Instigated Controversy of No One.

Children of the stars:
that is all we are.

Nothing less, nothing more.

Chaos transmuting, glowing,
necessarily nothing and no one.

Egos, fate: all in what we make.

Trace a personal worldline
back far enough, your journey
is bound to escape the earth.

Accepting reincarnation,
considering origins,
it makes sense enough.

And I never saw my face.
Never caught a reflection
in my impossible memories.

Recollections of a planetary desert,
a world in ruins,
chiefly subterranean,
however likely a delusion,
is not necessarily too far out there,

so why does the mere question
make me so fucking scared?

On top of it all,
recall:

their nature is deceit,
that I have gleaned,
so why should their accusations
amount to anything?

Remember:

no one
can tell you what or who
you are.

No one
can tell you who or what
you are…

Slavery With Extra Steps.

In the job market, freedom means being able to choose who you want to be a wage-slave to so long as you can sell yourself to your preferred master. That sort of game strikes me as pretty fucked up.

My response to any argument against it would probably be to quote a conversation from the Rick & Morty episode, “The Ricks Must Be Crazy”:

Morty: You have a whole planet sitting around making your power for you? That’s slavery.

Rick: It’s society. They work for each other, Morty. They pay each other, they buy houses, they get married and make children that replace them when they get too old to make power.

Morty: That just sounds like slavery with extra steps.

Back in my teens and twenties, I had commitment issues when it came to jobs. I couldn’t hold one down. I walked out of just about every job I had until I started working for my current fast food chain. I’ve been at this particular store — save for a short period in which I was temporarily transferred when they rebuilt the place — for a little over fourteen years.

The last time I walked out of a job, it was my first and only factory job, and I worked there for a little under three months. Taping boxes on an assembly line, then stacking boxes in the back of a semi. It was my first “real” job, or at least that’s how it felt, and I couldn’t take it. I was making what for me at the time was great money — and I’ve never been so depressed in my life. I generally feel out of place, but I stuck out like a throbbing, cartoonish thumb here. I walked out when I couldn’t deal with a particular authority figure, my roommate Sandra talked me into talking with management, and I did and got the job back. I got overwhelmed one day about a week later and walked out again.

Then followed an enduring period in which I was jobless. I was unmotivated and self-loathing. The fear of not having a job that last time was astounding: was I going to end up a bum on the streets? Was it possible that I simply wasn’t wired to make it in this world? Every job seemed to crush my soul. I didn’t fall into the rhythm like everyone else. I didn’t belong.

Once I finally got my present fast food job, I came to fear my impulse to walk out every time I got pushed to my breaking point. I couldn’t walk out. I needed to pay rent. And so I’ve remained here for nearly a decade and a half.

Now I can’t seem to break free of the prison I call my job. Its like a horrible marriage, an emotionally abusive relationship I can’t find the strength to escape the grips of. Maybe I have more in common with the sea of dysfunctional couples and the unhealthily married masses than I have typically deduced.

Back when I was exploring astrology, I came to learn the meaning of my moon in Aries in the Sixth House of the zodiac with respect to the kind of employment I was bound to work in: food service. I thought to myself, Is this coincidence, or is this fucking fate?

Some believe we are born with the legacy of our former incarnation: we start out how we ended, psychologically and habitually speaking. According to my apparent past life memories, I died a bum on my last tour of the flesh. I remember dreading growing up as a kid as all the other kids seemed excited.

This wasn’t promising, not from the very beginning.

I don’t want to go down the hobo road again. I don’t want to drift aimlessly from job to job, live out of my car, or be homeless and jobless and sleep in dumpsters. I fear leaving because maybe I’ll successfully get a new job, but then I’ll just get pissed and walk out like I have so many other times. Maybe I can’t endure a real job. It could be that cabinet factory job I had all over again. Maybe it will be too difficult to learn something new; maybe I’m programmed, hopelessly bound to the wheel of shit-job misfortune.

I keep thinking about a stock guy I worked with at that grocery store. In the short time I was there, he had left for a new job after working there for eons — and then came back within a week or two. The change? It was too much. He just couldn’t take it. Though he hated this job, there was an addictive security in the familiarity it offered. Like so many others, he was programmed.

Like the elderly who finally make it to the finish line of the rat race but can’t just enjoy their retirement; they get bored and need a job to kill time until the ticker stops ticking. They’re programmed, too.

I don’t want to be a robot. Fuck that. And I can’t leave here and just come back. If I leave, I’m just gone. One way only.

I’ve got to at least honestly try to get out of here again.

Of Parallel Lives & Points of Divergence.

Sometimes I imagine there is some parallel universe in which I am a successful writer and artist, financially stable, emotionally stable, entirely independent, confident and looked up to by others whom I frequently help and surrounded by people who’s friendships I take the time to nurture — free from the fear that rules my life here and by default necessitating my seemingly diametrically-opposing fate in this life. As if there is some pool of potential him and I both share and what one of us manifests, the other cannot; what one does not, the other must.

Yet if we met one another and both compared our lives in minute detail, what would we discover — what, ultimately, would be the departure point? When, where, how and why did our paths diverge?

In short: why am I so fucked up?

A Bigger Identity Crisis.

Psychology seems to imply that identity is comprised of a complex system of habit patterns that arise out of the interplay between genetic predispositions and environmental programming. We are not nouns but verbs, not free but enslaved, not self-governing but habitual. Our evolving identities constitute the unfolding of our personal fate. Identity is our prison and our life is our sentence.

This deterministic outlook conflicts with personal experience, which suggests identity evolves in a more probabilistic manner. From moment to moment we experience electing one potential path among an available spectrum ranging from the least to the greatest resistance. As before, our identity in any given moment is surely the cumulative result of all previous choices, though we do not experience it determining our subsequent choices. Instead, it only determines the level of ease or difficulty inherent in our available choices: we are influenced, though not determined, rendering life a constant battle between the personal fate of identity and personal freedom. We may fight to remain static but are destined to evolve; inner strength can allow you to fight off resistance and take the reins of identity’s evolution, though in such a case perhaps the path of development could more accurately termed revolution.

Whether we submit to identity or fight against it, we feel its force in our lives and our capacity to guide its growth and rebel against it suggests our distinction from it, a distinction we meet face to face with in certain styles of meditation. Three levels of identity, at least in my case, have become abundantly clear: beneath the personality we express in the external world is the personality we express within, to ourselves; beneath the social masque or persona, that is, resides the personal masque or ego, to borrow convenient terms from Carl Jung. Beneath the ego, however, there is yet another level, and it is the same level suggested in our capacity to fight against the identity — against the persona and ego strata of identity, anyway. It is the level difficult to articulate, which is perhaps best referenced through negation, which can only be conceptualized through a process of elimination. It is the aspect of identity that does the identifying; it is the “I” left behind after peeling away all that “I am not.” It is what is often called the observer or witness state of consciousness; that which, once it ceases identifications, is left observing or witnessing but cannot observe or witness itself. Which makes sense, as in order to observe or witness something you must be apart from it. This makes the persona and ego aspects of identity at their very best reflections of the witness; at worst a fantasy we have mistaken for reality, and in either case make them mere masques, as said earlier.

What of the witness itself, though? Is the witness a sort of naked awareness void of identity or does that awareness stem from a true identity — one which we can only accomplish awareness of through the presumed reflections of our ego and persona?

In any case, Dissociative Identity Disorder sheds light on more complications. If alternate identities would only “switch,” for instance, it would be easy enough to conceive: the underlying witness consciousness dissociates with one identity and then associates or identifies with another. Same individual, a different masque. The clear issue is that this is not the case, however; alters can not only operate in parallel but interact with one another. If my conception of consciousness were to hold here, than one individual witness would by necessity be playing the role of two characters at the same time without being aware at either end of also playing the role on the other. This is only a severe case of having an engaging conversation with a dream character, however; it is something that functions in us all.

Samsara’s Little Helpers.

It may be that we gravitate toward certain individuals who closely fit the profile of an individual in our past, that are prime candidates to play that role, because the dynamic provided by that supporting role proves vital to the reinforcement of the self-image we mistakenly identify with. Those upon whom we project may in turn project upon us their memory of someone serving as an ego-crutch, and as a consequence we correspondingly provide the necessary stability for their self-image at the same time. To complete the symmetry, we might also find in wearing the projected skin that it fits far too frighteningly snug.

Together then we play the same old song, dance the same damned dance with brand new partners at best, partners that prove to hold true to well-worn tunes and grooves already etched in memory. Each of us serving as mere substitutes for one another in the show that just goes on and on despite the presence of every conceivable justification for cancellation.

We blind ourselves to our skipping stories by veiling old faces by using one another as mutual masques, all the while denying, however clear it may be to our close ones that we live in a boxed-in land where to remember is to precognate.

Narcissism in the Notion of Fate.

“It just wasn’t meant to be,” someone says of their failure to get into college, or in the wake of a heart-wrenching break-up. “I’m supposed to be here,” proclaims another, with still others explaining with confidence that they were “made” to do this or that. There is a reason for all of this, of course. It was fate. It is destiny. It was inevitable, and it was all part of a plan, even if it is one we don’t understand and perhaps do not even have the capacity to comprehend.

Be it utilized as a mechanistic spin on a notion of a divine plan or a romantic spin on materialistic determinism, this liberty-negating notion that things have to be a certain way and so will be strikes me as inherently empty inside. Evidently it does not strike so many others in this way, however. Generally people appear to derive comfort from the notion of fate or destiny, of some authority figure on the mighty throne of the cosmos calling the shots, providing moral structure held in place by extreme and eternal threats and promises. Still, this bad-ass, psychopathic creator casts his invisible hand in our lives from time to time to test the faithful and listen to their prayers. He is responsible for saving your life in that accident in which you “should have” died though conveniently never to blame for having put your life in jeopardy in the first place.

I am blown away that this insane notion is still embraced by so many people. You failing to die despite the odds stacked in the Reaper’s favor — at least as you calculate them, to highlight a vital distinction — does not have any cosmic significance. Can’t you just recognize that you merely managed to dodge the bullet? That your doctors, state of mind, social connections and lifestyle lead to you overcoming the cancer? That this was borne of your individual effort, intelligence, skill with some incidental assistance from chance? Can you please cease crediting your invisible and largely negligent spacetime-creating sky god with everything when if he actually existed he would clearly constitute the earthen organisms’ equivalent to a deadbeat dad?

Take credit for your own accomplishments, admit fault when and where its due. Take personal responsibility for your actions and earn some self-respect. Also important, perhaps even more important, ask yourself a question. What makes you so damned special that the creator of the fucking universe would set aside time to listen to your relatively petty bullshit, or save your particular ass from death or disaster, all while leaving so many other lives in ruins, so many other people six feet beneath the surface of the earth?

Yes, there is always a reason. I also operate on the premise, leading me to the attitude that given the right context, anything makes sense. The reason is not necessarily an answer as to the why of the matter, however, which is to say the intention or deliberate purpose behind the matter, as no why may exist. Instead, the reason may only add up to the cold, lifeless, stone innards of what began as an empty, hollow how. Be it pot of gold or pile of shit, it may just have been luck — no self-masturbatory strings attached for the ego to erect itself under the guise of greater, cosmic hands and jettison meaning.

Of Violence Fed By Cencorship.

Violence is not conjured out of people, psychopathic behavior does not possess people: it is embraced by them.

They chose it.

People are not just fleshy little bottles to be filled with whatever the culture pours into their gourds. Yes, the joint influence of genetics and environment may constitute what some call “fate,” but if so all fate truly does is provide ultimately arbitrary game rules. Merely the degree of difficulty in each and every choice we make are dictated, not the choice itself.

Weak of will, we often walk the well-worn path carved in the sand as if blind to the vast beach to either side, but we need not succumb to the easiest route. Nature and nurture together offer a spectrum of choices that stretch from the path of least resistance to the path of greatest resistance — yet by no means does it dictate how one elects to play. The path of least resistance is always a temptation, but successful seduction requires a willing participant.

In being independent of the game, however hypnotized into assuming otherwise, what one chooses is one’s own personal freedom and responsibility. This is opposed to the notion that it is the music or the video games or the movies providing programming for a vacant meat machine that naturally carries out the commands.

Being exposed to violence may therefore make one more prone to violence, but isolating oneself from violence only makes one more vulnerable to it as a consequence. Exposure to reality as-it-is is also a necessary prerequisite to changing it — or dealing with it through adaptation if change proves to be impossible. Though not currently in trend, people can indeed think for themselves. All they require is exposure to reality coupled with understanding in order to make more educated choices.

Censorship is the antithesis, not the antidote.

Fatemakers & Unconscious Conspirators.

We are wired to believe in free will, but even if we accept the notion with full consciousness we cannot deny those moments in which it seems fate is alive and well and has tight in its grips, be it for good or ill. Yet this fate, I maintain, is nothing more than the yank of unconscious reins.

We cling to patterns like junkies, as if the mother’s heartbeat leaves us addicts for more. We naturally gravitate towards the familiar, as the familiar is predictable, the familiar is a pattern. We find security here, as when in the womb, because we find pattern — repetition of the familiar — and this offers us the illusion of control, as we can predict and so anticipate and so have a fighting chance to manipulate the outcome if the present course does not look to be in the aim of your favor. If it is in our favor, we can just let those cards naturally play out in our favor.

In any case, it is always easy to convince ourselves that a prediction was actually a self-fulfilling prophecy. That rather than having known it was going to happen, we had made it happen. Or that we had known something was going to happen and effectively manipulated it into our favor.

We are experts at getting what we are taught to believe we need. Unfortunately what we feel we need is not always synonymous with what we think we want, and is actually quite often to be found in diametric opposition to what we want. So perhaps a familiar pattern is having an abusive figure in close relations. One may not want this, but if a woman has grown up knowing nothing but her drunk and abusive father, that’s the only point of reference she has from that point on for a close male figure.

We know that the unconscious mind communicates to the conscious mind. Could the unconscious minds of two people communicate through an unconscious body language of nonverbal cues? To some degree we know this is the case, as people exchange certain mannerisms and postures in our underlying courtship rituals. This was revealed through studies in evolutionary biology. We also know the knowledge of common nonverbal cues can be utilized in order to hypnotize or program a person to follow a certain command. In other words, all in all we know not only that conscious minds can speak to other conscious minds but that unconscious minds can speak to their own conscious mind, and that conscious minds can speak to their own unconscious mind as well as the unconscious minds of others to the extent that it bypasses their conscious mind. Is the final conversation in the pattern set here all that much of a leap?

It suddenly hits me that we already seem to have evidence of this.

Through unconscious “hot“ and “cold” reading and nonverbal communications, we identify and gravitate toward potential targets for our needs, project upon them and then get them to take on the role faithfully in projective identification, and we then let the unconscious forces produce a self-fulfilling prophecy based on the same old story. The objective of this is to provide a psychological sense of comfort and security through an illusion of conscious control produced by rationalizing “in” unconsciously-generated compulsions.

This is only half the story, as suggested by the book A General Theory of Love in their presentation of the notion of two people having compatible “attractors.” This is to say their mutual patterns of condensed experience with paternally or maternally-based pair-bonding have a key-in-lock, foot-in-shoe, hand-in-glove kind of affinity, and so they naturally fall into gravitation around one another. In their struggles to make you fit better into the silhouette of their “attractor” in their own minds, they will project; in order to reinforce those projections, you unconsciously manipulate your conscious self to manipulate the targets of your projections to actually identify or embody the role of the projection. “You are” as an answer to the question, “Who’s your daddy?” may have more relevance than you would have ever, in your most wretched train-wrecks of gruesome thought, dared to considered possible. Aside from that, in would appear that love is not, as I have previously stated, nothing more than a hormonally-induced form of temporary insanity. It is also evidently a conspiracy targeting two conscious people, with the conspirators their respective unconscious minds.

Attractors don’t only exist for pair-bonding, it would seem, as recurring patterns in your relationships over time have certainly manifested in life. When my family moved from our old house to our new one in 1988, we also changed schools, and I immediately noticed that groups formed that bared the same roles and styles of relations that I had seen in the groups at my old school. Sometimes even their sizes were the same. I began to wonder if there was more to group structuring than the usual pack and pack-leader. Maybe there wasn’t so much a hierarchy but a system of interlocking roles that developed in which each provided what the other “needed,” however unwanted. Groups were closely-knit relations, but groups also have relations with other groups. We also have relations between individuals within groups, and many people belong to many groups. It seems possible that unconscious minds are influenced by a sort of unconscious social network just as we are influenced by our conscious ones. In life, there are always two levels to every social situation: the Surface and the Underneath.

The surface is the land of interacting conscious egos; the underneath, a network of unconscious conspirators playing us like unwitting psychological sock puppets, the propaganda and cover stories we cling to mere myths, making our real history one of much more depth and breadth than we could ever consciously acknowledge. On the surface, we egos weave and embrace our self-fictions and forge relations with denied aspects of ourselves in the reflections we catch of them in the eyes of others. In the underneath, unconscious minds communicate through gestures, postures, facial expressions and positions, through subtleties in choice of language, suggestions in tone of voice, in what we wear and when and so many other ways, one unconscious mind bypasses its conscious counterpart completely to communicate with another unconscious mind through the medium of the nonverbal, of the implicit.

It could be that they conspire to wire certain social relations based on shared affinities between mutual condensed histories, and much as the conscious ego does with certain unconscious impulses, it rationalizes them in a way that is resonant with the elaborate network of schemas it constitutes. Just as conscious awareness weaves itself an ego to rationalize the unconscious, it weaves similar fictions for itself to rationalize its bonds with others, to satisfy itself that the past is not always present.

This is how we deny that we are held in the grips underneath.

Crowley, Change & Learning How to Bake a Cake.

Aleister Crowley once wrote:

“ANY required change may be effected by the application of the proper kind and degree of Force in the proper manner, through the proper medium to the proper object.”

I’ve always liked that line. I was never one to believe the end justified the means. Instead, it has always seemed clear that the means determine the end.

We often look at means as the road and the end as the destination, but the means are really the ingredients, and the end is the cake. This is why trying harder will be fruitless and why trying smarter is the only thing that counts. People try to earn something or get somewhere when what they’re really doing is making something.

We talk about fate or destiny or about how this or that was or was not “meant to be” and how things happen for a “reason,” forever referencing some author in the sky with some grand plan etched in stone. Here’s a thought: there is no author in the sky. We’re all co-authors, and that is all there is: co-authors of a continuing narrative, co-creators in an ever-evolving universe. We are all the writers.

If we try for something in earnest for years, we aren’t impressing some big daddy in the sky who might at any moment take mercy on us and reward us for our efforts; doing the same thing over and over expecting that the more you do it the more likely it is to eventually work is a fruitless endeavor. Bearing fruit here relies upon finding or producing the right conditions. Planting the right seeds.

Fetching the right ingredients and learning how to bake a fucking cake.

I Wasn’t Meant to Write This.

I don’t understand the popular comfort in the notion of fate or destiny. I don’t understand the widespread lack of value people seem to place in personal choice and free will. Who could find comfort in being assigned life-long tasks and schedules that one never asked for and had to carry out to the letter? I don’t care how “good” of a destiny is assigned to me, the notion that I am “supposed” to do it will in and of itself be enough to saturate my experience with unbridled hate and send me on a nose-dive into the deepest wells of misery.

Perhaps it isn’t so much as free will in and of itself but the package deal one is faced with: one also must bear personal responsibility for how one exercises their individual liberty. Is that it? Does this strange sexiness of fate stem from the fact that it serves as some ultimate justification, some all-purpose pass, some cosmic pardon?

Their responsibilities end at carrying out their duties; the fall out isn’t their responsibility, because they didn’t command or think up the duties, their boss did. Them? They’re just doing their job for the universe. Don’t blame them, they just work here.

Well, then bring me your manager, damn it. Your imaginary fucking friend right over there, behind the curtain.We need to exchange some words. He owes us an explanation. Like why for a second we would need him. Like where his existence is even implied.

I don’t need an invisible man to tell me what to do. Or an invisible woman, for that matter, or a totally transparent transgender entity, even. I’ve made and I’m making and I always will make my own way; stumble along my own, self-made path. My walks and works are my own. I make choices and I deal with consequences.

Personal freedom and personal responsibility exist in a world run by no one.

Here, we are all co-creators in an ever-evolving universe. Every single instrument in the orchestra matters, every pluck of a strand vibrates the entire web.

And we are in a potentially infinite multidimensional multiverse. This means that each and every one of us are indeed personally at the center of everything. So with apologies to the late, great Timothy Leary: There is no god. We are all gods. Perhaps we ought to start acting like gods.