Once our children are grown, who would you like them to meet, fall in love with, marry and potentially have children with? Would this be someone loving, caring and compassionate, who has the potential to be a good father, or mother? Of course it would.
With this said, it may seem obvious, (but not always) that in order to meet these expectations, you will need to instill certain conditions into the minds of our children. This is done mainly through example, however, if setting good example is hard for us (quite often, we are flawed humans after all) then following this simple analogy, will prove helpful.
Rules for Selling a Used Car
Believe it or not, you can actually make the world a better place, by selling a good, clean and well maintained, used car. א
We could think of the canopy as being our self-esteem. Yes, it keeps the weather off, yet it also enables us to fly. We fly provided we put in the required effort; in order to build up enough speed to get airborne, some hard pedalling is needed.
What exactly is this hard pedalling? Well beautiful reader, the hard pedalling represents the effort we must exert, in order to change our conditioned brain. Our conditioned brain, is the part of us that keeps our self-esteem, firmly on the ground. We prefer not to change, we prefer not to move on, and this is all due to the conditioning from those who’ve kept us on the ground, and of course, our own reluctance to make a shift. To make a change, and shift our lives into another gear, takes effort.
Yet for others, there’s this need to remain static, to remain comfortable with the status quo undisturbed. For these people the self-esteem canopy never gets enough wind beneath it, to lift them to those greater heights. Unimaginable heights, and that, is part of the problem.
The human animal hunts the weak or vulnerable, this includes its own. We know there are those who use and abuse. We also know about the paedophiles, the rapists and the murderers; the extremists who value hate more than life itself; we know all about them. We must see them as part of human nature that we’re constantly looking to eradicate. The dilemma is, this kind of sickness, is infectious.
Infectious to the degree that we protect the abusers. We spend time with those who keep us stuck; those we feel some kind of allegiance to; some kind of responsibility or duty. Often, it’s family, we feel this kind of obligation toward. We stay close to those who keep our canopy of self-esteem from lifting us off the ground. We’re always pedalling uphill.
So how do we break from the past and its abusers? Well, quite simply, we just make a decision – empowered because we now feel informed. Now you know the truth, of why you’re not achieving, there’s no escaping it now.
Each time we defend our current position, we pedal a little harder. Each time we repeat old patterns, we pedal a little harder. All this pedalling is wearing us out. We catch colds, develop aches and pains; we become incapacitated. Our canopy of self-esteem is collapsing. The chain is beginning to rust. The air in our tyres is escaping. It’s all becoming too much.
But hope lies within; there’s a little glimmer of light. Part of you really knows, and is building the courage to push, just so you can reach the crest of that next hill, up there on the far horizon! The difference is the accepting. The accepting of the human condition. Your self-esteem canopy will fill with air; you will weep with the effort it takes. The effort it takes to understand this dreaded disease the lies dormant within us all. The hunting-disease we carry; the desire to prey on the weak and the vulnerable, so they become stuck too.
Distance yourself from the limitations of the past. Learn to be alone. You will achieve greatness you never dreamed possible.
In a post entitled Ahhhhhhh… got me again! One of our members enlightened us to someone who enjoyed humiliating men. We’re glad to report that he hasn’t yet murdered her, however, if he’s allowed to stew much longer, we fear the worst. So with this in mind, we’re going to help him understand the, ‘for some strange reason’ of his predicament a little better.
We all have hotspots. That is to say, we all have some unresolved issues, buried deep within us, that others inadvertently tap into from time to time. If you haven’t yet read the post in question, then please do, and we’ll see you on your return.
Okay, welcome back. Now, as our member mentioned, he fully realises the issues Jilly potentially carries around with her, to include: loneliness, lack of confidence, love and a tendency to get off on humiliating people. A defence mechanism (or means to get people to reject her) no doubt taught her by the adults around her during childhood. What our member must also realise (to stave of the desire for murder) is that during his childhood he will of also witnessed those around him experiencing humiliation.
Perhaps mother humiliated father, or the other way round, and he, as a sensitive child, also felt this. Perhaps this humiliation went further and he also experienced it from his peers. Unable to defend himself, as a child, whenever similar feelings are aroused within him, as an adult, anger is the result (outward expression of fear). It would seem the inability to defend himself against humiliation is still prevalent, resulting in, (dramatic drum roll please) murder in mind. It has been known for passive-aggressive people to resort to murder when their ‘kettle-boils-over,’ so to speak. Oh we hope we’ve saved you Jilly, you poor, lonely lass.
Finding hotspots, through the annoying traits of loveless people, can be a bit of a double edged sword; an empowerment conflict. We want to hate them, and we even harbour murderous thoughts, yet the fact remains, they’ve taught us something very useful and empowering about ourselves. They’ve raised to the surface some unresolved issue from our childhood, and once we’ve dealt with this, there can only be healthy repercussions.
Healthy, because the more we know about ourselves, the more we’re able to find calm peace of mind. Peace of mind can only be found when we’re one with ourselves; when we’re whole. So, Dear Mr Angry member, Jilly is a blessing to you my friend, so please don’t kill her.
When it comes to issues of unresolved guilt – and because we’re in a generous mood today – the conflict here is, that fully understanding the negative destructiveness of guilt, actually leaves us feeling a little frightened.
Frightened, because to suggest repressed guilt, increases our chances of becoming ill prematurely, and further suggests we have no choice. The reality is the opposite. If we were to give you examples of how guilt has led to cancer you would refuse to believe us (yet be assured there are many), so we’re not going to do that. What we will do though, is help you understand this: when we take responsibility for how we create our own disease – through repressing our guilt – we actually empower ourselves through increased choice.
Even though this is the case, we could also give you examples of people who’ve died through repressing guilt, who actually led reasonably healthy lives. We’ll give you just one example to ponder on. You may remember this person: Jade Goody. Think about how long it took for her to die after the world taught her to feel guilty about her racism, bigotry and ignorance; racism and bigotry she will have been taught in childhood from those around her. If our parents were racist, there is a strong likelihood that on some level, we will be too. Many cancers are rooted in our childhood experiences, and to face this as fact, can be a very frightening reality.
The current trend for researchers, geneticists and scientists to seek the cure for cancers – and many other diseases for that matter – as being rooted in understanding and changing our genes, is in fact correct, but only when we also see our genes, as something inherited through the bodymind link, and our life-experiences.
Those around us always hold the key to understanding ourselves better. Humans really do need each other, and the more annoying, the better. So get out there!
It’s a nice summers day, I’ve been walking, minding my own business; feeling good; feeling calm. In the park nearby there’s a busker playing Spanish guitar. I listen for awhile; he’s very good. A few minutes later I decide to make my way home, when who should happen along, but someone I know through another friend: The queen of humiliation.
‘Hello Jilly’ I say
“Oh hello how are you?”
‘I’m very well thank you, and you?’
“Oh fine, fine. Have you been listening to the Spanish Guitarist?”
‘Yes, he’s very good isn’t he’
“Good, only one of the sixth best in the world!” she exclaims with a chuckle.
You see, the lady in question, has this very annoying habit of making you feel stupid, and she’s very, very good at it. So adept, at making sensitive men feel like arsholes is she, that I’m sure many actively avoid her. Some women get a buzz from humiliating men and I’ve met a few of them. So lacking in confidence, with so little love in their lives, are they, that this gives them a sense of superiority.
These people are transparent to the rest of us when we realise that humiliation will be something they lived through during childhood. In Jilly’s case, either from witnessing father humiliate mother, from being humiliated herself, or, as is more likely the case, both instances.
It really shouldn’t matter that this woman can do this to me: get under my skin in this way. It really, really shouldn’t matter, but for some strange reason, it does. Within me there’s obviously some need to look in charge, to be in control, to be an all knowing, all seeing man about town. Impossible of course, yet we men, do need to feel this way and mostly, kind women, humour us. They certainly don’t look to humiliate us.
Jilly exposes this weakness. She metaphorically rips my head off and spits down my fucking neck. And not just once, no, every time I meet her there’s the same outcome. What a defence mechanism, genius, she’s pure genius. Was pure genius I should say. Past tense, because no one will be seeing Jilly again, and she’ll definitely no longer be getting under my skin. She’ll not be getting under anyone’s skin for that matter. You see, I’ve murdered her. Yep, bashed her silly fucking brains in with a hammer.
You might think this a little drastic (slightly less so than murder) however, I’ve taken this decision, because my wellbeing: the health of my mood and my mind, is so important to me now, that I’ll no longer be putting up with the bastards trying to get me down.
It’s not been difficult to work out why Jilly’s this way. Not difficult at all. In fact, she’s fucking transparent, but the thing is, I don’t care. I no longer care that she’s been damaged. I don’t care that she’s lonely. I. Don’t. Fucking. Care. My psyche is the most important aspect here.
People will constantly look to throw stones into the calm pool of our minds; if we let them, that is. This is their point. My whole intention, whenever I meet someone, Jilly included, is to just have a gentle and meaningless interaction with them, that goes no further than ‘how are you?’ and ‘isn’t it a beautiful day?’ Any further than this and we’re generally into game play. I’m bored of the games.
It’s easy to understand why the English only ever talk about the weather, any further on from this, and they’re trying to fuck with each others minds. Such ugly and unnecessary game play. Just leave me be, and all is well.
He is a very good Spanish Guitarist, but sixth in the world, and still busking. Fuck, there really isn’t any hope for us, is there? Or was it all total bollocks invented just for the gameplay? It must be accepted, sometimes even love, isn’t enough. Nice weather we’re having though.
It’s funny how certain memories stick with you and become more prominent than others. Like the time a young boy came to see me; he’d developed an eating disorder. Strange as it may seem, he’d only eat minced beef, and his mother was worried about him. I was of course a last resort, with her having tried everything else, before knocking on my door.
He was laying in my reclining chair, with his eyes closed, recounting an upsetting experience during his dinner hour at school some weeks prior. I’d readied myself with a small tissue, so was sufficiently equipped to catch the small tear, that fell from his left eye. As I did, I turned to his mother, who was also seated in the room; the eye contact we shared exchanged all the information she needed; what he needed.
And now the memory of the two girls who turned up for an initial consultation; they’d read somewhere that Hypnotherapy can help you grow larger breasts. Out of the two girls, only one turned up for the future session we’d booked. All in all, she only came back two more times. At the end of the third session she said: “I won’t be coming back again because I’ve realised something.”
‘Okay’ I said
“Yes, I’ve realised I don’t need bigger breasts, because I’m already beautiful.”
And she was.
I’m unsure what information was exchanged to help the girl realise her beauty, and as they unfold in my mind now, I’m also unable to find the connection between the two memories. Perhaps what connects them is the feelings I experienced at the time: happiness.
Happy that some people had managed to make sense of their lives and what was missing: Love.
Just a little more love is sometimes all we need.
I am actually laying in bed as I write this (I have an early start) and can hear church bells ringing. I live right next to a church (St Saviour’s) and the campanologists do their practising on a Wednesday night. It’s not an unpleasant sound, yet neither is it what I’d describe as – ‘pleasing to the ears.’ It’s just background noise like so many things are.
There is always a certain background noise. For me, it’s there to remind me of my wonderful experiences of helping people during my time as an Analyst. If you take the time to lie quietly you will eventually also hear this sound. The memories, I’m reminded of, will be there, popping up from time to time, for as long as I live. I feel memories are important, but we mustn’t dwell on the past, good memories or not. What they do help me understand though, is the importance of empowering people, and how this in turn empowers the giver.
Whatever you do in life make sure you recognise the giving nature of the role. When we take a moment to consider it, many, many occupations are of a giving nature, and that’s something beautiful to recognise about human beings.
Give of yourself, you’ll look back, with the power to move forward. א
I know English isn’t my first language, and yet, strange as it may seem, if I heard it now, I’d no longer understand the language of my homeland. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard or spoken it; a rapid staccato of clicks and other sounds, too fast for my mind to process. I’ve gotten slow in my old age. Besides, it seems to me, my first language, if you could call it one, is that of feel.
All that buried emotion, within each of us, finding an outlet through reactionary activity, as opposed to pausing, so understanding may find its way. It’s like the Dalai Lama saying, as he did: “I don’t feel like there’s anything special or different about me.” What he’s failed to hear, is the feelings he has, are only one sided. It would seem, to most, he’s been conditioned in the feeling of joy, and nothing else. Perhaps, it’s even a mocking joy, no one above, is failing to feel deeply enough, so as to stop disrespecting our efforts. No one needs disrespecting mockery.
The time of Siddhārtha Gautama was one of feeling. He would also feel it now. Predominantly, what the masses felt, was suffering and pain. No doubt, if you’re living in a time of pain and suffering, you’ll come to believe that this, is all there is. And so it is, the language of feel, is always on the precipice of dying out completely.
People talk of the language of love and I laugh. The language of love is the hardest of all. Imagine staring into the eyes of love and hearing its song. Can you hear that song the language of love is singing? It’s very soft, very calm and very, very quiet. You really need to be listening to hear it. Not listening hard, you understand. No, it’s about no listening at all. No longer actively blocking out, those around you, like so many do. Feel the sound as you look into my eyes.
If you want a response from me, first, you must learn the language of feel. Can you feel the silence?
A little while ago we introduced you to The Art of Fuckology. As a continuation of this series, we’re going to now talk about the issue, of Getting Streetwise.
We’ll start by telling you a little story one of our members shared with us recently. Not so long ago, this particular member, lived through a difficult period of his life – he’d probably tell you this has now lasted for over fifty years, but we prefer not to exaggerate.
It all started when he left his home and place of work in search of a better life (imagine a street urchin with a stick over his shoulder, with tied handkerchief over the end, containing bread and cheese). You might think that ordinarily a street urchin would be a streetwise kind of person, but no, not this one. Oh no, in real terms, he was probably a bit of a knob, as what he was really seeking, was some kind of miracle, that would help him escape a shitty life, in a poxy town, on a crappy world. No such luck.
He recounted stories of loneliness, facing the humiliation of being laughed at by children, whilst walking the streets with a tent and an umbrella, camping in rundown campsites or out in the wilds, trudging up hills on rugged coastlines, until one day, with blessed relief, he happened upon a campsite, where the owner was very friendly.
The owner of the campsite seemed to take him in and even found an old caravan our street urchin could buy. And so, gathering up his meagre possessions, he moved into his new home, soon to discover he’d spent his last few pennies on a piece of shit, full of woodlice and damp. Hey ho, he though, I’ll fix it up and invite my friend to stay. And so it was.
Over time so settled had our street urchin become, that he was now even receiving mail at his new address. Having had the foresight, to secure a small income from a loving government, they would occasionally write to him to check and see that he was okay. Unbeknown to our little street urchin though, was the fact his friendly landlord had decided he was no longer prepared to receive mail for his tenants, and so, without telling anyone, he’d started returning all the mail back to their respective senders.
The loving and providing government were of course confused by this, and so in their wisdom, stopped the little income our street urchin was receiving. It wasn’t long before hunger set in.
Cleaning toilets was the answer, and if you’ve ever seen the toilets on campsites, you’ll understand how the pig-like nature of the human animal, is often revealed in all it’s glorious and beautiful colours of yellows and browns, in toilets or showers. We’re told this doesn’t include the colours of vomit or baby poo.
And so it went on. Eventually, after the mail issue was sorted, and with the earnings from cleaning up shit taken into account, the little handouts from the loving government, were reviewed and restarted.
In time, the dependency on these payments, grew and grew. Finally, after one last review, the payments dried up completely. This made the transition from dependent child, to working, independent person, a particularly difficult one to endure. Due to the flawed, often ineffective and inept political systems in this part of the world, thousands have had this indignity bestowed upon them (believe it or not, it is empowering to be free of handouts, eventually).
By now, so deprived was he, of his dignity and self-esteem, that our little street urchin was to step back out into the real world, only to have his eyes clamped open by the horrors of the human animal. What he’d failed to see, all this time, was how those around him had only been keeping him safe and dependent so they could feed from his soul. It had in fact all become crushingly soul destroying.
Now, The Art of Fuckology has enlightened our member, to the degree he now understands the subtle ways in which the human animals control and manipulate each other. From the control of teaching each other to feel guilt, to damaging self esteem, (a myriad of methods) and all there so they themselves can feel less fear and loneliness. The Art of Fuckology states:
The first key, to gaining the necessary strength to manage in this world, is independence. Gaining this can be tough. Very tough. And yet once managed, you’ll be able to take proper charge of your future life. If you’re a gentle soul, recognise how those currently around you, may well be leaching off your gentle goodness.
The second key, is to learn how to be alone. This will pay dividends, as once you know how to achieve this, the reason why you choose to have sometwo in your life in the future, will be because the relationship is built on love, never fear and dependence. Even when damaged by this cruel, cruel world, you can learn to love again.
More Fuckology advice to follow soon.
Instead, I’ve let it go, and now just observe her erratic behaviour from a distance. It is only time after all, or is that the wrong thing to say? Time is in fact very important. What I suppose I mean, is the process of learning when the time is right to let go, takes time you can’t change.
The amount of time she spends working in the store actually reduces her power, another thing she can’t see. We become less efficient when we’re tired, trying to control everything, and everyone around us. The main reason I don’t want her to let go of control, is it’s likely to increase my burden, one I can well do without, what with the squirrelling and so on.
Did you know, a squirrel can hide thousands of nuts and remember where every single one is stored? It’s true, I’m a little like that with memories; I remember a lot of things, in a very different way, to how alzheimer’s sufferers cling to unforgiving pasts they’re trying to make sense of. It all makes sense to you and me. The time is moving on for change.
When it comes to change, believing it’s possible to move forward and make changes, has a lot to do with your imagination. Could Jane/Carol even imagine a better future. One thing she recently said was: “I’d get bored if I had days off.” Wow, that really does smack of lacking imagination, does it not?
I often find myself imagining a future, where I’m not asleep, and sometimes I think this future is just my wistful imagination. Are you really out there, my beautiful future?
She tells me about the cervical cancer she had after the birth of her son. A son who is now in Rome learning about how to be a priest. Jesus-fucking-Christ, you really couldn’t make it up.
Yeah, blessed are those who wake-the-fuck-up and realise who did the damage and how to repair it. However, “not my problem” is her favourite expression, and you just know, someone who repeats this, has had a world of problems on their shoulders, all their crappy life. Not my problem translates into: “how can I make this a bigger problem?”
It’s not necessarily a nice thing to be a bystander in all this bollocks. You have no choice but to be part of the nonsense, either that or walk the streets with wet-suit shoes on, stuffed with tissue paper because they rub your feet to fuck. And best not forget to put a wire coat hanger on your head to keep your hat on; I kid you not.
That particular homeless man has moved on, to who-the-fuck-knows-where. No longer scaring the shit out of the general public, in this poxy little town anyway, just doing it somewhere else; aimlessly roaming the streets, checking the cutters for discarded cigarette ends, TB not a worry for him, obviously.
Now I’m off to ride up some hills, stretch my lungs, burn my thighs, all for a longer life. So glad to no longer be towing anything behind me though, I’d never manage the 20 percenters. Let’s face it, most of us are towing some kind of shit around with us, and doing it all our lives. Fuck that.
I did read about a 67 year old, (Maris Ozols) and how he suffered a cardiac arrest on the 46 mile challenge of RideLondon last week; so it’s true, we can overdo anything, if we’re not careful. The idea, is to find a little balance and enjoy a number of things, I guess. Unlike the control-freak-workaholic running the local store. Perhaps the priesthood will wake her son and it won’t be too late for him. I doubt it though, I really do doubt it. You couldn’t make it up. Could you?
He was starting to do that thing the shadow man from his childhood did: fall asleep a lot, but at least his back was getting better. Jane in the shop said, “I’m glad my teeth are all false!” It was her usual inane response to something that was going on in his life.
He’d told her about his appointment with the dentist later in the day, “another bloody filling” he’d said, and that had been all she had to say – “glad my teeth are false.” It was similar to how whenever he tried to make any conversation with her, what came back, was always on the defensive, she always got the wrong end of the stick and it always sounded ridiculous to him. He knew she’d lost her mind many years ago.
To make matters worse, she was now asking him to repeat everything he said, as if she’d not heard him the first time. He’d always done this to her, asked her to repeat what she’d said, and all because he had high frequency deafness, the more he heard something the deafer he became. That’s high frequency deafness for you. He was so very tired of hearing the same things said over and over again. It was as if he’d lived hundreds of years, not just fifty two, but she seemed to be just copying him. He knew this because it was a new development. Unless she really was going deaf too.
People simply refused to acknowledge his deafness; the fact they needed his attention before speaking, and how he needed to see their faces to lip read. They simply refused to believe him. Perhaps they also understood what high frequency deafness really meant. Say something interesting though, and you’d catch his attention, that’s for sure. So few did. What did you say? Pardon? Say again? What? Fuck.
The funny thing was, some weeks ago, he’d asked her why she called herself Jane when her name was Carol. He’d seen her sign on with her official name, as it were, on the shop till, so knew her name was really Carol. A name that had a negative blast from the past for him.
Anyway, it turns out, when she was at school, and the teachers called out her name for registration, she wouldn’t hear them, so they started to call out Jane, her second name, and to their surprise, she answered. All that time thinking she was deaf and it was only her name she hated.
It’s funny how the universe seems to pull you, yes that’s the right words, pull you into situations that have some kind of metaphorical meaning; some sad link to the past. That was how he saw it anyway. He’d recently noticed all the scars on her arms from self harm; the amateur tattoos. Yes, she’d lost her mind some years ago, and was now doing over seventy hours a week to compensate.
Perhaps that was the answer then; the escape from all the insanity, just fall asleep and become a shadow man. It didn’t matter who he was talking to, they’re the great pretenders, he would think, I’m sick of this pretending. People mirroring, copying, is there no one else in this world now, am I truly all alone? Where are the real people now? Have they gone forever? Have you gone? It seems as if I’m the only one here, and its got so damn lonely; worse than ever. The silence is deafening. Like his bad back was fading; core strength returned.
Everyone seemed to have some pain; some malady; some complaint. Everyone* He might see a child in the shop though. It was so lovely to see them. So full of life, so full of love; until it’s knocked out of them by the adults that is.
No use complaining though, one grandparent was seen to say: “no sweets today, those are the rules” and it brought some hope. He though today how strange is the human who seems to just fix the problem never the cause. Like the fillings due to his sweet tooth. No sugar – no fillings, like our ancestors with their beautiful teeth, before sugar. It’s almost as if he can remember. So the humans don’t stop eating sugar, they simply invent dentists, and sugar cane fields, and sugar beet fields and shit. And shit.
In Response to – Abortion: the railway dilemma edition
Who made the egg that became the fetus? Was the egg separate, i.e. manufactured outside of her, or was if created by her body?
If her body made the egg how could it ever be a separate entity/being from its creator?
Some women, who undergo abortions, experience emotional turmoil that’s easily equal to those who’ve lost limbs or donated organs. We need to see that it’s not the unborn, that has rights, but only the woman’s right to have part of her body removed. A decision taken much too lightly.
As far as organ transplants go, an individual’s right to life, will always be greater than anyone else’s. If we choose to donate an organ, and we know this act would kill us, we would obviously be viewing another person’s life, as more important than our own. An unlikely scenario.
Although going off point slightly, when we continue to see ourselves as ‘separate’ from each other, abortion, wars, racism, inequality and so on, stay alive and active. When we promote togetherness – as in the fetus being part of a pregnant women – things potentially calm down a little.
To say that five people’s lives, are more important than one, is to diminish the value of all life.
In regard to the thought experiment:
A grown person requires a life-saving transplant.
You are the only match in the world.
Does your bodily integrity come below their right to life?
Is it different if they are your child?
Bodily integrity is irrelevant if we love ourselves and someone else enough to give them life. Children belong to us all.