Water...

To be profoundly moved, yet remain unswayed. The topsy-turvy of living. Long days, hard work. Endless challenges, where would life even begin, where would living life begin, if not in the very middle of reality? This is realty...tincture of life! Rules, Rules, Rules. The mentality, no the mentalization, no the economization and socialization. The evolution, creativity of the trade of slavery. Ridiculous, racist, opinionated crack judgments, prejudices, Civil disobediences, rebellions, surrenders, irritation, and the like of all humans in our lostness... Defended, angry conniving, resilient, stupid, lazzy, strivings at surviving Kickings, screamings, creaming the next fellow, dying.... Gore slime muck filth.  Floods of feelings. Dashing cowardice, addictive compulsions, Demeaning-moralistic triumphs. Nothing.  nothing.  Nothing is stable. Illusions of wonder Bowing Cowering Licking the butt-holes of passing strangers...demons...dogs...and all. Groveling wors

Just this morning I finished my first reading of "Fear and Trembling".  It took me some time to get through.  I read it in conjunction to some thoughts that a more modern author published about Kierkegaard.  Earnest Becker makes quite a lot of Kierkegaard in his "The Denial of Death".  I'm not sure what this says of Kierkegaard or of Becker or me for reading.  I stumbled on Becker via Irvin Yalum's "Staring at the Sun".  I see life much as Yalum portrays, at least what I can understand of reading his writings.  I am not sorry I took the time to read this work. Not sure what I think exactly of "Fear and Trembling".  I used to be a Christian.  Revisiting my "old love" has it's own life.  I still abhor child-sacrifice, something I never saw as prevalent in the Bible when I was a believer.  It's in there though, more frequently than I would have ever admitted along with many other immoralities.  So Kierkegaard&#

too serious. too frightened. too proud. too self-absorbed...except these are what I am, likely what most are in human form. I'm reading: Kierkegaard, Søren. "Fear and Trembling, and the Sickness Unto Death. Translated with Introductions and Notes by Walter Lowrie." (1968). I've a trembling voice on the subject of the neurosis of Abraham. There is no justification, ever for murder. Child-sacrifice is repugnant, and insanely anti-nurturing. To carry out partially, if story is accurate, even worse for the victim. Kierkegaard's Johannes de Slentio muses on the myth of faith.  Earnest Becker comes full cycle to this point as well, that faith is greater than all else.  What would I know?  I used to see faith this way too.  Not now.  There is remarkable thinness to the thought that faith is great.   To stretch human thinking to the point that we modern's simply don't understand the nature of faith is a point I take issue with.  Here is the thing

The steps of all men are ordered in and by geological time.  Anything else . . . what do you think?

Words are pouring through me.  I think the closest to lucid dreaming was a chance experience of mine last night.  Words and more words.  No I'm not writing those words now...or am I?  They were subconscious thoughts welling up like a spring in my mind. Torrents of thoughts framed in words.  Of course I did read Yuknavitch, Lidia. The chronology of water: A memoir . Hawthorne Books, 2013. Yesterday in almost one sitting. Powerful, powerful book.  I swirled my toes in the currents of a babbling brook in the hills above Fort Collins just off the "Summer Indian Trail" two days ago.  It was my little piece of heaven on earth experience. Bound by time, to time, is something that I long to be free from.  The water cared not where it came or where it went.  It was water.  It might have been spring fed.  I don't know where else the water would be coming from...runoff water? Gap-in the hills, sent a blaze through my being.  Tiered of the on-trail stuff,  I dared to step

I'm me.  I see this as a defended statement currently.  The vast possibilities of living are overwhelming and too much.  I respect that these are defended states of thinking that will need time to integrate into the reality that I may choose from many options, and be happy with my selection at the end of the day or not be happy.  It's okay.  I cannot know now what will be the end of my life's story.  I'm writing these lines, now. In the future I might or may not read again.  I may see things the same or differently.  I tapped on groudlessness.   I found myself hugging myself.  It was a comforting embrace that had for its essence worldlessness.  It was an acknowledgement of the tiredness of the exhaustion of wanting to know and being afraid to know.  I have ordered several more books as a result of Yalom's comment in "Staring at the Sun" regarding the significance of this work on him: Becker, Ernest. The denial of death. Simon and Schuster, 2007. List

There is only a small amount of enthusiasm this morning. I don't know all the reasons. Pushing. There is not a single day this last week in which I was not pushing against some formidable obstacle. I'm rolling the stone up the hill. I don't think that this stone has to do anything with the real responsibilities of this day. I've been listening to the Tapping Summit in series. I'm on Disk15 on rekindling relationships. I look at my week and think to myself: What is important. I think writing is important. This anxiety is telling me something. I will befriend it. I think that in the long scope of things, it will be the very thing that helps me find my sweet spot of "my place in this world". Here is a great question: What is my place in this world? It is an existential question. There is no answer except that I AM. There is no other purpose, than to be me. I can be me. It's a safe to be me. I am still me regardless. I don't think this is