Do I write to keep myself company, make a record for memories that fade and distort with time, or to have a conversation with myself in hopes I can find solutions to my problems? Do I just ramble on and download some thoughts since there’s no one to talk to? Are memories just heirlooms of illusion?
A friend sent a link to Liz Gilbert about finding your passion, because he knows I liked Eat, Pray, Love. I’m not ready to read things from other people. I still have other people’s stuff in my head that I wish I could sort out and delete. Once it’s in there it’s in there and there is no way to get it out. A friend admits we do become indoctrinated in the beliefs of those we study.
We are just serial student philosophers. It’s like the alternative therapy patterns I observed in clients, they go from one modality to another, trying this and that and don’t really find one solution to it all. Is that because they are still looking outside of themselves for their answers when the answers for each of us lie within? Is that the real malady of our culture?
Will I cave to the well-meaning suggestions of my friends and give up on my intention to seek my own counsel? They try to be supportive, but I just need to be in this space as long as necessary until I find my own answers within.
Was it Einstein that said we cannot solve a problem in the same frame of mind that created it? I continually remember Proust, who said that all my resolves are made in a frame of mind that is certain to change. See, I can’t get these other people out of my head. Once it’s in there it’s in there.
Yes, I can change my beliefs, but I can’t forget what the old beliefs used to be and they will always be in there and subconsciously operating. Maybe if I had never read the quote from Proust I would not believe or operate from it. Would I have less trouble making decisions, because I would have a more decisive frame of mind? Was it just his frame of mind, but it sounded good to others and they bought into it and shared it. What is truth? Who knows?
What is love? Who knows? I don’t know anything about love. I thought I would always love certain people but I do not love them now; not the way I believed love was supposed to be. I always knew I was addicted to someone, somehow, but I thought there was love behind it. Now I don’t.
I don’t know that I’ve ever really loved anyone or have been truly loved by a partner. So what was that? Was it all just romantic fantasy and once the illusion was gone I saw who they were and their motives. My body is wrinkling up and I feel like there is not much to attract anyone now.
My dilemma is that I want to simply tell the truth. Why do writers have to fictionalize stories in order to tell the truth? People will get pissed that we told the secrets, theirs and ours. It’s okay to do those things but don’t ever talk or write about them. What a load of crap! Why can’t we just be honest? We are all human, we do stupid stuff, we hurt other people, whether we mean to or not. We all make mistakes, so why do we hide in the shame of the secrets? If we tell the secrets, others will be more hurt and angry, then they will totally abandon us.
Thoughts of the past still arise every day. Is it just the pattern of hanging on to family illusions like heirlooms, not sorting or cleaning house physically or emotionally? Just hire a housekeeper to gloss over the surfaces but don’t dig shit out of the closets. I can site specific memories for how others also hang onto past angers and resentments. Why does it still bother me? Maybe it’s just the pain of the reality in letting go of the illusion that we were a close family. My love relationships were merely illusions. Was it from my family that I learned how to manifest illusion instead of love? Is this the legacy I leave my children?
Two friends each make a good point. It’s okay to have a superficial relationship with a family member if we have nothing much in common. Maybe we don’t need to have a deep conversation to sort everything out. Is that a productive way to build a new relationship? Just start fresh with a new approach.
Even though I do not currently read things by others, I still talk to my friends who do. Whatever they learn filters into our conversations, so I suppose there is no way to entirely do this inner exploration without outside influence. We are not in a vacuum, no island, not living in the wilderness alone. There’s no way to do this alone.
© Copyright B. Grace Jones 2017 All Rights Reserved.