The truth: I'm scared of myself.

For the next 10 days, I will be in complete silence; no speaking, reading, writing, listening to music or even making eye contact with others in the Vipassana course. 10 days of 10 hours a day of meditation,  just me and my mind. The purpose of this Buddhist meditation is self-observation, mindfulness, and introspection, in hopes of seeing things as they really are and achieving a sense of simplicity. In theory, this is accomplished through cognition of the senses, discrimination of the type of sense, experience of the sensation, and the mind's response to the sensation. 


My schedule for the next little while looks like this:

4:00 a.m.                             Morning wake-up bell
4:30 – 6:30 a.m.                 Meditate in the hall or in your room
6:30 – 8:00 a.m.                Breakfast break
8:00 – 9:00 a.m.                Group meditation in the hall
9:00 – 11:00 a.m.               Meditate in the hall or in your room
11:00 – 12 noon                  Lunch break
12:00 – 1:00 p.m.               Rest, and interviews with the teacher
1:00 – 2:30 p.m.                 Meditate in the hall or in your room
2:30 – 3:30 p.m.                 Group meditation in the hall
3:30 – 5:00 p.m.                Meditate in the hall or in your room
5:00 – 6:00 p.m.                Tea break
6:00 – 7:00 p.m.                Group meditation in the hall
7:00 – 8:15 p.m.                 Teacher’s discourse in the hall
8:15 – 9:00 p.m.                Group meditation in the hall
9:00 – 9:30 p.m.                Question time in the hall
9:30 p.m.                             Retire to your room; lights out

Given that yesterday was the 1 year memorial of my father's death, I know I won't be alone in this journey.

Old Habits Die Hard

"I am so over this fucking classic idiot bullshit! Every time he touches you in a sex-way, he’s doing it for one reason and you’re doing it for another, which means that he’s not just fucking you; he’s also tearing off a raggedy, bloody corner of your heart/soul/whatever. Does “he’s just not that into you” not translate into whatever anti-logic, non-adult language you speak? Also, when he says, “No, you’re not,” he means, “Seriously, stop fucking me. Immediately.”


Actually, I know it doesn’t translate. Like you, I have been hypnotized by dudes whose appeal lies mostly (entirely?) in the fact that they do not want a relationship. My twenties were about being unconvinced that nice guys who liked me were owed as much time and attention as the ones who forgot how to call, how to spell my name, and how to proffer as many orgasms as they accepted.

Here is the problem you actually have: you’re being a shit to yourself—which you already know, but me telling you to locate your self-respect is kind of useless until you grow into it—and you’re being a shit to Girl Nation, which needs you to end the cycle of giving the least-deserving guys all of the pussy. And, yes, you’re also being a shit to the citizens of Bad, User-y Guy Nation who have less and less motivation to stop being emotion-vampires and to date you properly.

Unfollow, hide and delete him. When you do see him, all he gets from your babe-face is a tight nod. One of two things will happen: he will barely notice, because he doesn’t like you, or his penis will be like “???” and he’ll eventually make some grand gesture, or what passes for a grand gesture in Bad, User-y Guy Nation, like a daytime phone call. Replace him with something else: lez out, find a dorky sweetheart or just get really into some far-from-him hobby, like backcountry camping.

You will, eventually, stop liking him. Because, eventually, a person who doesn’t like you will become unattractive. And, more importantly, you’ll stop liking the version of yourself who acts like such an embarrassing dummy."

Thanks, as always, to Ms. Carraway for this heaping slice of truth.

Chalk

This video is so real; it makes me want to find the beauty and loveliness in the mundane repetitions and habits we take for granted on a regular basis. I live and get glimpses of life through a "Chalk"-like lens periodically, but why can't I constantly embrace and be surrounded by everyday creative energy and clairvoyance?

Oh Pariah!

My mind has been racing lately. So many ideas, not enough (read: NO) time to follow through with any of them. Music, business, creating, sewing, traveling, planning, decision making. A friend over at 283 has this to say:

...ultimately, isn't fear the most immediate yet overlooked obstacle to living the way we should? I came to the realization this morning that fear has become not only a hindrance, but a safehouse, a comfort for me. I fill every spare moment I have with work, fearing that free time will lead me to the daunting task of thinking about and making decisions about the direction of my future. At the same time, I am using this lack of free time as an excuse for why I have been unable to nurture any of the prospective seedlings that are bursting through my frontal lobes. In all my pragmatism, this cycle is completely illogical, and I recognize it as such, which makes me want to shout even louder, "FUCK YOU FEAR".

But please, don't be afraid of this:

Rouge

I want to eat with my hands, and be nude, and stand still while the rest of the world spins and spins around me. I want to feel the earth, every corner of it. I want to see the way that leaf falls, or that boundary changes, or how the pattern that water makes is one of the most beautiful chaotic messes ever created. I want to enjoy, and appreciate the movements of bodies, my own and those of others. I want to lay under the sun, or rain, or clouds- and soak in all the things that people can't enjoy because they're too busy earning a living to pay for mounds of unnecessary garbage and a week of false solitude and relaxation. I want to feel intrigued forever.

Wipe that face off your head
Some sensible advice for young women from your battle-scarred future

Kate Carraway, February 17, 2010

Dear girls,

Last night I watched you and your idiot friend lose your fucking minds outside of a bar. You’re, what, 23? 24? I guess you got kicked out and your buds were inside? Whatever, I don’t care. But watching both of you drunk-cry, scream and throw punches at a standard-issue-beefy bouncer (who was laughing at you, by the way), I had a sense of deja-ewwww of the more embarrassing and avoidable moments of my own fleeing youth. And, as I have been actively seeking wisdom from ladies slightly and much older than me ever since my recent turning-of-29, it seems an auspicious time to offer some hard-won, well-considered tids of my own. Listen up, bitches.

OK, first of all: shopping isn’t a hobby. Find something else to do. Remember when you are flicking through clothes at mall stores and looking at advertisements in magazines and furnishing your disgusting apartment that you are being seduced by commerce, and not in a way that leaves you dripping in anything other than child labour and debt. I mean, I wear (vintage) fur and believe in fashion, but you have to know what it is that you’re doing and for whom you’re doing it.

On the topic of money: learn it. More crucial than most things in your dumb life is getting your credit and savings in order. Being afraid of money and bills is for babies. Know what is for grown-ups? A budget, a retirement account, a clean credit report. Related: clean up your heaps of filth a little bit every day and then a lot once a week. (Unless you’re a committed crusty, in which case, I salute you.) Respecting your stuff is almost the same as respecting yourself. Dig?

STFU. Stop yelling into your phone on the bus. You’re not impressing anybody. Moreover, when you and your girl squad are screaming, four-deep on the sidewalk, or texting instead of talking to each other, I’m judging you. We all are. Get it together.

Onward: get sex. If you hang with sluts, just go to the alley and put your tongue inside their mouth. Proceed, and use protection. Or, in a more likely scenario, make someone know that they want you by finding a balance between genuinely not giving a shit because you’re better than them, and being the foxiest, funnest, most into-them girl on the planet, because you are. The important thing is to maintain control of the situation (until they’ve checked out OK and you can get onto the business of being vulnerable). Oh yeah, straights: get yours. For every orgasm he has, you should have two or three. This is just biology. Give good head. It is a tremendous human power to deliver A+ oral. And always, always, calm down. The best advice I’ve ever heard about boys is, “When in doubt, don’t call,” courtesy of my oldest sister, who is God’s boss. If you’re wondering whether or not to text, IM, email or call a guy, don’t. He can call you if he wants to. This isn’t an anti-feminist head game — the objective is to free your mind. Just, seriously. Relax.

Do something. Doesn’t matter what. Probably your mom or your shitty high school friends or a man has tacitly suggested that women should fear and avoid failure, disapproval and criticism, and should instead invest their energies in other people’s art and ideas. You know, my love, that this is a lie. If I see you sitting on a curb, smoking, and you don’t have a blog or a band or a small business or something other than a boyfriend, I swear on a stack of Sassys I’ll spit my gum on you. If you don’t end up liking what you’re doing, try something else. No BFD, right?

Say yes. Being a scaredy-mouse is weak and boring. Be afraid of something and then do it anyway, again and again. Say no. To your boss, your parents, your friends. Learn how “no” feels in your mouth and in what instances saying it will make you and your life better. Being a salty bitch should be countered with kindness, but remember, you’ve got to get yours.


Decide what kind of person you want to be with, and then become that person. The only way your life will be cinematic, or even vaguely interesting, is if you run it the fuck down and make it happen. Yeah, all by yourself. And shit can get lonely. So, find your best friends. You have an obligation to be honest and rad to these people and expect the same. Figure out who and what makes you choke on laughs and makes your skin burn with joy, then take it (and them), and don’t apologize for it ever. And once in a while, cradle your beautiful teacup face in your hands, and remember that you’re perfect.

Love, Kate. xoxo

Kieran Hebden

Four Tet's new album, There is Love in You, was released today and has my ears in a blissful state. Similar to those days when you walk down the street, buy a coffee, browse the antiques market, take a ride up to the top of the (once)highest building, and everyone looks beautiful- regardless of how beautiful they are in reality. Do you have those days? I swear there is no correlation between the general consensus of an individuals' beauty and my perceived beauty of a person on these kind of days. If only I could self-actualize beauty unto myself... Anyways, I suppose these days are negligibly comparable to Four Tet's album in the sense that there is no mistaking the absolute brilliance that radiates from every single second your ears are adjacent to a speaker, ear buds, noise cancelling headphones or whatever your music ear drug of choice may be. Favourite tracks include Sing, Plastic People (below), and Love Cry (the original is better than the Joy Orbison remix in my humble opinion).

What's so dirty about dirt?

We spend a profuse amount of time attempting to "wash" the dirt off us when really most of the things we put on us or in us are dirtier than dirt, in an inorganic sense.

It seems I was intrinsically nonspiritual until about four weeks ago. Preaching Dawkins, placing science on a pedestal, and stubbornly insisting that scientific reasoning must provide the singular answer as to why so many individuals across the world seem to be inflicted with the "disease" of religion (see here). Now, a light switch has turned on.

As with most things in my life, inclusive of religion, I am an all-or-nothing/black-or-white type thinker. Religion made no pragmatic sense to me and my rational beliefs, actions and morals. This changed however, when I discovered the simplicity in the "grey" of spirituality I never knew existed.

John Hogue

"You can't have your past and your future, too," says Hogue. In other words, you cannot fully embrace the exciting and daunting possibilities that loom ahead of you if you also insist on immersing yourself in the pleasures of the past. You can either have the old ways or the new ways, but not both.

The sweet taste of insight.

Dichotomies, Dichotomies

"Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top.

At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles- a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other- that kept me going."

-The Rum Diary, Hunter S. Thompson

Edward Scissorhead-and-shoulders-knees-and-toes

I could walk forever if it wasn't for the cold

you stole from me so many

intangibles

down
down
down

with you they went.

such a catalyst for dormancy

Shituations

I Enjoy Dan Piraro's Bizarro every morning, and enjoy these cynical realities most of all.

It's Evolution, Baby

Sorry folks, time to give up the fantasy. It is ironic, however, that even after all these years the evolutionary research leaders Peter and Rosemary Grant seemed as happy and monogomous as Diplozoon paradoxum when I saw their public lecture on Darwin's finches. Click here for New York Times article on Faithfulness as a Fantasy.