I definitely have an odd relationship with perfection. I jut back and forth between seeing it everywhere and seeing it nowhere. Between not caring about having it and accepting nothing less. Very jarring. It seems to stem from the fact that I still see Mom and Dad and probably my siblings, too, as the perfect people that no one is.
I never outgrew the idea that love is always about feeling unconditionally happy and nurtured. I cannot see the good for the good and the bad for the bad.

Am I just a naive bastard? A naive boy? As I’ve noted, I remember feeling unconditional love in our household, as well as other relatives’ households. I keep my eye open to that sentiment to this day. Is it a feeling which is not appropriate for equal relationships? Equal partnerships? Am I taking it a bit too far?

So I am perpetually comparing this to that. But I don’t realize what I am doing. So there is no way to address it. But it undermines everything. And I mean everything. Either directly or by means of avoidance.

If I do something other than play the cello, I am questioning the wisdom of one of my parents. Unbelievable. So not only do I love them unconditionally, but I also fear them unconditionally. There is the disturbing aspect to this.

originally published on 6/24/08

All or nothing. Yesterday’s attempt to curb the use of balms on my soul was fruitless. I balmed away. So the next question is, am I any less compulsive than in the past? It is exceedingly hard for me to determine that. I would love to take others’ word on it, but there is a deeper place that their words cannot reach.
My friend recommended meditation. I was just thinking of what to do if I’ve excluded all restless, wasteful activity, and I immediately thought of meditation. Perhaps I can explore that today. The other way of looking at it is to try to do less of any given thing. To be less overblown in my actions and passions. That is also akin to a non-exaggerated approach; simple, in the moment, one thing at a time, which I can only imagine becomes like meditation. Maybe it’s very Western of me, but I may be best at handling activities meditatively, rather than the true act of meditation.

So the risk of all this is still there: feeling my very own brand of pain. And the converse risk: feeling pleasure that I am direly aware can lead rapidly to pain. I guess that addresses the question, what’s the point of recalling happy memories: you are in truth recalling a time of openness and trustedness, which left you equally open to joy and sorrow, to paraphrase Casals. It was the time in life where you’re largely accumulating experience from the world. Later you must process those experiences and incorporate them carefully, having accumulated enough.

I noticed that I sure talk a good talk. But when it comes down to walking the walk, I’m sorely devoid. What I’d like to be able to do is have a better sense of any progress I may be making. It doesn’t seem to be enough simply to make the progress; you need to occasionally rest on your laurels. To take more of a bird’s-eye view at yourself, so you can actually tell whether change has taken place. Looking at things so myopically is generally quite discouraging. But it does make you good at analysis. Perhaps a good teacher? Not that I only deal with minutia in my teaching, but it is good to have it as an element.

originally published on 6/26/08

I am beginning to suspect I am a liar. You know, knowledge of one’s capacity for lying may not be as easily come upon as you might think. Self-awareness of liars must have varying depths, all the way from the rationally scheming to the pathologically embedded. And it may vary day to day, week to week. I wonder if lying to yourself is a prerequisite for a perpetual liar. That may again be determined by the type of liar you are.
It occurred to me that I may be an overall unwitting liar when I began to realize that most people throw around the terms honesty and true self in ways that I haven’t been able to realistically attempt since my young childhood. Somehow, to me there are generally too many layers to things not to have a sense of backtracking after every supposed honest statement I make. But the question becomes, do those layers represent an intricate reality, or a superimposed complexity resulting from my deceptive, duplicitous tendencies?

This notion oddly comes as a relief. Although it is somewhat tragic to think I am something of a lying bastard, it does help to settle some of the incomprehensible quandaries I have dealt with most of my adult life. Maybe I can begin to unravel the spools of knotted up philosophies and emotions.

originally published on 3/2/09

Is it possible that I actually grew up when I was about 17, and have been fighting it off and on ever since? Scary thought. Such deep levels of denial. And such a deep distrust of adulthood.

originally published on 3/13/09