"...serenely, joyously, drunkenly aware."

"It began to dawn on me that the healing art was not at all what people imagined it to be, that it was something very simple, too simple, in fact, for the ordinary mind to grasp.

"To put it in the simple way it came to my mind, I would say that it was like this: everybody becomes a healer the moment he forgets about himself. The sickness which we see everywhere, the bitterness and disgust which life inspires in so many of us, is only the reflection of the sickness which we carry within us. Prophylactics will never secure us against the world disease, because we bear the world within. No matter how marvelous human beings become, the sum total will yield an external world which is painful and imperfect. As long as we live self-consciously we must always fail to cope with the world. It is not necessary to die in order to come at last face to face with reality. Reality is here and now, everywhere, gleaming through every reflection that meets the eye. Prisons and even lunatic asylums are emptied of their inmates when a more vital danger menaces the community. When the enemy approaches, the political exile is recalled to share in the defense of his country. At the last ditch it gets dinned into our thick skulls that we are all part and parcel of the same flesh. When our very lives are threatened we begin to live. Even the psychic invalid throws away his crutches, in such moments. For him the greatest joy is to realize that there is something more important than himself. All his life he has turned on the spit of his own roasted ego. He made the fire with his own hands. He drips in his own juices. He makes himself a tender morsel for the demons he liberated with his own hands. That is the picture of human life on this planet called the Earth. Everybody is a neurotic, down to the last man and woman. The healer, or the analyst, if you like, is only a superneurotic. He has put the Indian sign on us. To be cured we must rise from our graves and throw off the cerements of the dead. Nobody can do it for another - it is a private affair which is best done collectively. We must die as egos and be born again in the swarm, not separate and self-hypnotized, but individual and related.

"As to salvation and all that... The greatest teachers, the true healers, I would say, have always insisted that they can only point the way. The Buddha went so far as to say: "Believe nothing, no matter where you read it or who has said it, not even if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense."

"The great ones do not set up offices, charge fees, give lectures, or write books. Wisdom is silent, and the most effective propaganda for truth is the force of personal example. The great ones attract disciples, lesser figures whose mission it is to preach and to teach. These are the gospelers who, unequal to the highest task, spend their lives in converting others. The great ones are indifferent, in the profoundest sense. They don't ask you to believe: they electrify you by their behavior. They are the awakeners. What you do with your life is only of concern to you, they seem to say. In short, their only purpose here on earth is to inspire. And what more can one ask of a human being than that?

"To be sick, to be neurotic, if you like, is to ask for guarantees. The neurotic is the flounder that lies on the bed of the river, securely settled in the mud, waiting to be spared. For him death is the only certainty, and the dread of that grim certainty immobilizes him in a living death far more horrible than the one he imagines but knows nothing about.

"The way of life is towards fulfillment, however, wherever it may lead. To restore a human being to the current of life means not only to impart self-confidence but also an abiding faith in the processes of life. A man who has confidence in himself must have confidence in others, confidence in the fitness and rightness of the universe. When a man is thus anchored he ceases to worry about the fitness of things, about the behavior of his fellow men, about right and wrong and justice and injustice. If his roots are in the current of life he will float on the surface like a lotus and he will blossom and give forth fruit. He will draw his nourishment from above and below; he will send his roots down deeper and deeper, fearing neither the depths nor the heights. The life that is in him will manifest itself in growth, and growth is an endless, eternal process. He will not be afraid of withering, because decay and death are part of growth. As a seed he began and as a seed he will return. Beginnings and endings are only partial steps in the eternal process. The process is everything... the way... the Tao.

"The way of life! A grand expression. Like saying Truth. There is nothing beyond it... it is all.

"And so the analyst says "Adapt yourself!" He does not mean, as some wish to think - adapt yourself to this rotten state of affairs! He means: adapt yourself to life! Become an adept! That is the highest adjustment - to make oneself an adept.

"The delicate flowers are the first to perish in a storm; the giant is laid low by a slingshot. For every height that is gained new and more baffling dangers menace us. The coward is often buried beneath the very wall against which he huddled in fear and anguish. The finest coat of mail can be penetrated by a skillful thrust. The greatest armadas are eventually sunk; Maginot lines are always circumvented. The Trojan horse is always waiting to be trotted out. Where then does security lie? What protection can you invent that has not already been thought of? It is hopeless to think of security: there is none. The man who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial one which will give him no pain or trouble.

"In the insect world is where we see the defense system par excellence. In the gregarious life of the animal world we see another kind of defense system. By comparison the human being seems a helpless creature. In the sense that he lives a more exposed life he is. But this ability to expose himself to every risk is precisely his strength. A god would have no recognizable defense whatever. He would be one with life, moving in all dimensions freely.

"Fear, hydra-headed fear, which is rampant in all of us, is a hang-over from lower forms of life. We are straddling two worlds, the one from which we have emerged and the one towards which we are heading. That is the deepest meaning of the word "human", that we are a link, a bridge, a promise. It is in us that the life process is being carried to fulfillment. We have a tremendous responsibility, and it is the gravity of that which awakens our fears. We know that if we do not move forward, if we do not realize our potential being, we shall relapse, sputter out, and drag the world down with us. We carry Heaven and Hell within us; we are the cosmogonic builders. We have choice - and all creation is our range.

"For some it is a terrifying prospect. It would be better, think they, if Heaven were above and Hell below - anywhere outside, but not within. But that comfort has been knocked from under us. There are no places to go to, either for reward or punishment. The place is always here and now, in your own person and according to your own fancy. The word is exactly what you picture it to be, always, every instant. It is impossible to shift the scenery and pretend that you will enjoy another, a different act. The setting is permanent, changing with the mind and heart, not according to the dictates of an invisible stage director. You are the author, director and actor all in one: the drama is always going to be your own life, not someone else's. A beautiful, terrible, ineluctable drama, like a suit made of your own skin. Would you want it otherwise? Could you invent a better drama?

"Lie down then, on the soft couch which the analyst provides, and try to think up something different. The analyst has endless time and patience; every minute you detain him means money in his pocket. He is like God, in a sense - the God of your own creation. Whether you whine, howl, beg, weep, implore, cajole, pray or curse - he listens. He is just a big ear minus a sympathetic nervous system. He is impervious to everything but truth. If you think it pays to fool him then fool him. Who will be the loser? If you think he can help you, and not yourself, then stick to him until you rot. He has nothing to lose. But if you realize that he is not a god but a human being like yourself, with worries, defects, ambitions, frailties, that he is not the repository of an all-encompassing wisdom but a wanderer, like yourself, along the path, perhaps you will cease pouring it out like a sewer, however melodious it may sound to your ears, and rise up on your own two legs and sing with your own God-given voice. To confess, to whine, to complain, to commiserate, always demands a toll. To sing it doesn't cost you a penny. Not only does it cost you nothing - you actually enrich others. Sing the praises of the Lord, it is enjoined. Aye, sing out! Sing out, O Master-builder! Sing out, glad warrior! But, you quibble, how can I sing when the world is crumbling, when all about me is bathed in blood and tears? Do you realize that the martyrs sang when they were being burned at the stake? They saw nothing crumbling, they heard no shrieks of pain. They sang because they were full of faith. Who can demolish faith? Who can wipe out joy? Men have tried, in every age. But they have not succeeded. Joy and faith are inherent in the universe. In growth there is pain and struggle; in accomplishment there is joy and exuberance; in fulfillment there is peace and serenity. Between the planes and spheres of existence, terrestrial and superterrestrial, there are ladders and lattices. The one who mounts sings. He is made drunk and exalted by unfolding vistas. He ascends sure-footedly, thinking not of what lies below, should he slip and lose his grasp, but of what lies ahead. Everything lies ahead. The way is endless, and the farther one reaches the more the road opens up. The bogs and quagmires, the marshes and sinkholes, the pits and snares, are all in the mind. They lurk in waiting, ready to swallow one up the moment one ceases to advance. The phantasmal world is the world which has not been fully conquered over. It is the world of the past, never of the future. To move forward clinging to the past is like dragging a ball and chain. The prisoner is not the one who has committed a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over. We are all guilty of crime, the great crime of not living life to the full. But we are all potentially free. We can stop thinking of what we have failed to do and do whatever lies within our power. What these powers that are in us may be no one has truly dared to imagine. That they are infinite we will realize the day we admit to ourselves that imagination is everything. Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything God-like about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything."

Miller, Henry. The Rosy Crucifixion I: Sexus. pp. 336-341.

Smiling Through Crosshairs

I've been told the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. If I was to ever meet the Devil, I bet he'd smile, shake my hand, and tell me everything I wanted to hear.

I read a story about a chap afflicted with a terminal illness who desired the hand of a fair maiden and had to compete with a strapping young lad for it, so he fetched some belladonna for his eyes and skin cream for his face, and fixed himself to project the appearance of virility. When it came time to ponder the outcome, it was said that, though the fair maiden may be disappointed by the premature death of her mate, she may take some solace in knowing those clever genes of his will be passed down to her offspring.

Suffice to say, this tale shed new light on my interpretation of Charles Darwin's Natural Selection. At the risk of trampling some toes, I wish to now revisit the mating ritual - the human mating ritual, that is - particularly its evolutionary explanation. You see, faithful reader, it is said the female of the species seeks stability from her mate, given the enormous parental investment required from her; one who is able to provide for the children is more likely to ensure their survival. The successful suitor, more often than not, puts on a convincing performance in order to win the lady's hand, but the story does not necessarily have a happy ending: too frequently, the road takes a tumultuous turn, leading me to believe this extravagant showing by the male is but a lie; however, upon reading the story above, it dawned on me: in this cold, cruel world of ours, deception is necessary for survival.

Before I continue, I will use this opportunity to apologize to those I may have inadvertently offended with my depiction of mating from an evolutionary perspective. Should you have any issue with the words I have chosen, my comment box is always open and never censored (not by me, that is). Feel free to make use of it, if you so desire to enflict a verbal thrashing upon me for my callousness.

Now, returning to the matter at hand...

I spent the better part of the last three and a half years as a bit-part player within a vast corporate framework, and have thus borne witness to deception as a means of survival. Let us begin at the act of seeking employment, at the sliding of the proverbial foot in the door: how does the successful candidate distance her/himself from her/his competition? Is honesty the best policy here? What if the candidate's skills do not place her/him a cut above the rest? Worse, what if said skills are perceived as inferior to the rest? Will the candidate, having made it this far, wave the white flag and concede defeat, thus losing out on that lucrative salary and all those glorious benefits, or will treachery be employed?

How about that promotion? For that extra five thousand dollars a year, how likely is the employee to concede to a colleague superior in knowledge and skill set? Better yet, how about making the sale? Or delivering that progress report to the client or superordinate? Or those days when you feign illness because you just can't bring yourself to drag that worn-down body of yours into the office for another day of the boss breathing over your shoulder and barking in your year? Or the lamp you broke as a child, then blamed it on the cat so as to avoid the wrath of your parents?

We common folk are not the only ones who employ deception, oh no! Are your favourite television personalities as perky off-camera as they appear on your screen? How about that CEO you see posing for photographs with your favourite charity? Or the politicians you help elect: did honesty get them where they are? do they really have your well-being at heart? Does your favourite newspaper give you the straight goods on the world's happenings? Does your food supplier tell you what went into what you're about to eat?

I remember a story I saw on television a few years back about a woman with six children, if I recall correctly, desperately seeking employment, though opting against welfare as a matter of preserving her baby bonus. She was offered a larger home by her landlord; if she put forth the effort to clean the place, she would be rewarded with one month's rent free. After holding up her end of the bargain, the landlord quickly demanded the rent he had initially promised to cover. When she declined, citing their agreement, she ended up before the judge, who ruled in favour of the landlord on account of her inability to provide concrete evidence of his agreeing to foot the bill for the first month. Sadly, she and her six children ended up evicted, forced to live in tents in the backyard of a relative. The story did have a pleasant ending, as she was successful in landing a job, and they at securing a new home.

I'll never forget her closing remarks, which I shall now paraphrase: As a mother, all she wanted was to teach her children the value of honesty, but she was deceived by her landlord, who subsequently got away with it, then had to deceive her employer in order to be hired, then had to deceive her prospective landlord to secure the lease (I believe she said she only had two or three children, as opposed to six). She concluded by asking what she was supposed to tell her children now.

What do we say to our children? Is honesty really the best policy? How can I tell my child to always be truthful, then lie when the time comes to find a place to live or make her/himself some money? that nearly everyone s/he meets will lie to her/him if said person has something to gain by doing so? If this is what is required for survival, is this a world in which I want to live, in which I want to bring children? Is this the way it has to be, forever plagued by egocentrism?

Here we are, trying to survive the hustle, finding ourselves hustling to survive.

Numbers

British Petroleum announced it is on track to scrap five thousand jobs this year, in addition to the nine thousand five hundred that will "move off the payroll". Sooner or later, in the quest to appease the shareholder, there will come a time when overhead will need to be reduced to inflate the profit margin, hence the desire to put scores of individuals on the unemployment line. This latest announcement has me pondering how an entire life can be branded with a single number and treated as such.

Management sits in its boardroom with pages and pages of figures, figuring out how it can do more with less, seemingly unaware that each figure on each page represents a human being, a life much like her/his own, with family and friends and heaps of expenses, of no consequence to the shareholders who care solely about their money. Numbers; they are only numbers: every few weeks, they send a cheque to each number, paying no attention to the life behind that number. One day, it may be decided these numbers earn too much; another, these numbers ought to disappear.

With the government - the gathering of persons hired to serve us - it's the same old story: driver's license number, health card number, passport number, social insurance number, et cetera, et cetera. "Please enter your number into the telephone keypad, so that we may assist you better." Easier said than done when you're talking not to a person but merely a number. Is there any incentive for serving this particular number better when there are a mountain of numbers to be addressed?

Institutions of "higher learning" are no different, save for the direction of monetary flow. To the administration, the students are but numbers: numbers that pay tuition, numbers that receive grades, numbers awarded pieces of paper brazened with our prestigious name and logo, numbers to replaced with new ones. As far as they are concerned, there are no lives behind these numbers: no emotional trouble, no hopes or dreams; just numbers.

Switch on the news, and behold: more numbers. "Sixty-five killed by suicide bomb." "Forty-three percent support the government." "Eighty-five homicides this past year." "One hundred six million people watched the finale of M*A*S*H!" I don't suppose there is sufficient to pay mind to millions upon millions of individual lives; does it mean, though, that we do not bother acknowledging that there are, in fact, lives behind those numbers?

I know what it is to be a number - you do, too - and it brings me nothing but despair. During my previous tour of duty as an undergraduate, a friend of mine suggested I accept the fact that I am and will forever be a number, and there wasn't much I could do about it. Ever since, I've asked myself if, somehow, she could be proven wrong. What does it say of us when we treat one another as such? How did we become so far removed from each other? from ourselves? Is this all for which we have to strive: a string of digits by which we are identified?

We are more than mere numbers: we are us, and we are alive.

Magicians

It is the morning after the greatest distraction on Earth. Yes, I did allow myself to be absorbed by the television, and thus further reminded of how great America is. I wonder how many lives this juggernaut erased while its citizens stared in awe at those magic screens as they glowed red, white and blue.

This morning, I sit in my bedroom, alone with a thousand and one simultaneous thoughts, only shortly after spending an hour clearing my mind through breathing and meditation. As I prepare to head to campus to print out a paper and machete my way through more reading, I wonder if returning to school was the right decision, if, having been too eager to break free of the shackles of cubicle life under a multinational banner, I was deluding myself into believing a light to exist at the end of this tunnel. I wonder if I'll ever find work again. I wonder if I'll be of any use to society, or if I'm simply not meant for it.

I think about the ongoing discussions I've had with the self-professed Trotskyists, and suddenly I'm filled with doubt and worry. Do these people have the solution to what ails us, as they claim? Are they interested in listening to what I have to say, or are they simply recruiting me for their respective flocks? Do they think I'm an idiot in need of their divine guidance? Am I an idiot?

I think about Charles Darwin and his Natural Selection theory, and wonder if I'm fit for survival in this society. I've always been terrible at finding a job or a mate; now, I wonder if this is such a bad thing. If I can't hold my head above water in this world, should I really be procreating? Should I even strive for anything in life? Did something misfire in the process of my creation, rendering me fit for the back-room rejection pile?

I think about the economy, and wonder how many people are listening. I don't suppose they can when their overlords are scrambling to appease them: "Everything will be fine", I hear them say; "No reason to worry, folks. Return to your dead-end jobs and your endless consumption. We'll handle the rest." During one of my marijuana-induced mental roller-coaster rides way back in November 2006 - I have since renounced such practice in favour of restoring my lung capacity and mitigating my tension headaches, among other reasons - I wrote a piece outlining, from a system analysis perspective, the collapse of free-market capitalism. Perhaps my interpretation was correct; perhaps not. I wonder, though, if, in a few months' or years' time, we'll still have our home, or if our parents will still have theirs.

I wonder if the magicians in charge ponder the consequences of their actions, or if they even care: they seem to be keen on making fantasy appear on our glowing screens, in our printed word, in our heads; while simultaneously making money and power appear in their pockets. I wonder if we'll ever weave magic of our own to rid ourselves of this sorcery, or be forever resigned to it, counting the days until mortality's magic hand resuces us.

I wonder if the magicians botched the potion they used to create me.