Falling in love with myself – 5-MeO-DMT experience

I sit on a bare mattress in the center of an almost perfectly cubical room. Windows allow the sun to shine in through a mild and promising spring afternoon. Next to me sits a close friend, but today he is also my trip-sitter. I am going on a 5-MeO-DMT trip today, and I while I am not anxious, I am feeling a sense of jittery anticipation. I have heard several stories about the drug that is known as one of the stronger psychedelics. I have no idea what to expect, but my friend tells me “You can do whatever you like, don’t try to judge your experience as right or wrong, you can go and have a shit in the corner, or take off your clothes if that’s what you feel like”. Since the trip takes less than thirty minutes usually, I don’t expect to be going to the bathroom during the experience.

The substance is smoked in a small glass-bowl pipe. The 12.5mg of crystallised 5-MeO-DMT is placed in the bowl that is then heated. My friend holds the pipe and heats the bowl with the impressive gas-flame lighter. He has instructed me to conserve my intake of air and slowly inhale to allow for all of the substance to vaporise before I run out of space in my lungs. He looks at me and I nod, we’ve known each other long enough for us to feel comfortable with just that, and I feel as ready as I could possibly feel for something I have no idea about. The crystals begin to bubble and then vapour begins to swirl inside the little bowl. As the little swirling cloud thickens he looks at me and with a very serious voice says “It’s almost time”. I exhale completely and move my head closer to the pipe, he removes the finger that is covering the mouth of the pipe, allowing the vapour to slowly move through the tube. I put my lips to the glass and begin inhaling slowly, like I would smoking weed from a short pipe.

The taste is sweet and thick. It is a bit too hot to be very pleasant, but definitely not unpleasant or bitter. It is best compared to the taste of the hookah, but thicker – more substantial. I keep inhaling without trouble, and finally run out of space for more air. I exhale a little in order to get the last smoke in an extra inhalation.

I don’t feel a thing. But then after a few seconds it begins. It feels like a river, I notice it in my headspace first, but it quickly grows to a fullbody experience. My meta-selves retain consciousness and clarity observing the experience from outside. I hold myself with pre-programmed integrity-selves that – after this experience – I am sure I have crafted well enough to stand against any psychedelic. After a little while I decide to let go, to get the full experience and not treat it as an exercise in meta-self-programming. I notice my friend out of the corner of my eye, and I “see him”. I see that he is truly there. And then I fall back, slowly.

On my back on the mattress the river begins to strengthen and I loose myself in the flow going through me. I become the river and my sense of self completely dissolves into a sensation of pure naive pleasure. I meet the reason for my movement, I meet the reason for my whole being. I meet the thing that initiates all initiative and provokes all provocation. I am faced, not as a self, but just as an experience, with that which is me. It is who I am when I am most free, when I feel the most safe, when I feel the most liberated. It is the one who I am when I forget to be who I want to be. It is an eight year old boy walking curiously through a forest. It is a naive trust given from a source of curious sweetness. It is an unhurt child smiling at anything in the world asking “Hello, what are you?”. It is looking at the world without fear, without a self created to protect. It is the body beneath the body, it is the thing I have created a self to defend. It is a defenceless young smiling soul, full of love and curiosity for everything it meets.

My deepest and unspoken anxiety about the experience was that I would unleash a monster from within. I feared that a dark demon would come out, a devious, game-playing and cruel being. But instead this came out, this very “felt” physical river inside me, this bubbly young thing.

My body moves in a naive feminine ecstatic movements, sometimes almost orgasmic – yet too innocent to be erotic. I am completely taken away by this and I just wriggle in the pure joy of this feeling, sometimes mouthing a “Wow!”. This wow is at my own being, at my surprise at meeting this. And I fall in love with this being, this little river inside me. I fall in love with its sweetness, and I understand all who have loved me before in my life.

After a while I get a desire to experience other things, while still under the influence. I reach out to my friend and catch his foot. Initially eye contact would be too much so I just drag myself up to him, and allow him to hold me. I cry, I smile, I mouth “Wow!”. We stare into each others eyes for several minutes. He has tried it before, so he knows that I am going through something, but he is probably not completely aware what. After about twenty-five minutes we begin talking, and sharing the experience in words.

My experience remains with me. It is not one of “That was an interesting drug”, it is one of seeing myself. The most profound side-effect is that I can see who have love for me, and who does not. This took an understanding of love for myself, something most probably learn from childhood, but I had missed for several reasons. I already knew who had love for me, and who had not. But I missed it because I was standing in the way of this myself. My personality created to defend my little river, is all the river is not. It is often hard, determined, controlled and understand everything that is going on. It has everything figured out well before it happens, and will not change its mind based on experience.

Tasting the sweetness of myself made me believe that I was loveable, because I now loved myself. I felt a kinship with those who loved me, an agreement with their decision. I looked at those people in my life who had no love for me and thought “What am I doing trying to force love out of an empty box?”, I felt a strange twinge of “Well, you have no love for me, that’s clear, I don’t completely understand this. I’m really REALLY sweet you know?”, but then I also accepted that this was not their taste. People have different tastes and that’s only fair. I felt no compulsion to try to make those with no love for me somehow change their mind. I reached out to some and thanked all those from whom I felt love clearly. Some I reached out to and asked “Do you have love for me?” because it felt right to ask. Some I told “I have love for you”. But mostly I just felt that whatever anyone else feels, most importantly I have love for myself, and it’s a love I want to take. So the most important thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return. The hardest lesson in this is that you need to do this alone before you do it with anyone else.

It finally happened

It finally happened. Whenever I ride my bicycle by myself, and when I have a reasonable amount of time, I stop to raise fallen bicycles. I do this for three reasons. The first is obvious, I don’t like others to find their bicycle fallen over. It’s a special kind of sadness to find it lying there. You see it and think “Hm, that’s a little bit sad”, and I often get really sad because I tend to personify my treasured belongings. My two bicycles are very close to me, and to me they’ve got distinct personalities and I feel very bad if I leave them out in bad weather, or find them fallen. I would just be really happy if someone raised my bicycle if it had fallen, so I try to give that to the world.

(disclaimer, pictures in the post is not of the bicycles I raised, they’re of a bicycle I raised in Warsaw)

The second reason is slightly more convoluted. I raise up bicycles because I want people to see me doing it. I hope to inspire others to believe in the goodness of others. In the back of my mind I expect someone to see me and think “I will do this also!”. I would love if that happened, and I hope that it already has, but I can’t know of course. Many cynical voices have raised the concern that this is all for nothing, and that people simply aren’t like this. But I actively choose to be naive in these matters, I believe that in order to make the world a warmer place then we have to choose to be naive.

The third reason is just selfish. The third reason is that I want the owner of the bicycle to see me, and come over and say “Oh wow, you just raised my bicycle, you’re amazing!” and I’ll respond “Oh it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, I do all the time…” and they’ll ask “Wow, why? that’s amazing” and I’ll say something self-deprecating and falsely humble… And the rest of my day would just be magical.

Today the third reason turned into reality. I was riding towards the lakes on my bicycle to spend a little time in the sun before contact improv.

On the most boring part of the trip I spot two bicycles that are fallen over. I stop as fast as my worn down brakes allow me and get off. It’s winter in Copenhagen so I’m wearing a hat and a face-mask making me look like a crossover between a bike messenger and a burglar. I rest my bicycle against an advertisement box standing alone like some planet of the apes obelisk. I begin raising the bicycles and a car slows down to a stop behind me. I move to raise the second bicycle up and notice that a very young girl (I’m old enough to not be able to tell ages of those below twenty-five) behind the wheel. She looks like she’s swallowed something bad, and I return her stare calmly from behind my mask. It must be slightly unnerving to hold the stare of someone masked, and I get self conscious about it, and move to raise up the last bicycle. The car quickly drives off and I think she probably thought I was stealing the bicycles or something. I make sure the bicycles won’t fall again by putting them at the correct angle, and test both of them a bit to make sure.

I grab my own bicycle and I’m about to do a little musketeer bow to the two bicycles I just raised (don’t ask me why I do this). She comes running down the street, I look at her since she seems to be running at me. She stops right in front of me, and I pull down my mask remembering the effect it might have from before. She reaches out to hold on to the sleeve of my jacket. She doesn’t say anything for a little while, and I gather she’s grappling with what to say. I ask simply “How are you feeling?”, a go to question that’s stuck in me from many years of being a therapist. It makes absolutely no sense to ask a stranger, and that’s why I love doing it. It’s just quirkily fun and absurd to ask. She frowns and shakes her head and says (in Danish) “Why did you raise up those bicycles?” whereto I answer – well prepared – “I do it because I don’t want to find my own bicycle fallen”. She gets tears in her eyes and hugs me and says “That’s what I hoped”. I want to hug her back but I’m awkwardly holding my bicycle with one arm and the other is caught in her embrace. She’s short enough to have pretty much trapped me, and I can comfortable look down on her hair. I smell it, because I want to remember her smell. She lets me go and looks at me with tears in her eyes “Why are there not more people like you?”, and I guess she’s actually asking “Why are there not more people like me?” but I hold myself back from going straight into philosophy. I stumble towards expressing something like “I think there is” but it comes out sounding weird, and I shake my head and I say “Sorry, there’s not, I don’t mean that, I also wish that there is”.

She looks me up and down and asks me for my number, and I just say it, but she isn’t ready and she takes a little time to find her phone from her bag and says “Ok, one more time, you don’t have to answer, but I might write you, is that ok?” and I answer “If I don’t have to answer it’s ok”, and add “I mean I’m not saying I won’t…” awkwardly. She looks at me, and we both feel a rising self consciousness and I decide to deflate it by saying “Well, I’ll leave before it gets even weirder, maybe I’ll hear from you someday”, she asks for my name, and I give it to her, and them I’m off on my bicycle. A huge smile spreads across my face and I instantly feel a pang of guilt of not having asked for her name.

I ride my bicycle towards the city, and the sun comes out between the clouds. I feel like its rays are meant for me.

Big man – Little girl

We met in London the year before, and now she came to stay with me for a few days to explore Copenhagen. The visit had a calming effect on the both of us, and without any pressure we found our way into a soft and gentle interaction, because our desires were similar.

Our desires for interaction overlapped enough that there seemed to be an easy harmony between us. But again, this was not a harmony growing out of listening and adapting, it was the case that we both found that we wanted the same, and then I began guiding us into what I wanted. I was playing the leader, and she was playing the follower. But I didn’t know. I was under the impression that this was harmony, that this was sensitivity.

On the second last day of her visit we were cuddling and talking on the couch. I touch upon the subject of how men in our culture are rewarded for knowing what they want and expressing it, while women are rewarded for diplomacy and listening. This has been taken to a point where many women have expressed to me a difficulty in being able to sensing their own desires when among many strong-willed men. Men express to me that they have a hard time being sensitive to the desires of their less outspoken peers when their own needs haven’t been met.

My visitor confirmed this exact experience and we went into a deeper reflection on our experiences with this. During the conversation I got curious about whether she could feel what she wanted right now with me. I was interested in my own ability to listen in this particular moment. It is always a bit delicate to move from a theoretical discussion about psychology into the immediate experience. And when I asked her she wasn’t completely sure if my desires were overpowering hers. So I decided to try and turn down my volume. This is a very abstract act that I interpreted to simply being: Wanting less. So I began to tweak all my wants, desires and needs around her and this situation. I started to “want what I wanted less”.

As my own volume went down I started noticing that I slowed down. The conversation and the cuddling became slower. I did less, and I performed less. I was less driven in my movements and my desire, and more inspired by her needs and desires. I noticed that I didn’t need to perform, I could simply let her act and become a reaction to her. I went into a state of having almost no voice of my own. And then something strange happened to my interpretation of immediate physical reality.

Since her physical form is much smaller than mine, I had my arms wrapped around her so that I could touch my elbows with my fingertips. As my wish needs and desires diminished, I noticed that my physical size shrank with them. Not in the sense of the actual physical volume becoming smaller, but in the sense that I saw myself as smaller. She felt like a planet that I couldn’t even dream of moving. My intuition told me that if I tried to move her, then I would be moved. My touch became one of gentle brushing against a solid immovable object. My form was suddenly found within her space, rather than her within mine. I was engulfed in her area/zone/space and I was suddenly an explorer inside a vast world with many more details and inspirations that I could possibly imagine. I insist that this was not a feeling though, it was the actual impression of physical reality that shifts.

I had become a smaller person.

She says about the experience…

”I could definitely feel more space when you turned down your volume. I could feel that there was less of “your noise” (I’m not saying that in a bad way, I don’t find the right words right now) and so I could take the time I needed to tune in with what I wanted. Or in a way I felt like there was more space to co-create, like when you dance with someone and there is no leader or follower, you just move together and it creates something beautiful.”

Finding your sense of size

I understand that it is a bit abstract to talk about size. Noticing your sense of size is a bit like noticing sitting on the floor, and then noticing that you can imagine that you are sitting on the ceiling. Maybe you can imagine that you’re really not on the floor, and then look upwards and notice that you are looking “down” at the ceiling. What I want to convey with this is that sometimes we take our interpretation of reality for granted. This can lead us to think that it is fundamental reality, and that it cannot be changed. In the case of size I was surprised to see that the change was incredibly immediate and intimately observable.

What I mean by size is the sense of your spatial representation (quite abstract I know). Maybe you remember cringing when you feel ashamed, trying to fit into your sense of size? Do you remember growing in size as you felt pride? Thus fitting into your sense of spatial intuition. Your actual relative size to other physical objects is of course static, but your sense of relative-own-form-size shifts all the time. Normally outside of your control. Most of us feel comfortable in our own size so we relax and simply “fall into our body”. Some feel like they should be bigger or smaller, or experience a dissonance between their body shape and their body image.

Here I wish to talk about actively matching your size to those you meet. That means to some extend letting go of the hard link between your desired size, experienced physical volume and what I will from here on call your sense of size. That is the size sensed as you finally experience yourself. Perhaps it would help to take extra care to notice how people puff themselves up, or shrink physically. Notice when others make you feel small, and see that the word small here is not really a metaphor, but is actually a shift in your sense of size.

Listening instead of playing domination games

In my experience it is a magical feeling once two people try to match their size, in that both begin to listen intently to the sense of size in the other, and so balance their will and importance. If this doesn’t make immediate sense to you I suggest you to play a game with a lover.

Sit down with a person you are comfortable kissing. Now kiss the other with the intention of noticing exactly how they kiss. Do they use the upper lip or lower lip most? How much pressure do they apply? Do they chase you or do they pull back more often? Do they use the tongue, and how much, and how? Now that you have gotten a clear mental image of the way your kissing-partner kisses, both of you take a ten second break to think about it. Then you kiss your partner in the way they kiss you. See how it feels to you, notice what is different.

I came up with this game by accident in a restaurant in Lviv, with no intention of using it therapeutically, but have done so since.

The effect of matching our size means that no-one is more important. No desire or want is stronger, and so guiding and manipulating will become absurdities. That leaves a reliance on that which ‘just’ is, and in my experience leads to a profound ‘common experience’. An empathy with a shared experience that I believe is present underneath all other games. Usually though it is hidden away behind personal agendas. This empathy can become so strong that you will be able to describe intimate physical sensations in the person you are communicating with. My own intuition is that it is not really empathy, but a description of the same shared experience, as it is, seen by two beings at once.

If you find it hard to control your sense of size, I would start out by first controlling the drive behind your wills and wants. Just turn them down, shrink them in size till you want less. This in and by itself may be very hard for you, but you can turn to imagery like seeing your desires as an image in your mind and just making it shrink. I wouldn’t suggest increasing the potency of your desires to meet size. Rising up to someone is more like meeting a challenge, and I feel it is up to the one who is talking the loudest to quiet down rather than others to speak louder. I feel genuinely sorry for the loud person who cannot hear, and cannot hear that people are asking him to quiet down. Sometimes all we can do is wait in silence for someone to scream themselves hoarse.

The effects of matching sense of size

When you match your size with another person you will likely experience a sense of synchronization between desires and sensual experiences.I felt dissonances only when the other person clearly began either having an agenda, or instinctively wanted to be guided. Overwhelmingly the experiments with size have been received with a positive feelings. My sensual/sexual encounters especially have gone from being ones of desire and fulfilment to playful exploration of a common experience. Games of “what might he/she want?”, “if I say yes to this, do I then also have to do this?” and “I wonder if he/she really wants me?” turned into just feeling what was immediately in front of all of us.

There may many ways to achieve a balancing of intention, will and sense of importance between two people. In my experience balance was connected directly with my own sense of size. I ended up spending a lot of time experimenting with my sense of size and it has lead me to a very profound way of meeting people and recognizing and sometimes avoiding games of dominance. I’ve been able to meet people who felt heard and seen in a way that made them open up and share more of themselves openly. I personally believe that there is much more to these fundamental impressions about our physical being, and that they can lead us to a deeper understanding of our feelings and of being in the world.

The war of state vs corporation

One World Trade Center View from New Jersey
I wish to repeat my claim that the regression towards authoritarian governments is a reaction to big corporations gaining influence on a global scale. The corporation fulfils the same role as the state, and so they find themselves in direct competition. In some cases this has lead to confrontations (Australia vs Coca-Cola for instance, and Apple and Samsung vs many different states). In many of these cases the companies find themselves ruled against by courts, but still find a way to win the confrontation.

States are immensely important when economies are based on manufacturing of products, mining and farming. These things require physical nearness and transportation. The transaction costs are lowered substantially by having a bordered country, wherein armies can defend the roads and keep internal transactions safe.

In a world where transactions are mostly online and costless. And transactions are distributed and non-local then the corporation has a strength in its purely symbolic nature. A corporation is not tied to a physical location, and thus do not provide safety for physical transactions, nor does it provide space and laws for how land may be utilised or products be transported. In return it gives the flexibility of sourcing workforces wherever they are needed, and where they are cheapest. They can also access the physical products required (copper, uranium, titanium, oil, silicon, silver, rubber etc.) where they are, instead of transporting them to a specific location.

Countries swing right in order to defend themselves against corporations. This is not completely obvious yet, but will become more and more obvious during the next twenty years. Corporations will move their profits and their work to where it is cheapest, thus slowly leeching the energy from the states, and retaining them in their structure. They gain in integrity as they drain countries of their inherent ownerships. Ownership is a key indicator for a countries strength, and integrity is a key indicator for a corporations strength. It is a bit like mass and energy, they can be translated to each other, but at a cost.

Countries seek to close borders, tax big corporations, focus on physical production, minimise workforce-travel, shutdown international trade as means to prolong their existence. Corporations fight to get around these rules and break through by strong-arming the countries.

Politicians seem to grow more and more inept, and the path for a good politician seems to be that from a period of governing countries and unions followed by a lifetime of governing corporations (sitting in board positions and director positions). Being a politician seems almost to be a trial period to be allowed into where real power resides. Meanwhile those who stay behind are those who do not support the shift from semi-static centralised government (democratic country) to dynamic decentralised control (international corporation).

The fluctuations in politics today are strictly speaking less important than we think. We should pay a great deal more attention to the fluctuations in corporations. Banks and investment firms can bring down nations and provoke wars, and so also inhibit them. It is in the corporations firm interest that inept easily pushed over politicians are put into positions of power.

Obviously we cannot do without the state, it is the basis of the corporation still. But the state is being subjugated by the corporation. It is being forced into a position of providing service and physical infrastructure to those who are important to the corporation. This usually means the big cities where the most workforce is located. This however may change with radical outsourcing and working from anywhere strategies are employed.

The biggest challenge the corporation faces currently is its own internal transaction cost. Currently a kind of kingdom/republic model is used to form hierarchies in corporations. This comes at a high cost and eventually inhibits the size of the corporation. It is old transaction cost wisdom that when the internal transaction cost goes above the external transaction cost then a corporation will stop growing. For the corporation to grow beyond its current size it will need to adopt radical ideas like self-organisation and decentralised leadership. Once companies do this however, they will easily outgrow the current cap that is artificially in play because of the default internal hierarchy.

Corporations are still based on ownership so we will still see a shift towards one corporations gradually becoming the owner of everything. This is not a bad thing. It is essentially the one-world-government many are looking for. It reflects the fact that we are one world, that we are working to create something and that we all want to make it better. The outcome has been states for a long time, since the personal barrier for travel was quite small. You’ll notice that where states began they are quite small, and where the idea of a state was implemented last they tend to be bigger – reflecting the ability of the individual to travel. But in the future as the individual has complete freedom to travel the world will become a one-world government. Though we will probably know it as the one world corporation. And I don’t see anything wrong in one world cooperating to create a better tomorrow.

I say adieu to the politicians today, and hello to the CEOs of tomorrow.

My most therapeutic dream

I lay down. Close my eyes. Perform my breathing exercises. These feel like crying and laughing at the same time, but without the head and mind. Just the body performing these two tasks, with no sound and with no tears. No facial expression, just the body breathing and going through movements.

I become tired. I slowly drift off. I face my own decoherence as I observe my singular center dissolving into the confusing cloud that we call sleep. Most aren’t conscious while they sleep, it takes practice. Some believe it is boring, it isn’t though, time doesn’t feel the same way. The mind isn’t thinking unless provoked.

I begin to dream, and I notice that I have taken a bit of urgency with me. I don’t know why this is happening though but it becomes my entire reality. Just like waking up, I awake into my dream.

The nightmare part 1

I am in my room from when I was about seven or eight years old. Something odd precedes this vision, something I do not understand. A vision of me lying down, I hear a man’s voice, I can make out the sounds but I’m not able to understand the words. It flashes me forward into my room quickly, or maybe not, time is strange. I’m in my old room, it’s messy, because I hadn’t yet learned the quality of order. I now see it as messy, through the eyes of someone who have not learned the beautiful pattern of order. I recognise a strange tickling dissonance between my current and past self. A girl stands naked in the room, she must be between seventeen and nineteen, I can’t tell. She stands with her back to me performing some sort of operation. She’s a sex symbol, I understand, a sex symbol of my younger mind. Next to her is a small table with wheels, made from metal. It is like the trays you find in operating theatres. It has an undreamt number of tools that I simply know to be there, but my imagination does not bother to pull them forward.

I am filled with a kind of dread that I cannot fully explain to you. It is the dread of a child watching a horror movie for the first time. No parents are home, and I know I will need to spend the night alone, with the memory of what I’m about to see. Yet I move forward, compelled by the tide-like current of the dream. I am moved towards her, and she turns suddenly with a big grin. I cannot see her eyes, or maybe I will not see them. I am so afraid of this horrific witch-like demon who nakedly is performing some sort of operation in my bedroom.

She laughs at me, not an unfriendly or cruel laugh. A bubbly joyful laugh, which makes everything even worse, then she pushes me back. And I stumble back and fall among books and complicated toys that are scattered on the floor. I rummage around this pool of mechanics and literature that supposedly represents my childhood. Outside the door I hear footsteps, the door is right behind me. I am so afraid, because I know that if anyone comes in they will think I was the one doing the obscene operation of… Of what?… My mind instantly performs incredible jumps of imagination, a baby, a small pet. I used to have a hamster when I was a kid, what happened to it?

Filled with terror that someone would come in and see me as the awful butcher and torturer who then performed a malevolent disgusting autopsy in my room. They would think I did it. And they would then hate me. My eyes fill with tears, and part of my mind reports that I am crying with fear – outside of the dream, in the bed, in Austria. Hypnotism has its strange moments, most noticeable when you hypnotise yourself into reporting bodily functions like this. My obsessive compulsion to control my mind speaks volumes about how I perceive my own center. But I remain in the dream, caught in the shackles of a cold fear. A fear that someone will see, that which is lying there dead and cut open.

She laughs again and I start out of my premonition. I push myself up and push her aside, and with a magic stroke (some can fly inside their dreams, I can apparently produce black bags out of thin air) I have a big black bag in my hand, I begin scooping all the evidence into it while she laughs. Even though I know she must know that she did this, I feel shame at her laughter. She looks at me as if I am the one who did this, she shames me for the act of removing the evidence. I hear people at the door, I push the remaining tools, bloody paper and other surgical leftovers into the bag and clutch it to my chest.

She blows me a kiss from the window sill, and jumps out into the dark night. I remember the big windows of my childhood home. And how terribly square and black they would be at night. I always feared seeing a face outside of them. Now I just see my reflection, a young child clutching a black bag to his chest. Not knowing what is in it, I hold it close, feeling something move in there, probably dying. I just know it’s a baby or a pet or something horrible.

The door opens and my father comes in, he is naked. He is very happy and starts talking and poking dad-jokes. He walks like I remember he did – he still walks this way now that I think about it. With a bit of a dance to his step, as if he is a little bit more happy than everyone else. He tries to see what’s in the bag, and I cry harder with fear. I push at him telling him to go away. I am so afraid that he’ll see what I am hiding and think I did it.

A second mucknh harder fear hits me. This is by far the strongest fear I have ever felt. It feels like an icicle going through my breastbone. Like a hard sharp thing cutting through the front of my chest. This is the feeling of that fear, it is so intensely physical that I don’t bother identifying it. This is the fear that as long as I hold this bag, I will need to push everyone away, because if anyone saw what was inside, they would hate me, and think I was awful. So in that moment I know that I will have to push anyone who gets to close away, that I will be alone forever, because of this bag. Because of this horrible evidence of a crime I didn’t do. Something awful happened, but I didn’t do it, I wasn’t at fault, but who would believe me? I’m sure no-one. So I push him away.

My mother comes in now. She is slightly mad (crazy mad – not angry mad), but also very jolly. She tries to get the bag as well, and I cry and tell her to go away. I scream that they should all just go away and leave me alone (I’m not kidding, this nightmare truly was this symbolic, it seems a bit silly and over the top, but I report it exactly as it was dreamt).

I sit there, so afraid that I will be alone. That I will never let anyone close, because I know they will want to see what’s in the bag. I’m alone in my childhood room, crying on the floor, and crying in my bed in the Austrian mountains as an adult. Knowing that anyone who comes close must be pushed away, violently if necessary, especially those who wishes to get close. I will need to hurt them in order to hide what is in the bag. The alternative is too painful, to be judged as the torturer.

The waking nightmare

I wake up. Partly by choice, also from sheer emotional stress. I’m gripped by the same fear, but now I begin seeing faces on the walls. The swirls in the wood become judging eyes. The solid night behind the curtains stare at me through its gaping mouth. I am experienced with psychedelics so I know to control myself and acknowledge that experience isn’t always reality. I feel like I have two minds, one is very calm, almost detached, and one is completely in terror, close to hysteria. This is what it feels like to experience a traumatic experience, I know this from books.

I reach out to my phone, almost not daring to reach out from under the covers. I fumble to get it out of flight mode through eyes that are filled with tears. I’ve turned on the bedside lamp when I awoke somehow, I don’t remember doing this. I open my facebook messenger and look for someone active. A girl I know who is a psychologist is active, I write her, and she is there. I let my consciousness flow directly into the keyboard, and she gives space and listens.

She can tell that I’m fairly distraught and my battery is running low, I’m at 8%. She suggests listening to some music I like, and I feel almost stupid to not have thought about it. I put on some of my own piano playing. The second the wellknown song played by myself sometime in the past comes in I feel that this is absolutely right. I begin to calm down slowly.

The nightmare part 2

I drift into a dream like state. Still holding the phone in one hand. The music keeps playing through it’s lonely solo piano, I know every note, they came from my own hands after all. I know exactly why they are timed the way they are. The dream begins to resurface, the child sits there, among books and nerdy toys. Clutching a black plastic bag, sobbing silently.

My mind is completely held by the music, so I hold out the bag in front of me. I decide to open it up. I reach in and pick up something soft, and warm. It moves slightly, a small spasm, a cramp. And I’m so afraid to see this babys head or pet or part of something, some gristly gory thing. I take it out, and I’m astounded. Not only in my dream but also my meta-self is astounded. I feel my meta-personality go “Oh wow”, and it begins to cry tears of joy. My meta-self stands behind me and goes “Oh wow Theis, you didn’t know… Neither did I”. And my meta-self is right, it didn’t know, and I didn’t know. No part of me knows this…

In my two small hands in front of me is nothing more or less than my heart.

And I look back on a life of keeping people away, because if they saw what was in the bag they would hate me, they would condemn me. For having a heart, for having needs, for being vulnerable, for not being ok when something hurt. They would only like the man without the heart, the perfect man I had built who could not get hurt. So I hold my heart there, and finally understand that a small step has been taken towards a vulnerable life.

There is no such thing as knowing what you feel and this cannot be understood

Something happens. This is usually the beginning and the end of my philosophical reveries with my dear friend Peter. We usually set out from that island of acknowledging that we both are under the clear impression that something is happening. And after sailing through dialectical storms to islands of reflective beauty we always return to the same port of call: Something happens.

My feelings existed before I named them. I can’t immediately recall this, but I trust that something was felt even before I started talking about it. I can recall sensations of fear and safety from my pre-talking self. They are usually triggered by smell or touch. My self wasn’t clearly defined yet, so what happened did not happen to me it merely happened. There was no one it happened to, no self. It just happened as things tend to do when not seen through the limitations of subject and object.

My feelings still exist before I name them. And if they go away, I would not be able to put my attention to them and then name them. Just like I don’t randomly blurt out the names of coloured animals unless I am inspired by a sensation. The sane does not have the prerogative of suddenly saying “pink monkey!”.

My feelings do not arise as words from a magic eight ball. They are not like letters swimming around in a murky pond, slowly floating together to form words. My feelings exist like sensations, much like those of my senses. They are slightly different in nature though as they often take up the spaces that my senses do not.

Many of my feelings are inside my chest and belly, where I’m notoriously low on nerves. But it is not the case for all feelings, some also live on the surface of my face. I can get a feeling of sadness that is like a warm wet blanket on my face. I can get a sense of joy that is like an uplifting sensation of my jawbone. Many of my joyous feelings lift my body up, and make me forget about gravity. The feelings I identify as sombreness are usually paired with a weighing down. Even pleasant physical tiredness is like a sense of anti-gravity, a strange lightness paired with a buzzing sensation on my skin. A feeling of tingling at being still. The opposite can be an agitation of my joints that I identify as a desire to move or change something.

Sometimes when I perform a kind of physical therapy I will hit upon a place in a body where there is a stiffness. I usually perceive this as a way of holding against the feeling happening there. A guarding reaction of the body, like the one you have if you sprain your back. With a sprained back you will feel lots of pain at moving, and so you learn to hold your muscles ready and tight to keep everything from moving too much. This same reaction I often feel in other bodies. Just today I had the experience of feeling someone holding back an intense feeling of heaviness around the front of the upper chest around the collarbones and throat, and I asked whether or not it felt lonely, and drifting – if it felt vulnerable. The reaction was very immediate.

As a therapist I am often put face to face with feelings described by words. Usually people are very adept at saying what they feel like, but they have no idea about what it is that they identify as this feeling. It is a bit like people so adept at seeing that they can’t see the light but only the flame. I may ask what sensation it is that makes them identify the flame, and they simply say that they see it. They see the flame. But there is no such thing as seeing a flame, it cannot be seen. A flame has a sound and a spelling, but it has no light, except if you look at the printed word. A flame is an interpretation of a particular pattern of light. When I report a flame, it is because I see a brightness that overloads my eyes, I identify this as direct light. Around it is a coloration that is usually reddish, which gives rise to a pattern that I identify as a flame. A lightbulb is different because it is more round in its shape, and the area around it isn’t coloured red. But I see neither lightbulbs nor flames, I see light.

A flame has five letters and the light it shines has the exact same number.

And going even deeper I don’t even see light, because light is simply an expression of the phenomena we experience around the area of our pre-ontic space that has to do with vision. We have identified this as “being somewhere” close to that which we identify as thought. But all these things are essentially just different things in the same space. Like squares, triangles and circles are just different things in the same space (shapes on planes). Thoughts and light – and even the sensation of pressure and taste – are the same in that pre-ontic world. So there is no light, just sensation – or phenomena if this tastes better to you.

This particular sensation I identify as light, and then as flame. The first identification (from pre-ontic whereabouts to light) is not a mental process, it is a spatial process performed by my whole being. It is more an expression of how I am wired together as a being. There is a connection between some things that spatially puts the sight apart as a thing, it is a systemic identification. The second identification occurs when the systemic identification pumps the signal into the brain and the brain spews back a visual image of the word/spelling, a sound and other associations (fight, flight, eat, have sex with, etc.).

So I don’t feel love, fear, disgust, compassion and all the other words my brain may produce as interpreted associations for the thing that happens. Somewhere in the space I have access to (my entire body with brain and all) something happens. This is happening at a place, as dictated by its location in the three-dimensional interpretation and its cybernetic position as dictated by its connections to other things in the system. This which happens may well be happening in the belly or in the throat. Then after it is placed in spatial terms, it now has a pre-ontic disposition that may give rise to a mental ontological analysis (which is indeed what is being performed here). After this is achieved the everyday-mind produces associations for the pre-ontic disposition and produces what most identify as the “reality” of what is going on. It is a bit like playing a computer game and thinking that the things on the screen is really what is happening in the computer. Obviously your computer isn’t full of pacmans, orcs or plumbers, this is simply an ontological interpretation of the associations based on the pre-ontic input. It has been gifted with the quality of being. This quality is the hardest one to understand for our minds, because they are currently only working with this. It is as difficult to access the pre-ontic as it is to play a computer game only seeing the code flow by. So to access the pre-ontic one must first learn to read the pure output of reality. This is not easy, and it is also very easy.

The idea of qualia infects much of consciousness talks in an attempt to talk about what being is. But it fails in its pedantic use as the redness of red and the beauty of the sunset. These rather harmless attempts tend to shroud the more disconcerting idea of the quality of being.

It is not easy to read the pre-ontic because all we have learned is to function in an ontologically digested world. Things are labelled and defined by our common interaction with them. Signs, labels and buttons are most of what we interact with. It is rare that we interact with raw substances, and this is often confusing to us. Chemistry, physics and software are seen as mostly confusing. Dance, sex and feelings are even more arcane. Because the first set are bridges between the empirical and the rational – which essentially is the same as pre-ontological and ontologically-digested. The second set are actions which have a clear pre-ontological nature to them. They are inherently ungraspable by the tweezers of rationality, they cannot be fully understood through decomposition.

It is easy to access the pre-ontological because you wouldn’t function without this skill. You have done it all of your life, and you will never stop doing it. But most likely you have gotten so reliant on the ontologically digested that you aren’t able to see the forest for the sky scrapers and power plants you built on top of it. You are out of contact with nature, because you constructed a huge city of concepts on top of it. You have defined understanding as seeing how a new building can fit in with the others. This means that understanding is performed through naming. A child with no language who points questioningly at a cup is answered by “cup” by the well-meaning parents. But this would most likely lure a martian into thinking that we perceive physical things as aids for remembering sounds, and not the other way around.

If a martian points to a cup, we would likely demonstrate its use in various scenarios. But when dealing with humans we have decided that understanding is simply naming. This gradually turns into an over-reliance on words and interconnected webs of words and grammar (made of words). They are used to solve problems, and we only notice that they aren’t solved when everything comes crashing down. Economies are essentially structures made from words, and they are very functional, but they end up overshadowing what they were built upon. To such a degree that people are surprised when they watch documentaries about how economies started and what actually drives them. You could say that the gold and silver standard has been removed from our entire language. There is no backing anymore to words describing feelings. The feelings of love, lust, desire, hate, fear etc. are now purely fictional implements subject to crashes and sudden fluxes. Just like economies with no backing.

Many spiritual practitioners promote some of the ideas I touch upon here. But do so by layering even more words and concepts on top. So I must underline that I am in stark disagreement with 99% of any spiritual practitioners who speak of embodiment and awakenings. While I think they have the right idea, they simply lack the skill and intelligence to fully grasp it and end up digging themself into another word.

I believe that personal seriously curious introspection is the only cure to this. To sit down and just notice exactly how the process of identification is happening. Some of my greatest teachers have pushed me into meditation and I strongly support this practice. But blind meditation is pointless, one should first have a grasp of the space outside of the brains mindless regurgitation of associations. Before that it often becomes a mind-game. A trying to “not thing”, which feels like “I try to do nothing, but fail” when performed under the illusion of being “just a brain”. I suggest exploring movement first, aggressive and pleasurable, practices of dance, martial arts and tantric yoga inspires many. It can help to open up the eyes to that which is outside the mind. But it must be personal and not guided by a teacher. The journey must be one of curious exploration, of true introspection. And this begins with understanding that you are the only one who is travelling in the space that is you. There are no teachers here but yourself. There is much more to being you than meets the brain.

Postscript. You who are reading this, are for all intents and purposes an ontological creation. You have named yourself and so created yourself in your own image. You are the false god of your own stories. But false gods have much more power than real ones, because false gods doesn’t need to follow the rules they put out. Perhaps I should name you a free god instead. Free will is a strange spillover from the ontological analysis and self-naming.

Early morning lonely

It’s three in the morning, and the rain drums quietly on the roof. I walk ponderously between sleep and wakefulness, going through frustrated dreamlike states of loneliness. Different people are shown to me, and my mind expresses a backward desire for being reached out to by them. Blames them for not knowing that I’m alone, frustrated and needing to be seen and loved. My mind proposes strategy after strategy, in its unending helpfulness. This is my primary way of dealing with loneliness: Planning. I stumble into one dead end after another “Maybe if I wrote this person, in this way…” or “Maybe if I said this when I meet that person…” but they all fall short. I know I will be a different person when the time for plan-execution arrives, and what I feel is happening right now.

The raw feeling is not one of failed planning though. The feeling is that of a physical weight on my chest, and the sensation of an iron mask on my face. It has no symbolism, it’s just that physical sensation. I can try to tease it apart with an analytical scalpel. Turning it into words and concepts, but I already have clear primal understanding of what is going on. It is the sensation of being alone, and it feels wrong. I am in my bed alone, and it doesn’t feel right, and my body is reaching out. My brain tries to help, asking “What if I did this?” but my body is no more advanced than when I was ten years old and missed my parents. Through years of suppression I have forgotten how to physically react to it, so I simply lie there and stare into the darkness like so many insomniacs before me.

My body insists that something is wrong, the pressure remains on my chest, urging me to do something. My mind goes through scenarios and solutions, propositions of what I could do differently. How I can build to protect myself from this feeling.

But something deeper is wrong, because I can write this for everyone, but not to anyone. There is no single person I feel comfortable reaching out to. There is no one that can know this. Because no one has the keys to the inner sanctum of my cathedral. The doors are open, and the cold stone floors and massive pillars are on display. You’re expected to talk in hushed tones, but no one even knows of that room five stories below, where a heart beats. And I don’t blame them, because it is hidden away with great care; not open to tourists. The most you will get is a picture on a post card.

I have built my relations with my strength, with my can-do with my know-how. I thrive in being alone most of the time, and I consider emotional outbursts and loneliness to be weaknesses. When people are out of control I mostly react to it with a controlled caring facade, but I’m rarely able to hide my patronising disgust. If their lack of control hurts me or ends up asking me to change, a cold gate will immediately slam in their face. Unfairness cannot be tolerated after all. This disgust is also at myself obviously, so I try to prove that I am sensitive, by exposing that which seems sensitive, rather than exposing that which is sensitive. I tell the story of that which resembles openness, rather than tell the reality of that which needs to be seen.

I was surprised when I learned what the word vulnerability meant. I thought it meant being hurt and in a state where you should be hiding. A state where people could easily utterly destroy you in case they saw your moment of weakness. I saw it as being temporarily weak, and open to attack. This is partially true, but only when seen from the narrow point of view of the fighter. I only learned very late in life that it meant: Letting someone in to a place where they can hurt you… Or heal you. It struck me as such a surprise that this was the meaning. To give someone the keys to do either. Admitting to those around you when they are in a position where you are easily hurt by them. Doing this in the context of a fight is suicide, doing this in the context of love is required. If the keys are never given, you will never be hurt and never be healed.

A few months ago I am sitting in the opening circle of a contact improv class. People are sharing how they feel mentally, emotionally and physically. A more than average number go into crying and hugging sessions, sharing various diagnosis’ with the group. When it comes to me I say (in a feat of classical me-ness): “I feel emotionally stable and physically strong”. It’s a pun on all of their pain of course, and it’s funny enough to illicit laughs from the group. It’s not funny enough to stop anyone from crying. I have the feeling that some wiser person sits in such a group, looking at me, knowing what is happening. And in that persons wise kindness it feels sorry for me. But at that moment I’m hard and blind.

I pay for it in the middle of the night of course, when there is no one to reach out to. When my mind’s go-to reaction is strategic planning on what I could say or do to make someone reach out to me. At all cost I want to avoid being vulnerable to the specific someones. To all those people who holds the keys to my heart without knowing it. It’s so easy for me to blame them for not reaching out, to enter into a state of bitterness, or regret at my own failings to share. But the truth is that I didn’t tell them. I just left the keys at their place. Like that friend who knows how to fold the origami birds. Who always makes them from a random scrap of paper and leaves them on your table. You keep them for a little while, but then just throw them away.

In my fear of vulnerability, I made it clear to the world that it shouldn’t come close. Don’t piss in my cathedral, don’t even talk. Don’t even think about crossing the velvet rope that leads into the basement. Because to me vulnerability means being hurt, and not healed.

I’m not fixed in this obviously, I could make it seem so. I could make this out to be a “story of me as I was” but that would utterly defy the point. I don’t write this to be seen either, I don’t write it as an invitation into my cathedral; that place is closed off to the public still. This is me, as I am, I’m ok with that.

I write this because in my writing the most common feedback I have gotten is “I feel less alone in my feeling”. I write to remind myself to be there when someone reaches out to me in their loneliness at three in the morning. Because if they dare to do this, maybe I will be inspired by their bravery and do the same some day. For now I’ll just go back to bed.

Poly-partners without rush, ambivalence and expectations

Discovering partners

I’m openly polyamorous. I don’t currently adhere to the idea of a primary partner. The result is a group of people I consider partners. There are three criteria I use to identify my partners.

  1. A partner is ok with being described as my partner publicly
  2. A partner is someone I take with me in my heart wherever I go
  3. A partner is someone I have a specified commitment to

Hand holdingThe first is quite obvious. If the term partner is mostly a label used to describe relationships to the world. Then someone can only be a partner if they allow me to describe them as such. What I mean by taking with me in my heart is that I consider them in my decisions. If I’m about to do something risky on my snowboard or I’m thinking about moving to a different country, then I will take the feelings of my partners into consideration. There needs to be at least one specified commitment. It can be an easy commitment like seeing them if we are in the same city, or maybe committing to staying polyamorous (this one I don’t go without).

In many cases there are feelings of passion or desire with my partners. In many cases there is physical intimacy. But not in all of them, and sometimes it is love without physical intimacy or vice versa. Indeed it may just be someone I’m practically committed to; a very important friend who fills up a very unique role in my life. Or it might be that we are going through a period of being apart, and so passion and desire are in hibernation. My way of identifying a partner is not one based on love or physical intimacy, it’s one based on testable conditions. Because I’m not monogamous, and I never make commitments based around special rights, I don’t need the title of partner for anything other than communicating with the outside world.

If you put this together you may ask whether or not any person living up to these criteria is a partner. And my answer to that is a loud booming YES THEY ARE! And this is essential. I am not trying to find partners, by asking someone to be my partner. It is simply that when the three criteria are met, that is when someone is identified as my partner. I discover that they are a partner, not because I want them to be, but because they happen to be.

Recently I was chatting with someone I feel myself moving closer towards. She is someone I could see myself identifying as a partner somewhere down the road. She described the feeling of closing the distance between us like this:

It lacks the feeling of rush, ambivalence and expectations, and that feels good.

The above sentence inspired this entire text. It succinctly described how I like relationships to feel. Below I will address rushing, ambivalence and expectations. I included my way of identifying partners above to give some context to what comes below.


What often feels rushed about relationships is the hurry to chisel them in stone, or get to third base. We express our desire for something manifest, a title or a symbol, that will tell us that the relationships really is. Instead of simply observing and identifying what is, we seek to make it come into existence by adding expressions that speak of and about the relationship. When haven’t kissed yet, that first kiss seems a symbol of the relationship. When we haven’t had sex, then this must be the expression of it becoming more real. Finally we need our partner to give us a title, and then express that title to the world. Then finally we can accept that the relation is. All this is strange because isn’t it really the feelings we have towards each other that makes us kiss, hug, have sex and put on various labels?

My approach to this is different. I admit that it causes frustration with some people, but I take this frustration as a sign that we don’t really fit together. It is simple: I just wait and see what is. I don’t mind waiting a long time. This waiting may seem a bit like abstinence for the sake of it, but it’s not. My method is pretty straight forward: I begin by building a friendship. Once I identify the person as a friend I will kiss that person when it feels right, and only when I don’t feel like the friendship is at risk. If I believe the friendship may get hurt from a bad kissing experience, I’m not willing to risk it. When it feels good, then I might observe that I feel like having sex with the person, but I will only do it when I feel safe that it won’t hurt the fact that we can be friends-who-kiss. If all goes well and that happens, then I may do it and it may be really nice. From there I feel safe that we can slip back and forth between being friends and lovers without friction. This entire process can easily take between half a year and many years. I can only say that I think it is really worth it, and that relationships built like this have a tremendous staying-power.

I am not saying that friendship must be the base of any relationship. But you should be aware of what you consider most fundamental with another person. Also if you do not agree on the most fundamental aspect it may be hard for you to find an equilibrium. One person may be looking for the friendship and the other for the physical intimacy, as they each consider that the most fundamental and foundational aspect of the relation.


Ambivalence seems to arise when we fear that we will not get to the next level. Our efforts of rushing are failing and we are losing momentum. Our fears drive us towards acting without full disclosure, and this lack of transparency leads to ambivalent feelings in others. We are hunting for that special person to become what we have envisioned them like in our private fantasies, Instead of accepting that it may not be, we attempt to change ourselves to fit what we believe they will be drawn to. While the actor may not be caught lying directly, the underlying sense of incongruence gives rise to ambivalent feelings in the other.

The frustrations that a relationships are not moving forward can also lead to explosions of anger or implosions of sadness, and these can lead others to either shy away or loose respect. It is a big thing to ask someone to love us while we are angry that they do not, or to ask someone to desire us while we are sad that they don’t.

My approach to this is to go for less. I treasure the friendship above anything. It is what I try to preserve rather than feelings of desire and passion. I will not actively engage in physical or emotional intimacy on the foundation of a shaky friendship. Then I will focus on strengthening the friendship. This can sometimes feel cold and distanced to those I engage with, because I enter into fixing the friendship before the partnership. This again is a price I’m willing to pay. Whenever I feel myself wanting the relationship to be, I focus on what it is. I treat it like one of my plants, I can’t force it to grow, only place it in the sun and give it water and care.


I see now that all this is about expectations. Expectation is to know what you will get before you have it. This works well with ordering pizza, and sometimes when making wishes for your birthday. It works pretty bad when it comes to relationships. Let’s imagine we are two people painting a picture together, and we can’t talk while we do it. Having expectations is like me pushing you away in the beginning and drawing all the outlines, then nodding and pointing, urging you to fill in the spaces with color. It’s not really painting together anymore, it’s more like I dictate what will be, and you must fill it out. When you know what you will get before you have it in a relationship, it is truly your relationship. There is no quicker way of killing a relationship than by owning it. I may be verging on stating the obvious here, but relationships are all about relating, and this is a reflective two way process. One relates to the other, and the other relates back.

I think expectations rise when we really want her/him to be that special someone. My approach to quelling this desire for someone is to trust that wonderful people will come my way, and that they will naturally also consider me wonderful. In other words: I trust that those I love will love me back.

This is a blind decision, not a delusion. There is no proof for this, it is simply a thing that is so constructive to believe that it seems foolish not to. It may be completely false or it’s a self fulfilling prophecy. But even so, I believe you deserve to trust it as well. You can only make this decision yourself, and no one can tell you anything that will convince you that it’s true. But I find it unlikely that we would even have a word for love if it wasn’t the case.


To me love is respect, friendship, transparency, passion, intimacy, commitment and trusting that you will be loved by those you love. And as the song goes: This is the hardest thing you will ever learn.

What I found on my way back…

… is lying in a bucket in the sink. Twenty minutes earlier I’m riding my bicycle, slightly stoned on a large road intersecting the street on which I live. As I go toward the large intersection with the intuitively readable but impressively manifold lights, I see it on the street right in front of me. I veer away in order to not crash, and it remains still right there on the ground, as if not registering me at all. My pulse races faster than I could on my single speed mountain bike.

During the next fifteen meters film clips play back in my mind. One is of a boy riding his bicycle crashing straight into it. His bike flips almost over and he lands with the part of his skull that sits right ear against the sharp jagged curb of the sidewalk. His eyes are closed, it’s midday and clouded. He just lies there, his arms and legs at odd yet unbroken angles. He doesn’t breathe. Then a couple goes by late at night. She’s pregnant and they ride very close, almost bumping elbows facing each other smiling and laughing. Maybe they are enjoying the last part of their time together as just two. Her bikes front wheel hits it right on its side and her bike takes a quick turn and she bumps into him, and they swerve. They laugh while doing this, nothing seems truly at risk, and then I hear the startlingly loud noise of an annoyed truck driver. It causes the man to stiffen up at a bad moment and he trips and falls straight in front of the truck and gets caught under its wheels. She screams and her bicycle waves but she manages to stop, but buckles to her knees crying. Then two friends riding home through the night, they part at the street just before but the other continues. He smiles up at the empty cloudless night and then he hits it, and is sent flying… Two mothers with children in seats on the backs of their bicycles… And the images keep coming.

I’m standing on the corner of the intersection now. Just waiting for the images to stop. I turn my bicycle around, and ride back to where I saw it. It’s still there of course, and I kneel down to pick it up. Then I open my bag and put it in, knowing I will most likely keep it with many of my other strange artefacts. As I get home I take it out, and I decide to give it a little bath. Maybe care a little for this thing, that by no will of its own could have performed all those horrible deeds. Now instead, with a little love and care, it may live to do some good.

We all came from fire, rocks, air and water. This is the truth. This planet was once just a lot of minerals, a lot of heat, some air and a lot of water. It combined in strange ways, and now it talks. But when it talks sometimes it forgets to be there with the rocks, dance with the wind, sing with the water and glow with the fire. So when we meet our ancient mothers and fathers out there, in the shapes of all that was here before us, we may look and say: There is my family. Here on the road I found an old father, lying there, remembering times long before anything we call life was present. As I went by him he saw that part of that was also rock, and cried out to me that I should not let him do these horrible things. So instead I took him home, and here I he is. I’ve named him after a dear friend of mine. One who has shaken my hand, taught me what salsa is, opened his door and shared his beetroot juice and his dance partner with me. I name this rock Bob. Bob who has lived before us and who will live after us.

Bob, the rock