08-21-2015, 12:02 AM
Recapitulation is a wildcard in this affair. I had read much of Carlos Castaneda's work decades ago, and I was aware that the staunch disciplined reasoning of Ayn Rand {which was influential} was fairly incongruous to the tricks of Don Juan. Still, I tried recap in a dark cedar closet a few times, and the ten minutes I lasted was equal to my longest tries at traditional silent meditation. I don't have much patience whatsoever.
Yet, when I began recounting childhood as an unintended addition to an unintended writing splurge, arising from unintended marital upheaval, I knew the energies created therewith were exactly what Don Juan was referring to. I then identified the recap and focused. Ideas are very powerful and can be manifested when you least expect it.
I unravelled the most unsavory moments of my existence, and got deep in the mix to remember details-- to feel the emotions. I was besieged with INCOMPREHENSIBLE ENERGIES. I gained some space from the continuous 'wonderous onslaught.' I then intended to take this recap to undeterminable extremes. I wanted to recreate intense isolated moments in childhood that portended to self-hatred and a shameful state to desist being conscious. I understood that I was risking my sanity in doing so, but I WAS GONE!
I was GONE to brutal, unrelenting self-deprecation with the objective of finding self-hatred and totally self-destructive shame. I found neither. Still, the intensity of my machination was unbearable, and I began having an identical repetitive nightmare that was the startling face of emptiness. Every night for two weeks I would wake from this, with the horror of my wife screaming out in accompaniment. My wife did NOT have some sort of habit doing this prior. I got to where I could examine the foreboding in the nightmare as if stopping time. It reaked of undesirable fate and coarse death, and I would come to possesively embrace this nightmare because it belonged to me. It was a suitable substitute for the shame and self-hatred that no longer existed (they cannot exist in my life).
A few things became empirically certain to me. I knew of the morning that I would no longer be visited by this nightmare. I knew that the cummulative effect of these occurences was an unbreachable, underlying equanimity; in no small way I had opened the door to my freedom. However, that same morning, my emotions became wildly undirected as nothing anymore could possibly make any sense. For weeks I was completely lost as to what constituted a proper outlook. I sensed being free, but what is it I was supposed to do?
The beauty of this state, was that it made me gravitate to the underlying peace that was mine without fail (it is there to this day; it will be there always). I detach to be THEREABOUT.
Yet, when I began recounting childhood as an unintended addition to an unintended writing splurge, arising from unintended marital upheaval, I knew the energies created therewith were exactly what Don Juan was referring to. I then identified the recap and focused. Ideas are very powerful and can be manifested when you least expect it.
I unravelled the most unsavory moments of my existence, and got deep in the mix to remember details-- to feel the emotions. I was besieged with INCOMPREHENSIBLE ENERGIES. I gained some space from the continuous 'wonderous onslaught.' I then intended to take this recap to undeterminable extremes. I wanted to recreate intense isolated moments in childhood that portended to self-hatred and a shameful state to desist being conscious. I understood that I was risking my sanity in doing so, but I WAS GONE!
I was GONE to brutal, unrelenting self-deprecation with the objective of finding self-hatred and totally self-destructive shame. I found neither. Still, the intensity of my machination was unbearable, and I began having an identical repetitive nightmare that was the startling face of emptiness. Every night for two weeks I would wake from this, with the horror of my wife screaming out in accompaniment. My wife did NOT have some sort of habit doing this prior. I got to where I could examine the foreboding in the nightmare as if stopping time. It reaked of undesirable fate and coarse death, and I would come to possesively embrace this nightmare because it belonged to me. It was a suitable substitute for the shame and self-hatred that no longer existed (they cannot exist in my life).
A few things became empirically certain to me. I knew of the morning that I would no longer be visited by this nightmare. I knew that the cummulative effect of these occurences was an unbreachable, underlying equanimity; in no small way I had opened the door to my freedom. However, that same morning, my emotions became wildly undirected as nothing anymore could possibly make any sense. For weeks I was completely lost as to what constituted a proper outlook. I sensed being free, but what is it I was supposed to do?
The beauty of this state, was that it made me gravitate to the underlying peace that was mine without fail (it is there to this day; it will be there always). I detach to be THEREABOUT.