In Which America is Addressed

Open letter to America the Brave:

Ye gods I'm tired. I'm tired of people arguing about one group of people being more important than others. Of "our own" vs. "them." Are you a being? Yes? Okay, then you're one of mine.

Human being comes before nation, religion, race, creed, gender, sexual orientation, political leanings, musical taste, or which side of the stadium you cheer from on game day. Erase the arbitrary and the abstract and you have human beings in need of help. And here we are, able to give it. Why wouldn't we? Because some people from that country might want to kill some of our citizens? There are people already here, who were born here, who want the same.

If the problem is that you don't believe there isn't enough to go around, please consider that the U.S. discards an enormous amount of the food it produces; that it spends hundreds of times on "defense" as what would be required to give every person within its borders (homeless, veteran, professor, doctor, or retail wizard) a living wage, provide housing, education and healthcare; that religious freedom goes for everyone, not just the people who agree with you. There's enough for 360 million people to help out ten, twenty or fifty thousand and then some.

Now, if the problem is really xenophobia, might I suggest you consider that the U.S. is country made of immigrants (some by choice, some not), refugees and indigenous people who were forced into becoming refugees in their own homeland. There was never a time the American flag flew that it wasn't. There was never a time that people didn't complain about the neighbor being from another country/race/religion.

Please, please, stop letting things (especially a few outraged voices in the media spreading their hysteria) divide us. It is not likely to personally affect you besides maybe another person you see at Wal-mart. All right?

Stop letting fear keep you from looking into the eyes in a face in need. You'll only see yourself looking back.

In Which I Discuss My Untreated Depression

During these episodes, symptoms occur most of the day, nearly every day and may include:

• Feelings of sadness, emptiness or unhappiness. Check.  That's constant.  It's just... dude, what is there in the world that could satisfy the holes in my heart?  Really?  Everything changes, shifts, slides out of reach.  There is nothing fulfilling on this planet.  I really would like to shift planes, please.
• Angry outbursts, irritability or frustration, even over small matters. I do get frustrated now, sadly often, and I say things like, "I used to be so patient and kind..."  I've just had enough.
• Loss of interest or pleasure in normal activities, such as sex.  When I can't even summon the energy to reach for the game controller to turn on the Xbox, that's pretty bad.
• Sleep disturbances, including insomnia or sleeping too much.  This comes and goes.  Most often it's just that I fall asleep suddenly.  Lately I've been wondering if it's a deeper part of my mind burning off stuff/fixing my energy/realigning things.  Yes, seriously.
• Tiredness and lack of energy, so that even small tasks take extra effort.  Like getting out of bed to go to work, or taking a shower on a day off?  Or turning on a computer/TV/game system?  Mmm. Check.
• Changes in appetite — often reduced appetite and weight loss, but increased cravings for food and weight gain in some people.  Check.
• Anxiety, agitation or restlessness — for example, excessive worrying, pacing, hand-wringing or an inability to sit still.  Mental rather than physical, often getting wrapped up in my thoughts so completely I don't realize hours have gone by.
• Slowed thinking, speaking or body movements.  Yeah. 
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt, fixating on past failures or blaming yourself for things that are not your responsibility.  Not so much that I'm worthless, but that nothing I could do could ever matter/make any difference.  So what's the use in anything?
• Trouble thinking, concentrating, making decisions and remembering things.  My memory has really been depleted.
• Frequent thoughts of death, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts or suicide.  I don't think I'd ever commit suicide but that's mostly because I don't think it actually solves anything.  It's a momentary respite.  You still come back anyway, and I'd rather be getting completely out of the physical morass forever.  I think about the life beyond the physical a lot, but there's no rush in getting there.
• Unexplained physical problems, such as back pain or headaches. Dread and nausea.  Lots of that.

Hahaha episodes?  Episodes end.  This is always.

Two young acquaintances of mine killed themselves in the last few months and I just heard of another young man who I did not know personally.  I have no doubt they are in a soothing, loving place now, and yes, I even envy them a bit.  But that part is inevitable.  I know I have things I'm supposed to be doing here.

And that "supposed to be" feeling is the hardest part about living here.  I don't know what to do. I don't know how to live.  I know I need to get away from the job that is making me nauseous daily before I go there.  I'm getting nauseous thinking about it right now.

People talk about having passion and to follow it, and I don't feel like I have passion for anything.  I have things that I do, things that feel like an engrained part of me.  I write.  I draw, I surround myself with crystals, I burn lots of incense, I wish madly that I was a sorcerer dwelling in some sacred site where the ley lines of the planet converged and opened into other dimensions.  Writing is an escape.

I need a new kind of existence.  One that does not depend on being a mechanical cog in a heirarchical machine.  I am a being whose lifeblood is joy and awe.  I am starving.

I know a bunch of people, if they read this, they would say, go see a doctor.  Get treated.  Get your brain chemicals in order.  No, sorry.  No thank you.  I'm trying to stay on the planet a little longer and not be done in by brain chemicals being thrown so completely out of wack that I forget that all this pain is an illusion.

I am actually better than I have been in a long time.  It's been a few months since I actually felt hopeless.  I do have some hope for something.  Self-reflection always makes me feel so much worse, and I think it's because it's a false self upon which I'm focusing.  This life doesn't matter.  This life of wake, work, and sleep, with the only respite being two days off that I spend too weary to do the things I've been looking forward to all week.  I can do without it in a moment.  

I'm afraid to.  I'm afraid of failing as an author, which is why I don't push harder for people to find out about my books.  I'm afraid of people.  I'm afraid of human beings.  I do not feel like one of them.  I know we're all the same underneath it all, regardless of our planet or plane of origin, but human beings are some of the most extraordinary and horrible beings I've ever imagined.  I'm afraid of them.  I'm afraid of having negativity directed toward me.  I'm afraid of no one understanding.  I'm afraid of having hope and being disappointed.  I'm afraid that the only thing I've ever done that I really feel proud of is wrapped up in my identity and if it is negatively viewed that it is an attack on me as well.  

It's all ridiculous for an infinite eternal being to be concerned about.  But I am, because I think I'm a person.  I think I'm one of the beings of which I am most afraid.  No one is as horrible to me as I am.  They couldn't be.  No one knows how to hurt me like I do.

And I have to forgive myself for being limited, for being so small in mind and consciousness, for wanting to cradle the universe's wonders in my skull, and going on through the rest of my life thirsting for starlight in my soul.  I have to forgive myself for believing I'm a person.  I have been trying very hard to be a convincing one for a very long time.

Eternal Being/One Infinite Creator, please help remind me of your light as I navigate this ridiculous planet.

In Which There Is Self-Talk and Book Ramblins

For me, writing is not particularly hard.

Overcoming the feeling of “nothing I could ever do could possibly matter,” that's the hard part.

I have been sitting on two nearly finished drafts (edits/polishing is all that's needed) for months. Books two and three of Rivermist are fermenting on this flash drive that overheats frighteningly fast in my netbook. And I need to come up with cover art for both of them. I have no idea what I want to do for the second book, but I think it would be good to have someone with their back toward the viewer, facing this white block (it's an attunement hub in the stories) where people come and lay their hands upon it and through it you can really do whatever you direct your mind to. Relive your memories, become attuned to the cosmos, tune yourself to the goddess/light/Laki, whathaveyou.

For book 3, I am thinking, since it covers two lifetimes, having the characters' faces split between current and past self, but that would get complicated and ruin plot points sooooo... maybe not. I think I see it in my mind though. Just have Caida/Salm in the middle and have Christopher with Caida and Zhetmar with Salm. Problem solved! Except it's really, really hard to draw people the way I want them to look. It really is. Sorry for all the self-talk.

Also, I am in the midst of this many year long existential crisis. Okay, it's probably a lifelong kind of thing, really, which means I should basically know how to cope by now. But really. I feel like I don't know how to do anything, which means I have to learn things and I'm not sure I'd be getting good information.

I'm thinking of running a visual promo. Instead of being all “HEY Y'ALL READ MY STUFF LOL HERE'S LINKS” making images with quotes. Starborn is rife with quotable quotes. Cynosure? Mmm... maybe the first line. But what image to put with that?

I am also trying to process all this stuff that's been coming out from Corey Goode regarding the Sphere Being Alliance and continually getting stunned by him verifying all this stuff that I've been thinking (and in some cases putting into stories--I need to write faster so I can get to the final book, otherwise disclosure will have already happened and my stuff will be obsolete) for years. I feel like I can accept it with ease, but at the same time, I'm kind of like damn it, I need this stuff to come out in the open because I cannot live in a world this small. I cannot live among human beings who are blatantly proud of being racist and selfish, where the boundaries of “self” so commonly begins and ends with a single individual.  I cannot live in a heirarchically based business model anymore and yet I have mad bills to pay and no idea how to really advertise without feeling incredibly slimy.

So please, humanity, open your hearts and eyes. Fear not. You are infinite.

And self, it's okay. Do what you can. You are loved, I promise. No matter how utterly alone in your mind you feel.

In Which Mercury Goes Retrograde

I am perhaps a quasi-believer in astrology.   I am so specifically well described by the interpretations of the arrangement and interactions between the planets at the time of my birth, I don't really have anything in me to say, "nah, I don't believe in it."  I'm not obsessed with it or anything.  If I have a bad day or an excellent day, I'll sometimes check the horoscopes to see what was going on in the solar system.

I have never, ever, noticed Mercury in retrograde before.  I heard people talking about it, and was always like eh, whatever.  Nothing happened to me.

And then it hit me.  And rolled over me a few more times for good measure.

My birthdate is June 10th, 1982.  I was born in Saginaw, Michigan around 9:35 p.m.  Mercury was in retrograde (as were Jupiter, Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto, with Saturn stationary after being in retrograde the day before) in Gemini, which is also what happened this year, May 18th through June 11th.  

When I was born, Mercury was in the fifth house, which is the house of love matters, pleasure, leisure, children (none of those to worry about), and creations (according to Astro.com).  These would be the areas I am likely to have trouble with while Mercury does its retrograde thing.  Oh?  Yeah?  Is that all? Yeah?  You don't say?

In the last few months, I'd met someone I had this instant interest/connection with, but he was at the moment out of the country for a few weeks, so while I was on vacation and away from my Xbox's party chat, we were often on a messenger service, typing a tremendous amount.  When he got back from his trip, we had plans.  Lots of plans.

I was finally at a point financially where I actually had a bit of money left over in the bank after my bills and everything, and things were finally feeling good in that area.  My three year loan was paid off, so I was able to start applying that extra money towards getting other things paid off--things were looking good.

And then, while I was on vacation, my mom, aunt and I were driving back to Florida from Michigan, and we stopped at a gas station.  I went in to get drinks, and my card was declined.  Oh, spectacular.  I didn't call the bank to let them know I was travelling.  My bad.  Went back to the car, looked up my bank account and found it overdrawn by nearly 100 dollars.  Six hundred dollars, wiped out.  

The department of education had apparently decided it was time to review my loan repayment method, and unbeknownst to me, had adjusted my payments back to the default amount, which is six hundred dollars a month. I had been paying fifty.   

Excellent.  My vacation ended and I went back to normal life.  And then one day while the person for whom I felt affection and I were playing online, he abruptly left the game we were playing and proceeded to stop talking to me entirely.  He didn't respond to my invitations to play or for party chat.  He read my messages, but didn't reply.  Not a word.

It took me a good week (during which he'd said he was to return to our city) or so to actually give up and accept that he wasn't going to talk to me anymore, even though I didn't know why.  I mean... what?  Why?  Why?  How does someone talk to someone for weeks every day for hours and hours and then just poof, wordlessly, especially knowing my feelings and claiming to have some of his own?  Poof.  POOF.  He eventually blocked me on Live when I had the gall to "like" one of his videos doing something in a game he had told me he'd wanted to do and that I'd said I'd wanted to see.  Ouch.  Well... okay.

So, I deleted our chats so I couldn't reread the flood of messages I'd sent that he maybe had read, or perhaps had just opened the window, and stop wondering about that.  I had saved the morning bad hair selfies and random pictures (look at this hideous hotel carpet!) we'd sent each other on my netbook in case my phone died or something, but it was just torture to have them there within looking distance on the device I carry with me all the time.  Deleted.  And then when I scrolled through my texts, I came across those we exchanged before he left the country.  It hurt my heart to see the last thing I'd sent, so I meant to enter a space to have an empty draft.  But that bumped the conversation to the top of the list of my text conversations, so I went to delete the single space... AND PRESSED SEND INSTEAD.  Did I roll a 1 or something?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  Hopefully he got a new number when he came back to the states.

All right, so, I decided to just move on with my life.  It was June, I was about to turn 33, and I caught fire for the story I've been working on for the last year.  I was in the home stretch.  The final two chapters.  I wrote a good thirty to forty pages, and on June tenth, my birthday, I was home from work.  Perfect opportunity.  For my birthday present to myself, I was going to finish my draft.

So there I was, enjoying my morning.  I was sitting on the couch with my netbook (I have a netbook just for writing.  It fits in my work locker and is really the perfect size for bringing with me everywhere), typing away merrily, and then I pressed "save."

The screen went blue.  Ugh, awesome, I thought, hoping my work for the last hour had made it.  If not, no big deal; OpenOffice autosaves and can usually recover the document.  Except this time, when I went to turn the netbook back on, it made this weird click and claimed to be unable to boot.  

Wtf.

No boot device.

OH HELL NO.  DID MY HARD DRIVE JUST CRASH?!?!?  WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME I SAVED TO MY FLASH DRIVE?!?!

The answer, dear reader, was March.  After that, I hadn't really been writing much because my free time was sort of absorbed in something(one) else.

I went from being at the end of my story, +80k words, 110 pages, to being back to 70 pages, ~60k words.  A fourth of my book was gone, along with all the edits I'd done going back and rereading.  It was my own fault for not doing a backup, and I kept thinking "oh, I will at the end of this scene, I'm on a roll right now, I'm rolling so hard!"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

The next day, June 11th, was the last day of Mercury in retrograde, and it was as if a horrible, wretched weight was lifted off of my shoulders.  I know it wasn't because of Mercury appearing to be moving counter to its usual motion that so and so stopped talking to me and the Dept of Education wiped out my account or that my hard drive crashed...

But I don't believe in clusters of coincidences either.

Moral of the story:  BACK UP YOUR WORK DAILY.  And don't ignore any gut feelings.  And don't call customer service while driving through mountainous terrain.  And when you feel yourself falling for someone, temper it with the reminder that pain is the result of hope, of expectation, of want.  Even when someone is with you (and claims certainty that you (including your feelings and inherent weirdness) cannot scare them away), don't hope.  Don't look to the future or to the past.  Just be there in the moment with them and enjoy them while it lasts.

And when you miss the sound of their laughter, think of it as a blessing that the only copy of the video they sent of them making fun of you for missing the sound of their voice was on the hard drive that crashed so you can't torture yourself about them anymore, ever again.

In Which I Remember How I Used to Be

I had a sort of dream last night in which I was having a conversation, but it was more that the other person was asking questions and I was answering them.

In it, I figured out that I was still in pain from my first relationship not because I miss the person, but because I loved freely.  No holding back, no reservations.  An unfettered heart.

I felt that feeling once after all the hurt and whatnot of that first relationship.  It was three days I spent in this elevated state of perception, the three most glorious days of this entire lifetime that showed me how else we could live.  I loved all, because it was all God, or whatever you want to call it.

It was me with a shining sun for a heart, beaming.  It was the most myself I could ever be, and I wanted to stay that way.  It was also right when my partner was returning from his study abroad, and I was afraid he wouldn't be able to accept me in this state, so I lost it.

And for a moment, last night, in a dreamy in-between, the sun was my heart again.  I actually have a great deal of love--scratch that--I am a great deal of love, and I don't need a specific outlet for it. 

I tend to shut myself off and look away because people are so demanding of my energy and I feel like I don't have anything left to give, but it's still there.  I'm still alive inside.  There is still at least a spark.  There is still a light to hold against the darkness.

In Which I Blather Excessively

I have been undergoing what some might call a crisis of faith for a couple years now.  I used to be nearly obsessive about the nature of reality, about seeing everything beneath the physical, about finding God within me.

I read a Course in Miracles cover to cover; nonduality dressed in Christian terminology--it changed the way in which I thought about the world.  It stripped away the insistence that I am here for something special.  It destroyed the me I always wanted to believe I was.

But now I'm empty.  Everything is empty.  The world is an empty masquerade. There is no joy to be had; there are few people who reach me.  There is also no reason to do anything.

I switched on autopilot.  I am sleepwalking.  I crave distraction and don't even spin my wheels in attempt to escape the rut I'm in.  Why bother?  There's nothing out there for me.

Some insist I need a relationship to cheer me up.  What then?  What would I do with a relationship except use it to dull the intensity of my isolation?  What can it be besides another distraction?  What are any relationships besides attempts at being special?

The want for specialness is still there, but I feel I am far too tolerant of mental noise, of permissiveness for useless things, and when the thoughts come, I talk myself out of them.  I don't try to talk myself out of them;  I ruthlessly excise them.  I am not terribly kind to myself.

And that's all there is to it.  I have no solutions.  I see no way out.  I'm stuck.

In Which... Aw Hell, I'll Figure it Out

I read something rather quotable in a Cracked.com article the other day, about how people tend to seek external validation rather than personal growth.

It struck me because I'm pretty sure I'm backsliding; at the very least, I am not evolving in the direction I wish to be. 

Until very recently--okay, I'll be honest--I really wanted life as I know it to dramatically shift at the end of 2012.  I knew it was too much to hope for, but all the logistics in the world did not keep me from hoping and hoping.  When nothing happened at all, at least in the visible world, there was nothing left for me to hope for (perhaps I simply have unreasonable expectations).

See, I don't really want to live in this world.  And I am so dissatisfied that absolutely nothing seems to matter.  The feeling of fatedness has vanished.  There is no longer meaning awaiting me, no messages from higher selves, nothing but the bleak monotony of an illusionary world that will slip and fade into the nothing from which it came.

Science affords much of the greatest awe I have experienced in recent years, but I don't really believe our universe is real.  Holographic, perhaps, even hallucinatory.  But real?  I don't sense it. 

Perhaps I should simply face my worst fear by submerging myself into it:  becoming a hopeless, dreamless, self-medicating, self-absorbed muggle for whom all the lights have gone out. 

At least then there will be no direction left to go but out.  At least then the delusions of my own grandeur will wash away, leaving the grasping desire to-be-recognized-for-how-very-special-I-am exposed to be scoured away by the elements. 

Perhaps then I would be able to surrender the delusional mind that insists it has good ideas about what I am and what I should be doing/thinking/feeling.  I know it's mistaken.  I know it has no more clue about my identity than a goldfish has about its own.  Yet I value it undeservedly, identify with it, believe it to be Me.

If we are not our minds, what are we? I ask, because I'm sure there is an answer.  I'm also sure the answer will never come in words or thoughts, but those are the only places I find myself looking.

In Flatland, a 2D polygon encounters a 3D sphere and is brought up into 3D.  Upon his return, he is seen as a madman and tries to remember what direction he had gone in.  Not North, East, West, or South, but Up.

Maybe I just need to find my Up.