Yesterday I took our picture calendar off the wall to look at the pictures. I started putting it back but carelessly the picture side was facing the wall.
At this my wife began to laugh. Nothing amuses her more than watching me make silly mistakes, hearing about silly mistakes I have made, like filling my basket at the supermarket and reaching the cashier's desk finding I have no money with me. This kind of thing sends her into fits of hysterical laughter. She is waiting, and hoping, for the time when I start off to walk to the town having forgotten to put on my pants.
Anyway when I realised what I was doing with the calendar I started laughing too. I decided to give my wife a good hard smack or two. It's a thing I do sometimes, especially at moments like this. She was wearing very short, tightly fitting, thin shorts clearly showing every curve and valley, so a hard smack would land well and feel good. The first one didn't land right so I pulled her towards me, both of us convulsed with laughter, and gave her two more as hard as I could. Through the laughter, clinging perversely to me and getting the words out with difficulty, she always tries to say that I am the one who should get spanked, but I always reply that when I make a mistake, she must be the one to get spanked. That makes us both laugh even more. I have a sore hand, she has a sore arse. That's married life!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Accepting what is.
Recently I've realised that to wish something was other than it is is worse than useless. By all means plan to change it (or leave it as it is); but don't waste any thought on regretting it.
My 15 year old son has taken to smoking. At first, I was dismayed; but then I realised that if I cannot control that, there's no point in anything except acceptance. Whatever he does, or doesn't do, I will still love him, so why spend time regretting?
I recently read the first volume of my father's diaries, which he kept almost without a break throughout his life. At the age of fifteen, he enjoyed smoking and his father was not against it, in fact even sent him a box of cigars for his birthday while he was away at boarding school. As far as I know, smoking had no bad effects on him.
My 15 year old son has taken to smoking. At first, I was dismayed; but then I realised that if I cannot control that, there's no point in anything except acceptance. Whatever he does, or doesn't do, I will still love him, so why spend time regretting?
I recently read the first volume of my father's diaries, which he kept almost without a break throughout his life. At the age of fifteen, he enjoyed smoking and his father was not against it, in fact even sent him a box of cigars for his birthday while he was away at boarding school. As far as I know, smoking had no bad effects on him.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Silver Swan
The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell all joys! O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell all joys! O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.
Friday, July 15, 2011
The Cloud
With thanks to Darryl Bailey, Dismantling the Fantasy
Once upon a time, a group of friends lay on a hillside watching a cloud. They had become fascinated with its appearance while walking in the country. It was a marvellous cloud, massive and surging, one moment appearing to be a house and the next a bevy of balloons. In turn there were forests and cities, animals and people, comings and goings, no end of activity.
As it so happened, an old man, a stranger, was wandering close by. When the group of friends saw him, they cried out in their excitement,
Old man, come join us! Come watch this cloud!
After hurried introductions and the shifting of bodies, he took his place within the group.
The afternoon passed pleasantly as the cloud continued to surprise. There were soldiers at war and children at play. There were creatures of the wild: birds, mammals, and fish, as well as beasts of work and burden. There was a mother and her child. There were the many scenes of life: birth, death, sickness, youth and old age. There were lovers and fighters, friends and enemies, the interaction of groups, and single, poignant portraits.
Time wore on, the afternoon dwindled, and eventually the old man stood to leave. He thanked his new friends and made his goodbyes, but hesitated, looking at the gathering.
May I ask you a question?
Of course, they replied, in their various ways.
Were you at all concerned for those we saw this afternoon?
Who? they asked.
The figures we saw in the cloud: the soldiers, the animals, the children.
The friends looked at each other, perplexed.
One answered, Old man, there were no people, no animals; there was only the cloud.
The others nodded in agreement.
How do you know that?
How do we know what?
How do you know there was only the cloud?
It’s obvious, anyone can see it.
See what?
There is only the cloud; it’s still there.
What about the forms we saw?
There were no forms; there is only the cloud and it has no particular form.
How do you know that?
Just look, and you can see it.
What do you see?
There are no forms there.
How do you know that?
Because they’re always changing. No form is ever really there; whatever form you think you see is always altering, rearranging in some way.
How do you know that?
Just look! That’s all you have to do.
There were no soldiers, no animals, no children?
No. It may have seemed like that, but there was only the cloud.
There were no soldiers deciding to fight, no lovers deciding to love?
How could those false appearances decide to do anything? There is only the movement of the cloud.
So the cloud decides to move?
No. The cloud does not decide to move. It has no form. It simply moves. That’s its nature.
How do you know that?
Have you ever seen a cloud that stopped changing? Every aspect of it is shifting in some way. It doesn’t decide to do it; it’s on automatic. The movement simply happens.
There were no people? There was no birth and death?
Birth and death of what? There is only the cloud. It seems like many forms coming and going, but it’s always only the unformed cloud.
And no one is deciding to do anything?
No. The forms that appear to be there are not really there, because each one is altering in some way and eventually disappears. There is simply action or motion. The forms are not the reality; they are false appearances. There is only movement, a streaming that has no particular form.
But the lovers who moved closer together …?
There were no lovers, no soldiers, no animals. There is only the cloud.
The old man pondered this slowly.
There were no forms there? No decisions to act? No birth and death?
That’s right! said the friends, thinking they had finally gotten through to him.
But how do you know that for certain?
Just watch! The forms that you see are changing all the time. They never stop. No particular form is ever really there. If you had to describe a cloud, you wouldn’t say it looked like a horse or a soldier. That wouldn’t give you a true sense of the cloud. A cloud is constantly changing. The appearance of form is not the reality. The altering is. That’s the basic fact. There is no coming or going, no birth or death, no decisions being made, no matter how much it seems like that. There is only motion. Anyone can see that if they watch it long enough.
The old man considered this carefully.
You’re absolutely certain?
Yes! We’re absolutely certain.
And you can tell all of this from seeing this constant change, this motion, this dynamic?
Yes.
The old man contemplated this.
May I ask another question?
The friends remained silent, waiting.
Are you actually people?
What are you talking about? Of course we’re people.
But you’re changing.
What?
Everything you are – your bodies, thoughts, emotions, interests, urges, desires, capacities, decisions, focuses, ideas, activities – in fact, more than just you, all things that you know of.
What about them?
They’re constantly changing.
Yes, sighed the members of the group, they’re changing.
Do you change them?
No, old man, they simply ...
The friends stood staring at him, their minds racing, exploding to find some other response.
He gazed back at them. They looked.
He looked.
For what seemed to be a very, very, long time. Then he smiled, turned, and wandered away.
Once upon a time, a group of friends lay on a hillside watching a cloud. They had become fascinated with its appearance while walking in the country. It was a marvellous cloud, massive and surging, one moment appearing to be a house and the next a bevy of balloons. In turn there were forests and cities, animals and people, comings and goings, no end of activity.
As it so happened, an old man, a stranger, was wandering close by. When the group of friends saw him, they cried out in their excitement,
Old man, come join us! Come watch this cloud!
After hurried introductions and the shifting of bodies, he took his place within the group.
The afternoon passed pleasantly as the cloud continued to surprise. There were soldiers at war and children at play. There were creatures of the wild: birds, mammals, and fish, as well as beasts of work and burden. There was a mother and her child. There were the many scenes of life: birth, death, sickness, youth and old age. There were lovers and fighters, friends and enemies, the interaction of groups, and single, poignant portraits.
Time wore on, the afternoon dwindled, and eventually the old man stood to leave. He thanked his new friends and made his goodbyes, but hesitated, looking at the gathering.
May I ask you a question?
Of course, they replied, in their various ways.
Were you at all concerned for those we saw this afternoon?
Who? they asked.
The figures we saw in the cloud: the soldiers, the animals, the children.
The friends looked at each other, perplexed.
One answered, Old man, there were no people, no animals; there was only the cloud.
The others nodded in agreement.
How do you know that?
How do we know what?
How do you know there was only the cloud?
It’s obvious, anyone can see it.
See what?
There is only the cloud; it’s still there.
What about the forms we saw?
There were no forms; there is only the cloud and it has no particular form.
How do you know that?
Just look, and you can see it.
What do you see?
There are no forms there.
How do you know that?
Because they’re always changing. No form is ever really there; whatever form you think you see is always altering, rearranging in some way.
How do you know that?
Just look! That’s all you have to do.
There were no soldiers, no animals, no children?
No. It may have seemed like that, but there was only the cloud.
There were no soldiers deciding to fight, no lovers deciding to love?
How could those false appearances decide to do anything? There is only the movement of the cloud.
So the cloud decides to move?
No. The cloud does not decide to move. It has no form. It simply moves. That’s its nature.
How do you know that?
Have you ever seen a cloud that stopped changing? Every aspect of it is shifting in some way. It doesn’t decide to do it; it’s on automatic. The movement simply happens.
There were no people? There was no birth and death?
Birth and death of what? There is only the cloud. It seems like many forms coming and going, but it’s always only the unformed cloud.
And no one is deciding to do anything?
No. The forms that appear to be there are not really there, because each one is altering in some way and eventually disappears. There is simply action or motion. The forms are not the reality; they are false appearances. There is only movement, a streaming that has no particular form.
But the lovers who moved closer together …?
There were no lovers, no soldiers, no animals. There is only the cloud.
The old man pondered this slowly.
There were no forms there? No decisions to act? No birth and death?
That’s right! said the friends, thinking they had finally gotten through to him.
But how do you know that for certain?
Just watch! The forms that you see are changing all the time. They never stop. No particular form is ever really there. If you had to describe a cloud, you wouldn’t say it looked like a horse or a soldier. That wouldn’t give you a true sense of the cloud. A cloud is constantly changing. The appearance of form is not the reality. The altering is. That’s the basic fact. There is no coming or going, no birth or death, no decisions being made, no matter how much it seems like that. There is only motion. Anyone can see that if they watch it long enough.
The old man considered this carefully.
You’re absolutely certain?
Yes! We’re absolutely certain.
And you can tell all of this from seeing this constant change, this motion, this dynamic?
Yes.
The old man contemplated this.
May I ask another question?
The friends remained silent, waiting.
Are you actually people?
What are you talking about? Of course we’re people.
But you’re changing.
What?
Everything you are – your bodies, thoughts, emotions, interests, urges, desires, capacities, decisions, focuses, ideas, activities – in fact, more than just you, all things that you know of.
What about them?
They’re constantly changing.
Yes, sighed the members of the group, they’re changing.
Do you change them?
No, old man, they simply ...
The friends stood staring at him, their minds racing, exploding to find some other response.
He gazed back at them. They looked.
He looked.
For what seemed to be a very, very, long time. Then he smiled, turned, and wandered away.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Suzanne Foxton's story
Suzanne's blog is at http://www.nothingexistsdespiteappearances.blogspot.com/
Here is her story as told to Renate McNay. Actually, as she says, there is no "story".
Here is her story as told to Renate McNay. Actually, as she says, there is no "story".
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
More on our non-existence.
Further to my last post in which I quoted Pir Vilayat Khan (1916 - 2004) as saying that "The assumption of being an individual is our greatest limitation," here is some amplification of this statement, from writing by David Carse:
"There is physical functioning and there is mental functioning. Physical functioning is experienced as bodily activity of various kinds. Mental functioning is experienced as thoughts and mental activity. And it is because of these activities, what the Buddhist tradition calls the skandhas, the thought processes, sensory perceptions, and so on, the functioning of the body/mind organism, that there is an assumption made that there is something, someone, here doing these things. But that’s an unfounded assumption. To perceive that the skandhas are empty of an individual self doing them, is to awaken. All there is, is Consciousness."
Pir Vilayat Khan was a Sufi (Islam), David Carse is expounding the ancient Indian teachings of Advaita (meaning "Not two") and quoting Buddhist teachings as well.
No-one has actually yet shown that an individuality exists. It's assumed, that's all. It seems obvious; but questioning what seems obvious is the way to find out something new, to make a discovery. At one time, it was obvious to most people that the Earth was flat and the centre around which Sun, Moon and planets revolved (although I have to admit this was not what much older civilisations, such as the Sumerians, thought). It took Copernicus to dislodge this erroneous view.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Is this a record?
I happened to catch sight of my wife's yahoo mail inbox page a few days ago. She had 30,638 - that's thirty thousand six hundred and thirty-eight - UNREAD emails in her Inbox. There are probably more now. If she sees me smiling, she will ask what's funny, and I tell her "thirty thousand six hundred ..." and before I can finish she will start laughing.
She's a person who finds it very difficult to throw anything away. Sometimes I will find in odd corners of the house objects that I threw into the trash bag a while before. Tidying the house is a very difficult task! I can't count the pairs of old, broken and worn-out shoes I have surreptitiously bagged up and thrown out, I have to be very careful not to let her see what I am doing, if she sees me she will tell me she is going to have them repaired, but from experience I know this will never happen.
Do any of my readers have this in their lives?
She's a person who finds it very difficult to throw anything away. Sometimes I will find in odd corners of the house objects that I threw into the trash bag a while before. Tidying the house is a very difficult task! I can't count the pairs of old, broken and worn-out shoes I have surreptitiously bagged up and thrown out, I have to be very careful not to let her see what I am doing, if she sees me she will tell me she is going to have them repaired, but from experience I know this will never happen.
Do any of my readers have this in their lives?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Hindsight
OK, Kitty, here's a little more of my life story just for you!
In my last post I mentioned Jenny, a blonde, good-looking girl with a gentle temperament I knew at Bristol University. We met at a dance class, fitted together quite well and started going to dances and just for walks together. Once or twice we walked up to the Cabot tower on Brandon Hill - I remember the pouring rain and the reflections of the lights of the city in Jenny's rain-spotted glasses (John Cabot was actually an Italian but made a voyage of discovery starting from Bristol.) This was our view of the University from there:
More often we walked over the Clifton suspension bridge, where we stopped in the middle somewhere to kiss. I had to be careful that Jenny's glasses would not fall off and into the river Avon far, far below.
On this page there are some lovely panoramic views from and of the bridge.
One evening - our relationship was about six months old then - as we were setting out to go over the suspension bridge, Jenny announced that she was wearing her slacks "in the skin", by which I understood her to mean she was not wearing panties. Would that be right? You will find it hard to believe how innocent and ignorant of the ways of girls I was in those days, even though I had spent 18 months in the army: I read into that remark of hers no significance whatever. I'm really embarrassed to think about it even now.
We had crossed the bridge and were walking along a road then - and probably still, if I can judge by Google Earth - bordered by woods at least on one side, when suddenly, without provocation, Jenny slapped my face. I had no idea what prompted her to do this. She then invited me to retaliate, but I declined politely.
Soon after this incident, Jenny let me know she wasn't interested in me any more. If only I had known then what I know now! And there were plenty of bushes from which a handy switch could have been cut or broken off, too. I was such a wimp in those days - alas! Perhaps I still am??? I am quite suremost all readers of this blog will be able clearly to picture what should have been done.
In my last post I mentioned Jenny, a blonde, good-looking girl with a gentle temperament I knew at Bristol University. We met at a dance class, fitted together quite well and started going to dances and just for walks together. Once or twice we walked up to the Cabot tower on Brandon Hill - I remember the pouring rain and the reflections of the lights of the city in Jenny's rain-spotted glasses (John Cabot was actually an Italian but made a voyage of discovery starting from Bristol.) This was our view of the University from there:
More often we walked over the Clifton suspension bridge, where we stopped in the middle somewhere to kiss. I had to be careful that Jenny's glasses would not fall off and into the river Avon far, far below.
One evening - our relationship was about six months old then - as we were setting out to go over the suspension bridge, Jenny announced that she was wearing her slacks "in the skin", by which I understood her to mean she was not wearing panties. Would that be right? You will find it hard to believe how innocent and ignorant of the ways of girls I was in those days, even though I had spent 18 months in the army: I read into that remark of hers no significance whatever. I'm really embarrassed to think about it even now.
We had crossed the bridge and were walking along a road then - and probably still, if I can judge by Google Earth - bordered by woods at least on one side, when suddenly, without provocation, Jenny slapped my face. I had no idea what prompted her to do this. She then invited me to retaliate, but I declined politely.
Soon after this incident, Jenny let me know she wasn't interested in me any more. If only I had known then what I know now! And there were plenty of bushes from which a handy switch could have been cut or broken off, too. I was such a wimp in those days - alas! Perhaps I still am??? I am quite sure
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Past Lives?
Kitty, I'm so glad you liked "Liebesbotschaft." I listened to it again just before writing this, it never fails to start tears to my eyes and wonderful feelings somewhere inside me. The rippling piano accompaniment, an effective representation of the flowing stream, is not easy to play, though quite simple. Schubert's modulations (change of key) are so telling! In a few days I will post another of my favourite Schubert songs here. I have published the text of the words of Liebesbotschaft, in German and English, as a comment on that blog post, in case anyone is interested.
Dannah - you wanted to read about Elizabeth. She was a physics student in her 2nd year, I was still a first year student, though a year or two older than her. We both attended a lecture by CF Powell, Physics Professor, well known for his work on photographing the effects of cosmic rays at high altitudes. I saw this girl from my place at the back of the tiered lecture theatre, she was sitting somewhere down at the front, with her back to me. I immediately found myself seeing mental pictures of life with her in the Canadian forests (I have never told her about this.)
The details and chronology of my few meetings with her in Bristol are not clear in my mind, but I was to play the piano accompaniments to three of Vaughan Williams' "Songs of Travel" (poems by R.L. Stevenson) to be sung by another student at a public concert; I forget his name but I remember he was fond of archery. It's customary for an accompanist to have an assistant turn the pages of the music book while he is playing, and I asked Elizabeth - a good musician as are many scientists - if she would do that for me. I hardly knew her, but she agreed. That made that event memorable for me, having her sitting next to me and helping me at a somewhat stressful time seemed exactly right.
Just before the end of the academic year the Student Union Ball took place - the major social event of the year, really. Some time before that I had broken up with my previous girl friend, Jenny (that story might interest certain readers of this blog, too!), and had no one to take to the ball. I did not want to go alone. Elizabeth seemed to my inexperienced eye to be outside my league, as she seemed to know a lot of students and was a good deal more sociable than me, I thought she would have a number of invitations to choose from; I was very gauche and uncertain with women, however, I plucked up the courage to ask her if she would come to the ball with me and much to my surprise, she immediately agreed.
I had been used to dancing with Jenny, who was a fluid mover, easy to lead and we had often gone to dance classes together. Dancing with Elizabeth felt unfamiliar and a bit wooden (I'm sure she will not be reading my blog, but I think she would agree with me!). After the ball, in the early hours of the morning, I escorted her back to her Hall of Residence, and that seemed to be the end of that relationship, more or less. The year finished with little further contact that I can remember.
But it seemed fate had other plans; I kept running into Elizabeth, sometimes half intentionally, sometime quite by chance. While I was living in London I found out that she lived quite near me, in the house of a well-known conductor, and although I was already married then (but not happily), I visited her. We did exchange a few letters but they were not love-letters. I seem to remember even visiting her at her parents' home in a southern suburb of London. I met her once again by chance at a music camp somewhere in the South of England.
In due course I left London and took a job in Oxford. In a restaurant in Queen Street I ran into Elizabeth again, and we talked. I hadn't known she had moved to Oxford. She was then living in Chalfont Road, Oxford - a road I knew well as my cousin's grandmother had lived there and I sometimes visited. I lived with my aunt further out, and Elizabeth gave me a ride on the back of her scooter. This showed me once again a very weird and unusual effect: when I was with her, and for time after, I lost all interest in other women.
This has never happened with anyone else. What ever woman I happen to be with, and however much attracted to her I may feel, I never lose the impulse to weigh up other women I happen to see. But with Elizabeth, that impulse disappeared without trace. Sitting on the back of her scooter, she was the only woman of any interest to me. The attraction didn't seem to be physical sex, that never occurred to me. It took hours for this effect to wear off.
At the time of that ride, Elizabeth told me she was getting married, and told me her future husband's name. Since then, I never saw her again. I have never read the book on Schubert she wrote, though I would like to (the price is too high). I feel glad she has attained some measure of success and respect, she's a good woman and industrious too.
Human relations have many factors bearing on them, and past lives is one of the most interesting.
Dannah - you wanted to read about Elizabeth. She was a physics student in her 2nd year, I was still a first year student, though a year or two older than her. We both attended a lecture by CF Powell, Physics Professor, well known for his work on photographing the effects of cosmic rays at high altitudes. I saw this girl from my place at the back of the tiered lecture theatre, she was sitting somewhere down at the front, with her back to me. I immediately found myself seeing mental pictures of life with her in the Canadian forests (I have never told her about this.)
The details and chronology of my few meetings with her in Bristol are not clear in my mind, but I was to play the piano accompaniments to three of Vaughan Williams' "Songs of Travel" (poems by R.L. Stevenson) to be sung by another student at a public concert; I forget his name but I remember he was fond of archery. It's customary for an accompanist to have an assistant turn the pages of the music book while he is playing, and I asked Elizabeth - a good musician as are many scientists - if she would do that for me. I hardly knew her, but she agreed. That made that event memorable for me, having her sitting next to me and helping me at a somewhat stressful time seemed exactly right.
Just before the end of the academic year the Student Union Ball took place - the major social event of the year, really. Some time before that I had broken up with my previous girl friend, Jenny (that story might interest certain readers of this blog, too!), and had no one to take to the ball. I did not want to go alone. Elizabeth seemed to my inexperienced eye to be outside my league, as she seemed to know a lot of students and was a good deal more sociable than me, I thought she would have a number of invitations to choose from; I was very gauche and uncertain with women, however, I plucked up the courage to ask her if she would come to the ball with me and much to my surprise, she immediately agreed.
I had been used to dancing with Jenny, who was a fluid mover, easy to lead and we had often gone to dance classes together. Dancing with Elizabeth felt unfamiliar and a bit wooden (I'm sure she will not be reading my blog, but I think she would agree with me!). After the ball, in the early hours of the morning, I escorted her back to her Hall of Residence, and that seemed to be the end of that relationship, more or less. The year finished with little further contact that I can remember.
But it seemed fate had other plans; I kept running into Elizabeth, sometimes half intentionally, sometime quite by chance. While I was living in London I found out that she lived quite near me, in the house of a well-known conductor, and although I was already married then (but not happily), I visited her. We did exchange a few letters but they were not love-letters. I seem to remember even visiting her at her parents' home in a southern suburb of London. I met her once again by chance at a music camp somewhere in the South of England.
In due course I left London and took a job in Oxford. In a restaurant in Queen Street I ran into Elizabeth again, and we talked. I hadn't known she had moved to Oxford. She was then living in Chalfont Road, Oxford - a road I knew well as my cousin's grandmother had lived there and I sometimes visited. I lived with my aunt further out, and Elizabeth gave me a ride on the back of her scooter. This showed me once again a very weird and unusual effect: when I was with her, and for time after, I lost all interest in other women.
This has never happened with anyone else. What ever woman I happen to be with, and however much attracted to her I may feel, I never lose the impulse to weigh up other women I happen to see. But with Elizabeth, that impulse disappeared without trace. Sitting on the back of her scooter, she was the only woman of any interest to me. The attraction didn't seem to be physical sex, that never occurred to me. It took hours for this effect to wear off.
At the time of that ride, Elizabeth told me she was getting married, and told me her future husband's name. Since then, I never saw her again. I have never read the book on Schubert she wrote, though I would like to (the price is too high). I feel glad she has attained some measure of success and respect, she's a good woman and industrious too.
Human relations have many factors bearing on them, and past lives is one of the most interesting.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Here is one of my favourite songs from one of my favourite composers - "Liebesbotschaft" (Love's Message), by Franz Schubert, sung by Petre Munteanu, a Romanian tenor. Schubert wrote it about 1828, the year of his death at the early age of 31.
Since boyhood Schubert's music has been a source of great pleasure for me, especially the two song-cycles "Die schöne Müllerin" (The Maid of the Mill) and "Winterreise" (Winter Journey); but this song does not belong to either of those groups. For me it exemplifies the unmatched ability of Schubert to conjure wonderful feelings with simple tunes and accompaniments on the piano.
P.S. I have added the original German words by Rellstab, and a translation into English, as a comment to this post.
(A footnote here: A definitive biography of Schubert has been written by a woman called Elizabeth whom I was very attracted to in my early twenties - i.e. about 60 years ago. I first saw her in a physics lecture given by C.F. Powell (a Nobel laureate) at Bristol University and immediately saw mental pictures of her living with me in the forests of Canada - in a previous life I suppose. The attraction was not sexual but seemed to have some other basis - but I won't continue this story as it really has nothing to do with Liebesbotschaft! Material for another post perhaps.)
Since boyhood Schubert's music has been a source of great pleasure for me, especially the two song-cycles "Die schöne Müllerin" (The Maid of the Mill) and "Winterreise" (Winter Journey); but this song does not belong to either of those groups. For me it exemplifies the unmatched ability of Schubert to conjure wonderful feelings with simple tunes and accompaniments on the piano.
P.S. I have added the original German words by Rellstab, and a translation into English, as a comment to this post.
(A footnote here: A definitive biography of Schubert has been written by a woman called Elizabeth whom I was very attracted to in my early twenties - i.e. about 60 years ago. I first saw her in a physics lecture given by C.F. Powell (a Nobel laureate) at Bristol University and immediately saw mental pictures of her living with me in the forests of Canada - in a previous life I suppose. The attraction was not sexual but seemed to have some other basis - but I won't continue this story as it really has nothing to do with Liebesbotschaft! Material for another post perhaps.)
Monday, June 13, 2011
Don't be a victim!
Let's assume for a moment that there is something about my life I don't like and want to change.
I want to explore the idea that everything in our lives is a result of our beliefs.
I like this idea because it forces me to take responsibility for my life and to avoid thinking of myself as a victim. Once you get the feeling that you are at the mercy of others, you become a victim. Much better to look inside yourself and see if you can discover just what you have done or believed that has guided your life into its present state. ASSUME that you have done, or believed, something that has resulted in your life being as it is now.
Suppose you have a "disease", for example. Such as alcoholism, or cancer. Most people in the western world regard disease as something that has hit you, out of the blue: you are its victim. You have to take drugs or visit a shrink or a surgeon. You have to "battle the disease." Avoid this line of thought studiously and instead, regard the disease as an essential part of you, for the moment. The disease is telling you something you need to know. It's a cry from your body that something about your life has to change.
So far as I can understand, the need for alcohol arises because alcohol can cause you to forget or ignore painful feelings which you do not know how to deal with otherwise. In my case, I am not addicted to alcohol, I can go without it for many days and not feel the need to take it. I like it, however, and usually drink a little every day - say 3/4 inch of Tequila in the bottom of a small tumbler, and only after 5 p.m.
Now comes the interesting part: I have a tremor, very noticeable in my hands but present elsewhere in my body. It is present all the time. It's worse in my right hand than in my left. It makes writing extremely difficult, for example signing my name to withdraw money at the bank. Lifting a cup of coffee to my mouth requires both hands to avoid splashing it everywhere. When it first became noticeable, about three years ago, I thought there must be some nervous damage, and I remembered that my father also had this tremor. Perhaps it's inherited?
One day I inadvertently poured too much Tequila into my glass, almost twice as much as usual; nevertheless I drank it all and became slightly tipsy. It happened that I needed to sign a document that evening. I discovered to my astonishment that I could write perfectly well, there was no sign of a tremor. Next day, the tremor was back.
A little research on the internet showed me that this phenomenon is known in medical circles: alcohol relieves tremor symptoms; but nobody knows how that works. Of course, it is no use considering it as a cure, as I would probably become addicted to alcohol. But it showed me that alcohol was allowing me to stop doing, or believing, whatever it was that was causing the tremor. It showed me that my nervous system was working properly, not defective. If something was inherited, that something must be somewhat insubstantial, like a belief, for example. Just what exactly is it that I am doing, or believing, that causes it?
I haven't found that out yet - sometimes ordinary life is too interesting to spend time introspecting like this. (excuses, excuses.) Then again, it is very difficult to expose one's basic beliefs as one is so close to them and so used to them one doesn't recognise them as beliefs, even. If in this case the alcohol is doing its job of causing me to forget, temporarily, painful beliefs, what can those beliefs be? Must be something that's basic to my life.
(I'll continue this later, time is running out)
I want to explore the idea that everything in our lives is a result of our beliefs.
I like this idea because it forces me to take responsibility for my life and to avoid thinking of myself as a victim. Once you get the feeling that you are at the mercy of others, you become a victim. Much better to look inside yourself and see if you can discover just what you have done or believed that has guided your life into its present state. ASSUME that you have done, or believed, something that has resulted in your life being as it is now.
Suppose you have a "disease", for example. Such as alcoholism, or cancer. Most people in the western world regard disease as something that has hit you, out of the blue: you are its victim. You have to take drugs or visit a shrink or a surgeon. You have to "battle the disease." Avoid this line of thought studiously and instead, regard the disease as an essential part of you, for the moment. The disease is telling you something you need to know. It's a cry from your body that something about your life has to change.
So far as I can understand, the need for alcohol arises because alcohol can cause you to forget or ignore painful feelings which you do not know how to deal with otherwise. In my case, I am not addicted to alcohol, I can go without it for many days and not feel the need to take it. I like it, however, and usually drink a little every day - say 3/4 inch of Tequila in the bottom of a small tumbler, and only after 5 p.m.
Now comes the interesting part: I have a tremor, very noticeable in my hands but present elsewhere in my body. It is present all the time. It's worse in my right hand than in my left. It makes writing extremely difficult, for example signing my name to withdraw money at the bank. Lifting a cup of coffee to my mouth requires both hands to avoid splashing it everywhere. When it first became noticeable, about three years ago, I thought there must be some nervous damage, and I remembered that my father also had this tremor. Perhaps it's inherited?
One day I inadvertently poured too much Tequila into my glass, almost twice as much as usual; nevertheless I drank it all and became slightly tipsy. It happened that I needed to sign a document that evening. I discovered to my astonishment that I could write perfectly well, there was no sign of a tremor. Next day, the tremor was back.
A little research on the internet showed me that this phenomenon is known in medical circles: alcohol relieves tremor symptoms; but nobody knows how that works. Of course, it is no use considering it as a cure, as I would probably become addicted to alcohol. But it showed me that alcohol was allowing me to stop doing, or believing, whatever it was that was causing the tremor. It showed me that my nervous system was working properly, not defective. If something was inherited, that something must be somewhat insubstantial, like a belief, for example. Just what exactly is it that I am doing, or believing, that causes it?
I haven't found that out yet - sometimes ordinary life is too interesting to spend time introspecting like this. (excuses, excuses.) Then again, it is very difficult to expose one's basic beliefs as one is so close to them and so used to them one doesn't recognise them as beliefs, even. If in this case the alcohol is doing its job of causing me to forget, temporarily, painful beliefs, what can those beliefs be? Must be something that's basic to my life.
(I'll continue this later, time is running out)
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The "Little House on the Prairie"
Emilie and others suggested "The Little House on the Prairie" series as good reading matter, and I bought the first 5 books from Amazon. I enjoyed them very much and finished to lot in about three days. I won't buy the others, though. What a life! It certainly makes one wonder if the automobile is a blessing or a curse. I don't have one and don't miss it.
Sorry for not explaining my absence
Saffy, Sue - and other readers, I do appreciate your concern. Yes I'm fine. Just suddenly, blogging became empty, meaningless. I am not a consistent person, my life is full of U-turns! I'll probably get back to it some time soon. I haven't been reading any blogs either. Spending much less time on my computer and more on everyday stuff like mending things, reading books, making jam. Trying to understand the nature of reality: it appears certain that there is no reality "out there", it's all within us; but how do we alter our beliefs to accommodate this apparent fact? Otherwise it is just a useless piece of book-knowledge. We have to be convinced in our hearts that that is the way things are.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
To one who forgot the meaning of love
I'm one who felt that celebrating Osama's death was not something I would be happy with. "The scales of Justice" is a fiction and no one can balance them. Maybe his death was necessary for self-defence, but I cannot see it as a happy event.
In some ways, I felt sad. Sad that people were celebrating someone's death because he was dead, not because his life was worth celebrating. Somehow, it seemed very mean-spirited and ungodly to celebrate the death of someone who had forgotten the meaning of love. Instead I wanted to send him a prayer of love to help him recover, to know that someone cared for him, that someone wanted him to turn to his God, not away from Him.
In some ways, I felt sad. Sad that people were celebrating someone's death because he was dead, not because his life was worth celebrating. Somehow, it seemed very mean-spirited and ungodly to celebrate the death of someone who had forgotten the meaning of love. Instead I wanted to send him a prayer of love to help him recover, to know that someone cared for him, that someone wanted him to turn to his God, not away from Him.
It's all in the mind!
Every morning I walk into the town, a distance of just under a mile. Sometimes my feet feel stiff, and I seem to lack energy (I do reluctantly classify myself as an old man). The journey is something of a chore. But suddenly I spot, walking in front of me about 50 yards away, the back view of a young woman of pleasing proportions and interesting movement.. Miraculously, my tiredness vanishes, my feet are willing and I speed up so that I can overtake her and see if she is as pleasing from the front as she is from the back.
Even after passing her, I still have that burst of energy right to the end.
Though in theory I know that my thoughts and desires control my actions more directly and more effectively than my will, it always surprises me when it happens so obviously.
Even after passing her, I still have that burst of energy right to the end.
Though in theory I know that my thoughts and desires control my actions more directly and more effectively than my will, it always surprises me when it happens so obviously.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Shit happened
Mouse posted an account of her doings with one of the toilets in her house, and it reminded me of the last time we dealt with ours. I made a long comment on that and since it illuminates our life here in Philippines, I reproduce it as a post on my blog:
Spewing shit is nasty. Ours does that sometimes, then the pipe to the septic tank has to be cleaned out with a long length of hard plastic tubing. It comes back out of the pipe all shitty, you haven't to be afraid of handling shit and fortunately neither Rose nor I are afraid of it. Plumber, you are saying? Don't make me laugh.
The last time shit happened - just a few months ago - the clean-out didn't work, so we had to take the top off the septic tank and poke about in the inlet pipe, the configuration of which I had forgotten.
In the end, I decided more radical action was needed, so I cycled into town and asked the septic tank man ("Poso Negro", no idea what that means) to come and empty ours since it hasn't been emptied for 20 years, and he drove up baclwards with a big truck and a couple of strong young men who also were not shit-scared and the pump in the truck sucked it all up in about 30 minutes. Top back on, useless plastic tubing left in the hot sun to dry then coiled up, hands washed: back to normal.
Spewing shit is nasty. Ours does that sometimes, then the pipe to the septic tank has to be cleaned out with a long length of hard plastic tubing. It comes back out of the pipe all shitty, you haven't to be afraid of handling shit and fortunately neither Rose nor I are afraid of it. Plumber, you are saying? Don't make me laugh.
The last time shit happened - just a few months ago - the clean-out didn't work, so we had to take the top off the septic tank and poke about in the inlet pipe, the configuration of which I had forgotten.
In the end, I decided more radical action was needed, so I cycled into town and asked the septic tank man ("Poso Negro", no idea what that means) to come and empty ours since it hasn't been emptied for 20 years, and he drove up baclwards with a big truck and a couple of strong young men who also were not shit-scared and the pump in the truck sucked it all up in about 30 minutes. Top back on, useless plastic tubing left in the hot sun to dry then coiled up, hands washed: back to normal.
Morning housework
P.S. Here's an interesting little article - could be expanded I'm sure ...
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Today I went to read a blog I enjoy and the latest post told how she had to stop posting for a while and could not reveal the reason for fear it would identify her and her family.
I always feel bad when I think of how we have to disguise ourselves in order to live comfortably. That's why I don't disguise myself in my own blog. I have no reason to hide anything, although I understand that many believe they do.
I wonder what would happen if everyone lived their lives openly? No aliases? Would it be good, would life be even possible? What exactly would go wrong, if anything? Are there people who live their whole lives with no secrets, and if so, how does it go?
P.S. I'm not just talking about D/s here, I'm talking about the whole world, a world where Wikileaks would have no impact. I have often thought about this.
I wonder what would happen if everyone lived their lives openly? No aliases? Would it be good, would life be even possible? What exactly would go wrong, if anything? Are there people who live their whole lives with no secrets, and if so, how does it go?
P.S. I'm not just talking about D/s here, I'm talking about the whole world, a world where Wikileaks would have no impact. I have often thought about this.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Why am I so interested in blogs written by submissive women?
I an trying to understand my self and my marriage here, that's all. Anyone is welcome to add their comments.
I find some of the blogs written by submissive women fascinating. To me, those women have exceedingly attractive qualities. My wife has elements of submission: she asks what to do in many workaday situations; she consents to my spanking her whenever I wish, though she does not like it; she tells me where she is going, and if I ask, her purpose; she agrees to certain rules, such as no internet use before lunch; she asks what I would like in any situation, if it's not already known. In the twenty years we have been married, she has never refused sex, though occasionally has not been very co-operative. She does have two bad habits: collecting clutter and neglecting necessary housework; but she doesn't smoke, use bad language, spend money unthinkingly, or indulge expensive tastes. She has very useful healing gifts with which she can relieve the aches and pains of her friends and relatives.
Yet, somehow ... something seems missing. There's no passion, and she doesn't seem to want any.
She does not submit with her thoughts. Her heart does not belong to me. If I ask her what she is thinking (something I seldom do) I will not get a credible answer. She is very secretive with her mind. If she seems to be having difficult thoughts or feelings, she will never volunteer them to me. If I try to have a conversation about something, I will be doing 99% of the talking. I can wait for a long time for some input from her. Yet if she gets on the phone with a friend, she can talk almost non-stop for 45 minutes, and the friend may not be getting many words in edgeways.
Another blogger has recently quoted this poem by Paelus, found on the-iron-gate.com:
Surrender
Trust Me with your heart.
Place it in My hands,
To crush or caress.
Trust that I will not hurt you.
Give it to Me because you desire Me to possess it,
Not because it is My will.
Trust Me with your mind.
Place it in My hands, also,
To destroy or reshape.
Trust Me to mold it according to your needs
Not simply to suit My own purposes.
Trust Me with your body.
It too, place in My hands.
Mine, to batter or protect.
Trust Me to keep you safe
And to provide for you that which is needed
to ensure your happiness.
Trust Me with your very soul.
Place it in My hands, as well.
Lay it bare before Me, vulnerable to My will.
Trust that I will guide you safely through the darkness
protecting your interests at all times,
regardless of My desires.
Above all, trust Me with your complete and total surrender.
Trust that I will honor and cherish
your submission to Me
Trust that I will not abuse this gift
That you so lovingly give to Me.
I appreciate that this may appeal to some, but it's not something I need. If a woman asked to give me that degree of submission, I believe, if I liked her sufficiently and circumstances allowed, I would accept and do my best to fulfil the responsibility. But I prefer to watch and encourage people to grow in their own ways, not in some way that I have decided. I dislike giving people instructions more than once, and I certainly will not give instructions to do things which have no practical purpose, such that I often read about on some of these blogs. I don't like calling someone to account for sins of commission or omission. BDSM rôle play has very little attraction for me (I have tried it with my wife), only real-life, actual genuine situations and requirements interest me.
Well, that's all for the moment. I may continue this theme, especially if someone adds an insightful, relevant comment.
I find some of the blogs written by submissive women fascinating. To me, those women have exceedingly attractive qualities. My wife has elements of submission: she asks what to do in many workaday situations; she consents to my spanking her whenever I wish, though she does not like it; she tells me where she is going, and if I ask, her purpose; she agrees to certain rules, such as no internet use before lunch; she asks what I would like in any situation, if it's not already known. In the twenty years we have been married, she has never refused sex, though occasionally has not been very co-operative. She does have two bad habits: collecting clutter and neglecting necessary housework; but she doesn't smoke, use bad language, spend money unthinkingly, or indulge expensive tastes. She has very useful healing gifts with which she can relieve the aches and pains of her friends and relatives.
Yet, somehow ... something seems missing. There's no passion, and she doesn't seem to want any.
She does not submit with her thoughts. Her heart does not belong to me. If I ask her what she is thinking (something I seldom do) I will not get a credible answer. She is very secretive with her mind. If she seems to be having difficult thoughts or feelings, she will never volunteer them to me. If I try to have a conversation about something, I will be doing 99% of the talking. I can wait for a long time for some input from her. Yet if she gets on the phone with a friend, she can talk almost non-stop for 45 minutes, and the friend may not be getting many words in edgeways.
Another blogger has recently quoted this poem by Paelus, found on the-iron-gate.com:
Surrender
Trust Me with your heart.
Place it in My hands,
To crush or caress.
Trust that I will not hurt you.
Give it to Me because you desire Me to possess it,
Not because it is My will.
Trust Me with your mind.
Place it in My hands, also,
To destroy or reshape.
Trust Me to mold it according to your needs
Not simply to suit My own purposes.
Trust Me with your body.
It too, place in My hands.
Mine, to batter or protect.
Trust Me to keep you safe
And to provide for you that which is needed
to ensure your happiness.
Trust Me with your very soul.
Place it in My hands, as well.
Lay it bare before Me, vulnerable to My will.
Trust that I will guide you safely through the darkness
protecting your interests at all times,
regardless of My desires.
Above all, trust Me with your complete and total surrender.
Trust that I will honor and cherish
your submission to Me
Trust that I will not abuse this gift
That you so lovingly give to Me.
I appreciate that this may appeal to some, but it's not something I need. If a woman asked to give me that degree of submission, I believe, if I liked her sufficiently and circumstances allowed, I would accept and do my best to fulfil the responsibility. But I prefer to watch and encourage people to grow in their own ways, not in some way that I have decided. I dislike giving people instructions more than once, and I certainly will not give instructions to do things which have no practical purpose, such that I often read about on some of these blogs. I don't like calling someone to account for sins of commission or omission. BDSM rôle play has very little attraction for me (I have tried it with my wife), only real-life, actual genuine situations and requirements interest me.
Well, that's all for the moment. I may continue this theme, especially if someone adds an insightful, relevant comment.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
NOT a salve for sore butts
I have been making hot sauce today. We like "Tabasco" sauce but it's expensive at $2.40 a small bottle so I make our own.
I buy a handful of small chili peppers ( called harang here), break off the stalks and chop them up a bit. Put them in about 300 ml water and simmer for 30 minutes. Add more water to about 100 ml if there is less than that left after boiling.
I then put them in the blender and run for about 5 seconds, then force the result through a fine mesh coffee strainer. Discard what won't go through. Add vinegar enough to double the amount of filtrate, add 1/4 tsp salt and mix. Pour into capped jar and keep in refrigerator.
The resulting product is EXTREMELY potent. Do not let it near your eyes, or any other sensitive membrane such as prick or cunt. Wash your hands carefully with soap after finishing. Avoid rubbing your eyes. I guess it could be applied to the skin post- or even pre-spanking to intensify and prolong sting, but I take no responsibility for the reactions! Use only microscopic amounts for any purpose. For food, we just dip a teaspoon in, pull it out and rub the bottom on the fishcake or whatever.
I then put them in the blender and run for about 5 seconds, then force the result through a fine mesh coffee strainer. Discard what won't go through. Add vinegar enough to double the amount of filtrate, add 1/4 tsp salt and mix. Pour into capped jar and keep in refrigerator.
The resulting product is EXTREMELY potent. Do not let it near your eyes, or any other sensitive membrane such as prick or cunt. Wash your hands carefully with soap after finishing. Avoid rubbing your eyes. I guess it could be applied to the skin post- or even pre-spanking to intensify and prolong sting, but I take no responsibility for the reactions! Use only microscopic amounts for any purpose. For food, we just dip a teaspoon in, pull it out and rub the bottom on the fishcake or whatever.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Reading the Story of O
I read on someone's blog this afternoon that one of her training tasks was to re-read "The Story of O". This is not something I would want any sub or wife of mine to read. It's a story of abuse, abandonment and desolation and has little literary value, and is an example of how NOT to live, how NOT to care for someone. I certainly would not ask my wife to read it, and if I did and she started, I think she would soon give it up, probably wondering why on earth I suggested it.
If I were to give someone a reading task, it would be a book with broad human values depicted. Depending on the woman and her educational level, I might choose Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Sense and Sensibility, The Alchemist, Doctor Zhivago, Silas Marner, Kim, Great Expectations, even Madame Bovary or Jane Eyre.
The reason these classics are still widely read is that they deal fairly with universal human doings and feelings. Many of them I have read to my son (I have read to Claude more than 40 substantial books and uncounted short stories, fairy stories etc since he was 4 years old) and as a result he has a very wide vocabulary and an acquaintance with a little of the worlds great literature. This is the kind of reading I would ask a sub to do, because I know that after she has finished such a book, she will be wiser, and perhaps happier.
What would be the recommendations of others here?
If I were to give someone a reading task, it would be a book with broad human values depicted. Depending on the woman and her educational level, I might choose Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Sense and Sensibility, The Alchemist, Doctor Zhivago, Silas Marner, Kim, Great Expectations, even Madame Bovary or Jane Eyre.
The reason these classics are still widely read is that they deal fairly with universal human doings and feelings. Many of them I have read to my son (I have read to Claude more than 40 substantial books and uncounted short stories, fairy stories etc since he was 4 years old) and as a result he has a very wide vocabulary and an acquaintance with a little of the worlds great literature. This is the kind of reading I would ask a sub to do, because I know that after she has finished such a book, she will be wiser, and perhaps happier.
What would be the recommendations of others here?
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Rough, angry speech to our son
I have a problem with my wife's rough speech. So often when she talks to our son, she speaks roughly and makes it into scolding or some sort of confrontation. Claude often doesn't answer her until she has spoken several times, getting angrier each time, and this makes it worse. The more she shouts and gets angry, the less he wants to respond. I really don't like this, never in my own childhood was there any shouting or rough speech, I don't want it in my house now, but I don't know how to prevent it. I think probably my wife experienced it at home with her parents. She seems to find it quite normal.
There is another, related problem, too: when she speaks to Claude, Rose uses her own dialect, which Claude understands and speaks fluently but I do not, and I have not been capable of learning it, or even hearing it enough to distinguish the words. I don't like her having an argument with Claude in my hearing in a language I don't understand, and I have told Rose this several times but she takes no notice. My spirits sink low if I hear this rough speech with Claude starting. She does speak English to me, but is not fully comfortable with it, I have to pick my words carefully if I want to make sure she is understanding me.
I am not a dominant man and tend to withdraw if things are not going right between us.
Any useful suggestions?
Monday, April 11, 2011
Skipping the funeral
Yesterday I typed out the Housework schedule I mentioned in a post recently. Earlier, I had told Rose that I wanted to get back to to it. She didn't jump for joy. Or, in fact, make any noticeable response. This is quite in character.
Right now she and Claude have gone to a funeral. I have not personally ever spoken to the deceased, so I stayed at home as funerals here mean walking a long way and spending much time with people one hardly knows - at least for me they do.
Right now she and Claude have gone to a funeral. I have not personally ever spoken to the deceased, so I stayed at home as funerals here mean walking a long way and spending much time with people one hardly knows - at least for me they do.
Yesterday I sat at my piano as I had the urge to play one or two of Bach's chorales. I wanted to hear "Schmücke dich, O liebe Seele" (Adorn yourself, dear Soul). When I started playing it, tears sprang into my eyes and my fingers made mistakes.
How is that music can affect us? A succession of sounds only: or is it, perhaps, more than that?
How is that music can affect us? A succession of sounds only: or is it, perhaps, more than that?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The paradox of me/not me
What we call reality is a strange business. How can we know it? Everything we see or perceive in any way is within us, yet if I can perceive something, I know that it is not me. I am doing the perceiving and cannot be perceived. I am a little piece of perceivingness, like a little window. Everything I can know about "reality", including its very existence, is within me, yet is not me. I have no evidence that there is anything separate from me, yet nothing I perceive can be me because I am the one doing the perceiving. It's a paradox!
Just turn this over in your mind, please, and tell me what you experience about it.
P.S. Perhaps I am not a "little piece" of perceivingness, but actually I am just perceivingness restricting its view?
Just turn this over in your mind, please, and tell me what you experience about it.
P.S. Perhaps I am not a "little piece" of perceivingness, but actually I am just perceivingness restricting its view?
The seamless universe
In a recent comment, Steel Rose said: "The synthesis of body, mind and soul is the ultimate goal, yes?"
I am not sure about the synthesis of body, mind and soul. Perhaps the distinction between these three is entirely artificial, they are already one and we have divided them to make things more interesting?
In this universe everything is made of energy. Even solid matter is made of particles which themselves are simply packets of energy. There seem to be different types of energy and no-one has to my knowledge yet sorted out the difference between, for example, Chi and electromagnetic fields. Then there is the energy of the Zero Point Field. Whatever the truth about this may be, it doesn't seem likely that the universe is split into several unrelated fields.
What do others think about this?
I am not sure about the synthesis of body, mind and soul. Perhaps the distinction between these three is entirely artificial, they are already one and we have divided them to make things more interesting?
In this universe everything is made of energy. Even solid matter is made of particles which themselves are simply packets of energy. There seem to be different types of energy and no-one has to my knowledge yet sorted out the difference between, for example, Chi and electromagnetic fields. Then there is the energy of the Zero Point Field. Whatever the truth about this may be, it doesn't seem likely that the universe is split into several unrelated fields.
What do others think about this?
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Steel Rose made a comment on my post yesterday and this is a response to that.
Yes I understand your aversion to religion. I was educated in a boarding school where Christianity was taught, but later I realised that the people who had been teaching me had little understanding of what they were teaching. They felt that it must be useful but could not explain how. I abandoned that religious outlook.
Nevertheless, I came back - not to any Christian church, but to spirituality, when I began to understand the control our egos hold over us and how that control stunts and distorts our lives. I remember that after work one day, when I was about 25 and living in London, I stopped in a bookshop in Oxford Street and bought Eugen Herrigel's "Zen in the Art of Archery." Passing Hyde Park, I went in, sat down on a park bench and read the whole book through before continuing my journey home. I realised that the archery Master had something infinitely valuable to teach. Herrigel (whose education in philosophy was something of a disadvantage to him in this) after some years of lessons with the Master, suddenly one day became able to let "It" shoot. I understood then that somehow we have to let "It" run our entire life. That is, in a nutshell, what spirituality is all about, and what religion has hi-jacked to express in often distorted ways, mixed with power hunger.
What is "It"? It cannot be described or defined, but you know it when you see it!
Our egos are fearful of letting go their grip on us. Ego should be our servant, but it is our master instead. I see submission to another human as a metaphor for the longing to lose ourselves, lose our egos, with which we identify and believe to be our selves. When we break the ego's control there is a sudden realization - "enlightenment" in Buddhist terms - that we are not our egos.
We stop defining ourselves.
"It" takes over and our life is completely transformed.
Unfortunately, the ego is nothing if not tenacious and a few seconds, minutes or hours later we begin to question this and usually find ourselves back in its grip. But the step has been taken and never again will we feel so powerless.
Yes I understand your aversion to religion. I was educated in a boarding school where Christianity was taught, but later I realised that the people who had been teaching me had little understanding of what they were teaching. They felt that it must be useful but could not explain how. I abandoned that religious outlook.
Nevertheless, I came back - not to any Christian church, but to spirituality, when I began to understand the control our egos hold over us and how that control stunts and distorts our lives. I remember that after work one day, when I was about 25 and living in London, I stopped in a bookshop in Oxford Street and bought Eugen Herrigel's "Zen in the Art of Archery." Passing Hyde Park, I went in, sat down on a park bench and read the whole book through before continuing my journey home. I realised that the archery Master had something infinitely valuable to teach. Herrigel (whose education in philosophy was something of a disadvantage to him in this) after some years of lessons with the Master, suddenly one day became able to let "It" shoot. I understood then that somehow we have to let "It" run our entire life. That is, in a nutshell, what spirituality is all about, and what religion has hi-jacked to express in often distorted ways, mixed with power hunger.
What is "It"? It cannot be described or defined, but you know it when you see it!
Our egos are fearful of letting go their grip on us. Ego should be our servant, but it is our master instead. I see submission to another human as a metaphor for the longing to lose ourselves, lose our egos, with which we identify and believe to be our selves. When we break the ego's control there is a sudden realization - "enlightenment" in Buddhist terms - that we are not our egos.
We stop defining ourselves.
"It" takes over and our life is completely transformed.
Unfortunately, the ego is nothing if not tenacious and a few seconds, minutes or hours later we begin to question this and usually find ourselves back in its grip. But the step has been taken and never again will we feel so powerless.
Friday, April 08, 2011
This was originally a comment on Tammy and Jake's blog, but I want to record it here.
My thoughts on letting go.
It's not only submissives that have this problem with letting go. Anyone who does spiritual work has letting go to do. I sometimes practise when I am walking every morning, my journey takes almost 15 minutes and if I don't lose my place on the way (I usually do) it can be fifteen minutes of letting go.
It's important to let go of the desire to let go. That may sound ridiculous but it's true: so long as that desire to let go is in you, you haven't done it and will never do it. Though it may feel like you are going to vanish into nothingness, it's not necessary to hold on to anything whatsoever. When we have let go of everything, life bears us up and carries us along. We become suddenly a hundred times more conscious, more alive.
One reason spanking helps is because your conscious mind is forcibly taken off its struggle, thus enabling it to let go. Subspace results.
A very interesting description of letting go can be found at the beginning of Eckhart Tolle's book "The Power of Now." Also read Tony Parsons' book "The Open Secret" for another radical letting go. You can find Tony Parsons on the internet, he has recorded an interview on youtube somewhere.
Usually letting go, when it happens, is temporary: a few moments of freedom, then the ego asserts its control again; but sometimes it is permanent and life-changing.
It's my view that submissive women are seeking the same release as the mystic seeking God. Just that they are doing it in different ways with different immediate goals. Everyone is doing it in the way that seems right for them.
My thoughts on letting go.
It's not only submissives that have this problem with letting go. Anyone who does spiritual work has letting go to do. I sometimes practise when I am walking every morning, my journey takes almost 15 minutes and if I don't lose my place on the way (I usually do) it can be fifteen minutes of letting go.
It's important to let go of the desire to let go. That may sound ridiculous but it's true: so long as that desire to let go is in you, you haven't done it and will never do it. Though it may feel like you are going to vanish into nothingness, it's not necessary to hold on to anything whatsoever. When we have let go of everything, life bears us up and carries us along. We become suddenly a hundred times more conscious, more alive.
One reason spanking helps is because your conscious mind is forcibly taken off its struggle, thus enabling it to let go. Subspace results.
A very interesting description of letting go can be found at the beginning of Eckhart Tolle's book "The Power of Now." Also read Tony Parsons' book "The Open Secret" for another radical letting go. You can find Tony Parsons on the internet, he has recorded an interview on youtube somewhere.
Usually letting go, when it happens, is temporary: a few moments of freedom, then the ego asserts its control again; but sometimes it is permanent and life-changing.
It's my view that submissive women are seeking the same release as the mystic seeking God. Just that they are doing it in different ways with different immediate goals. Everyone is doing it in the way that seems right for them.
A neighbour asked us to a birthday party for her two-year-old son. Two years is considered a critical age stage here, and parties for this event are common. This one was to be held in the Girl Scouts building in town, a mile from our house. Four o'clock was the stated time, and Rose, who was already in town for other purposes, went there. As one might have expected, there was no-one there. Social events usually start about one hour after the scheduled time, and I must admit this irritates me, having been brought up in England by a methodical father. To me, this habit of un-punctuality is an instance of Filipinos being unable to do what they say they are going to do, and this attitude is largely responsible for Filipinos not being taken seriously by the rest of the world.
Rose called me to warn me not to come yet, so I had time to wash at leisure, feed the dogs and cat and scan the internet for any Forex trading opportunities: I didn't find any besides the trade that I had already closed a hour before (at a profit of $7.32.) Claude, who was fast asleep, having spent the entire previous night awake playing with his cousins at a vigil for a dead relative, was obviously not going to come, so at about 4:45 I locked up the house and cycled off to the town, having first accomplished the tricky task of getting my bike out of the gate without letting one of the dogs out as well - our young male dog is an unruly creature and wily with it.
Arriving at the party, there were a great many people there that I did not know and a few that I did. I took some of the food offered and sat outside on a concrete slab in the big open space to eat it. I watched the sunlight shifting gradually on the buildings around and breathed in the cool evening air under a cloudless sky. Our hostess was trying to get me to sit in a more honourable place but I preferred the fresh air and some distance from the monotonous loud music. Rosie wasn't there yet, having gone to the shops to get a birthday gift for the little boy.
When she arrived, Rosie got food and sat with me while I wondered to myself how to get her back to working the housework schedule I instituted about a year ago and which she gradually abandoned without my doing anything about it. I really dislike telling people to do what they already know they should be doing. The men in the blogs I read, who seem to be all take-charge types, don't have this problem!
Rose called me to warn me not to come yet, so I had time to wash at leisure, feed the dogs and cat and scan the internet for any Forex trading opportunities: I didn't find any besides the trade that I had already closed a hour before (at a profit of $7.32.) Claude, who was fast asleep, having spent the entire previous night awake playing with his cousins at a vigil for a dead relative, was obviously not going to come, so at about 4:45 I locked up the house and cycled off to the town, having first accomplished the tricky task of getting my bike out of the gate without letting one of the dogs out as well - our young male dog is an unruly creature and wily with it.
Arriving at the party, there were a great many people there that I did not know and a few that I did. I took some of the food offered and sat outside on a concrete slab in the big open space to eat it. I watched the sunlight shifting gradually on the buildings around and breathed in the cool evening air under a cloudless sky. Our hostess was trying to get me to sit in a more honourable place but I preferred the fresh air and some distance from the monotonous loud music. Rosie wasn't there yet, having gone to the shops to get a birthday gift for the little boy.
When she arrived, Rosie got food and sat with me while I wondered to myself how to get her back to working the housework schedule I instituted about a year ago and which she gradually abandoned without my doing anything about it. I really dislike telling people to do what they already know they should be doing. The men in the blogs I read, who seem to be all take-charge types, don't have this problem!
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Buying Fish
Went to the fish market this afternoon to buy fish for the dogs. Tamban (small silver coloured fish 4 to 6 inches long that we like to eat smoked) is my usual choice. As soon as I arrived there, a woman offered me Tamban at 40 pesos (less than $1) a kg, so I bought 2 kilos. They were smaller than average and the price was lowish. She put in about ten extra fish so I got more than 2 kg. I could have tried bargaining and she probably would have agreed to 2 kg for 70 but then she wouldn't have put any extra in for me, and our cooking pot holds just over 2 kg so I handed over 80 pesos without discussing price.
Facebook sucks
I closed my Facebook account yesterday, it's too difficult to arrange my stuff as I want it, too difficult to delete and correct stuff. Facebook likes everything their own way and this doesn't suit me. So I'm going back to blogging.
I'm at a loss to understand how Facebook has become such a valuable company. Where do they get their money from? From advertisements, I suppose, but who would buy anything through an ad on Facebook? Not me, anyway.
I shut it down in a fit of annoyance, without explaining to my contacts there first. I should have done that I guess, but I'm not going back in again just to do that. Have to tell them some other way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)