 20-Sep-05, at 8:41 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Thought breeds thought and goes on breeding thought. Soon it
takes up
all the available space and from that point forward, it increases
in density
and the head becomes a murky smelly place inhospitable to the
senses.
What to do? What did Hercules do? When he cleaned the Augean
stables?
He diverted the course of a river and let its waters clear out the
muck. George
Galloway is such a Hercules. But the Bush-Blair conspiracy may
defeat him.
Will probably defeat him. But should I stingily withhold my
support for a man
who so valiantly labors to set things right again? To clean up
the language
of politics. The language that Bush and his gang so desperately
polluted.
Perhaps Katrina was that onslaught of water that has ripped the
disguise off
the merry prankster in Washington. Whatever. I must live my life
responsibly
if I want to keep my brain alive. I must drop the caution and the
stinginess of
my upbringing. Anni is serving her time in the embrace of
Alzheimer's. I have
still time to change my life.
On 20-Sep-05, at 2:56 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
The difficulty in keeping the brain alive seems to be in the
mechanism
of thought to replicate itself. Everyone here is caught in the
vise of such
self-propagation. The very core of life is self-propagation.
However for the
human animal this drive to propagate has become a cancer, a false
growth.
In our blind, mechanical addiction to this process we fail to
register that we've
already outgrown our environment. What is my best approach here?
Does it
make sense for me to send Galloway some money? Basically my
surplus goes
to the k schools. To be supporting a politician doesn't seem to
fit. And yet he
seems to be the strongest voice of sanity in the arena of
politics. Put your
money where your mouth is. It would make sense to experiment.
I'm not
committed to a permanent course.
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