Confirmation bias

Confirmation bias

Worrying about dying
will actually shorten your life.
By up to one 7th of a lifetime.
(It has even been scientifically
proven).
Being concerned with other
peoples judgements
will make you seem even worse
in those other peoples judgments.
(It has even been sociologically
proven).

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Self-sabotage, and other existential (t)errors

So, I started this blog with the intention, or rather the experimental sensation, as a kind of test of where things could lead. Something to try. Perchance, a dream, or even something more than a dream. A pathway… ahead. Or the most broken and unstable stepping stone (by my feet). But it was never meant to be anything definite or permanent. At least not at first. This whole blog was just meant as a trial, or a test; something temporary, until hopefully in case something better came along.

So… why didn’t I see what I had actually (had and have got) going RIGHT HERE? However imperfect and work in-progress. It was still something that was getting somewhere, no matter how slow and gradual the journey, or that step, might seem and appear in the process.

Was it the perfectionst in me that started to rebel? My very own imperfect so messy blog? Things that are not up to my impossible standards? At least parly, I think so.

There was also the question—the SENSE—that I had got off on a wrong foot. Sooo and sooo many things that didn’t turn out the way I planned or hoped. So many piles of smaller mistakes, or at least what I considered mistakes (at the time).

But maybe, most of all, was the failure to connect with other people. Which might stem out of a low sense of worth (“I’m just not good enough for other people…”), as well as being very defensive/protective and insecure about things in some ways.

So I didn’t open up enough. I didn’t share and connect with other people on a more personal (or even a more… HUMAN) level. In the midst, and in the in-between, of all of us who are struggling&living right here.

So why did I stop blogging when I’d already gotten close to 100 followers in just 3 or 4 weeks? (and at least some exchanges with others.)

I just couldn’t take the pressure. At least that was part of the reason. All this attention—->all these eyes and senses… moving&creeping closer, and steering their minds towards old little *ME*.

So I abandoned ship. The only thing I seem to know well how to do (when things get out of hand, or when I just don’t know anymore just what to do). The thing I always seem to do: Sabotage so much for myself. Putting these (imaginary) brickwalls and obstacles, terrors and chains, in front of myself. Sabotaging…. my own LIFE. My own self. (And yet again. And again. And again. Why… is that so???)

So here I am. Considering all the options and choices of the future. If I should try to pick it all back up, all the little pieces. The shards and the things, I discard. Cause they’re… “just not enought perfect enough.” Cause maybe *I* am not perfect enough (or at least that’s what I think).

I thought that maybe I would start another blog sometime in the future (and this time I’ll get it right! This time… only this time… I’ll get it all right. From the start.) I thought that maybe I will just quit all of this blogging business. Maybe I will find something else. Maybe I should just go ahead abondon ship. BUT… What is there else but the  waters around me? Don’t I need a raft… or some craft or foundation… or an island to stand up stady, or even a ship to sail about on the seas and the waters?

If I write something good, or at least somehing that get other peples attention, I become scared from all the attention. If I write something less good, or at least something that doesn’t get other people’s attention, I become afraid that I’ve ruined the blog, or that no other people will care about me or it anymore.

I become scared out of being alone. I become scared when gaining other peoples attention. A catch 22. A bouble bind horror, of psychological dread. The horrific paradox of old: you’re damned if you do, ,and you’re damned if you don’t. So why don’t I just DO? I’ll get damned—or at least I THINK I’ll get damned—no matter what I do.

Well, that’s the million-dollar question. Just what should I choose? And what would I lose, or even maybe gain? (If I don’t remaind here so stuck, in the same gloomy old place.)

So. I will think about re/turning and/or maybe keeping on blogging. I will consider almost everything and everything else.

And then, I’ll hopefully make some kind of choice. Maybe a wise one, or a increadibly stupid one, but at least I’ll try to do and get SOMETHING—even ANYTHING—done. With everything that I got, and with what I want.

What say you? What say I? This is a chance. This is a moment of life. maybe all of my life. Or at least some kind of path… that may lead somewhere else. (or.. yet again: grow ever-deeper into a forest or a garden, so ever-more blossomed, and so ever-more large. Like a moment of time, or even one whole life.)

 

Wolf in the Flow

Werewolf-in-the-fold

Wolf in the flow

Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.

Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
skin,
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a’ things,
reatttttatched
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.

The metaphor that is us

The metaphor that is us

That the metaphor could be us (&—ourselves)
is just what someone
much too wise (and/or crazy)
might say (and yet where’s the differerence?).
As a something—to be–,
no—not in the things—
but in the way
that we are…. that they are…
each thing’s selfness and same-ness…
their distant far-ness and nearness.
Just like a wide-open field
projected to points
that can never be quite known.
For the whole of this field is still needed
to embrance just this one
point .
(Among so many others).
The one that is us (= ourselves)
or something just slightly else (that is us?)
that can never quite be known.

3 cheers for munster quark

3 cheers for munster quark

Hours hath turned
among the dunes and waves.
A lake of blood
and a tear,
bubbling brewing
slightly over
the edge of this land.
With a hand
pushing rocks
like a betlee,
rolling each wheel
of great machines,
half-beat measures of life
and all warmth,,,,
the other judged now
as death,,
the most frozen
of fingers
and edges.
nearly splitting from shaking.
with a fracture
just from moving at all,,
about and alongside
this here one ground.

As a ship
in between… summer’s crown
and the greenest of frost.
Breaking open and loose
with this here one bottle,
spinning in time
or a tide,
with an eye
collapsed
by a hook,
turning back
all the sands and hands of time
as a cheer
echoes forward
across this star-board.