It is a curious thing, something that is noticable to me because it never happened before. It all started about four or five months ago, I guess. And in the tradition of all the best Auster novels, it started slow and changed all those it touched. I have gotten used to being around those more intelligent, better looking and wittier than myself. Consequently, ever the bridesmaid. Rarely while I was stumbling and fumbling through my formative years did anyone ever say I was clever. Yes, I got through all my education without much of a hiccough, but never one in the spotlight.
But then, aforementioned period of time ago, someone did say, along the lines of,Well, yeah, but that is alright for you, as you are dead clever. I will admit it stopped me in my tracks. Anyhow, a stinging turn of phrase with a multi-syllabic word does not make me Oscar Wilde. File under flattery and move on.
Move on I did, but a repeat performance from another source occured. Then another. And again. Now, some of these came from people smarter than me, and I did take it as a great compliment. But regardless, it is still me. So I started to wonder, am I now cleverer than I was? I definately read more (or have more time to read, and get through more books), which always helps. But I guess I hold my intellect against those I admire, and in that regard it is always wanting.
Those aren’t paragraphs of me looking for reassurance that I am clever, nor some cynical self-deprecating reverse-psychological mumblings, seriously. It is just so incongruous to have this adjective apply to me, after so many years, it, well, it is a different feeling.
Being is not found
in that which does not exist.
Non-being is not found
In that which exists.
The limit of both,
being and non-being
is perceived by those
who see the truth.
It is a curious thing, something that is noticable to me because it never happened before. It all started about four or five months ago, I guess. And in the tradition of all the best Poe novels, it started slow and changed all those it touched. But that is not strictly true, and in use only to have the same introductory line as the first section. I have always known this, denied it, ignored it, but always known.
Another instance exacerbated by my new commute, with time to read, think and be still. To be quiet and contemplative, to comprehend and be confused. My mother, you may or may not know, now lives the life of a psychic on the Spanish coast. As long as I can remember, she has both went to fortune tellers, and did readings for others. Some of my earliest memories are swinging my feet on my chair at the kitchen table while she read one of the neighbours’ tea leaves.
Little point spinning more anecdotes of my childhood there, but skip forward a few decades. I have always gone to church, whether I have followed the exact credo is open to conjecture. Whether I have followed any credo other than my own is also up for debate. Who is your teacher and what is your dharma? A grounding in physics, or a reaching to astrophysics, can’t answer my questions. All the books can only distill that which others have thought, not what I think.
Little point in spinning more anecdotes from others I have come into contact with, but suffice to say there have been at least two people who have been of use in helping my somewhat esoteric journey out. I have always been somewhat esoteric, the books I read and the thoughts I, err, thunk always one step to the side of the mainstream, and one step into beyond.
My theology is complex and long, I guess even Cassandra doesn’t know it all, if any. She knows I read off-the-wall literature, have some nonsense kicking around in my head, but she is much more grounded than where my head is at.
Is there a point to this section? Only that what might be seen as retreating on my part from everything really is just that. But not in the way you think. I am on a journey. I am an adept (as it happens). I am being and non-being. There are edges to the universe, and I can see round them.
Know this:
That with which
the world is woven
is not to be destroyed.
No one is able to effect
the destruction
of the imperishible.
It is a curious thing, something that is noticable to me because it never happened before. It all started about four or five months ago, I guess. And in the tradition of all the best Dickens novels, it started slow and changed all those it touched. When I took the King’s shilling, and left the cosy, enjoyable, safe intellectual confines of Cambridge-Town for that London, it was a hefty bag of shillings I returned with. This would ease somewhat the paying for my mistakes over the past decade and a half, and maybe even start us having to not pretend you can just have fun without filthy lucre.
But somehow, even with this swollen income, I seem to be worse off than before. I see all around me, with their big idiot boxen, with their latest consoles with all the latest games, going on their regular foreign holidays, buy new this and new that, and me, well, none of that for me. Never has been, I can’t see it ever being so. Plus, given the taxman has decided to start taking an extra 600 quid a month from me, I didn’t even get a chance to buy my Christmas present. (Cassandra decided it wise to leave that to myself, in case she bought the wrong variation.)
So even though I have, on paper, made myself materially better off (and in my head theologically better off), the GUVMINT takes most of it from me. And they wonder why I despise socialists. We are not all equal, and forever may that remain. As long as I renounce, I am happy, but when dragged into the world, and hearing stories of the disposable income of others, I find it harder to detach from the baser instincts. My journey has still far to go.
The self is not born
nor does it ever die.
Once it has been, this self will
never cease to be again.
Unborn, eternal,
continuing from the old,
the self is not killed
when the body is killed.
It is a curious thing. Join me, walk with me, teach me, dissolve me.
