Nothing. Everything. (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 246)

“They don’t like me,” she said. “And I don’t like them.”

That did make him chuckle, especially the brazen, arms-folded way she said it, like she’d decided they were her eternal enemy.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not. You’re a curious person. You ask questions. That’s why they don’t like you. That’s all.”

“What’s wrong with asking questions?”

“Nothing.” Everything. Once questions snuck in, whatever had been certain became uncertain. Questions opened the way for doubt.

“But you’re curious, too,” she said.

‘Why do you say that?”

“You guard the light. And light sees everything.”

Acceptance

Jeff Vandermeer          2014

 

 

Being an Abomination at a Pep Rally Play (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 245)

I suggest that the highly aware who also most often happen to be the non-conforming, feel alone in the presence of the herd because the herd demands conformity (consciously and/or subconsciously) and obliteration of such individual awareness. The aware non-conformist seeks union and true socialization (genuine engagement and interaction with others), but the herd only pretends to participate in such behavior. The non-conformist wants to participate in a genuine and meaningful conversation or experience, while the herd seems to be in a continuous process of attempting to out-mundane one another in meaningless banter and base amusement. Trying to genuinely interact with the thespians of the herd while being the sole outlier entrapped within their production of  overwhelming pretend and artificial behavior produces an unresolvable skism in the psyche of alienation, disappointment, confusion, and the feeling of being an unrelatable abomination to the rule/norm, even if that rule/norm isn’t anything more than some empty pervasive drama. The false feeling and perception of not enjoying “the company of others” which often confounds the nonconforming outlier is in actually the feeling of being frustrated by having to endure intolerable hollow, superficial, and meaningless interaction of this no sustenance “pep rally play” with those others.  And despite the obvious nature of all of this waste of sharing reality and negation of commingling sustenance, the supreme sin remains only the act of letting your poker face and poker posture fail to maintain and enable the illusion of your joyous participation in that damned “pep rally play.”

When the highly aware are alone or in a true pack of stability and acceptance, aka a pack founded on non-delusional respect, they spread their wings and they soar, individually and collectively, in embracing the graces and wonders of existence that are meant to be celebrated by all of us on a continuous basis. Genuine union and transcendence with others is the key as opposed to the pretend/fake pseudo-union with others that most prop up as being the supreme manifestation of our social engagement and expression of brotherly love.

Cribb          2018

The Conformity of Being Broken (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 243)

I have fought for the broken, the bent, the destabilized, the sexually repressed, the let down, the abused, the oppressed, the insecure, and the manipulated, almost my entire life. I have thrown myself up against a pervasive and heinous social and familial indoctrination system matrix that is the underlying force which inoculated all of these aforementioned entities with the fear that rules them in their preferred form of accepted and continued cyclical unending destabilization and suffering. I have flayed my life, my anger, my confusion, my demons, my own madness, my embarrassments, my vulnerabilities, my shame, and my own neuroses, in my own public blog and other forms of social media, to speak to these lost souls and try and get them to understand that I “get it,” that I “get them,” and I get the struggle they deal with every waking moment. I have read and educated myself endlessly on behavior, psychology, delusion, addiction, and a number of other related subjects, to become the most stabilizing entity, whether it be as son, friend, boss, father, lover, teacher, or veterinarian, possible. That has been the emphasis of my entire life, and I’m not exactly a dull light bulb of mediocre awareness and determination.

And despite all of this intent, focus, education, contemplation, and the best effort I can muster, over and over and over, what I have learned in 99.9% of the cases is that what broken really wants to do the most and what broken also really does best, is stay fucking broken, forever and ever and ever. And as broken does so, it expends an excessive amount of effort, will, and energy, to cycle through an infinite number of scapegoats, excuses, and every form of plausible deniability imaginable.

I once thought that the majority or at least a significant portion of broken adults and all of their excuses with them, could be helped or cured by another entity of supreme stability, empathy, and awareness. I now believe that such a notion is silly at best.

Broken wants to stay broken because that is what it has accepted as normal and it is too scared to choose to be abnormal, that is to break from the constructs it has previously cemented around its psyche as a result of the real or perceived life experiences it suffered in the past.

Normal for Broken is conformity to itself and the role that all the other enabling entities of its pack have “stamped with approval” as acceptable for one of its members even if that group “approved” behavior leads to its own perpetual destabilization. The enabling pack actually controls the destabilized Broken by keeping it weak, fractured, confused, and dependent on them. And they do all of this always in the name of love.

Abnormal or a state of healing change and cure for Broken is nonconformity to what it has previously accepted as itself and nonconformity to the entire damn enabling pack that it has been entrapped and tortured within. It matters not if this enabling pack has done this dastardly deed with specific intent or woeful ignorance, that is an irrelevant issue.

Broken will almost always choose conformity because that is the primary driving force behind social behavior. This conformity will eat its soul alive even as it pretends that only by conforming more and never less to its enabling pack might it ever become unbroken and find true peace.

The Broken were all once nonconformist. That’s a secret no one ever tells you. The reason they became Broken was because someone could not tolerate them with mutual respect and coexistence in their non-conforming state. So, the “non” was cut out of the nonconformist and what was left was Broken.

Broken, now a conformist, bent the knee, and lived happily ever after in the perpetual destabilization and suffering created by the psychological rift of their inherent core awareness and will conflicting continuously and paradoxically with their own outwardly adopted conforming behavior.

Cribb          2018

The Relief of Selling Your Soul (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 240)

Pretext Note: This lesser known novel written by George Orwell deals with the constant struggle of the protagonist who is trying to avoid the insanity, destabilization, and bastardization of living in the money world as he also attempts to continue to comfortably interact with others who are of that world and maintain the survival of his own perceived self worth. This passage is essentially the culminating point of the novel. The tragic nature in the outcome of his “relief” of accepting that he must sell his soul if he is to integrate with the money world in any respect is fatalistically depressing, but astoundingly and hauntingly accurate in assessing the impossibility of meshing and melding the worlds of money and non-money prioritization.

He walked rapidly away. What had he done? Chucked up the sponge! Broken all his oaths! His long and lonely war had ended in ignominious defeat. Circumcise ye your foreskins, saith the Lord. He was coming back to the fold, repentant. He seemed to be walking faster than usual. There was a peculiar sensation, an actual physical sensation, in his heart, in his limbs, all over him. What was it? Shame, misery, despair? Rage at being back in the clutch of money? Boredom when he thought of the deadly future? He dragged the sensation forth, faced it, examined it. It was relief.

Yes, that was the truth of it. Now that the thing was done he felt nothing but relief; relief that now at last he had finished with dirt, cold, hunger and loneliness and could get back to decent, fully human life. His resolutions, now that he had broken them, seemed nothing but a frightful weight that he had cast off. Moreover, he was aware that he was only fulfilling his destiny. In some corner of his mind he had always known that this would happen. He thought of the day when he had given them notice at the New Albion; and Mr. Erskine’s kind, red, beefish face, gently counselling him not to chuck up a “good” job for nothing. How bitterly he had sworn, then, that he was done with “good” jobs for ever! Yet it was foredoomed that he should come back, and he had known it even then. And it was not merely because of Rosemary and the baby that he had done it. That was the obvious cause, the precipitating cause, but even without it the end would have been the same; if there had been no baby to think about, something else would have forced his hand. For it was what, in his secret heart, he had desired.

After all he did not lack vitality, and that moneyless existence to which he had condemned himself had thrust him ruthlessly out of the stream of life. He looked back over the last two frightful years. He had blasphemed against money, rebelled against money, tried to live like an anchorite outside the money-world; and it had brought him not only misery, but also a frightful emptiness, an inescapable sense of futility. To abjure money is to abjure life. Be not righteous over much; why shouldst thou die before thy time? Now he was back in the money-world, or soon would be. Tomorrow he would go back to New Albion, in his best suit and overcoat (he must remember to get his overcoat out of pawn at the same time as his suit), in homburg hat of the correct gutter-crawling pattern, neatly shaved and with his hair cut short. He would be as though born anew. The sluttish poet of today would be hardly recognisable in the natty young business man of tomorrow. They would take him back, right enough; he had the talent they needed. He would buckle to work, sell his soul and hold down his job.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying 

George Orwell          1936