Digital Ischemia

02/07/2017

The Fly and The Mountain

Gliding through vast mountains on one of my observational learning expeditions, I spot a guy with a hefty head-load trekking up a treacherous pass. I alight masterfully beside him. He greets me with annoyance.
“Stop hovering around me like a fly.”
“I seek a drop of wisdom, as the fly awaits a bead of sweat.”
“You’re not even getting my sweat. Piss off.”

I am supremely unrufflable. I aspire to that infuriating spiritual superiority that would allow me to chuckle all-knowingly at any example of the atrocious suffering of the human condition. I float patiently, shadowing his trudging up the path.

I could remove his burden, his basket of headstuff, to the top of the mountain with but a thought. But he would not thank me. He would complain of someone nicking it before he got there. He would complain that he might want something out of it meantime. He wants his luggage with him. It’s part of him, of his life. I have no such attachment. I quickly check that I have remembered to imagine my physical manifestation as clothed.

A couple hundred yards ahead, a boulder broods beside the path. A mere thought deposits me and my irritatingly beatific grin there. I imagine the guy will soon approach a shoulder in the path, see the boulder and take in my omnipresence. I expect his expletive.

I return to my observation. The guy is relieved by my apparent departure. He is otherwise fully present in this moment. Full marks there. He relishes the effort and the reward of his journey.

Ah! There it is. ‘Reward for effort’. As he comes into view, his face indeed churns with renewed rage. I signal to him a cheery wave of thanks. He responds with the economy of two fingers.

I flash back to my ascetic eyrie to paint up today’s learning scroll. My thanks go to the universe for providing this experience purely in order for me to learn this lesson at precisely the right time. My egoic smugometer throbs pleasingly.

26/07/2015

Fractallite

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 11:00

Not that I was ever fast, but the fatigue slows me down and allows me to experience much more of my world. The pain focuses me on sensations. To paraphrase John Muir, I go inward in order to go out: I see my adventures in my mind, still hoping that one day I may re-experience them, but not attached to that; it is the story of my learning that experiences I hanker after will never come, while those that I have now are the ones to be savoured.

As my feet tread the carpet, my head follows its scalloped flight path through the muir. I have been walking a mere 15 minutes, and I am no distance from where I started, but my head is already a mile gone. It turns out that it doesn’t matter how far you walk. Success is not proportional to quantity. The slower you go, the more detail you see; in fact you’ll see just as much on that smaller scale.

14/09/2013

Remains

Filed under: Flash — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 17:09

Why is my path strewn with carcasses? Every time I come here: remains.

After each session I allow my mind to settle before setting off. Nuggets of insight that I must capture on my… Well, it’s a reused packing slip. Point for ethics. If I don’t scratch out these gems now, they lurch up as I negotiate a mini roundabout. Beeping is negative reinforcement.

For now I’m walking. Back and forth, trammelled along a waterlogged furrow of grass cuttings, failing to avoid clumps of silage adhering to my shoes.
White movement: beneath a pine, a rabbit on its side, back hyperextended, revolving spasmodically then still. Nearby is a patch of plucked tufts of fur. It’s rear leg hinges up bizarrely slowly. I don’t see it breathing. I glance up, expecting a chagrined buzzard. I have no idea how to kill it, end its suffering. If I stamp on its head I’ll end up with with rabbit brain and silage shoes. The rabbit’s dying and I’m watching, nuggets gone.

Half way back I stop to check the roadside. Still there: a pair of roe deer fore-legs, elbow to hoof. The blood has rained off the concrete. No longer there: the smacked swallow.

Home, I have to wash my hands. I touched nothing, but deathly vapours circulate my fingerprints. A fruit fly has expired on the soap. That’s just stupid.

What’s the trite symbolism? Four-wheeled is forearmed; fly like a swallow, don’t swallow like a fly; preyed comes before a fall. Porno-class punnery, the aphorisms of my life.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.