Triumph over the Plastic Dream

July 9, 2010

This has been a fine day!
Really, a great day.
It started out wonderfully because this morning, while in the shower, I uncovered a motivation. Seriously.
Have I mentioned before my uncanny ability to arrive at insightful self-discoveries as a stream of warm-to-hot water rains down upon my naked body, as if opening my mental pores (in a purely figurative sense), thus allowing latent thoughts and secluded perceptions to emerge amidst the sudsy waterfall?

In the shower this morning I was rehashing an incident in which an insane co-worker elicited radically disparate reactions in myself and another co-worker.
I was basically unruffled; my co-worker and co-recipient of this insanity was markedly affected, however.

In the shower I analyzed this disparity. Why should two people in a relatively homogeneous environment react in such radically different fashions to the same stimulus? The shower water battered my scalp in a hard, piercing stream. In so doing, it unearthed deeply buried thoughts, unearthed an element of archeological, fossilized inner knowledge.

Why?

It all came together, in a fashion.

Heed.
Me: relatively untethered, disconnected, less retrained by earthly needs or concerns than my co-worker who is under a few more obligational burdens than I.

Therein lies the reason.

It dawned on me. A dagger of truth that finally found the proper descent path by which it could split my mind open and reveal the open air of Truth. Finally, at last.
My life has essentially followed this trajectory that I am just now discovering; or rather, just now, seeing.
Seeing a motivation. Which, unearthed, guides me to understand the why’s of my thinking.

Understand that in the distant past, I thought it was bad luck. Bad luck, ill fate, bad breaks, all the self-disavowals of responsibility man can conjure to escape indictment of a downtrodden soul. Bad breaks, I was convinced they were responsible for my stagnant life, for the unlikely elusiveness of my hollow aims of materialism which taunted me with their golden promise of happiness and contentment. That beckoned from the inhospitable heights of achievement which I could not attain. The sour truth I denied myself was that luck nor fortune were to blame. Blame was only forceful if directed inward; only then, was blame infused with reason. But I was not ready, not quite. I blamed laziness, I blamed apathy, I blamed stupidity, for my inability to live the life I thought I was brainwashed to desire. Hypnotized by the consumerist, herdish mentality of paper achievements and bloated possessions. I bought into the Plastic Dream. I convinced myself this is what I wanted. Beyond that, what I needed. But the motivation, the inkling and seeds of self-motivation, striding beside me since my life’s journey began, invisible in the fog of self-delusion, like a phantom anchor which pulled me down to the oceanic depths I didn’t know I yearned for, so deeply and invisibly that even my conscious cravings for popular success could not even see. The invisible anchor, harnessed to my soul, pulled me to the depths, but my egotistical drives fought my primal needs. It was a battle! A battle within my tortured psyche. The conflict of modern man played itself out in my soul and I thought it was nameless unhappiness. The devouring tension between what my ego commanded and what my soul cried for. Unaware, not in touch with my self-motivation, I ascribed it to all manner of ills and shortcomings on my part. It made me feel like shit. Such is the state of man that the soul’s desires easily perish in a conflagration of petty wants and competitive grasping which does nothing to lift his essence.

As time passed, much time, I perceived my aimless goals for what they were. As if a monumental facade had been dragged down in a cloud of dust.
Empty desires to fill an empty life.
I faced this. I welcomed it…but still.
There was an ingredient missing in my new bundle of self-knowledge.
Spiritual and material asceticism were my new home. And I might have accepted that as an answer unto itself.
With such a confident pronouncement, can I be blamed for failing to wonder or ask “why??” Is it enough to reach the pinnacle of awareness while failing to realize why one bothered scaling the slope in the first place?

Why, in our Western mind, is the goal so complacently an end in itself and the motivation merely a trivial encumbrance which can only serve to distract us from the pleasure of superficial satisfaction? We ignore that extra step. We are wont to call each chapter the Last.

I wrote the About Me section of my front page early on in this blog’s genesis.

In it, I wrote

I am an “opt-outer” and biding my time until I can make a clean break and leave the city. As such, the necessity for me to maintain bloganonymity is nearly non-existent. I don’t care if prospective girlfriends, wives, employers or lenders track me and my thoughts down. I would never write anything in these pages that I would not tell people to their face.

The path had been presented to me after much self-examination. I knew of the path and I knew its route. I had discovered the path, and quite ready, I embarked upon the journey.
But I had absolutely no idea, no fucking idea, why it was this path that invited me. I had no idea why I chose this particular path of all the paths available. It may have remained that way. I may have reveled in the contentment of travelling this path I knew was right. But minus self-awareness, ie, motivation.

My journey encompassed three chronological levels:

1) Complete unawareness and ignorance of the motivation and path my soul wanted; blinded by egotistical and shallow delusion. > 2) Awareness of the path I needed to take in order to achieve personal gratification; the path of simplicity and asceticism. The path of inner tranquility and lack of needfulness. Still no awareness because its absence or presence would not hamper the journey in any case. > 3 (as of this morning)) Full awareness of my motivation; a reason and yearning that guides my reborn goal; an inner striving that leads me to this path.

Back to my discombobulated co-worker.
I was thinking about this situation in which I’m not harshly affected by the same immature lunatic who nevertheless had a tremendously rattling effect on my co-worker. And I thought of our divergent reactions which speaks to the fact that our tenacious grasps of reality differ so radically. My co-worker, clawed into the responsibilities of 21st Century life, impaled upon obligations and thus unable to conjure a sense of Liberty, which is nothing but a sense of control.
Being that I’m at a stage where I have lots of Liberty compared to the common modern day urban dweller, it’s quite understandable why she would have such a different reaction to an oppressive situation than I.

C’mon, of course I have various commitments to this civilized world. I’m no saint.
But I’m close to where I want to be.

I am empowered because I enjoy the Liberty to express.
That is what it is all about. In my book, anyways. Always has been. The ability to express. For the deeper you are buried by our indebted consumerist society and all its insidious tendrils which consume your existence, the greater your inability to express. To allow the free flow of thoughts and notions; your uninhibited exhalation of mental energy is only restrained by duty and all that you prop up in order to feed the fulfillment of duty. Duty to maintain your own semblance of involved participation in this communal society. Obligations must be fed like a hungry beast.

Expression is primarily a luxury of the wealthy. For money is liberty; however, the sole variable which can be cheaply tampered with is the need. How much involvement is required of you to sustain this life and its happiness? Your level of need (ie, involvement) dictates your measure of Liberty. A man who makes $25,000 per year may theoretically master the same level of “liberty” as a multimillionaire if his material and cultural aspirations are minimal. However, enormous amounts of need must be counterbalanced by enormous amounts of societal commitment if Liberty is to be realized.

Understand that my use of the term “money” signifies a broad concept, but I feel it’s safe to define money as cash, savings, income, assets, investments, or any of the multitude of cultural ties which must feed modern socially appropriate (and expected) lusts. Thus, the freedom to express, sadly, is a luxury. And by express I’m alluding to the ability to speak one’s mind and emotions without fear of ramifications by proper society; and it follows, disruption or loss of Liberty.

That has been my elusive search. The groundwork upon which my path is paved.

The day they convinced me that my life must revolve hungrily around wealth and gold, my quest for Liberty became expensive and artificially inflated.

Thus freed of such incoherent and disingenuous goals, Liberty’s price tag fell. And Expression was mine. And that is all I’ve worked for in this life.