Back to Blogging

After many months of non-blogging, I decided to start blogging again today. Is it because I have something useful to tell the world? No.

The few people who will actually take the time to read this will probably get nothing out of it. Then why make it public?

Because I don’t go out much and I have a need to get myself “out there.” I have a need for exposure. Blogging makes me feel that I am an active member of society. Ha! ha!

Why am I laughing?

The phrase “I am an active member of society” makes me laugh. Active. As if.

Does society want to witness my act? I know it wants my submission. It also wants my money. And yes, it probably wants me to act appropriately. But is this what I want to give out to society? No.

What I want to give to society is a piece of my mind. I don’t think society wants to hear it. Thus the reason why blogging exists. Whether or not anyone reads it, the act of blogging is a public act. The perfect medium for an introvert.

I’m not interested in acting. I just want to BE. And it seems that in this world, the only way to be accepted is to act well. How about being real?

If being true has become offensive, then today I declare myself an offensive person. Does that make me a terrorist? Probably.

They can come and kill me if they want. I don’t care. I care not to suffer but I don’t mind dying. I think I’ve seen pretty much all that this world has to offer anyway. So let us all gladly surrender and move on to something better.

A blank page offers the opportunity to start fresh. There are no limits to how many posts I can publish in one day (is there?). So let’s end this one right here and start again from scratch. Writing is unlimited. Today I shall blog.

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Metamorphosis?

When I started this blog last year, I entitled it Metamorphosis. But now, nine months later, I don’t feel that what I’m going through is any kind of metamorphosis. There is no transformation going on. Only discoveries of things that were already there. So maybe this is why I haven’t been blogging lately.

After much introspection, I feel that I have finally reached the core of my being, the centre.

What did I find at the centre of the thing called “me”?

Nothing. It’s a quiet zone full of nothingness where my awareness hovers. It’s a void, but it’s a good void because in there, the possibilities are endless.

The nothingness seems dark but it has a flip side which is everythingness. Between nothingness and everythingness is… me!

Me what?

Me, the… decider.

But what is there to decide at that level? Nothing. All is perfect at the centre. The problem is at the surface.

So I snap out it. I return to the surface and what do I find? Me in the “real world.” So where’s the metamorphosis?

Change happens on the surface, with time, inevitably. The seasons change and my body grows older. Is there anything else that changes within me?

Yes… my knowledge. And my awareness that I am able to travel deep within myself and reach the quiet zone where everything originates.

I cannot say that the journey was easy. Before reaching the centre, I had to go through many layers of thoughts, emotions, inner voices, beliefs, memories, fears, expectations… It was easy to get lost. It was easy to get caught up in the turmoil. It was easy to get discouraged, to turn around and return to the surface where everything seems to move in slow-motion in comparison.

So anyway, to cut this post short, I’m going to say this:

With the change of seasons came a change of decision. I decided to get myself an apartment. So I now have my own place away from the family.

Spontaneity

jackhaas18a

Writing without an agenda.
This is an experiment
With spontaneity.

I chose a picture that I like
Because it’s beautiful
Created by Jack Haas

Is this a poem?
I don’t know.
There are no rhymes.
Or maybe some will pop up.
Spontaneously.

Writing is how my soul breathes.
When I stop, I suffocate.
Sorry if it annoys you.
I’m simply keeping myself alive here.

I can’t go for a walk, it’s raining.
Well I could still go but
I usually do it after lunch.
In the morning I write.

There is too much I could write about.
Sometimes it’s just frustrating to have to choose.
So I said to myself:  “Why choose?”
Why not be spontaneous.

Spontaneity is scary.
What is the next line going to be?
What if something ugly jumps out suddenly?

Heh! heh! heh!  It is a mystery.
Flirting with the unknown.
It’s involuntary.

I might lose control.
Should I look behind?
What if I lose my mind?

Who will take over
If I let go of my own senses?
Chaos, Cosmos or Cyclops?

Is it even possible to go astray
There must be beauty
Even in spontaneity

Should I stop here?
Or should I continue…

Too much of it might get boring.
Yeah, breathing does get boring.
But I have to keep going.

If I hold my breath
My face will turn blue.
I would not want that.
My blue hand is causing me enough trouble.
Do I want a blue face to match it?

I know what I’ll do.
There is a word count
At the bottom right.
It’s at two sixty eight.
When it gets to 1000
I will stop
No matter what.
Even if I’m not finished.
Now THAT is scary.

It’s like approaching death.
The death of this blogpost.
The end of it.

I still have six hundred something words to go.
What will these words be?
Maybe I should write something important.
Which reminds me…

My father used to say:
“Shut up if you have nothing important to say.”
Daddy must be very disappointed in me right now.
Sorry dad, but you are dead now, so I am free.

Can the zombie hear me?
Is it disrespectful to refer to my dead father as a zombie?
Will God punish me?
I just broke commandment number three.
No sorry it’s number five.
I just checked.

I don’t think I’ll make it to 1000 words.
At the word “word” it was only 400.
It’s never too late to say something important.
To make my father proud of his illegitimate son.

Now why did I write the word “illegitimate?”
This was really spontaneous.
What does it actually mean?

Illegal?  Against the law?
Born of unmarried parents?
But my parents were married when they had me.

Illegitimate also means illogical or incorrectly deduced.
Maybe I am not my biological father’s son.
When I was young I sometimes felt like I was adopted.
Because he didn’t like me much.

But I look so much like him.
I’m sure he’s my real father.
Even my personality matches his almost perfectly.

So that’s not it, I am his biological son.
Why did I write illegitimate then?

The word also means “not genuine.”
So does that mean that my father is not my genuine father?
What does genuine mean?
Thank God I have a dictionary.

What did I just say, again, spontaneously?
Thank “GOD” I have a dictionary?
God?  Who’s God?

My genuine father perhaps?
Of course, God the Father.
But who would that god be?

Yahweh?  Don’t tell me!
Not that blood thirsty
Son of a b****
The ultimate source of love.
He!  He!  He!

Allah?  I think he’s the same as Yahweh.
Bhagavan Krishna?  Yeah, perhaps…
Since his son Krishna is sometimes painted blue
I foresee a definite possibility.

I already wrote a blogpost entitled “A Real Father”
So why am I still writing about this.
Do I miss my daddy?

How can I miss an unknown person?
Well…  I think that if one wants to know the father
All one has to do is look at the son.

The son would be me.
So the father would be just like me.
This means I have a pretty cool daddy.
LOL!

In a sense I am my own father.
I am my own creator.
I am my own guide.
I am my own authority.
And I am my own god.

This is spitting in the face of Christianity.
My mother would not be proud of me.
Some of my sisters would spit back at me.
In fact they already have.

One told me that I had been seduced by an evil spirit.
Another said that my ideas were satanic.
The third one agreed with the first one.
The fourth one is not sure.
The fifth one is not bothered by the rest and accepts me.
Yes, I have five sisters.

So where am I going with this?
Nowhere.  I’m being spontaneous.
I have just revisited my family.
I visit them virtually and rarely physically.

I am a lonely bastard.
And I think that this is the way I like it.
I enjoy my own company.
I think I am funny.
I don’t need my brother to make me laugh.
Yes, I also have a brother.
He’s a clown.

Why did I use the word “clown” to describe my brother?
Let’s look it up.  A clown can be:
1-  a performance artist often associated with a circus
2- a person who acts in a silly fashion
3- a stupid person
4- a man of coarse nature and manners; an awkward fellow
5- one who works upon the soil; a rustic; a churl.

Yup, that pretty much describes my biological brother.
Not to be confused with my cosmic brother Jahele.
Two very different individuals.

So I had to conclude at one point that I had two separate families.
One down here and another up there, in the clouds or above them.
I’m related to one by blood and to the other one by spirit.

One thousand words.

The Introvert

unsociability5

Today is party day.  My wife invited a lot of people — family and friends.  I know what to expect, I went through this circus many times.  We will greet each other, sit, talk, drink, laugh, eat and then climax:  happy whatever!

The talk usually starts with a “how are you,” then revolves around whichever topic is mentioned.  The fun things we did are brought up, the interesting things we saw are emphasized.  Then anything goes:  hearsay, rumors, news from TV or from other members of the family or of famous people.  Who’s good, who’s bad.  Anything that pops up can become the subject of discussion.  Opinions are expressed.  Jokes are inserted.

Laughing is important to keep the mood happy.  When speaking, a touch of exaggeration is necessary to keep the listeners entertained.  Sometimes there is originality but most of the time opinions are second-hand ideas, the repeating of things heard elsewhere.  Finally a clever “expert” will make a concluding remark and the subject will change.

Fortunately, there is respect in our group.  No fighting.  There is a small chance of an argument between the mother-in-law and her daughter, but nothing serious.  Three languages are in use:  French, Portuguese and English.  It can get confusing because some of us understand and speak only one or two of those languages.  No one bothers translating.  You pick up what you can.  The discussions rarely amount to anything anyway, except maybe laughter.

I think most of the participants just enjoy the feeling of togetherness.  It doesn’t really matter what is said.  Compliments are always welcome.  Funny things are remembered.  Polite smiles are expected, fake ones for photos.

The bulk of the herd should arrive around 5 p.m. and leave at 9.  We will be crammed on the main floor of our medium-sized house.  I will have to endure a minimum of four hours of movement, noise and interaction requests.  I don’t know how to prepare for it except to write and express my apprehension of this upcoming inescapable situation.  I usually fare pretty well, though.  I take the role of the bartender, mixing drinks and serving the thirsty.

I’m more of a listener, and once in a while I will throw a sarcastic comment that will get a few of them rolling and the others frowning.  Two or three such interruptions is usually the most I can afford in one sitting.  I usually drink in order to help my mind relax, but I want to try not drinking at all this time.

I feel alienated in a crowd and never know where I fit in.  I try not to stay too long in the same spot.  I walk around, pretending I’m going somewhere, trying to stay cool.  It’s hard to engage in any sort of intelligent conversation because of the chaos and noise.  Everyone knows that I’m disabled, that I don’t go out much and that I’m a bit depressed, so they don’t bother asking me what I’ve been doing lately because it’s kind of useless.

My mother-in-law usually asks me “how are you,” I reply “fine” and that’s the end of our conversation.  What else can I say?  The truth is:  “I’m sad because your daughter ruined me financially,” but that would be a bad thing to say.  And the purpose of life is to be fucking good, right?  Or at least appear to be…

The clock is ticking.  I want this day to be over quickly.  I don’t get what others enjoy in these gatherings.  I understand though, because I once experienced the warmth of being with a group of friends in the past.  I’m not sure why I changed, though.  Maybe it’s just part of growing up.  Or maybe I lost my friends and I don’t know how to make new ones.  It’s a mystery.

I’m an introvert, I know this much, and that’s a good enough explanation, I guess…

Let’s Party

party2

Another party?  Why?  What are we celebrating this time?

Why are you inviting so many people?  To be seen, heard and admired?  To laugh, eat, and drink?  To give and receive compliments?  To feel good?  To feel loved?  To feel secure?  To give purpose and meaning to your life?  To be happy?

Doesn’t your life have meaning and purpose already?  Don’t you feel secure, loved and good already?  Why do you need to hear compliments?  Is it because you feel worthless?  Why the need to drink so much?  Is it to feel uninhibited — because deep down you feel repressed, smothered and strangled?

Why so much food?  You can’t be that hungry — is it because you feel empty?  Why the need to joke and laugh so much?  Is it because you feel like crying?  Do all these friends around you make you feel better, acceptable perhaps?  Why do you feel unacceptable?  Did you do something unforgiveable?  Why do you need to be recognized, admired and praised?  Do you feel invisible, unimportant and ugly?

Is this party going to fix anything?  Maybe just temporarily…  Wouldn’t you like a more permanent solution to your problem?  Oh!  You don’t have a problem?  Sorry, miss Happy.  My mistake.  I must be crazy.

Okay then… let’s party.

Move a Mountain

mountain

The circumstances of my life have brought me to a place where I can no longer enjoy moving around physically.  Life decided to teach me a lesson.  It hit me on the head and said:  “Daemon, be still and know yourself.  Travel within yourself.  Find out what you are made of and what you can do apart from moving physically.”

So here I was, suddenly, having to learn how to use my mind without going crazy.  Thoughts left unchecked fly all over the place.  Thoughts are like wild animals.  I had to learn to examine them, restrain them and domesticate them.

Writing is the art of manipulating your chaotic thoughts, aligning them, arranging them next to each other to give meaning to everything.  It’s not as easy as it looks.  It takes years of practice.

While doing this, I realized that real power is not in my ability to move my body, but in my ability to control my own thoughts.

The physical world is the result of what happens in the non-physical realm (thoughts, dreams, intentions).  Nothing in the physical world would exist if it hadn’t first taken form in one of the unseen worlds of the Mind.  The seen is nothing but the crystallization of the unseen.  The real action takes place beyond everything we can see with our two eyes.  It’s all in the mind.

We say of the athlete that he is active and of the philosopher that he is passive.  But when you think of it, which one yields more power?  It’s easier to control the physical body than it is to control your own thoughts.  Is the physically strong man exerting more effort than the thinker?  If there was a contest between the two to see which one could move a mountain first, who do you think would win?

The person who thinks creatively has a better chance of accomplishing anything.