Meditation diaries: A ramble from being ultra-calm to wanting to explode.

The other day I felt so oddly calm. It may have been lack of motivation to care about anything. I don’t know.

But it was certainly calm. I even started writing up about ‘calmness’ only to find I was too calm to continue typing it up. I realise I had nothing much to say other than, “wow i feel so oddly relaxed considering how agitated and desperate I became just a few days earlier.”

Well, that calmness has gone.

I’m agitated and irritated by every little thing, even things that would normally have at least a minimal soothing effect.

Ear defenders to have some semblance of silence after I felt that noise was irritating me, only to find the ear defenders started to irritate me and then the silence started to irritate me. And then when I took them off I was irritated all over again at the feel of my ears getting used to not being covered again. Then I was irritated by the noises again.

I paced a bit. Came back in. Was instantly irritated by being back in my flat.

Tried talking to someone, not about this topic just about anything to distract myself. Felt irritated with the conversation. Realised halfway through talking I couldn’t really be bothered with it and so said those things you’re expected to say, “So i’m going back to my flat now, see you tomorrow,” All that stuff. Went back to my flat.

Still agitated.

The voices on the radio, music, knowing certain people exist in the world, my own existence, the frailty of life, the lack of any meaning to it despite all the fucking suffering, agitation and angst.

Which is like a slap in the face. Why bother with all these emotions when it’s all so pathetically ‘accidental’ and meaningless?

Yet still, my biology feels the way it feels. We like to try and forget that our biology dictates a lot of how we feel.

And that is just another slap in the face, my brain, my body keeps sending all these hormonal signals and neurons into a frenzied attack of making me want to scream all the while knowing I’ll be irritated by my own fucking screaming.

Everyone’s feelings and attitudes absorbed by me (or so I perceive) and all I want to do is push it all away. Keep away from me with your feelings and your baggage is what I want to scream at people. KEEP THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!

And then in the silence and in being alone, I realise I can’t cope with my own baggage either. At this point my baggage is so messy it’s not even funny. The bag is bulging to the brim of messed up shit, a lot that makes no sense. And I can’t seem to tease anything apart into breakable, edible pieces.

I think of a song I might want to listen to because a lyric comes to mind then I realise, no I don’t wanna hear any fucking sound. Even if it is one of my favourite bands.

The sun shining is provoking me, poking my agitation with its rays, “Here I am. A complete contrast to how you feel. Ah just soak me up.” And for a moment I think, “Maybe soaking you up will help?” After all sunlight is good for us, isn’t it?

But I’m resentful of the sun shining right now in this moment. I’m resentful that humans as a species made it so the sun is a symbol of happiness. Because I can’t connect to that word, or that feeling and never have been truly able to.

I think it’s a thing that doesn’t exist. Not in the way it’s sold.

But despite knowing this, I feel I’m perpetually mourning the ideals of ‘happiness’ we’ve been sold.

When I was amazingly calm the other day I remember feeling like I’d let go of everything, because everything just was and everything just is. I wasn’t particularly happy, in fact what I was somewhat feeling could have been described as sad. But I’d somehow for the day managed to let go of any expectations and of other stuff I can’t quite put my finger on, and so any feelings were just…well they didn’t have much weight to them.

What puts the weight back into them? I don’t know how my feelings gained weight again. I just know they did. And now they’re obese again with pressure and the heart is working harder to keep from losing itself.

Meditation diaries: On ‘rewilding’ the ecosystem and disability.

I’m here again with questions no one wants/ is willing to answer, hell I don’t think people are willing to even consider the questions.

I understand the fear of asking them.

But I ask again, as I did in a previous post  

From my point of view, I can’t see myself existing in the ‘rewilding’ vision of the world.

But I also can see the logic to it, the idea that we stop interfering with everything and just let it be.

But of course we’re like any other animal on this planet and our existence as much as it relies on every other creature, it also interferes. To think we can somehow no longer interfere in nature is to say we no longer exist as a species.

But again I’m nitpicking the language and the illusion of our separation from nature and that isn’t really the topic I’m supposed to be going on about.

What I want to ramble about is these ideas in my head that I’m struggling to align with how I live my life.

Having come across more and more information,  with suggestions about how we can halt, slow down, or in some optimistic circles even reverse the decline of wildlife I’ve begun to feel more and more uneasy.

The more I read, listen to and watch on this subject the more I see myself falling behind, becoming non-existent.

Moving further and further away from the idea I should even have continued to exist in the first place.

I can’t see a place for me in this world where I’d be able to fit in.

I’ve spent much of my life not fitting in.

But this is fundamentally different.  I see myself no longer fitting in with the very existence of nature. What I mean by that is that while I am by nature of existing a part of nature, it feels as if I’ll have to become a part of history.

Because my survival seems to depend very much on too many things that are ultimately, within an accumulation of other things, damaging to the planet.

The very thing that I feel gives me some semblance of little wellbeing I seem to have, and stability, it feels, should/would/will be taken away from me.

How can I continue my hobby of watching and photographing wildlife in good conscience?

Using a car (driven by someone else, I don’t drive), then a powerchair and then a camera. All these things, my camera especially, being things I love… Yet a part of me can’t help but see them as…indirect weapons of destruction.

Writing this blog on a laptop also comes with similar questions. I can I continue to use all this power knowing I’m just helping destruct? Yet with my social problems, being online is one of the main sources of anything social I have and to some extent want to have!

The people I talk to within the week are all support workers.

It feels like everything I do on a daily basis is just destruction.

And to go to nature reserves to see wildlife seems…odd to me these days as much as I still enjoy it. Because who am I to say nature reserves should be kitted out with wheelchair friendly paths? I know why emotionally, “Because it’s fair and disabled people have lives too,” But logically, coldly, who am I really to say? Surely ‘rewilding’ and disability (specifically mobility problems) can’t go together?

Meditation diaries: I can’t compute…

I have feelings and thoughts that I can’t compute.

An error code is flashing behind my eyes with a symbol next to it. The symbol is a triangle with an exclamation mark in it.

It’s not just a writer’s block error code, it’s a code of full system failure to compute feelings and thoughts into words, even to speak them.

There is a lack of ideas at play but at the same time too much in the head at once.

I’m aware of things that for sure feel doom and gloom yet I have no… pathway to use from there to use the information for any purpose. Whether that be, write it out and spread a message, scream it, cry it… I don’t fucking know.

I consider going down and talking to people I see often, but I find once I get towards my door to leave I realise I have nothing I can think of to say.

I mean it’s not that I’m devoid of anything to share, it’s just that I’m devoid of anything that feels worth sharing.

I don’t know if it’s a good thing. A learning curve of realising not all is worth saying.

A silence that could be peaceful if i’d just let myself be lulled by it?

It’s not that I spoke so much previously that this silence is ‘new’ but that even the little bits I did used to speak don’t at present, seem all that worth it.

I kind of like it. But I don’t trust it at the same time.

Because mixed with that there is a sense of my depression being here, pushing against me like the gravity that it is.

I can’t tell if it’s a peaceful pact I’ve found within myself where I no longer feel the need to share things not worthy of sharing or if it’s the depression telling me those things aren’t worth it.

I know the depression never really goes away for me. But I have noticed those times when my depression wants to truly haunt me, but even then vaguely, I’ll find I’ll go to bed at the same time as usual but still find myself waking up late, and when I do wake up, extremely reluctant to get out of that bed.

It’s not that I get out of bed without reluctance even on my better days, but it’s a worse, more determined, grumpy reluctance.

A menacing, sinister unwillingness to shake the covers off and greet a new day.

It takes a lot more of something feeling urgent to get me up. Like needing to pee so bad I might explode and on top of that hearing the budgie that owns me cheeping and cheeping because she’s noticed she’s been in the dark for longer than a usual night so, “Get up goddamn it! Get up!”

Which reminds me that in previous years before I was owned by a Budgie these days would be spent all day in bed.

Being owned by a Budgie and needing to care for her leaves me with an urgency that means I must get up, even if it’s a few hours later than when I’m doing better.

I had a topic in mind I wanted to write about but as said previously I have no words. I’m surprised I’ve squeezed all this out.

Meditation diaries: Where I break apart

My writing isn’t the same as it used to be.

I’m just not good at it anymore.

I tried honing on on my wildlife photography skills but that isn’t working out either because it’s an impractical hobby to have when you can only walk short distances and need a wheelchair.

I have nothing left in me to give. And I never gave that much in the first place.

I want to throw everything around me and smash everything to pieces.

Meditation diaries: Where I bring doom and gloom and hint to a question no one wants to ask or answer.

Through reading the book I was recently reading and mentioned in a previous post, I’ve also started to come across other authors/people who see themselves as ‘recovering environmentalists.’

What that appears to mean is that they’ve seen the cracks in the environmentalist movement and seen that the flaws in it are too big to continue on that road.

A lot of the flaws they point out, I have long felt uneasy about myself.

For example, there is a tendency to talk about technology as something that can become our saviour.

The idea is that we can use technology for positive purposes, we can make more ‘environmentally friendly’ technology etc.

‘recovering environmentalists’ see this as a kind of like another religion.

Instead of believing in heaven or some superior being saving us from ourselves, believing that technology can save us instead.

The idea that technology can save us has always created mixed feelings for me.

On the one hand I really, really, emotionally, want to believe it to be true.

But on the other hand, a less emotionally driven part of me can see the massive flaw in the idea.

How exactly do people expect we can utilise technology in a sustainable way when the very things that create those technologies are part of the problem? Not to mention the energy that is then needed to keep that technology up and running.

The world is a closed-off system. We can only utilise what the world has within it.

We end up ‘utilising’ more than our fair share.

Environmentalists often also suffer from the human, nature separation delusion.

We as humans can save the planet, somehow. According to them.

The language used helps the illusion of separation from nature.
As pointed out on a site I found the other day, the very fact we have the word ‘nature’ shows the delusion that nature is something separate from us.  Scroll to II THE SEVERED HAND

The sentence “lets get back to nature” is the epitome of that delusion.

It’s pretty clear why emotionally I would want to side with the environmentalists and believe that technology could save us.

How could it not be wrought with emotion?

As I’ve pointed out previously I’m alive from that technology.

But as someone else in a comment section of a youtube video pointed out so is most of the western world now.

But I can’t help feel I rely on it more. Surgery, powerchairs…

Some ‘recovering environmentalists’ have the ability to live a life that shows their recognition of what modern technology is doing.

And some say that is the only way to go because even though not many people are currently following their trend, there will be a catalyst that is coming and we will see a massive change.

Maybe I’ll be long dead before that moment.

But I can’t help feeling like it’s just another thing that will inevitably leave me behind.

Because while we can’t possibly remain sustainable using technology the way we do, and future depictions in science fiction of further advanced gizmos and gadgets or how we save ourselves by utilising resources on other planets are science fiction and probably always will be…. Where does that leave people like me?

This is one of those unanswered question.

Because the answer is dark and no one wants to acknowledge it.

Chapter 4: Dragonfish

I closed the lounge door and Greg, my social worker, breathes in as he takes in his surroundings, no doubt noticing the emptiness. He opens his notepad, and as if cued on what to say next asks, “Have you thought any more about socialising?”
“I socialise enough.”
“I see,” He plays with his ID badge that dangles from a ribbon around his neck, “when?”
“At work,” I reply directly
“Is there anyone in particular at work that you get on with?”
I shrug my shoulders, “I guess so.”
“And what would you say to meeting up outside of work, or even to go to see a film once you’ve both finished a shift?”
“I don’t know.”
We sit with an awkward silence between us; he shifts his eyes around the lounge taking it all in again, “So are you refurnishing? Or,” he shrugs holding the palm of his hands out openly in question, “are you taking on a rigorous minimalist lifestyle?” He smiles.
I take a look around my lounge as if the aesthetic is new to me too, “I’m not sure yet.”
“I see.” He fingers his ID badge again.
He looks at me seriously, places his notepad on his knee, “I see,” He repeats and scribbles something quickly, “How do you feel,” He takes a pause and looks at his notepad for a moment as if carefully reading some detail that is new to him. “How would you feel,” He starts again, “If we brought your appointment with Dr Aaron forwards?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to spit out my question, I stop myself and pause for a moment to make it sound and look as casual as possible, “Why?”
“I just think,” He places his pen above his lip and holds it there like a moustache while he thinks, “I just think,” He repeats as he starts again, “That we should review you earlier than previously discussed.”
“It’s up to you,” I reply under the pretence of not being bothered

 

 

There is a big bulky tattooed skinhead type pacing up and down from the entrance and back to the receptionist’s desk. The receptionists sit behind a transparent protective barrier. A brown haired woman has sat in a chair three seats away from me to my right, wearing a puffy jacket and is watching the skinhead intensely. A woman with her ID dangling around her neck arrives, and the big guy stops pacing, and they face one another. “David.” She starts sternly.
“They’re five minutes late,” David complains, frowning.
You can tell he’s the type of person that gives his social worker trouble and that she has to be able and willing to dish stern words out if needed. With her ‘no excuse’ voice switched on, “Just sit down, David.”
“They’re five minutes late.” He repeats like a petulant child, stamping his feet on the spot.
“David, we’ve had this discussion before. Haven’t we?” His social worker asks.David’s nostrils flare, and he looks down at his trainers, his shoelaces have come undone.
“Come on, sit down, David.” His social worker repeats, glancing over at the nervous woman in her puffy coat and then at me with a smile that is meant to reassure us.
The skinhead turns around and screens us, looking us all up and down before turning back to his social worker, “No.” He starts pacing again.
His social worker sits down one seat away from mine and acts like she’s had enough with him now, that she’s ignoring him until he finishes his childish tantrum.
David stops and looks at her sitting down quite comfortably, his social worker raises her wrist and looks at her watch then looks through the glass window at the receptionist, smiles and nods. The receptionist presses a button at the desk, and her voice comes out clear from behind the glass, “The doctor won’t be long now.” She pushes the switch back, and the waiting room falls to silence. David shuffles up and down till he lets out a big sigh, “I’m leaving.” He says with a dismissive wave of his hand.
His social worker is in no rush to chase after him; she looks back at the receptionist, they each give a knowing smile that appears to be code for, ‘Well, we expected this. That’s David for you.’
I feel a surge of anger towards this stranger David; I want to punch him right bang in his eye and kick him in the nuts. But it’s only because I wish I had the guts to just storm out of here too. His social worker casually strolls out of the waiting room nodding goodbye to the receptionist.
“Jacob Gilbert.” An Asian man’s voice calls out.
I start to get up from my seat slowly, and as if he sees the question on my face he tells me, “Greg is already here.”
I follow the doctor to his room. Greg is sat waiting with one leg over the other, his notepad resting on his thigh. “Hey, J.J.”
“Hello.” I sit down next to my social worker and the doctor sits in front of us, his legs apart his bulge all too clear to see. It’s not that I spend time looking purposely in that direction; he’s just dressed in such a way it’s hard to miss or else he’s fucking massive. But that’s not anything I want to consider for very long.
“So how are you, Jacob?” He looks at my notes then back at me, “Or would you prefer I call you J.J?”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m not bothered.
He looks across at Greg and smiles. “I’ll just follow Greg’s lead and call you J.J, then.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment.
The doctor writes something then looks back at me, “how are you doing since we last met?”
“Okay.”
The doctor smiles again, “It appears Greg may be disagreeing with that.” He puts a fist under his chin as if posing like The Thinker statue.
Greg scans his notepad and then says, “he’s sold or gotten rid of most of his possessions.”
“Have you?” The doctor turns to me, wanting me to confirm.
“Yes,” I admit sheepishly.
“And why is that?” He asks, his interest in me suddenly intensified.
“I have plans.”
The doctor leans forwards in his chair, his legs now less far apart sparing us the bulge. “What kind of plans?”
I think it over a minute, trying not to think it over for too long, “You know,” I look to a stain on the carpet, “Just saving up for better things.”
“You sold your possessions to save money?”
“Yes.” I try not to let my inner scowl show on my face. What is so hard to believe about that?
“For anything in particular?” He leans back in his chair again, “Surely you’ve still got your guitar, though?”
Greg shakes his head, “He’s got rid of that too.”
The doctor leans forward again, “Really?” He looks at Greg as he asks this, then looks back towards me, “What do you want to buy with all this money?”
“A better guitar.” I lie.
“I see.” The doctor writes more notes. “Do you know what type of guitar?
“A Les Paul Gibson probably.” I shrug.
The doctor sucks in some air through his teeth, writes some more notes down.
“Seems a bit much to sell all your other possessions for a guitar,” he pauses and writes something quickly, “even if it is a Gibson guitar.”
“I don’t make that much working at the cinemas.”
“Have you ever considered making it a goal to get a better-paid job?”
“I don’t want a better-paid job.”
“But you want enough money to buy a Gibson.”
“Yes, but why work for so many stupid hours to get paid more to buy a Gibson guitar you’ll never have time to play anyway?”
Dr Aaron clicks his pen and looks between Greg and I, rolls his tongue over his teeth, “So sell all your possessions instead?”
“It’s not like I have sold everything.”
“Yes, he still has a laptop.” Greg butts in.
“A laptop and?” Dr Aaron asks
“Nothing else that I could see.”
“What about the necessities?”
“I have a fridge. I still buy food.”
The doctor sits back and opens his legs wide again, his hands closed together as if praying under his chin, “I see. Very minimalist of you.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“I just worry about the reasons for your new minimalist lifestyle.”
I don’t know where the voice inside my head comes from but I find myself talking about minimalism in more detail than I’d realised I’d even thought of, “I decided that I want quality things not a quantity of useless tat. That I’d rather have a shitty paid job that allows me my own time, and have to sell previous items of interest to afford something of quality.”
The doctor nods his head and seems to be buying it.
“That is a rather profound thing to realise in your life.”

“Profound thing to realise.” His voice repeats in my head over and over.

Meditation Diaries: My brain hurts and other rambling

I’m not to feed the birds…

My brain hurts.

Everything else is a disappointment.

I started reading a book called the “The way home: Tales from a life without technology.” by author Mark Boyle.

There is some irony to me reading that book on a kindle isn’t there?

I’m enjoying it and hating it at the same time.

He’s one of those “We need to get back to nature types,” and I always find myself somewhat cringing at that idea of getting back to nature.

Because nothing can exist without nature.

The idea that ‘man-made’ things are not natural has always bugged me.

What does that say about man? That man isn’t natural? So what is man? Supernatural?

But even ‘super’ natural has the word natural in it.

So are humans supernatural?

A strange phrase really, ‘supernatural’ isn’t it?

We say supernatural to mean something not natural, don’t we usually? Something ‘beyond’. Yet the word super suggests something is MORE natural not less natural or beyond the realms of nature.

I was looking up some birding humour the other day and I came across an article that was trying to say how “bird watching,” and “Birding” are different. I wasn’t interested in what they say is different or not about it. But what did catch my eye was this “Birds are natural; birders aren’t.”

Everything a human does we deem not natural.

So I ask, what exactly do people think humans are?

Is it a mass delusion of grandeur or is it an odd sense of self-hatred?

Obviously, the truth is it’s a bit of both, because some people in the population of humans certainly have delusions of grandeur about their place on this earth as a species, and then you have the others that hate humans and hate what humans are doing to the planet.

Anyway back to the book I’m reading it’s a somewhat painful read for me.

He’s done something I could only ever wish I could.

You don’t live this long with my medical conditions without technology, for one reason only: I’ve been kept alive by machines while they operated on me.

It’s not just the electrical technology stuff.

I don’t have it in me mentally, I’m not tough enough to do what he calls ‘get back to nature’ as much as I pick at that phrase.

It’s like reading a reminder of all the things that I have to some degree aspired to be, maybe not as extreme as he is. But certainly the idea of living in a cabin in the woods, pissing up against the trees in the morning while the birds sing and squark the morning away.

Yea that’d be my thing.

I don’t think I’d completely discard technology. I do after all use a powerchair, and I wouldn’t get fart without it. Then again right now I get nowhere because it’s broken.

After feeling dejected by everything I started searching for ways technology can be used to help the environment.  Only really to reassure myself that technology isn’t as evil as the writer makes it out to be.

But when he talks about the machines that come along to knock down a whole load of trees and essentially driving animals out of their habitats it’s hard to argue that humans and our technology aren’t bad.

To some that is enough to argue that we’re ‘not natural’ but it’s not really a good argument for that because nature is as destructive as it is creative. The fact humans do some bad things doesn’t argue against the idea we’re natural at all.

But people will use that fallacy all the time.

If we don’t like something about humans we will say it’s unnatural and that we need to get back to nature.

Sadly that mirror you’re looking in that you’re trying to change to look ‘natural’ was natural all along.

yes, that means our destructive force can’t be singled out as something not natural.

Sometimes the more I find myself involved with environmentalism the more I find myself feeling we’re just chasing our tails.

I get to wondering that maybe we’re too self-aware for our own good. But then a little voice niggles in my head and says, “It’s an illusion of self awareness.” And I think that voice may have a point.

We think we’re self-aware.

To me the very fact people seem to separate us off as another category away from nature suggests we have no idea.

Sometimes I get the feeling that we’re aware that there is something we should be aware of but that we can’t quite put our finger on it.

Or maybe it’s just me. I often find myself aware of being aware of something I can’t quite put my finger on.