An Unwritten Life ...
It came up to post the following jottings/scribbles into the blog ... something about sharing ... sharing life instead of hiding. The following are things that were jotted down after a months hiatus of writing ... myTeacher had told me to entertain the "thought" of deleting everything I'd ever written and to give up any ideas of "teaching" and so after that month there was an inch (actually it was there all along) but a deeper itch to write that manifested itself in what is written below.
AN UNWRITTEN LIFE
The only difference between a written life and an unwritten life is … one is written about and the other isn’t. If you have a love for the written word, the latter can be hell.
The only good thing about not writing is that it leaves you with nothing to lose.
October 27, 2017 (3:10am)
Joy A. Sters
(In The Sacred Space.)
When the heart stops beating
And the silence is deafening
And the longing for wind
Is the source of all pain …
Then the dream is over
For the one and only Lover
Who did not leave a mark
But a stain.
HATE FILLED EYES
October 27, 2017 (4:45am)
Joy A. Sters
(In The Sacred Space.)
Your angry “hello!”
and Hate Filled Eyes
are the constant reminder
to Stay Inside.
You begin to see that without the thing you love, you are nothing. You have nothing. There is nothing to hold onto. Without writing there is no joy … no Joy … no JoySters. Without writing life seems very bland and boring … all the things that would be written about become listless … just another “thing” to see. The longing to share what it is like at eleven a.m. and roly-poly bellies … dare I go no further … writing pushes one to go a bit further … tempts one to write a bit more than the comfort level normally allows.
“Bellies, bellies … roly-poly bellies. Bellies, bellies … eat them up … yum.”
Or in this instance not so much yum, more roly-poly than yum.
Yesterday at Tudor Square one of the trees and Pete (dog) got a trimming. It had seemed as if they had come to cut the tree down, as has been the case so many times before; when the tree chopping men appear. It is a very tall tree, not as majestic looking as the one diagonally from it, yet still quite beautiful in it’s own right. After going inside and coming back out after the men had left and expecting to see a giant empty space where the tree once stood, what was seen was the windows of two of the apartments that had been blocked by all the branches that had previously been there.
It has aged with its trimming … leaves that had been bright green are now yellow and burnt orange … it takes a lot out of a tree when you chop it up, but it will survive and it is quite pleasing that Tudor Square protects its trees because it has very beautiful ones on this property.
Pete had a helluva time too. He is not fond of trimming and understands no more or less of the process than the tree. Because of this there is more firmness with him and his body during the trimming as not to hurt him from the squirming. There was one snip that went a bit too far into the black gunk that surrounds his tear ducts and a tiny bit of blood appeared and made for pain in both our bodies. Held him closely and apologized from this Heart to his and he was calm … didn’t make a sound but it was felt that it hurt him and that hurt. Now he is quite bald (Pelon!) where he had been quite furry and his balls look so very huge! He now has big pink balls, ones that had been hidden by a furry backside which is now barren and they dangle from his tail-end as he walks. He shivered for the first time this morning on the walk, however it was a necessary procedure to trim him back as food was getting stuck under his chin when he ate and piss and shit on his undercarriage. Neither of us like the process of trimming and do it as rarely as one can get away with. It had been long overdue.
By all accounts he should be dead. He is now thin as a bone even though his eating habits have not been altered. He is brittle and yet more flexible than he has ever been. He never makes a sound and only complains, which he does with a snort like sneeze when he is rushed away from his bowl or rushed back from his walk. He does not like to be rushed, just as much as this one does not like to be outside, so we snip and snort at each other in our own ways.
It is said un-examined life is not worth living and it has come up this last month from the brief hiatus in writing that the same can be said from here:
A writer's unwritten life is not worth living.
The body is pre-disposed to writing. It is also pre-disposed to negative thought. Flashes of The Whites of West Virginia appeared this morning and seeing that one becomes imprisoned in a mentality. You can go to school and get educated, you can go to the Mountains and become spiritually Aware, but the mentality is the greatest challenge or obstacle of all. It quickly will suck one back in. It is not surprising at all that so much of society is drug induced. This body has been pouting, screaming (internally), crying and longing for escape. Writing is an escape from the pain of “not doing.” If you think or believe that there is not deep emotional pain hiding behind the writer as much as it is behind the drunk or drug addict you probably would be mistaken (it is a bit of a paradox) because Truthfully there is nothing behind the writer, the drunk or the addict, but it seems there is until those things are put down for a time. First an unbearable (nearly) boredom sets in. You don’t know who you are without them. You realize how dependent you are on them. There is nearly a clutching and clawing to keep them, but you see at the same time that it will be taken from you. You begin to see there is nothing you can keep in this world. Nothing. Not as a theory but as an absolute truth and then you want to go back. You want to go back and hide from the Truth, but it’s too late.
Then without the distractions of whatever addiction you had been distracted by, you begin to hear the thoughts again, you begin to see the insane mentality that you have been in prisoned by and it is no walk in the park. You see how deeply you still believe in the things that have never served you in life and yet still cling to as a dark heavy blanket. It makes you want to go back to the addiction (like right now). You would rather die than let it kill you. What a strange conundrum. Meaning you would rather kill the body than the ego/thoughts/personality.
It’s so easy to lose things in this world and so terribly hard to get them back … sometimes … most times … impossible. It took over five years to write the JOURNALS and less than 5 minutes to wipe all those years away. Five minutes. Do you know how heartbreaking that is. Yet it takes a lifetime to become who you are in the world and just months, days, hours to lose it upon the death of the body. It is the same when you watch them take down a tree. It took in some instances 50-100 years for that tree to become the magnificent energy force and less than an hour in most cases to tear it down.
You can know that nothing you do can save anything, you can intellectually know it, but as you are going through it, as you see the actual reality of it all … it is a devastating blow. You can’t hear:
You Hear it, but you don’t hear it. You rage against it as if the raging means anything. Death throes. The want to “save” is so deeply programmed into the psyche.
The paranoia this month has been debilitating at times. Without writing as a distraction the paranoia becomes so huge. There was so much effort and challenge just to go out the door this month and so many instances of paranoia that the layers were building on top of one another.
Breasts are a source … the source of human food and nourishment. Humans have forgotten their source; the life source. Humans are the sickest species on the planet. Humans forgot how to feed themselves. Breasts have not forgotten; women have forgotten their breasts. Life pours forth out of them; a stream of goodness that humans block, dam off and then wonder why such high incidences of breast cancer ensue.
Just the image of your face in the mind’s eye, makes for crying, undefined tears.
Yesterday I woke up so well rested and happy … so very happy … so happy that I know that I have not been happy in years … it only lasted maybe five minutes, possibly not even that long, but long enough to know it … to fully feel it … and then it was gone and a horrible day ensued … dark and depressing and there was nothing one could do … you can’t fucking think happy thoughts … happiness is not a thought …
Happiness is Happiness.
It was still worth it … still worth having those five minutes. I don’t know where they came from or how come they showed up like that and then was just gone. It is not possible to understand why this body is prone to such horrible darkness and only gets five minutes of happiness every what … five years? :o(((((
November 6, 2017 (3:39am)
Joy A. Sters
(In The Decompression Chamber)
A scavenger for pleasure
One walks the streets alone
Never seeking anything else
For pleasure is its home.
(Or: It seeks not for anything else, as pleasure is its home?)
This was supposed to be the year:
Where it all came together; instead it all fell apart.
There was an injured deer, practically a fawn hobbling across the road yesterday. It was going so slow compared to its siblings but the mother waited up … which was sweet … had watched as the hands went out to it … the thought that crossed the mind:
“Whatever you need is yours.”
There was the sensation of no holding back, then this incredible warmth radiated from the Left Hand. So much so that it was a bit startling and when looking up the mother was standing there in front of me. It was very strange and I started to walk towards her and she didn’t move and I went all the way onto the people’s property and started into the enclave she was enclosed by, and had no idea why I was walking towards her but continued to and then she got startled and ran off, but she had let me get quite close. The hand thing was quite strange and when heading back to the apartment I asked internally about it and it came up:
“The Left Hand Gives and the Right Receives.”
Woke from a dream of being white trash with no way out. No way. You can’t even see you are in it so there is no way out of it. It’s just cycle after cycle of the same hell. There is no one out of the hell to put a hand in and say:
“Hey did you know you are in hell?”
There was a guy in it. God he was so fucking gross. And groped a lot and there is nothing that could be done about it … there are no people in whitetrashville that you can go to … you can’t report anything … no one gives a fuck. Spent the last hour of the dream attempting to lock a sliding glass door that was never going to lock.
Woke depressed and so dark and negative. Suicide is really the only option in that scenario. Nothing is ever going to get better.
November 11, 2017
Joy A. Sters
Have you ever had the sensation of 10,000 eyes starring out of you? Starring out and judging every move, every action, every thought that goes by? And not often kindly. Most often the eyes are screaming! Can you imagine eyeballs that scream? See if you can. It is a silent screaming hell. Have you ever heard Silence Scream? It is a deafening sound. Maddening in fact. It makes one insane. You’ve seen the images of a person going mad, holding their hands to their ears as if you are screaming at them, but the sound is from the inside. The sound has no voice and yet is louder than any outward one can get. It makes you hate. It makes you hate being alive. It makes you hate waking up from sleep. It makes all the interactions one has with reality a living nightmare. You think you speak to one person but you are speaking to 10,0001. Behind the one set of eyes are 10,000 others looking at you, judging you, telling you who you are before a single word comes from the mouth you think you are speaking with.
You think you can understand the madness of paranoia? You can’t. You can’t understand madness.
Had been lying down and someone inside (the head) asked: “What day is it?” And I couldn’t figure it out … kept thinking “Wednesday” but then it became so completely obvious there is no such thing as Wednesday or any day … it’s all made up! It’s all made up! No wonder people often when in a hospital after an accident or something similar do not know what day it is … meaning after a concussion or something of that nature … they don’t remember because there is no such thing! One is trained and programmed to believe there is such a thing as “Wednesday” or any other day … week, month, year, season, but it is all lies … it is all made up … and they call you “crazy” when you don’t remember the lie! There is something wrong with “you” if “you” don’t remember or admit to the lie. When they are the crazy one’s for believing in something that doesn’t even exist and attempting to force you into stating it does!
TRUTH OR ILLUSION
(Written at NW Raw, Ashland OR)
November 18, 2017
Joy A. Sters
There is no way to discover whether what you are in is real or a dream, until you begin to test the waters. It truly is the scariest and most exciting part of being alive, because when you think the world is real, there is very little excitement to it. It is dry and mundane and is basically planned out for you. However, as one allows for the possibly that what they are “in,” what they are experiencing is not as real as they had imagined it to be then a sort of relaxation sets in. At first there maybe a tensing up but eventually as you continue to not get sucked into the falsity, the realness of the lie, you begin to relax and let life have you. It has had you all along … even when you were thinking that you were doing it … it was/is not so. It is scary only in that you will not have anyone on your side so to speak. You will be alone in the discovery for a time. Not forever because as you begin to Awaken in the dream others Awaken with you. This is both the exciting and the scary part. Everything … although not changing at all, becomes unpredictable. If you become scared just internally ask:
“Truth or illusion?”
Don’t ask with the expectation, or knowing of what the answer is or maybe … just allow for it to reveal itself. Nothing experienced with the five senses is real, however, knowing this intellectually is the deadness of life … the juice is in the not knowing; but allowing the possibility that it is so. The deadness of the world is in judgements and opinions, the Aliveness is in not knowing what anything is for. The Truth is that you don’t … no one does … if they say they do it is just part of the lie because if this is a Dream/Illusion then anything can happen at any instant … anything … things that cannot and have not been thought yet. Ten years ago there wasn’t an inkling that you would be talking on a hand held device to another person on the other side of the world in real-time video … the Truth is you don’t even know if they are there. So be silly … lighten up. You are so fucking serious about something that doesn’t even exist. However, this is all intellectual until it isn’t.
The sensory is Aware of something other than itself. “I” is the sensory. The sensory is Aware of itSelf, The Self. The sensory is Aware that it doesn’t exist without it, The Self.
Walking down the road the other day the attention kept being drawn back to THE OBSERVER IS THE OBSERVED. For a split second … a brief instant … it was obvious. The body is not the observer … however the body became Aware of being seen through.
(Written in The Sacred Space)
November 20, 2017
If I ever start to forget you;
I just need to smoke a bowl,
hear the wind, feel the rain
or see a Caddy
and you are right back here
as if you never left.
After writing the above … no lie … a storm started … rain and wind all night long … so rare … so very rare … you were either Listening or Reading or whatever it is you do that allows you to Hear me.
The other day … just really out of the blue … cannot even remember how it came about … however a Book about Anne Sexton letters came up on the Amazon account … I know nothing about her … have only heard her name in passing and not even sure what kind of passing that would have been in … however I clicked the button and ordered her “LETTERS” book. It wasn’t even impulsive it just Happened. Then I ended up at the Hannon Library today, this morning … which is odd in itself because paranoia has been running high lately and going outside has been a low point of the day … however because of the rain (mebe) it was a bit easier to get out the door and the drizzles kept me from going all the way up da Hill as I still have no boots that do not leak water all through them and only the Vibrams as an option which also are not waterproof. All those words just to say that a detour was taken to the Library and grabbed Kerouac's Letters … Vol. 2 … and sat down and he mentions that Allen and Bill B. are together in Tangiers and there is an inkling to look into Burroughs … check and the library has some of his work and go over there and start pulling all these amazing books off the shelves … none of which are Burroughs but one of which is ANNE SEXTON: A Biography. Read the first page and was hooked … I think I have heard of her because she killed herself. Those thoughts have been running high again too and an “out” has already been put in place just in case, but it is not likely and I know I was told no “outs” but it happened anyway.
The mind is so terribly dark. The body fatigued.
Anne Sexton spent time in 1945 in Lowell Massachusetts … where Jack Kerouac was from and the odd thing is that I am currently reading both of their books of Letters (Kerouac 1940-1956 and Anne 1928-1957) … there is something to proximity … it’s yet to manifest itself in and understanding but at this point just an Awareness that there is something about Writers and proximity. Jack also had feelings that he would be a great writer.
Lately there have been flashes of how there is “no time” not in concept or theory but actual experiences of “no time” because things that are revealed span through decades but can be seen instantaneously. It is very hard to word … but an example is that Tyler said something 15 years ago that happened now … I can’t say what it is but it was revealed that he was seeing it 15 years ago and it took till “seemingly” now for it to be actualized. This is just an example … but there have been so many of them and some are scary and some are not and they come from all angles and from many different people pointing.
Anne also wrote letters late at night marking one (3:30am) and Kerouac did also. And Kerouac wrote his Awakening experience to Cassady … it is so similar in Nature to what happened here, which is strange because what is happening here is what one falls back on in the worst of times because it isn’t something that has to be proven … it simply IS.
The rain tonight is amazingly beautiful and has been down pouring from time to time.
The mind keeps attempting to figure out what is being revealed in “timelessness” but it can’t. It can’t figure it out, but it keeps trying and it doesn’t understand how it doesn’t have control … it sees it … it is so blatantly obvious at times, but it still struggles so hard to understand it.
Kerouac in Letters also writes to Cassady about The Snake … he hasn’t gone into detail yet but the few mentionings of it sound so similar to The Snake that came about on the LSD trip … where I was Marma guarding the 15,000 year old Snake … which I basically remember nothing of except that it was under the earth … deep under the earth and I was nesting, guarding it as a Marma.
You may wonder why this is called “An Unwritten Life” but there is nearly nothing about this life currently being written … just this tiny bit of scribble. However it did come up yesterday that a short story a week would start to come through and that it would be put up on the Internet under Writers for Trees (WFT)/JoySters.
GROWING SOME BALLS
(Written at NW Raw, Ashland OR)
Getting tired of life walking all over you? Every new event weighs you down … every new person quickly becomes a burden … you know why … cause you got no:
And it doesn’t matter the gender you place yourself under … when you have no balls you are living a dead life … growing balls doesn’t mean you walk all over people it means they don’t walk all over you. You cannot ask for respect from anyone else until you have some for yourself and growing balls demands respect of yourself. However, don’t be fooled into thinking you know what any of this means … you have no idea how to grow balls, yet if you are willing for life to show you … they will begin to form between the legs (not necessarily literally but ya never know!). You will know they are growing because you start to stand taller. The back begins to straighten out … the spine becomes elongated. You are not concerned with what others might be thinking about you and if you are concerned, you are not concerned about that.
Allow for some silliness in this. Growing balls is not about growing angry … it’s actually about lightening up, being less concerned, less afraid of looking straight on at what is appearing before you and not cowering away when it doesn’t necessarily fit with what you expect or want to appear. Be firm in your Self … be firm in your “SELF.” This means that you are standing tall and firm in NOTHING! Now that’s a trip huh?
Growing Balls happens as you relax into life not fighting against it. It probably sounds exactly the opposite to most … but those are the ones that aren’t growing them but fantasizing about what it would be like to have them. Most think that being hard and cold and kicking ass left and right is having Balls, but it is nearly the exact opposite. Having Balls makes one nonchalant, not uncaring, but not fooled by those that claim “caring” as a tool to “get” something for themselves. When you have Balls you aren’t attempting to “get” anything from a situation, in a sense you watch it unfold while you are standing Tall in your Self. You are, in a sense, a very real sense:
In the world; but not of it.
And you know it. You Know it without thought. You meet each situation from the Inside out. The unMovable Inside that is the True you
The problem, if you can call it that, with some women, not unlike myself, is that we were/are sexual … and not necessarily maternal, yet one things leads to another and then there you go. Even through all of the mad ups and downs (at least as things are currently being seen) there has not been a regret in tying the tubes. It was the one True Gift I could give myself at the time. The freedom from fear. Freedom from a fear of becoming pregnant (you should not underestimate the power and weight this fear holds on women or at least this woman) and the fear of sex … some deep seated fear in the core of the identity that can’t almost even been seen clearly enough to describe but something about tying the tubes … removed this fear. It was 23 years ago now since that fear was removed … however it is still clear after 23 years that there had been a enormous fear that tying the tubes dissipated … it wasn’t pregnancy related, but it was not dissimilar in the intensity of fear.
Have had some pretty deep insights lately. Last night one was strong enough to get one up and jot it down:
“If you knew who you were hurting …
you would never hurt another or yourself.”
The above came through after a thing that I cannot explain and probably should not attempt to try, but am anyway … it was clear that it is always the Self … even though it is not clear to “me” that it is … and that since there is only One … forever and only One … if you kill yourself it all goes. You can’t understand this but you can know it. It is all God … there is One without a second. You are always facing The Self … it, what you are facing, does not face you; because you are a lie, the lie. How does one grasp this … you can’t … but it can be Grokked.
Also a poem came through yesterday … like a burst of energy … a burst of energy that words were riding on … there have been so many different energies lately … no where to go … the feelings of being boxed in … coffined in … overstimulation in every direction.
Written in The Decompression Chamber after an energy burst with the following words riding on the energy.
November 24, 2017
Joy A. Sters
The time was biding.
Meaningless words …
with less than living.
Where is the
Oh Great One?
The search in
does not go far.
A generational legacy
of a distant passed.
The illusion of time …
You will only know if a poem is good to you … not if it will ever be “good” to anyone else … the energy that came through to write the above on was/is good … there was darkness around it but the energy itself was/is Pure. It felt so good to have it come through. It’s been awhile.
Anne Sexton’s Letters are a delight! She is so open … seemingly open … it’s not necessarily the words … she hasn’t figured out how to close down … she hasn’t been attacked enough for the illness yet … to be shut down from those around her. She also met Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell! Lowell actually taught her (Kerouac too?) in class. Proximity. Something about Proximity. It came up earlier this morning (yesterday morning) as:
The Writer’s Vortex.
And each era(?) seems to have a group of them. Is EOTS this era? Is EOTS my or was my Writer’s Vortex? We were/are all Writer’s in/to one degree or another … without writing there would be no EOTS (outwardly anyway).
Started using the Write Doe Bay Workshop bag just yesterday … it didn’t seem anything noteworthy at the time but it does right now … had been storing it in the closet stuffed with odds and ends … but now it is in use again. Just noticed earlier today that there is a tree on it … a tree that has roots in … nothing. :o) (((JF)))
It came up as an Insight or a Vision or something of that nature after smoking a bowl … that if Mikel had not shown up … the person I would have become would have been very bad and destructive if it lived very long. Very bad. Of course one will never know … because he did show up and then became everything I was afraid I would.
Just read two poems by Anne Sexton and Love …
THE AWFUL ROWING TOWARD GOD
Rarely can or do I say “Love” about poetry … rarely does any (that I’ve read besides Rumi) hit a chord or even keep the attention on to the next line … but this one did. The other was about 3 generations of women and her daughter she called of all things: Joy. I found it quite good until about the 7th section which is where the attention was lost and stopped reading and started skimming, actually it might have been section 5 but who cares. The title of the Poem is
And it is the last line that struck the deepest chord in its pointing toward Truth.
I, who was never quite sure
about being a girl, needed another
life, another image to remind me.
And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure
nor soothe it. I made you to find me.
“Poem” energy came through this morning during Meditation … since it was Meditation … it was not written … and probably cannot be now as the “energy” is no longer here … seemingly … let’s see:
You seep in and through
the crevices of mind
as a dark and eerie fog
making every word
the voices, the many voices
always something is
something’s gone wrong.
No that is not the energy that it came through with … it was similar to watching a movie … a creepy movie with a fog coming across a lake … except I am the lake it crosses through and over “I” is the lake … the lake called “I.”
I can’t write about paranoia (at least not yet) while in it because I am too paranoid and I don’t know who you are … whoever you are and there is no rational way to share that. However I also cannot write a poem when the “energy” has left … even if some of the words remain … the first four lines are pretty close to what originally came through … but the energy isn’t there. Probably if you write you know what is being shared here … it’s not even writer’s block … there is no block … there is nothing … it’s a deflated balloon and who the hell wants a deflated balloon? Their gross.
Went back and did some slight editing and although it is not exactly it … it’s not as bad as it was (Doh! forgot to keep the original … which so often happens).
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About the Writer
I am not who I think I am and neither are you. That is the Good News.