I Am a Singularity

If you listen to somebody enough, your thought pattern takes on their speech pattern. And if that speech pattern is violent and harsh, then your thoughts become so.

I have witnessed this in myself.

I have seen since the beginning of working at the mill that I have been sinking into the thought pattern of those that i work with. And when those that I work with are always shit-talking, I begin shit-thinking.

You can fight it.

You can decide not to listen to it.

But eventually, because it is your own thought pattern now, you begin to act on it. I have become less loving and more harsh. I have taken upon myself an exoskeleton because this world dislikes the gooey people.

And I am gooey. Whatever you say will stick to me and take form around me. The innocence of what I was is buried 6 feet beneath this sludge. Then it dries and it cracks. And that has become my exoskeleton. That is what my identity as Drew Overmier has become.

I have to continually dig out of this muck, scraping away from the inside, and some days, when I’ve been away from people long enough to scrape and scratch and dig, I poke a hole through the surface and I see the sun. And it’s beautiful. And I can breathe. And then it is quickly covered by somebody else’s shit. Somebody else muck. Because we think that giving away our muck is how we get rid of it. We are like wildfire, thinking that if we spread we will go out.

Maybe if I could clear myself away from this muck once and for all, I could learn not to be so sticky. So gooey. And I could love freely and be innocent and whole.

But that will not happen at the rate I’m going.

I will mostly die in this exoskeleton made of other people’s speech-patterns. And nobody, nobody is going to let me out, no matter how much I try to imagine it. No matter how much I want somebody to come along. No matter how much I need for it to happen, it hasn’t yet so all evidence goes for me to say it won’t happen ever.

So I’ve become used to being a golem, an unformed creature. I’ve decided to view my innocence that is scraping its way out as a void instead of a thing. A black hole. A singularity.

And that gives me hope. This means, whatever you throw at me will, yes, stick, but it will also be consumed in the vast compression of a singularity, a black hole. And it is only a matter of time until you have no more shit to throw at me. No more muck.

There will come a day when my inner peace, my constant struggle to compress and digest, my singularity, my black hole will free you from your own exoskeleton. And then, on that day, we will both be free.

Cosmic Posture

An item is but the cosmos holding a pose. The item, the image, the thing that we call a thing, flexes and then relaxes. From chaos, the item comes to be, and to chaos will it return.

 

A rose grows from a bush that was once a seed. The seed was once a rose. This circle goes all the way (presumably). “What came first: the chicken or the egg?” Neither; a single cell organism! (Again, presumably).

 

So, the cosmos dances.

 

So, the cosmos does yoga.

 

So, the item doesn’t really exist. It is a projection of what we are witnessing in transition; like the crest of a wave or the constellations of the stars. We give chaos meaning. Conscious thought gives meaning to nothingness.

 

No thing.

 

There is no such thing as a thing, you see? Every thing is chaos dancing, the cosmos doing yoga. Every thing is really a pose held by the entire world.

 

And you are included in this.

 

These words. Your thoughts from them. The empty spaces between them. They (and you) are all one.

 

So, apply this to life. If you feel stuck, if you feel suffocating, if you feel stagnant… chances are, you are. So, move. Change position.

 

This is yoga.

 

First, notice the pose you are in that is causing you grief. This can be given a name or simply acknowledged. For me, I have no name for my upset, my suffering. I can’t put a finger on it.

 

So I change my pose.

 

When I say pose, I can mean your literal pose (i.e. posture, position,…) physically, or mentally. This is what changing you pose looks like.

 

I realize that I am suffering so I stand up. Or I sit down. Or I bend over. Do a pose. This allows me to come back to my body.

 

But, location is everything. Location is also a pose. If you are still suffering then change your location, go somewhere else, go for a walk! Just don’t be in the same place, the same pose, for too long.

 

Because everything changes. Why shouldn’t you?

A Beautiful Day

He sat at the red light and let his eyes drift between planes of focus. Like a camera fading into a movie’s scene, his focus changed from the specs of dirt and bird shit on the windshield to the trees blowing in the soft wind. Everywhere was calm around him, yet his head rushed with the thousand voices of a waterfall, if a waterfall was instead powered by thoughts and not water.

 

“Come on,” he said aloud, “it’s my turn.”

 

Finally the light changed. He wasn’t sure if it was the kind of stop-light that senses whether you and your car are “there” or not, but he cursed it for not “seeing” him. He didn’t even notice that the stop-light cursed him back for equally “not seeing” it.

 

It was tiring at work because he had nothing to do. It was a long day because he was bored. Like his eyes, he drifted from one thing to the other, never quite settling… never quite focusing. Never being quite “there”.

 

The guys at work weren’t very helpful. They too were busy jumping from one thing to the next to be of any help for him. He cursed his freedom in his job, but then he praised it. He was feeling angry for what? Being left alone? How many people would kill to be left alone during their work day? And here he was, wandering the lumber yard like a single mother wanders between the baby and a good book.

 

“Come on,” he said to the forklift. It had jumped a little when he hit the uneven graveled road that was “the yard” and shifted the heavy load he was carrying. It was sketchy. A board teetered and threatened to fall. He was tense and held his breath. He didn’t realize that the forklift was equally tense and held its breath too.

 

The load was lowered, the board’s suicidal attempt was prolonged. The project of sorting wood was established. This 6×6 goes here and this 4×4 goes there. Let’s put these 1×8’s up front where there are some like it under a roof and out of the rain.

 

His mind was distracted. His thoughts were preoccupied. It was what the mind wants: to be busy. To have something to do.

 

Then he blinked and he was at home. He remembers all the way from the lumberyard to home, he remembers going to the pub and getting a drink, he just didn’t feel like he was “there” until now.

 

And now that he was “here,” he was suddenly aware how loud it was in the quietness of his apartment. How busy his mind was, even after he sat down.

 

He breathed and felt like he had been holding his breath for a very long time. He listened to the buzz of the refrigerator and felt that he was listening for the first time all day. And here is where he liked to play a game. He liked to, now that he was looking, notice all the beautiful things that surrounded him now.

 

There was the way all the walls in the apartment were covered in impossible texture that held as many shapes and faces as the clouds. There was the color shading in the sky outside: how many different colors could that sky hold? (Yes, perhaps there is only one word (blue), but how many colors is the sky truly a part of? Not only more than one, but more than two… and maybe even more than the common seven, just that we haven’t named all these colors yet.) There was the fake blue of the water bottle in contrast to the sky. There was the “crop circles in the carpet” that changed shape depending on which direction you swipe your finger.

 

And this was just vision!

 

What was beautiful, he realized, is so much more than what looks beautiful. He began to listen, to smell, to taste, and to feel where he was, which was sitting on the floor by the natural dying light of the sky to his right just outside the sliding glass doors. There are words to describe beauty, but words just point to the beauty. Words beguile the reader into seeing this beauty just as museums trick the eye into seeing art.

 

It is all around you. Don’t just take my word for it.

Wachoo!

His sneezes were that of a Canadian Oak falling, bludgeoning the tranquility of a drippling creek. Someone, somewhere, heard him sneeze once. He looked out the window of his house, startled with an exclamation of, “oh shit!”