I find it absolutely amazing that people continuously betray themselves by their accusations of the other. Sure, I gnow that many people don't realize they are doing this when they make judgements of others, and more, they never will gnow or understand this phenomenon. They see what they would think of themselves if they acted or spoke what they "think" the other does and says. Why is it so difficult for them (and me!) to grasp that we are not what we attempt to make ourselves into through ideation. We are not our masks. We are not our personalities. But, something else altogether. This entire concept is expressed by Carl Jung as tersely as possible.
The persona is that which in reality one is not,
but which oneself as well as others think one is"
~ Carl Jung
So, how can people come to understand that which is real does not depend on the thinking process and accept themselves as they truly are? There may be many ways of doing such, but the only way I gnow to come to the realization that it's what we see of ourselves in others that can help us to understand. How we describe the other is the starting point. This morning a post arrived from a member of a discussion group I subscribe to in which she described me as bitter and full of self-hatred because of the way I confronted another woman who was threatening suicide. That is exactly what she would think of her own person if she wrote what she interpreted me to have written. She would think SHE was bitter and full of hatred if she has responded to this potential suicide victim as she judged me to be doing. Needless to say, she will never realize her accusation of me foreshadows her own self-betrayal. Just as my own judgements and accusations of the other determines who I might think I am.
It is by my own observations of what I accuse the other of being like that I can discover how I have made these arrangements with myself over my entire life. There were options I could have exercised to reject my judgement of myself. I made decisions to be-co-me the illusion I have unwisely believed and accepted as truth. I never did become what I pretended to be for the sake of the other, and I never will become what I have accepted as my fate, no matter how convincing my arguments with myself are. This is the flaw of the Mosaic argument, "I am that." This is the logic of the so-called demi-urge Jehovah. This is the original sin of Christiandom. It is what the sinner cries out to be saved from... himself.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
I keep fooling around with writing stuff. Last night it took me over four hours to write a three paragraph post. During that time I probably wrote at least 4-5 pages of stuff that got edited out. I attempt to describe something that simply can't be described in verbal or written language. The topics I use for these types of writing are not consciously chosen. They usually arrive for me as an innocent post from one of the subscribers to the discussion lists I participate in. If I'm lucky, these writings might relate to the original topic chosen by the other. I get lots of complaints from the people I abuse this way. They seem to think I oughta stick to the subject they were discussing. No blame.
For me, the fun begins when I realize that I'm not really responding to their posts, but to an inner demand that I try to clarify what it is that I'm really attempting to write about. Many times I don't gnow myself until much later. The three paragraph rendering I created last night was not realized until my last dream this morning just before I woke up.
The world I foolishly attempt to describe gets experienced in a completely different realm than our sensory perceived world. One of the reasons this has proved difficult is that in that world things happen in a flow that cannot be frozen in ti-me by words. By the ti-me I find the words to describe it, it has already changed, and what I describe is no longer the truth of what appears in my mind's eye. It's truth is in the very changes that make it impossible to capture.
When I first began to learn to weld I imitated the experienced welders that had perfected their technique. I bought the same type of clothes they wore. This wasn't just hero worship. It became a necessity. The sparks from my welding burned up all the clothes I possessed at the beginning of my endeavor. The experienced welders bought heavy cotton shirts that were not as vulnerable to heat as the synthetic fibers. Of course, cotton still burns but not as swiftly as the synthetics. Since I found it useful to buy thick cotton shirts and pants it just seemed natural to buy clothes that looked spiffy. Wrangler denim shirts and pants fit the bill. They are designed in a western style. The shirts have imitation pearl snap buttons. This makes it easy to get off my body when they caught fire. Welder's clothes catching on fire is not a rare event. The red-hot buckshot balls that fly off the welding process can go unnoticed during the process of welding. The welder is concentrating on the product of their work.
Writing, for me, is a lot like welding steam pipes. Welding steam pipes is a persnickety business. An unnoticed or ignored mistake can result in people getting killed. A pinpoint hole in a high-pressure steam pipe can concentrate it's invisible force with such laser-like power that walking through it can literally cut an arm or a leg off. People have literally had the heads cut off. Most steam pipe welds are X-rayed to detect such flaws. It is a profession that requires the most skilled welders in the world. It can take a long time to acquire the skill necessary to make a perfect weld. The coming of the nuclear power plants just upped the ante to even more ridiculous heights. It takes another welder to understand exactly how much skill it takes to make this happen, and appears to prove the old adage, "It takes one to gnow one."
I don't write to impress anyone but myself when I get into this particular writing mode. I'm the only one who gnows what I'm attempting to describe. I don't expect the other to understand the understatement that lies beneath my writing in this way. I'm just using the other as an excuse to do what I love to do. I don't really blame the other for getting mad at me. I'm not apathetic about their discomfort, it's just that I can't do anything about it. Only they are responsible for their own interpretations of what they think I intimate.
I can only see myself in the other and can't possible write stuff that would lower their anxiety and yet accomplish the desired results. Most of the time I create writings like this I just delete it when I'm done. Arriving at the point where I decide to delete what I've written can be iffy. Sometime I copy and paste what I've written in a file I keep for this sort of thing. I treasure these writing more than I should, and when I realize that my valuing of them hurts me more than it helps, off they go into the wild blue yonder. Now, I send some of them to this blog. I hardly ever read what I've written in this blog after I've posted it. I got other fish to fry.
For me, the fun begins when I realize that I'm not really responding to their posts, but to an inner demand that I try to clarify what it is that I'm really attempting to write about. Many times I don't gnow myself until much later. The three paragraph rendering I created last night was not realized until my last dream this morning just before I woke up.
The world I foolishly attempt to describe gets experienced in a completely different realm than our sensory perceived world. One of the reasons this has proved difficult is that in that world things happen in a flow that cannot be frozen in ti-me by words. By the ti-me I find the words to describe it, it has already changed, and what I describe is no longer the truth of what appears in my mind's eye. It's truth is in the very changes that make it impossible to capture.
When I first began to learn to weld I imitated the experienced welders that had perfected their technique. I bought the same type of clothes they wore. This wasn't just hero worship. It became a necessity. The sparks from my welding burned up all the clothes I possessed at the beginning of my endeavor. The experienced welders bought heavy cotton shirts that were not as vulnerable to heat as the synthetic fibers. Of course, cotton still burns but not as swiftly as the synthetics. Since I found it useful to buy thick cotton shirts and pants it just seemed natural to buy clothes that looked spiffy. Wrangler denim shirts and pants fit the bill. They are designed in a western style. The shirts have imitation pearl snap buttons. This makes it easy to get off my body when they caught fire. Welder's clothes catching on fire is not a rare event. The red-hot buckshot balls that fly off the welding process can go unnoticed during the process of welding. The welder is concentrating on the product of their work.
Writing, for me, is a lot like welding steam pipes. Welding steam pipes is a persnickety business. An unnoticed or ignored mistake can result in people getting killed. A pinpoint hole in a high-pressure steam pipe can concentrate it's invisible force with such laser-like power that walking through it can literally cut an arm or a leg off. People have literally had the heads cut off. Most steam pipe welds are X-rayed to detect such flaws. It is a profession that requires the most skilled welders in the world. It can take a long time to acquire the skill necessary to make a perfect weld. The coming of the nuclear power plants just upped the ante to even more ridiculous heights. It takes another welder to understand exactly how much skill it takes to make this happen, and appears to prove the old adage, "It takes one to gnow one."
I don't write to impress anyone but myself when I get into this particular writing mode. I'm the only one who gnows what I'm attempting to describe. I don't expect the other to understand the understatement that lies beneath my writing in this way. I'm just using the other as an excuse to do what I love to do. I don't really blame the other for getting mad at me. I'm not apathetic about their discomfort, it's just that I can't do anything about it. Only they are responsible for their own interpretations of what they think I intimate.
I can only see myself in the other and can't possible write stuff that would lower their anxiety and yet accomplish the desired results. Most of the time I create writings like this I just delete it when I'm done. Arriving at the point where I decide to delete what I've written can be iffy. Sometime I copy and paste what I've written in a file I keep for this sort of thing. I treasure these writing more than I should, and when I realize that my valuing of them hurts me more than it helps, off they go into the wild blue yonder. Now, I send some of them to this blog. I hardly ever read what I've written in this blog after I've posted it. I got other fish to fry.
