What is knocking on my door this morning is raw panic. My left foot is
giving out and my computer has been acting up for a while now, warning
me
that any moment may be its last. If I can't walk and if I can't post
my morning
thoughts, my ego will take such a beating that I can't see how it would
ever
pick itself up again. What comes then? Will I completely
disintegrate? Will
my brain survive such a situation? Or will it burst and deliver itself
into the
hands of professional keepers of the insane? Will I search for ways to
commit
suicide, to exit on my own terms? Or will I submit droolingly to the
bullying of
healthcare professionals. But I've always fancied scenarios of
cracking up. So
it's reasonable to assume that I would still want to stage manage my
final
insanity in my own way. My motherless child gambit. "Pain is good for
you"
comes a squeaky little voice. Yes, that may be true if you can manage
it. But
this pain would really destroy me, and that's how I would want it. I'm
tired
enough to depart and I've had had it to here and beyond with this ME
that is in
charge here. But I can revolt all I want, and imagine all I please, I
don't know
the way from here, and I can't see myself coming to terms with the
unknown.
On 30-Dec-05, at 12:46 PM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Not a great feeling the morning after. Great high yesterday, but this
morning
I'm left to pick up the pieces. Just an overall dull business. - In
the afternoon
I'm still not fully recovered. A feeling of incompetency remains,
palpable dullness,
a woolly dopiness. It may take several days to shake. It's almost
like a buzz in
different regions of the brain. Also a constrictive ring around the
eyes. And
when I look in the mirror, a glazed look. A dull sheen reflects off
the cornea.
I should be phoning a friend to get together, but a fearful reluctance
that I may not
be up to the task at hand. I've never registered the degree of my
debility caused
by this one small toke. perhaps not quite true. I think I've always
known. It's just
that I was down enough not to care about the difference.
On 29-Dec-05, at 4:16 PM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
With a small toke all this reality becomes much more accessible. My
sober
brain remains caught in conclusions. Thought doesn'T flow. After a
toke,
there is more palpable observation. Observation flows from subject
to subject.
Thinking is less rigid, less defensive, less fearful. Why the toke
today? I have
a severe case of spinal stenosis. Paralysescent. With pot I've
managed to
build an exercise program that keeps me in reasonable shape. I felt
I needed
a little correction. And pot is very helpful with that. The
downside of frequent
usage of pot is the gradual dissipation of energy. Each high sets
free a large
amount of energy. But it leaves the reserves depleted. So it's
important to
avoid that situation. Once in two or three months seems like a
reasonable
compromise.
On 29-Dec-05, at 10:21 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Get away from all the details and just look at the whole. Perhaps
then the day
may come where there is just looking. Not at anything. Just a
looking that is
not directed from within. A looking that goes where it can do the
most good.
In the meantime it's ok to look at all the details if I can avoid
becoming fixated.
And if I can't avoid that, admit at least the impossibility to
myself. Which then is
a more important thing to consider. If I crack up, if my nerves
give out, that may
actually be a good thing. If it allows me to give myself entirely
to the game of
my own insanity. The insanity is there, both inside and out. Why
distance
myself from what is? There is an energy to be freed up which is now
frozen
inside. There is a risk to be taken that's staring at me like a sad
coyote,
waiting and inviting.
On 29-Dec-05, at 7:17 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
I must invite the blackbird to be my monitor, my guardian angel.
To set off
the alarm "flying in green light" when I play "the baud of
euphony". When I
kid myself, when I ignore the warning signals, when I fake it.
When I play
merely with words, when my language becomes theoretical. I want it
to
watch over me, to strum the strings of my sensibility, of my moral
alertness,
of my honesty, of my stillness. But it seems that my blackbird is
sleeping.
Perhaps I forgot to feed it. Perhaps I've been ignoring its
desperate calls.
Perhaps it has flown away and will not return until I clean up my
existence.
Perhaps I have go it alone, this journey into a self where insanity
rules. I
keep pretending that things as they are are inevitable. And time
passes.
And before I know death's door rises up before me. The
contradictions
could hardly be more dramatic. And all my energy is invested in
covering
up. Becoming part of the general pretense. The conspiracy of
denial. Till
age comes and wipes up these useless spilled lives. These nasty
battles
inside the species. Tribe against tribe, family against family,
clan against
clan. Milton Freedman's idea of a well-run economy. The globalism
of
envy and ambition. Never looking into the cauldron of poverty that
Western
affluence is supplying with human meat and bones.
On 28-Dec-05, at 6:53 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
Time to bring my weight down again. But I love eating. All day
long
stuffing my face. My primary distraction from boredom. My escape
from
emptiness, depression, disappointment, etc. A denial of what my
ego is
reflecting. I'm always fighting that insanity. But that seems
like a natural
thing to do, like a good fight. On the contrary, the denial of
insanity feeds
into it. Insanity feeds on this denial. Denial provides the
energy to keep
it going. More importantly, it brings me in line with the world
around me
which is in constant competitive denial and in competitive
pretense. Sure
it's more comfortable to conform, for a sleepwalker like my ego.
It saves
me from thinking for myself. The comfort of fitting in. Wanting
acceptance,
wanting to blend in. To hide my difference. To hide my predatory
designs.
What are these designs? I want affection. I want the affection
of those that
I admire. And I'll never get it. Because those that I admire are
scoundrels.
They are the glamorous frauds who play the same game I'm playing.
But
they play better than I. They're successful and I'm a loser. So?
- Don't
cover up the conflict. It will only breed worse conflict. Look
at what is
going on. Paint pictures of the conflict. Exhibit the pain.
Zeig Deine
Wunde. (Joseph Beuys) It's a steep road to travel, but its the
only way
that makes any sense. And still the energy to travel that road
seems to be
lacking. Truth will provide the energy. How about tapping into
the truth?
It looks like a lonely road, with only truth for company. What
about my
other needs? Will truth slake all my thirsts? Zeig Deine Wunde.
On 27-Dec-05, at 9:26 AM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
More Spinoza who seems to have an eye for the crazy in the human,
better
than just about anybody. Admitting that I've never read any
Spinoza first
hand, only secondary sources. But the point here is not
authenticity. the
point is understanding human stupidity, more especially human
stupidity as
manifested in me. The point is also learning not to fight the
insanity within,
but to fight the denial of our insanity. To fight the pious
haloed pretenders.
The same ones that Spinoza fought so valiantly. Any enemy of
Spinoza is
an enemy of mine. And they're all assembled here in this forum,
as they're
also all assembled in any organization, particularly in
leadership circles, in
the higher echelons of politics of religion, of society. My
particular foible is
an irresistible attraction to such idols of sanctimony. I loved
the church and
and all its pomp and ceremony. I loved the phony pretenses even
in my
father, his alcohol-inspired protestations of affection and
righteousness.
Oh what a dog he was, and what a dog I am, to this day. I keep
paying the
high prices for false favours of the proud, when real favours are
available for
a pittance from the humble. I loves the proud, I loves the
false. When will I
stop? "You can't stop." says Spinoza. K, too, of course. But I
like it better
from the mouth of Spinoza, the excommunicated heretic exiled from
his tribe.
Who went to the churches for company. I like the feeling of
exile. K never
experienced that. He had his personal nursery that shielded him
from the
anger of the authorities. How real is the Spinoza of my
imagination? No
matter. I only need his shadow.
On 26-Dec-05, at 6:07 PM, Hermann Janzen wrote:
There seems to be a touch of insanity hovering around the edges
of my life.
A feeling of pointed pointlessness that stalls all my attempts
to involve myself
in distractions such as reading, tv, radio, walks. Everything
is distasteful, and
yet there is some urgency to escape from that dullness. Even my
weight is up
again if only slightly. Eating is always my preferred escape
when escape is on
my program. What if I took the bull by its horns? Why escape
at all? Why not
stare this monkey down? Not an easy trick. The monkey is
hiding behind my
eyeballs. To invite my own insanity to sit down with me and
talk things out. IT
has serious issues with the way I live. I also have serious
issues, but I'm just
stuck. IT doesn't believe that I'm giving it an honest try.
And IT is right. I'm not
really moving. I'm quite paralysed. IT says paralysis is good,
just don't escape.
I'm stymied. I don't know what to say or what to do. IT says
fine, just sit tight.
Make yourself comfortable and sit and don't move. Go crazy if
you must. It may
be just the right thing for you. Insanity is everywhere, why
not inside you? They
are all fighting it. That's the problem. Just let it spread
through the entire
organism. It's already there anyway. Only you're still
fighting it. Stop fighting it
and we'll both be better off for it. OK says I, I'll give it a
try. But I don't think it will
work. My experience tells me it won't. IT says it's up to you.
How badly do you
want a solution? OK I'll try. IT sneers at me, heard all that
before, many times.
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