conversations with god

it’s always that one word, that one moment, that one feeling that brings me back to my crib.

conversations with god. the words sank into my soul as instantly as they vanished from the page a moment after flaring up. i tried to find them again, to recall their context in the text i was reading but they were not there anymore. it doesn’t matter, i know it was destiny prompting me to do something about my fading soul.

i have been clearly avoiding the topic. in february i asked god to drown everything in snow so that everything can stop and restart again but i have not expected it to happen so fast or so naturally. he chose the most merciful path, really, if we look at it that way. he could have chosen something much much worse, in fact, this pandemic masquarade really doesn’t qualify for a proper reset, if for any kind of reset. just some smoke and mirrors to stir up the peace.

i am overdue for a conversation, if not for several. but i am scared to climb out of my sweet oblivion. only at times, when i fixate on the moving hand of the wall clock and follow it’s walk round and round through many minutes, along with the clicks of acknowledgement of each second it passes, only when i start to be aware of the unidirectional nature of this movement, that i can’t stop it, slow it or turn it back, only then i feel the defeat of my own resistance to such conversations. he sits on the hand of the clock. he holds the walls of my room together and he keeps my blood flowing in the right direction. he knows oh so well what’s going on and laughs at my fear.

we are getting closer and closer and it chokes me up. i want to run but my legs are suddenly made of lead. i don’t want it. i feel like a small animal hopelessly cornered by its predator. i don’t want him. i avoid him. what are you afraid of, he finally says. and my soul stops running. i am not yet ready to surrender but i know it’s imminent. just as he said about that memorable and heavily contested moment when i finally let him lay his hands on me, that he did not convince me to make love with him. he just held my hand as i walked through the door to being honest to myself. it still sends me chills through my spine. not so much the memory of making love, but how this statement made me feel in retrospective.


what are you afraid of, he asks again, knowing well that i don’t have the answer. but he still plays with me. fine, then let’s have a conversation. why did you listen to me in february, i asked. – i didn’t listen to you. you just guessed my next move, – and he says this with a smirk. the player. – what do you want to know, he asks. and i become very very vulnerable at that moment. – everything. i want to know everything, how you started it all, why you started it and where you’re going with this. – these are silly questions, you realize, right? – why? because there is no answer to it or because i couldn’t understand it anyways? – he looks at me long and with a shade a pity. – what is the one thing – if you were given the choice to keep only one thing, one concept, one word, that connects me to the world, that connects you to the world, that connects you to me, only one, what would that be. you could look at it as last chance. last word before dying. if the world was stripped by everything that is good, and there was absolutely nothing left, and you could keep one thing only. what is it. – and he did it again. he slashed me with just a few words. with one question. or a few. but kept it simple and short. he knows what my answer is, and he knows i don’t want to say it. he knows that is where my fear lies.

he smiles and gets up. we are not finished, you know that, right? we just got started and have much much to talk about, much to make up for all those long and dark years. we are just merely taking a break. for now. and he slowly leaves while I’m torn between a sense of relief and a desire to continue. but he won’t be going far, i know it, and i am looking forward to the next conversation.

Crime scene

I haven’t been back here for a while, and I realized it is out of fear. Out of fear of seeing you and remembering it all and hurting. But like the criminal that runs and erases the memories of the crime he committed, who subconsciously is drawn back to the scene of the crime, eventually turns up, to open up the wounds and process them.

I mustered enough strength because today I’ve met with friends on the rooftop patio with a marvellous view of the city, and between the drinks, the chats, the music and the city lights melting into the warm Summer dusk I felt so intensely alive that my thoughts wandered back… To you.

I realized how much I don’t know you. How fascinated I was by you that I forgot to breathe. I held my breath as if I didn’t want to disturb some kind of fragile harmony created by our connection, and as I held my breath I forgot to take a good look at you and memorize the color of your eyes, the number of creases around your lips when you smiled. I forgot to question why you wouldn’t kiss me and why you were so sparse with affection, I forgot to question myself as well that maybe you did not see me the way I hoped you would see me: beautiful, desirable, enigmatic, inspiring. Driven by my own desire for your closeness I held my breath, I assumed, closed my eyes, and dove into the unknown. Into the tornado of emotions.

A year ago we were at Toque where we were as distant as it gets, and all I remember about you is that we were sitting beside each other chatting when some rude girl came, interrupted us and asked you to dance, and you got up without a word and went off. That move in a way symbolized our connection and I don’t even understand why I caome back to reminisce about it.

Yet there was, there is something that has not been sealed and closed. An unfinished edge of the slate, that seems to be begging for work, whenever I revisit the crime scene. The metaphor seems a bit harsh, yet again, there is something perfectly fitting about it. And while it needs some more reflection to be molded into the proper words, there is a gut feeling about it that defies all doubt.

THE CHILD AND THE SERPENT

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I couldn’t recall where I knew him from, but there was a certain familiarity about him. He seemed to be of a mixed race, with predominantly Asian features. He was relatively reserved and mysterious. We danced. Our synchronicity was natural, we connected like a hand to a glove. There was a sense of a third person in the room watching us, so we were not alone.
Next we were in bed, a couple of feet away from each other, trying to fall asleep. I was restless and craved his closeness. It felt as if he was watching me from the corner of his eye, but kept his distance. And then from behind the bunched up part of the blanket laying on my chest the brown fluffy head of a spider emerged and I tensed up in fear. It was quite close to my face and was crawling out towards me on the blanket. I tried to move the blanket off my chest but I was frozen in terror and started screaming. As always, when I have nightmares, my voice got somehow muted and my screaming was near silent, although the effort was there. He was half asleep and half acknowledging what was happening, then reluctantly reached out his arm towards me. I tried to grab it, while continuing my almost voiceless and motionless struggle to escape, and I think eventually it all passed, and I was sobbing on his arm.

That’s all I remembered when I woke up. I was shaken and the pain was still flashing in my chest. I turned on the light, sat on the side of the bed and thought about the dream. I haven’t had nightmares for a while, but I have never ever had arachnophobia or spider-related dreams in my life, and this was unexpected and out of line. I was absolutely terrified of that spider and I had no clue what triggered such an unusual fear. Then it occurred to me that it must have something to do with him. The guy in the dream was in a way his embodiment in another form. I remembered that right before going to sleep I was reading about the recent gofundme project a friend started that he was also part of, and his name popped up several times, as well as his words… Every time I see his name, it triggers me and the buried pain resurfaces. Months have gone by without any contact with him, and days if not weeks without even recalling his existence. I have made a conscious effort to erase his memory as much as possible, after I deleted our conversations. And yet I am being triggered every time I come across anything that reminds me of him. Even our common friends. Unbelievable… I remember vaguely that at some point during our… drama?… he said I am not going anywhere, you will always see me around… He meant the dance community. I didn’t make much of that at the time, and definitely didn’t realize the weight of that truth. I don’t think he did, either…

Our relating was like that of a child cradling a serpent. Young children are known not to be afraid of snakes. The child is drawn to the beauty of the serpent and plays with it, unsuspectingly. Then eventually the snake bites the child. It is not out of evil. Snakes don’t bite to harm, they bite to defend themselves. The child is injured and cries, but doesn’t quite understand the situation, and once the pain subsides a bit, she crawls after the serpent…she wants to play some more. She cradles it, and marvels at it, plays with it and then she gets bitten again. Serpent slithers away, child cries, child calms down, looks for the serpent and the cycle repeats itself. Until she makes the connection and is hurt so much, that she finally develops an aversion to the serpent and starts avoiding it. In a way, that is what happened… His poison – that is not malicious, only dangerous and painful – has caused lasting damage, and has never really left me. Will it ever?…


The purpose of life

There is no purpose beyond that what we create.

His purpose manifests itself through writing. He writes selflessly – mostly – to effect change, and with a sense of mission, perhaps that of being useful or helpful to another. That is why he gathers experience after experience, where each is an opportunity for inspiration and creation with a mission.

I write selfishly. I write for myself, and if I share it, it is out of a desire to be understood. There is nothing worse than living a life and taking all of the deep and colourful intricacies of one’s soul to the grave, without sharing them with another human being.

He, beside Steve back then – was the only person I ever met who had some kind of potential to understand me, and tame my monsters. What does this statement have to do with the purpose of life? Nothing…

Spiritual archeology

There are too many coincidences in the spiritual realm to call them mere accidents. I have stayed away from this blog since the pandemic started, in fact I avoided it, partly because I didn’t want to expose myself to some painful memories that have now settled and transformed. Then suddenly today a political idea visited my creativity, and I grabbed it and wrote it out. A few minutes after posting it, I clicked through Facebook and came across a fundraiser created by a friend. A couple of sentences into reading the description my breath paused, my heart skipped a beat and it wasn’t until I scrolled down to see if an author was named that I realized what just happened. My suspicion was confirmed, he wrote the description, in his familiar, eloquent way.

As I read him again just like I did a little over a year ago when I first came across his writing in French, the exact same, inexplicable phenomenon happened, that happens every single time I read him. That mix of awe and shock paired with a certain recognition and familiarity. I would have to dig very deep into my own soul to understand that out of hundreds of articles, blogposts, books, essays, texts that I read and have read over the years, what kind of wicked combination of words trigger this absolutely unique reaction that I have to him. Is everyone who reads him triggered this way, or is it something programmed in me specifically that interprets his expression and flow of thought in this manner.

Looking back it was inexplicable how the first time I read him, my limited French comprehension led me to the same understanding and reaction. What kind of understanding is this? I don’t know. The closest explanation is finding the reflection of my own soul in his use of words. Is it the choice of words, is it the order of the words, is it the flow of thought or the thoughtfulness behind the meaning? Yes and no. And all of it and something more. Something invisible, that lies between the lines. In the space between the words. A charge of some sort that hits me like lightning upon parsing his phrases. The shocking thing is that it doesn’t matter if the text is in English or in French, it’s all the same. There is a sense of deep recognition that is not language dependent. Some sort of spiritual recognition…which I will never understand, since he is far gone, and has never let me close enough for long enough to explore and identify the roots and cause of my affinity for his spirit reflected through his writing.

I could go back and dig. analyze every phrase, the structure, the intended meaning, the sentiment, the intention and the unintended disclosures of his soul. It would give me joy, since one quick read barely scratches the surface, and there are tremendous treasures underneath it. I could do spiritual archeology, to uncover every little detail and gain insight into this magic, but I dare not. It is blinding as the Sun. While one is drawn to it and would like to take a good look, at the same time one feels the destructive nature of that merciless brilliance. I can’t go back, and fall in love with his soul all over again through reading him, and then desperately pursue him, begging a crumb of his time here and there to share himself with me, while driving myself to insanity. Wisdom says, some things are best left to the unknown and to oblivion. He is one of those eternal mysteries.

Donald Trump

I never thought I would write a blog post about Donald Trump. But he is such a conundrum and there must be an explanation to why a raucous, fussy, child-like, emotionally and intellectually immature, narcissistic adult leads the so-called greatest nation of the world. The country that was once the cradle of the American dream that all the people in the world somehow grew up wishing for. Trump – The Reflection of A Nation, I’d like to say but I have way too many friends across the border that I love and respect, and Trump is as far fetched from them as it gets. Trump – The Shame of a Nation? It doesn’t really work, look at the Patriots. The more I read Q-Anon files – courtesy of a conspiracy theorist friend that I was once in love with – the more I am baffled by how so many people still back this mindless, useless puppet. And then it sinks in. The Fear of a Nation. This is the closest I get to some sort of truth that needs quite a bit of digging in order to be uncovered, though I’m afraid I will never care enough about US politics to make the effort needed to do it. It smells like fear. The fear of white men that they will be permanently stripped from their white American dream. As America becomes more progressive with the times, as well as more colourful, these Trump-like grown-up looking babies who’s fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers sailed over to the Americas to build a new world, and have passed their vision on to their offsprings – now squirm and scramble under the unexpected and unforeseen changes to their fairytale world. They are choking under the pressure to accept different perspectives of their world as new cultures, new ethnicities, new Gods invade their once homogenous sanctuaries. Insecurity, frustration and then a deep subconscious fear sets in that reeks miles away from their communities, and they carry around this fear throughout their lives, projecting it through intolerance, arrogance, entitledness and racism. And one day Trump shows up who looks and sounds just like them, who is not afraid to voice their shared emotions, who promises to restore the American dream to its original greatness no matter what it takes, and who sounds unscrupulous and ruthless enough to carry his mission through. He is their Hero. Trump is the American Hero of the victims of the failed American dream. So there he is, hated by half and loved by the other half, a thickening wedge in the crack of an irreparably divided country, laughed at and mocked by a whole world, yet shamelessly paddling away in his puddle of grotesque idiosyncrasy. One hand typing on Twitter, and the other one… clutching the Gold Codes.

Light years away

I’m racing, flying across time and space, I pass planets, solar systems, galaxies, I run through past, present and future. I see everything, every colour, hear every sound,feel every texture, trace every shape, I race and pass a million births and deaths as I search for You, my counterpart, my mirror image, my soulmate, my guardian angel, the essence of me that you keep locked inside of you, and you are still light years away on one of the ever expanding universes with no chance to reunite with me. But it is my fate that I will never stop searching. I’m drunk by the speed I’m sweeping through space and by the magnificence of the sites I see on my way that I’d like to share with you. I meet and then walk past many souls and I catch a glimpse of you in them, a tiny part that I recognize it’s of you, and then I move on to keep searching for you.. It’s a dizzying journey, one that has no end while I am capable of thinking, a journey that will only die with me.. My eternal lover, that eludes reality, that disconnected from me at birth and had gone off in the opposite corner of existence with no chance to return. You are light years away and possibly in another universe yet I can’t slow down, can’t stop chasing you, because you are my sun, my moon, my stars that witness the weight of your absence on my soul. I will fly and search for you until the end of my life and then beyond that, forever, into the infinite shores.

Vihar elotti csend

A karanten elso hete semmiseg volt. Ugy tunt hirtelen rengeteg idore leltem mert nem kellett sehova sem rohannom, mindenfele tarsas foglalkozas elmaradt, es egy kicsit utolertem magam az elmaradt dolgaimmal.
Ahogy telik az ido, mostmar a masodik het kozepe tajan egyre inkabb elcsendesedik a vilag, mint a vihar elotti csend es ez a csend kezd egyre nyomasztobb lenni. Lassan leulepedik az emberben a felkavart valosag, es feltor az aggodalom a melybol, az elkerulhetetlen es elorelathato kaosz, szenvedes, fajdalom es harc miatt. Ha Istent korabban hibaztattuk ezert meg azert, –  mert a vilag nincs egeszen rendben es hogyha mi szemelyesen jok voltunk akkor miert jar ki nekunk ez az irgalmatlan  csapas-, mostmar talan lehajtjuk fejunket es leeresztjuk okolbe szoritott kezunket. Az ami most tortenik a vilagban felulmulja megertesunket es emberisegunket, tehetetlenek vagyunk, kicsik es gyamoltalanok mint az anyatlan csecsemok.  A lelkunk melyen talan mindig is tudtuk hogy valtozasra van szukseg, hogy a vilag igy ahogy van, elviselhetetlen es onpusztito. Talan mindig is sejtettuk hogy egy mindent felforgato vihar, csapas, esemeny imminens, de az ember nem tudja igazan gondolattal atfogni a katasztrofat amig szemelyesen at nem eli.

Ilyenkor az ember korulnez es keresi Istent, a kerdesekre valo valaszokkal egyutt. Ha nem bizik abban hogy megtalalja a sajat sziveben akkor korulnez es tarsait keresi, abban remenykedve hogy ok talan dialogusban vannak Ovele, es mar kezukben a bizonytalansag es felelem feloldasanak titka. De amikor az ember a tarsainak szemeben es hangjaban ugyanazt a felelmet talalja mint a sajatjaban, feltevodik a kerdes, akkor hogyan tovabb. Nem tudunk mozdulni, a labunk be van cementezve a foldbe, es a vihar kozeledik. Ide mar egy csoda kell hogy megvaltson minket a szenvedestol. Hol van az Isten?
Es ez a kerdes az imadsag kezdete. Amikor mindenki rajon arra hogy ez felulmul bennunket es az egyetlen dolog amely felszabadithatja cementbe ontott labainkat es mozgasra osztonozheti elzsibbadt tagjainkat, a hit. Az a fenycsova amely attor az eszakan es atengedi a hajnal sugarait a sotet es megbenult vilagon. Amely kinyitja a lelkunk ajtajat az Istennek. Nem szabad lemondanunk es ketsegbe esnunk. Az Isten mindig is ott allt az ajto elott de ugy el voltunk foglalva a sajat haztartasunkkal hogy megfeledkeztunk a vendegrol aki turelmesen ott vart az ajtonal. Es ahogy kineztunk az ablakon, meglattuk a kozeledo pusztito vihart, amint rajottunk hogy tobbe ki nem lephetunk a hazbol, eszunkbe jutott hogy de hiszen ott all az Isten az ajton kivul, csak be kell engedni.  Hogy bejojjon a lelkunkbe es ne kelljen ezt a keresztet egyedul viselnunk, hanem a segitsegevel erore kapjunk mint a Jezus.

Milyen furcsa hogy minden pont most, husvet elott tortenik. Mintha nem is volna veletlen. Mintha ez utalas lenne arra hogy a keresztfa nekunk is ki lett osztva, az egesz emberisegnek, mert nem tartottuk tiszteletbe az elet ajandekait. Es amint a Krisztus, aki a hite erossegeben tudta oly hosiesen megjarni a kereszt utjat, most mi vagyunk soron. Hittel, bizalommal, alazattal kell megjarnunk a rank kimert utat, annak remenyeben hogy tuleljuk. De egyedul ezt megjarni lehetetlen, be kell engednunk Istent, hadd fogja meg a kezunket es vezessen, vedjen, tamaszt adjon lepesrol lepesre. “Uram, nem vagyok melto, hogy hajlekomba jojj, hanem csak egy szoval mondd, es meggyogyul az en lelkem.”

Hard reset

When toxicity builds up in ones life on several channels, this intricate system called life gets severely compromised and everything malfunctions. That includes the physical, the intellectual, the emotional and the spiritual realms.
It is like walking through chaos, bombarded by uninterpretable sounds, sights and sensations. We were not designed to interpret chaos, we don’t have senses for that. That is when a hard reset is needed. Just like when a computer malfunctions, and can’t deal with the simplest functions because it is compromised. A reboot is needed, an abortion of all processes to a stop, and restart.

That reset is the start of peace. Ideally, our system still remembers its original programming so it can reestablish interpretable order upon restart.
A loved one who leaves this world is a difficult process to resolve, especially if their ghost keeps coming back to deal with unfinished business that has to do with you. Then you become a slave of that ghost knowing that they will keep coming back, and you can never have peace, never let go because you still love them. You stare at the spot where you know they would appear from, and even more, you learn and get addicted to conjuring them back from time to time. Until the day of the reset. Until the day they are gone forever, you know that the door to their world is closed and they will never come back even if you wish they would.

Today a hard reset happened. It was a bit painful, probably similar to something like getting a tooth pulled out. It was fast, sudden, shocking, and it had a clear shadow of permanence. Today the present and the past connected into a circle, an understanding had been met and a door had been closed and bricked up, so it doesn’t exist anymore. The memories of deep connections have sunk back into the background of the subconscious, to only come out at times if triggered. It is time to let go of good and bad, pleasure and pain, inspiration and frustrations that are related to this connection, let them all fly out, move out into the void, where everything is one, there is no definition and no separation between entities.

Being human is a dream that we live in awake mode. It comes with a lot of imperfections, a lot emotions of which most are unnecessary. Nothing serves purposelessness. Since the thought of purposelessness is unbearable and unacceptable, we pick something as a purpose and we build meaning using emotions as tools. Real-looking virtual connections are build this way as well, and their virtual nature is best known when they break and one remains empty handed and alone, just to realize that one really was always alone and empty handed like a naked child born of a dead mother and an old, wrinkled, used up body after death that cools and disintegrates into permanent loneliness in the grave. This is a monster concept, but it is the only reality in this universe, of which billions of humans occupy a tiny space and time each, alone, living in virtual togetherness that can be broken at any second.

The hard reset is also the acceptance of this reality. We are a tiny and temporary light, made of intricate micro-systems that struggle to function as designed, until they fade and go off into the darkness of the macrocosms. In this wider scale system the minute emotions and ties mean absolutely nothing. They have no significance, we just give them too much significance because that is how we fill the void, instead of embracing it and expanding into it… Instead of transcending our own limited being and communing with the universe where there is no pain, no happiness, no interpretation, just STATE OF BEING. We limit ourselves by adhering to or adopting other beings’ ideas, or adjusting ours so we can find commonalities with others, when it is not necessary. The separation from this world, leaving everything behind, transcending our limited being and going off into the universe is an easy and fast process. Infinite peace is only a liberating thought away.

Write it out 36

Futile Love

It’s a bit like falling in love with a fictional character in a book or in a movie. Your mind creates this intricate emotional circle inside of you anchored in some deeply rooted need for love. You as a person, your need as an emotional component and the fictional character. And the string that ties them together. Completely irrational yet such a vivid emotional reality that one lives day in and day out. It is futile because it doesn’t serve any part of the equation. It doesn’t serve you and of course it doesn’t serve the fictional character since it doesn’t exist. Unless he/she exists but doesn’t participate, and doesn’t need any of what you have to give. Futile love is like life. A lot of effort goes into it, not because it makes sense, but because one has no other choice… At the end, there is nothing. Life ends in death and futile love ends in empty hands, just like in trying to grab and hold a handful of water.