“Is there no way out of the mind?”
It’s a fair question Sylvia.
Why is that space between the ears so labyrinthine? A mushy pea mess of squelching thoughts oozing through channels of cloggy quag. No space between, one little think hanging onto the coat tails of the one in front. A multiplying mess of puerile puss.
That’s what Eli says – mostly – but because he’s Dutch he actually loves to say – moshtly – in a Steve McLaren sort of way.
Why doesn’t the mind have a chance to be still?
Even in the crusty depths of fitful sleep, the zzzz’s are bombarded with noise. Weird noise, not the white noise of day, but the black noise of night where anything can occur, even landing hard on your squashy pillow when the parachute of your dream fails.
But hold on just a cotton picking minute. There’s a way out. The maze has an exit. Eckhart tells me – we are not our mind.
Ding dong. If we are not our mind, then who is? Am I in charge, or is my mind in charge?
Wait a minute, with whom am I arguing? Myself? My self, the self that is me. The one that I have allowed to be.
Who’s in charge here?
This is a con. If self mastery was as easy as digesting a paperback we’d all be floating on pink marshmallows and humming, maybe even whistling, a lot.
I read Plath’s quote out over dinner.
‘Is there no way out of the mind?’
In unison, both the 43 year old and the 14 year old trumpeted back – of course – drugs – der.
Ah well, back to the drawing board. I was going to sign up for an EmoTrance workshop, but maybe 2 aspirin will do the trick instead.
Stuff has not been spoken about at all this week. And so tomorrow I dedicate this blog to you. Stuff. And will sign off with a poem to cheer you up and remind you about my birthday:
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight