Postscript Re: Sarah

All, Journal, Writing

I don’t mind saved drafts, they are vital to the writer’s journey to psychic wholeness; for the alchemy of maturity must be performed alone, in private; however, lately, I have been saving too many drafts in what I can only perceive as an attempt to avoid writing about what I have been meaning to write about: my Sarah – not Sarah, whose loan on my heart is long overdue and accruing fines (As evinced by my last two poems) but my Sarah: her doppelgänger ghost, whom I will always love. Because my Sarah never left. Yes, the Sarah who left a year ago is unknown to me – and I dead to her. It’s a ghost story all around.

But I have to tell it or my memories will be my Shutter Island, a personal abyss. But even the darkness of her ghost wasn’t always that dark. Just sad. Me walking up the hill alone, bringing back a bottle of tequila and a few IPAs, so I could hang out with her ghost and commiserate. Got shitty drunk and listened to the Lana Del Rey catalogue till I was gone enough to feel that both Lana and Sarah were here with me. It was just a girl’s night: a painfully sad, massively lonely, self-deluded girl’s night.

This was one of the stories I recounted in a long letter I wrote her, after I got sober alone here in the mountains. The handwritten letter ended up taking up most of a spiral notebook. I never sent it. Nor the letters I typed to her parents. I just couldn’t carry the truth to her: that I would always love her fiercely.

I couldn’t give her that gift in the face of being perceived as absolutely valueless by her: worthless. She never directly told me to get fucked, but that certainly would have been the kind thing to do. Go back and read some of my poems, it’s a fucking sad story. And she had the right to disown me in the end. She was justified – but not in her means. Still, I wanted her friendship, I wanted to be able to safely love her forever. But it was not safe for me. Is not. I still have the mind-mushing pills they gave me. A kind of break-in-case-of-emergency parachute, which I think I’ll never need, because I’ll never be writing her songs and sending them to her again like I did:

Baby baby come over
You know that I’m sober,
I know that we’re over

It’s a three hour drive, up the I-5, don’t say you’re tired,
I know you’re lyin… I know your line

No, I will never look to her again for an iota of love. But I wanted to. She knew. I told her repeatedly, when we last talked, in an emotionally strained tone of voice:

“It didn’t have to be like this!”

And it fucking didn’t.

Of course, forgiveness is accepting that the past could not have been any different. And I have accepted that Sarah did not wish to remain my friend; I have accepted that we are not friends – will not be friends. In fact, my animus toward her is that of the person who checked themselves into the psych hospital following her refusal to see me last Christmas after we had been apart five months…. But with Sarah, it is all my fault. And some people will never apologize because they will never feel they have anything to be sorry for in light of all you did to them.

And even if I were wrong and Sarah contacted me to tell me I am wrong and that she does care for me and wanted to mend the fence today or in seven years, I would politely tell her to get fucked. Because I am a gentleman. And I don’t fuck with people’s emotions.

So, in regards to Sarah, whatever matters to her in the world, whoever she is, I have no clue. In my subjective perception, she wore the mask I projected onto her from day one, and I never feel I got really far behind it, other than to see near the end that I was really out-gamed and that my mask was not a fit at all.

As a wise person once said, “Pick someone who will make a good ex.” Had I been cogent of this and other things, there would have been no Daniella, no Shannon, no Sarah. But it also ought be said that I was a better ex than I was a longterm partner for any of them. But, from 34 year old me, and from all the poems I have written to my formative loves: fuck you all. Srs fr fr.

My inner-child just high-fived me for that one… but hey. I really had no backbone hitherto. I can tell story after story of my putting up with things that I would have noped the fuck out on from three miles away today. I see you Shannon, not staying with me at my new apartment in the shores on my 27th birthday. Yes that was seven years ago. But fuck did that suck. And a ton of my actions in my relationships fucking sucked too. Where alcohol was always the common factor in my failings, perhaps the common factor in their’s was the vitriol I caused them to feel for me. I have no problem taking responsibility. I’ll take all the blame. I have.

Obviously this isn’t about Sarah. It’s about me.

But I would be lying if I told you my Sarah was not a big part of who I am. And I would be lying if I said my love for Sarah Sarah didn’t make me hate her fucking guts. But you would have had to miss her like me to know how that feels, you would have to love her like I do. And I don’t think anyone knows how deep that love runs.

I always carried the torch. For all of them. Two years after my first love of five years cheated on me and ghosted, I took her back, when, in Gatsbian fashion, I became financially successful in order to do so. The romance is not lost on me. But it was on her.

I carried the torch for all of them. The night Sarah and I met, I said to her, “I thought my story was over.” Sarah was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

As had been Shannon and Daniella before her. In a way, it was all the same “eternal woman” I was seeking.

But with Sarah there was more magic because I was older. Fuck I loved her. The morning I woke up next to her, I said to myself, “Is this the girl you are gonna marry,” and it wasn’t a question. Sarah. Her hair. Her skin. Her spirit. The energy of her consciousness was my favorite I had ever encountered. Her skin.

I recall listening to countless plays of an incredibly poetic Yung Lean song titled ‘Agony’, which told his own story of recovering after a stay in the psyche ward. It felt like I wrote it.

“Isolation caved in,
I adore you, the sound of your skin”

I have it on now, and it still resounds – minus the “take a pill and go to sleep” part, though the pill would help me sleep – were I less inclined to smoke a QP a month of cannabis instead.

But Sarah. I told her in my letter that she would be the queen of my heart forever. I even have a kind of Jungian model of the space she occupies in the canon of my love, based on the four stages of anima development.

She is Mary. After her came Sophie, the goddess of wisdom, whom – instead of projecting – I have personified as Lore, my Self. Not that binary Jungian models for male and female contrasexual inner development are entirely valid in an emerging post-gender world, but my own anima (inner feminine) development seems to have followed a series of stages culminating in the individuation of the feminine in myself via a trans non-binary femme identify.

Further, I could not project love any further outward beyond Sarah. Where she ended I began.

Another anecdote from the unsent book letter I wrote Sarah was about how much I felt like her after she left, like I was her. Drinking ginger tea. She gave me the first admirable model I had ever known of how to be an independent human. This is so painful to even write. But fuck. I would just drink ginger tea and listen to Norwegian Wood because it reminded me of her.

There is so much more from this last year alone, but suffice to say, I feel sexy in my bike shorts because Sarah was sexy in her’s. And I evoke her spirit constantly in my conscious mind in myriad little ways. And even then, I find it so easy to pine for her. I feel sick to my stomach now. The silence kills. Alexa play “To Zion” by Trevor Hall.

So, do I think Sarah is “cool”, no. I think she is amazing, but she is not cool at all. She’s too cool for me.

Gah, what do I even do with all this. I guess now I decide whether to save it as a draft or to press the little publish button.

I fear I have been too callous, and my expression of love and gratitude too tame, but Jung said perfection lie in the tension of opposites.

And I’ll have to love Sarah for the rest of my life. I don’t think I will ever not miss her or hate her for it.

It’s so fucked but what can I do. I spent this year alone. I went through it all on my own, and only I’ll ever know the dark days of not having a single friend in the world to talk to. There were eight months in the mountains when I didn’t even have a car. I went fucking through it.

So excuse me if I have lost the will to project love outside again, but I have gained the ability to feel it within, from myself, and that’s worth as many fuck yous as my inner child feels entitled to.

And I hope I never feel the need to write about Sarah again for many years. As the sheer amount of emotional energy I have expended on my love for her has been enough for a lifetime. The letter was never meant to be sent. But this Postscript was.

And I really hope it helps me move on. Because the truth is, Sarah doesn’t know me either.

Pps. Found this today looking for something else:

God these two were Legend.

I’m a Bit Glad Even

All, Poetry

Come all the way in a year
To myself, to no more fear; and I know I’m pretty now…

Of fact, I must mention her here, who left a year ago, for whom I already broke my heart – back when I was without a friend and desperately in need of one –
Yeah, I learned a lot in the deep dark,
Singing “Dive in the water’s fine!” while they watched me on camera;
The mental health system kept me alive,
And cannabis gave me comfort when I had none – had no interest in life, when all hurt, and I wanted to die –
Months stuck at home in the mountains alone
Days and mornings Satan would have cowered from – I was Kylo Ren, a real dark, wounded one
Till Rey (The Feminine) saved me
Got sober at 33, after crashing and burning on my own, reborn
Mary Jane > Sarah Jane
LMAO
A bitch-boy no more
Bless my self-respect and the ability to spare my life such ungrateful blameful, shameful loathing as I knew –
And of self-knowing alone I will never open myself their way again
Oh sweet Lawrence
The dogs missed the best of you… (indiscriminate mumbling)… faaaaaaaaccccccckkkkk….
I hope she kisses them once for me,
And I hope she loves her self too,
Always all ways
But not once from me, never again like before, projected Madonna on Magdelane, she was Mary for me
Until the pain of discrepancy withdrew the projection for we (anima, inner-child, hairy-man [shadow]) – SELF sum emerged from the dungeon
Yeah, your boy did some heavy alchemy over thousands of hours spent listening to Lil Peep
And isolated for a long spell, in my loneliness, I magically absorbed her spirit into me, now I evoke her thighs in my bike shorts, her ego in my worth,
But I will never see myself through her eyes again, the thought hurts, lies again
What more can I say, I loved her and love all of me she released –
But she can forget about that friend shit forever
Now I know it is not she but my projection that is dead to me
RIP – I loved Lawrence’s Sarah –
And she changed my life
But I did the work
After I was left for dead, Dantes

Now I’m a Mountain Christ, and even have my own Haydee – fuck me 🤯 – she’s worth at least a few poems to me – but back to We:
I am my sun
And moon
Shopping kmart girls for cheap thrills on lonely nights when I was forgotten,
I courted myself,
And fucked myself too –
Oh, and then there was that part where I actually figured out my philosophy and “spirituality” after I wiped my library of the new age “higher power” sewage in favor of an eternally reccuring universe in an infinite space where Nature HerSelf is God!
SHE, running life like a secret co-ordinating agency,
More intelligent than her Agents:
You and Me
Too dumb to know we are pieces on Her board –
Born of DNA, telos of the big bang
I guess you could say it was then that my life became bigger than one judgy person’s opinion of me
In the end, my projection was cooler
And kind – not nice like her kind
So the letters I wrote went in the archive
Read em when I die
I got no more worshipping of others left in me in this life
Save sweet reminiscences in my memoirs, I’ll write what I write, and your price to pay is exile from the rest of my life –
I already paid mine
And it was almost worth it haha
I kid but I live
Half regretful so many lines were regarding her when I have nothing left to say, but that’s also something to say,
And you’ll never know the price I paid,
Needless to say, it was enough to call her big bluff and blow the worthless toxic bridge for good
It took a year but goddamn it feels good to not relate to her
Guess once you get self-esteem and a loving, healthy relationship with yourself, some people lose the right to live rent-free in your head… as if my love for a lifetime were a worthless thing🤥
I’m obviously still pissed – bad investment –
All I wanted was her fucking friendship forever!!! DEAD. NEVER. NOT EVER.
So we’ll see who really made the bad investment
LongCon is a petty count of monte cristo motherfucker, I really am
My God How I Love Eternal!
Guess my exes got grandfathered in back when I was just a kid
Now my lovers all Sophies and their souls all trophies
Now healers and yoga teachers opening their hearts, getting high, making love w me
But back when we met I didn’t love me so maybe they just see what I do in me
Or maybe the love she did see helped shine a light in me –
Surely
But now I’m Berner415 cold on one hand and christ-hearted in the other
Tension of opposites, Jung: the older I grow the more you become a brother,
And I the grandfather
Shout to a wise man fuck a wiseman
Told you LongCon petty, yeah I have fun
Don’t worry, no one knows your stupid name
But they will
Though I’m really not vindictive, just petty enough to actually make it big
Come on, you didn’t think I was just some stupid kid, did you?
Even Trumpish David O. knew I would stand on his shoulders and piss on his head
But your peak at 23 had no concern for me
I’m going back 11 years, but it’s a potent healing night
Removing projections left and right
Because there is yet integration to be done
And when it comes to what’s in my shadow, you took a lot of my gold –
I know I’m dialoguing via anima when I use “you” instead of she
But there is only one You and that’s me –
I just need all of me
Including the parts of you that I hid from me when I buried (repressed) she,
Everything I projected when you tried on the 5 CT Tiffany and I wanted you to marry me
How’s the ring? haha I die
Even now I’m doing the work bc it never ends, and in this moment, when I realize my anima is possesed by the projection of my first love
Then I know it’s time for a broader me and a more inclusive self-love
What did I bury with you
Ambition
Because your ambition broke my young heart
So I lost my hunger, but I was given my art (see ‘stages of anima development wiki’)
‘The wound is where the light enters’
It just took a long time: a decade to remove these sutures
I was infected long, walking dead
Now I can’t wait to be the cleanest in the cut again,
(And also, just, to be in the cut again, ahem, hello LA)
But I know I can’t wait for the Lambo to feel like Bruce Wayne
The watch doesn’t make the man
But it helps when you have the love of a curly-blonde Katie Holmes
And you’re really a boss when you know you make her feel at home
And you’re really, really a boss when you’re already prepared to let go as she’s tightening, which makes you happy but you just appreciate her more, and let her breathe, like she needs to, because she likes to need you
(And not the other way ’round)
You see, once you establish your own worth, there’s no fearing what you’re worth, or even doubting
For the best people will always love you –
Kind of fucked how long it took me to learn all this but I wasn’t born with me for a dad, though I wish I had been; however, I was born as me, which is the second best thing,
And maybe the first, I mean, I finally think I’m not even mad –
I’m a bit glad even.

Blueberry Donuts

All, Poetry

Rapid succession of saved drafts can’t express what takes away breaths,
Sorry, but I kind of love her
And I’m not just writing this to pat my own back, but let me try
Firstly, how lucky am I –
And she loves me something good too – casually but deep, hard
She, INFP, of uncommon beauty,
Yogini, would anger any Karen in her bikini🙏🏼😊,
But her love takes no toll on me,
She is a lilypad charging station
Manipura love // om mani padme hum;
Sticky, wet, sweat, home
There are so many songs I want to play her
‘Mississippi’ and ‘Isolated’,
Rolling through mountain backroads, smoke rolling out the windows: my hand on her dank thigh
Babe obvi smokes as much dank as I
Right happy she is mine for a time
A season as seasons go,
To unwind the energy at the base of my spine,
This is a level 10 love
Kundalini flow –
It was a perfect day,
Her beside me in every way,
How my cup runneth over, oh babe
And I just had another blueberry donut too

Power is the ability to choose how you respond.

All, Poetry

There are many ways to see things
Your perspective determines which and how much you will suffer

The quality of your consciousness is the quality of your life:
We are our thoughts – but more importantly, we must live with the feelings our thoughts create

We’re touching the surface now,
Joseph Campbell told us how:

“All the gods and all the devils and all the heavens and all the hells are within you.”
The gavel is yours, a double-edged sword only you wield

How often a sour eye for the world poisons a whole family’s hope –
Only now you’re an adult, and so must own the world you live in

But unless you accept that you have created the life you have,
You’ll never have the power to create the life you want

Because power is the ability to choose how you respond,
And we have always had it, whether we were consciously aware of it or not

This is no heavy weight; you are not here to “take” responsibility,
You are here to take it back

Because only you giveth and taketh away,
For your entire adult life it’s been that way

But now you’re safe, knowing if you didn’t consciously chooose a response,
Its just a reaction anyway

The patient wisdom of the space between stimulus and response, is your coup de grace,
By which you dead all automatic reactions, seperating danger from fear

So develop control of the avatar (response ability) or allow your body to ride you like a horse unto the grave (reactivity)…

Which will it be?

A Timely Read: Graham Greene’s ‘The End of The Affair’

All, Passages

Picked out Graham Greene’s acclaimed 1951 novel ‘The End of The Affair’ from my bookshelf and did not put it down until it was over. It felt very timely – as most significant reads somehow do. And I’m still thinking of it… rather tenderly.

A few passages in particular caught me in the throat:

“More than anything in the world I wanted to hurt Sarah. I wanted to take a woman back with me and lie with her upon the same bed in which I made love to Sarah; it was as though I knew that the only way to hurt her was to hurt myself.”

“Looking at her over my whiskey I thought how odd it was that I felt no desire for her at all. It was as if quite suddenly after all the promiscuous years I had grown up. My passion for Sarah had killed simple lust for ever. Never again would I be able to enjoy a woman without love.”

“I remembered how Sarah had prayed to the God she didn’t believe in, and now I spoke to the Sarah I didn’t believe in. I said: You sacrificed both of us once to bring me back to life, but what sort of a life is this without you?”

And poor, dear Perkis… how he “…had not heard that” about Lancelot. What a zinger!

There is, however – to my mild chagrin – a “surprise” twist of sorts, at the end, at which point the book’s acclaim as a ‘Catholic novel’ becomes clear. Points of faith aside, my jaw is still floored on the whole – even with the ending; although, at the end of my affair, with my Sarah, I stand indifferent to a God; however, this only proves the author’s point that we only hate what we love.

Had a Dream About Her

All, Journal

The dream:

I was waiting for her to return home from a night out – and so was in the bedroom, where I fell asleep to awake the next morning, alone, where I called her to ask why she never returned… but she told me she never went out… that she never left our home.

Dreams about exes are jarring. And the above dream has a particular ‘haunted by her ghost’ quality to it, which really gets my goat….

It’s like, okay, I’ve already dealt with the reality of being totally fucking disowned and ignored / rejected by my former love and “best friend” (Let me wipe my ass with these cheap words) – oh, and I have been living alone in the mountains the past year.

Like, wtf, has my sub-conscious not gotten the fucking measage!!?? You’re fucking less than dead to her bro. Have been. She doesn’t give a shit about you bud. Take it to heart. Deeply.

I was left twisting in the wind by my own romantic idealization of her – got it – but do I have to have a fucking dream to remind me that the dream isn’t even nearly as fucking sad as the reality.

She slow ghosted me over months – while repeatedly giving me faith we could and would be friends. She even hung out with my sister right before my visit for the holidays, which ended with her not wanting to see me and myself checking into the hospital. The pain caused a lot of self-abuse, even after that.

But has my subconscious not gotten the message after all of this. Four months sober on top of it. Like, am I a fucking joke to myself, just living my life like a dream where I am waiting for her to return, to be gaslit by her when she tells me she never left.

No, she left a long time ago – long before I knew it. I was just willing to believe. But no longer. The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!

So dear subconscious, please get the memo. Hopefully that was the point of the dream.

Psychomagic Spell #1: Message from Protectress

All, Poetry

Guiding goddess, protectress, giver of boon,
I stand face to face with you,
The utmost respect for thee,
Trusting you know what is true for me…

So it was, to the above spell cast, that her gifts unto me flowed, from eternal psychic past

Dear boy, being, mother nature’s own
I hope you understand,
You are a single organism, a key function, in a greater thing,
And it needs you –
So heed my words when I tell you to follow your heart,
That sum center of self, home to shadow, anima, inner-child too,
Who all need a vote, on what’s best for you
For a heart-centered self-governence,
Which need fear neither rebuke nor error:
For it is the kingdom,
To which you are heir –
So check in with your heart,
And live what you find there.

Re-Accessing The Guardian: Inner Child Mind-Dump Vol 1 🙇🏻‍♂️🧠💩

All, Inner Child, Poetry

I did not receive the programming for peace early on,
Which means neither did my parents, so the cycle went on

Now I’m finally giving me,
What I wanted all along:
The self-esteem and inner-security, oft accordingly passed on,
Based upon the family, into which you were born
And perhaps like me,
You were similarly forlorn,
In not being destined
To be enpowered as something handed down

For we learn young,
Our adult disposition formed earlier than we know,
Out of the impressioned youth,
Into which we grow
“Give me a child till the age of seven, and I will show you the man”, goes the Jesuit maxim,
Spoken by thise who understand,
A way of thinking that’s taught,
Learned secondhand

Scared nervous people,
Raise scared nervous kids,
Lacking the psychological security,
The ‘fortunate’ give theirs
Yes, it’s a class issue,
The socioeconomic status of those from whom you receive your DNA
But birth is not a fair lottery,
And it’s always been that way

Until we can time travel,
We will never have a say,
In the life we were given to,
And what led us to today
So reject the fatalistic resignation,
Which the victim always sees at play
And nurture your nature,
With what you think and say

And neither be afraid to ponder,
The past and the role it played,
Because we have to understand,
Or we make the same mistakes again and again
Yes, I’ll be 35 in a year,
And I’m just now here:
Seeing why I am the way I am,
And how I can change my thinking, to change the way I live

And I know it all goes back to the start,
Inner child, sometimes without dinner child
Whose magical consciousness is full of gifts to give – inner truths
Yet eterneally vulnerable,
To how you feel and live:
Needing the ever present safety and security, like you needed as a child – but from you,
To express through you –
Given that, just imagine,
What the two of you could do:

If you could give him,
The worth he’d want to give to you
For there are no time machines,
But there are centers, containers of consciousness, called archetypes –
Through which we can reprogram the inner you –
And the inner-child, most deserving and pure (Does not mean non-sexual – love, sex, between adults can also be pure :)
Warrants nothing less than a seat at the table, replete with a voice
For he has much to bequeathe unto you, deserves your heart and the power of choice

And we ourselves most should invest here;
For inner child wants the best for us,
Just to share,
In the dreams he can conjure, and the desire to get there;
We ought give the reigns to inner child
– As is their proper inheritence –
But this is not to give license to the puer,
The eternal child, who likes too much to be master of his lair:
Think Peter Pan: he’s rather Lizard brained,
Whereas inner child is now wisened, with access to his guardian and not control over him

It’s a choice distinction,
Between the two
For we want to open to life,
Not be swallowed by its shadow
For that’s what this is about:
Re-accessing the truest part of you,
Who is always there, though sometimes long unbeknownst to you,
For inner child often goes “underground” to protect itself:

As is the case, when we have not made inner child feel safe
And silenced the vulnerability,
Refused our softest-self space
Yes, even inner-child hides in the shadow,
Repressed
In the unconscious,
Without the means to express
For if we don’t listen to our little self, we’ll have neither the wings nor the breath:

To reconnect with us,
And work together on what’s ahead
Focusing on the future,
And not living in the past,
But never forgetting, the rawness of our path:
But what breaks my heart most, is that my inner child is older than I,
Had to face all that without so much as a ‘Self’ – much less a persona to chill behind
Dearest inner child!,
Greatest hero of mine!

Tell me where you want to go,
And I’ll take you to the stars!!
We know I’m sorry, for all those nights spent in bars,
Or behind them,
Once or thrice
You suffered most, through all my vice (fear and self-pity greatest among them)
Betrayed my very heart, and put you in the dark –
Had no time for something I didn’t know held my brightest spark

Till I re-membered you,
Put you back together, and me too,
With compassion for what I never could forget:
The childhood we endured –
You without my strength around,
For so mang years,
When it felt natural to be down
Oh man oh man, we finally made it out – what a mindfuck that was

Till together again at last, a second childhood of sorts,
Me like your adopted dad,
Reunited with my boyhood self –
And I could not be more glad

Nor more surpised to find myself a solid man,
Who knows that without the boy, I could never create such rich, exciting plans 🥰⛵️

True-True

All, Poetry

I remain unknown,
But I am finally known to myself
The pearl of great price at the bottom of my sea took me thirty-four years to reach,
And I grasp the meaning of life in the baby oak leaf fallen on the stoop this morning: tempus aeternum
I am realised, released:
My id no longer riding me like a horse;
My libido, the dragon, now in service of my anima, my heart
Oh how it has broken
These queen pieces on my chess board, all fallen
I could name them – and I used to – but they all know I love them, and no one cares
For what can I, the bard, offer but the intangible, which is always fungible to any but the rarest seer – who is both mythical and mystical –
The she-wolf to this sea-wolf
But my animus incarnation is deceased to many and dying to some,
How slow and painfilled have I wilted on the vine for them
Sour grapes, the lot of lost love…
Yet in others I am sweetness, still ripening – or yet born
And for Dr. Mia GoWell, I am stillborn, D.O.A, R.I.P, nulled
One day she will reverse-moby me,
Say, “I dated him”
And I’ll yawn…
Because through all of this, I trust nature,
Knowing She knows All, timing and purpose too
You see, I’ve been through these cycles, these seasons before,
Ends of chapters and of books in the tome of my life
Cities and loves and always the quiet lonely ends
Only time is easier now
In the midsummer of my life
But I don’t want Fall,
I want Autumn, auctus
Not Summer,
But sagma, to pack and leave
And I soon think I will,
Escape the belly of this whale
Take Blackie to LA
Simplify, succeed,
Need no more succor
Care no more about her everlasting rancor
Be at peace, anchored to the microbiome in my core
Intel-inside, I’ve nothing left to hide
Nature boy, the human satyr,
I’m a lover, the world will see Me later,
Until then, I’ll close my eyes for five or ten,
Just to die and wake again
My Self, My Truest Friend,
Whom I’ll remain faithful to, till the end
Until trillions of years from now, when the Universe and we are born again

How to Survive Vol 1: Self-Love is Our Panacea

All, Poetry

Strong enough, you are
To ride the wave of Your Motherf’n Life

Many anxious, lonely, sad peoples…
Much depression in world; great fear, uncertainty, and doubt

But there do be a boss way to move,
Empowered by a self-love that’s more powerful than fear (hadouken!)

Love > Fear

Yet we all fall into the self-doubting insecurity of the LVL 1 crook

When, really, there does exist the strength in you for all of this
And the purpose too

You just don’t know why you’re still struggling,
Why your life isn’t this yet:

But it will be,
Whatever you commit it to being

And oneday, your heart will break for how hard it was on you,
How scared you were

And the sooner the better;
For self-love is our panacea

𓂀 signal vs. noise

All, LEVELS, Poetry

The Goddesses and the Gods sing my song
(La la la la la, La la la la la la, La la la la la, La la la la)
Sirens and The Princes sing my song and they love me;
For when vibrations resonate with their own frequencies,
There is (always) harmony:
It’s how friends, lovers, scoundrels, and fools fall thick as theives

Conversely,
When the energies, archetypes, and their consciousnesses are not aligned and do not resonate, vibrate, or match,
Then there is dissonance,
And things are (always) inharmonious,
Their presence grating on us like a loud motorbike,
And not the calming eye of the gods and goddesses
𓂀;
People are energetic mirrors,
Reflecting and communicating,
From their surfaces and their depths
Back to our own conscious and unconscious minds,
Creating space
Where something is shared:
The transference of meaning:
The truth of inner and outer sight,
So that from the goddess there emerges the god,
And in the intellect of another, we find our own intelligence,
Which wants no mask,
(tired as it is of not being seen and thus being masked)
For others reflect back their counterparts in us,
And we see ourselves in them
And the stage is set for the players to begin and end

Voice Memos: Your New Best Friend

All, Childhood, Happiness, health, Inner Child, Journal, LEVELS, Magic, MyFavoritez, Philosophy, Psychology, Ritual, Self-Actualizing, self-talk

The word ‘habit’ typically isn’t something I go gaga for, but when you integrate the right habits – from Latin habere, to have – into your life, you get the benefits of them. And sometimes in life we discover habits whose rewards are so enriching that it changes the game, leveling us up. Just as the wrong habits level us down.

I’ve recently begun a new habit that is so potent, so enriching, so rewarding and fulfilling, that I have to share it. Every single person I’ve mentioned it to seems to get it, and you’d think more people did this. And I think in the future more people will.

Frankly, we didn’t have the technology for it until rather recently. You carry the technology in your pocket or perhaps on your wrist, if you wear an iWatch. But if you’re like me, you never used your phone for this purpose before. Now that I have, it’s my favorite habit. Close to yoga. Invaluable.

If you’d like to try it, you only need the Voice Memos app, which comes bundled with your iPhone. If you’re an Android user, the Play store carries many free Voice Memo apps.

To try it yourself, open Voice Memos, press the red record button, and begin speaking – to yourself.

It might seem anticlimactic or appear mundane on the surface, to suggest you begin talking to yourself and recording it, but it’s far from purposeless. It is for me, the most purposeful thing I do. I’m over the moon for it.

It is, in short, Self Talk.

If you’re a regular or longtime reader of mine, you’ll recognize this term [self-talk] from my writings on the Navy Seals and self-talk, here, and here. Self-talk is no small thing. It’s the conversation we have with ourselves, in our heads, and the quality of our consciousness, our life, our happiness and wellbeing, depend on it – entirely. And the crazy thing is, most people live in their heads in a very passive, reactive relationship to themselves and their thoughts. You want to change your life? You want to get on track? You want growth? Start talking to yourself.

Now, before I did this, I would journal. But the problem with journaling is similar to the problem of typing: it’s very slow. We think faster than we can write. But we can typically speak at pace with our thoughts. Eventually, via something like Elon Musk’s Neuralink, we’ll be bionic cyborgs who don’t even need the phone. We’ll be able to google at the speed of thought and we’ll truly be connected to the internet. We will even be able to selectively communicate telepathically. But until then, we’re using two thumbs or a pen and it’s very slow. Voice Memos don’t have this problem. They allow us to think data and to dump it – and it becomes a conversation with our Self. And the more I do it, the more natural it becomes. It’s enjoyable. I get in the car and record hands-free voice memos while I’m driving alone. Basically it’s like having your best friend with you all the time. And they can always listen and they even speak back.

Now I understand some people might feel like it’s not normal to talk to yourself. And they’re right. It’s not normal. It’s extraordinary. Normal people are stuck in their heads. I know. I used to be one. My thoughts rising like a tide, me listening to them without ever really responding. Then getting so tired of my amygdala barking all day that I’d dump alcohol into myself to shut ‘er down. Yeah, that didn’t work for me.

In retrospect, I also notice that before I began this habit of self-talk via voice memos, I felt like I was missing that someone to listen to me (Dearest apologies to my ex-girlfriends and therapists and the blurred line between them). But now, I don’t feel that void. I don’t feel alone anymore. And both the quality of my consciousness and the capabilities of it have grown from using it actively in this fashion.

What do I talk about? Well, everything. Whatever I feel like. I just open voice memos and press record. It’s usually brief but sometimes it’s 20 mins or an hour. And I usually don’t listen to them, but sometimes I do – particularly if they were “inspired”. On that note, for anyone who uses plant medicines or entheogens, I can say that non-normal states of consciousness lend themselves to speech in this manner much more than journaling. The first time I ever did this was in-fact in a non-normal state of waking. And I knew after the first time that I had discovered something.

It’s a Yoga to me, a way, a path. And I’ll do it as long as I LIVE. I’m sorry, but it beats conventional thinking in the echo chamber of your head. Particularly for emotions, feelings, relationships, stresses, goals, anything of personal concern to you. It’s every single outer space movie ever where the person is alone and dialoging into a recording device…. “Day 735..”.

The night before I began this habit, I watched an old Twilight Zone episode about an astronaut stranded on a planet alone. He spoke aloud to himself almost the entire episode, usually into a recorder.

So perhaps that was the seed for the idea, but despite my living alone in the mountains, I had never done it before. As I said, I journaled. Now my main notebook is my daily to-do list, but my journaling has become entirely self-narrated into Voice Memos. But this wasn’t just a change in medium – it was a change in consciousness. From passive to active thinking. From being alone to having myself to face everything with – consciously.

Because that’s the big shift. From the unconscious – the sub-conscious – to the conscious. From thinking to doing: speaking. And by doing this, by speaking, by bringing our thoughts into being, we’re making the unconscious conscious.

As Jung says, “Until you make the unconscious conscious it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

In the words of Dr. Bruce Lipton, PhD:

“The subconscious mind is learned habits. The conscious mind is creative programming. When you are conscious you can rewrite the instincts, and when you become conscious, you can rewrite the experience of your life. So that it is important to recognize that what we are not using enough of is consciousness.”

And having this practice of self-dialogue, of self-talk available to me and having found so much fulfillment in it, I have experienced the benefits of a boost in consciousness quite rapidly. It calms me down. It turns off my sympathetic nervous system and it turns on the parasympathetic nervous system. I can feel it. It grounds me in myself, and it allows me to tap into that part of me, the highest, the authentic self, where I have the resources available to me to handle any given situation.

As an added benefit, I’ve also experienced an improvement in two huge areas of my life. 1. My self-image and self-esteem – and 2. My relationship to myself.

When I speak aloud to myself, I become an active participant in my thinking. When I hear myself say something limiting or beneath my authentic self, I catch myself and I correct it. The quality of my thinking has gone way up. I’m no longer a prisoner of my thoughts. I’m the steward of them. The keeper of myself. And it’s helped me get to know myself better, and I’ve learned that I can count on myself, that I’m there for myself and will always be. As Nathaniel Branden writes, “Self-esteem is our reputation with ourselves.” By engaging in high-quality, conscious conversations with myself, my reputation with myself has improved drastically. It’s created accountability within myself. As I said (to myself) on one of my audios tonight, “I can’t get rid of my self-image: it’s who I am, and I have to live up to it.”

With that improved reputation with myself, my self-image has risen to the level of the Self, of authentic. It matches who I am. The inner and the outer of me have been joined into a unified whole. I’m no longer caught in the struggle of inner-self versus outer-self. Of unconscious versus conscious. It’s very liberating.

Whenever we bring the unconscious into consciousness, it frees us from the grip of the shadow, the repressed self. This weakens the psychic energy by removing repression from my being. The outer me is very interested in how the inner me feels, and I’m no longer bottling up my feelings inside myself.

How many of us long for a therapist? How many of us don’t have the access to that we would like? Having some experience with therapy and being on this side of 34, I can say that the therapist has no magic. It’s the talking – the talking cure.

I’m writing to tell you it works. And you may feel eccentric doing it, but you are worth your conscious attention. This is like being able to re-parent your inner child. And you can certainly talk to the other parts of yourself. You could, theoretically engage in dialogue specifically with say, the ego, the inner-child, the shadow, the anima – any archetype within you.

Consciousness has long been described as being like a computer. The word computer comes from the Latin “putare”, which means both to think and to prune. This is what I do in my audio logs. I think and I prune – cutting away what is not beneficial for me by way of choosing better thoughts and improving the conversation in my head – down to the subconscious. This is the brain folks. It’s your computer. Your duty to yourself is to program your computer to optimize your health, wellbeing, and success. By listening to your own voice. By making the inner voice the outer voice.

As the Gnostic text The Gospel of Thomas tells us:

“When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner as the outer, and the upper as the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male shall not be male, and the female shall not be female: . . . then you will enter [the kingdom].”

It might sound cryptic but it’s the ancient philosopher’s stone of “As above so below, as within so without.”

These are metaphors for integration, to achieve wholeness. To reclaim who we are. Children talk to themselves. Adults stop. And I find it sad. Especially knowing the value of it now. I wish I had started this ten years ago.

Not only has it given me a better relationship to myself and a healthier psyche, I also have much more access to myself; I can query myself like a database, asking myself important questions. I’m no longer living in the vacuum of mind.

It is interpersonal communication. Animals do it. Watch a gorilla documentary. They are vocal animals. Silence in nature means danger. The wikipedia for interpersonal communication gives an interesting theory for this:

Joseph Jordania suggested that talking to oneself can be used to avoid silence. According to him, the ancestors of humans, like many other social animals, used contact calls to maintain constant contact with the members of the group,and a signal of danger was communicated through becoming silent and freezing. Because of the human evolutionary history, prolonged silence is perceived as a sign of danger and triggers a feeling of uneasiness and fear. According to Jordania, talking to oneself is only one of the ways to fill in prolonged gaps of silence in humans. Other ways of filling in prolonged silence are humming, whistling, finger drumming, or having TV, radio or music on all the time.

And how many people do you know who always have the TV on? Or music? I have found silence to be much more profound now that I’ve broken the taboo on talking to myself. I no longer need the energy from external sources. I have riches and love within me. Here for me. From me.

Negative self-talk, negative thinking will ruin your life. The science backs it up:

Negative self-talk has been implicated in contributing to psychological disorders including depression, anxiety, and bulimia nervosa.

The truth is, you need yourself. That’s what this has given me. Full access to myself.

Read about the benefits of private speech. I find it telling that our communication with ourselves in the form of private speech “goes underground” when we begin school.

It’s sad that society holds a stereotype that people who talk to themselves are “crazy”. I think this adult notion prevents many people from doing what all children do.

It’s not crazy. It’s very sane, from Latin sanus, meaning healthy.

Don’t live your life like a closed book, an enigma, a mystery to yourself. You deserve your own company and your own conversation. It’s been life changing for me. Liberating. Empowering. Beautiful.

I hope this compels others who read this to start recording their own private voice memos, to start engaging in their own private discussions. I think it’s something we can all benefit from. And I didn’t know until I began to do it myself just how lacking my life was without it.

So make voice memos your new best friend and make you your new best friend.