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I believe wholeheartedly that men don't want to be promiscuous, women make them this way by tying their self esteem to sex.
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Most “high-achieving” people i meet who “thrive” under modern conditions have some sort of unquenchable cookie-clicker pathology where they derive trashy fulfillment from hoarding something (items, money, social capital etc.). The people without this hoarder thing seem lost/tired
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Atheism is an attempt to make the self accelerate by feeding the soul into the fire. An attempt to become a flower capable of blooming anywhere, in any season, when the flower's beauty depends precisely on its refusal to bloom anywhere but the one little spot it has chosen
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what annoys me about magic (occultism more broadly) is that all of the functions, insights and methods central to it as a practice that supposedly make it important are realised much more pragmatically, rationally and pro-socially in the arts
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Buddhism can free you from lust, anxiety, greed, etc., but what about your upbringing, those small manners of a country?
Unknown to me before this day that the Ajahn called Nyanamoli is from Serbia. Before, I thought perhaps he was Italian or Slovenian, going on the accent, but it was unclear and curiosity in this direction, misplaced. Buddhism has freed him from the immediate trappings of nationality, another attachment.
I long for universality, the chains of circumstance loose, the walls of place fallen, the final cosmopolitan become.
Yet, I love art, and isn't an artwork the most provincial of things? A world itself against empty nothing.
YouTube.be/zpY26oZ1Igw
ALT The Ajahn called Nyanamoli
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I genuinely cannot wait for filmmakers to catch up & tell the modern male tragic romance experience. So many real stories dying to be told.
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I don’t think I can bear another second without everyone launching every nuke on Earth at once.
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When I trawled around Boulder and slept in my car I saw a lot of interesting things. Crashed a few college parties and got thrown out of them too. I got a whole page to myself three times in the Boulder Weekly. In many ways it was my town.
The strangest thing I ever saw there though was ironically the most mundane. I was walking at night and through the window of this house I saw a young couple fighting. They looked like they probably attended UC Boulder. I mainly saw the girl. She was shouting and emphatically waving her arms, face puffy from crying, and she was naked from the waist up. I was a little embarrassed to be lookingin on such a lurid, private scene, but I was also transfixed. I wasn't supposed to be seeing this
I've always liked walking around. It's surprising what can happen. Sometimes you meet the local schizophrenic and find out what his deal is, or cross paths with a friendly cat, and sometimes you see something that is totally erroneous. An emergent glitch in the matrix.
It was in that moment that something clicked for me. My ex-girlfriend had looked just like that on some nights when we had our fights. One had been so bad that it culminated in her slashing my face open with a kitchen knife, narrowly missing my eye. But it wasn't just us or just me or anything special, really. We are all trapped in the bottle. We are all lost and confused, and looking for love or understanding and finding none.
This girl might might not take out her boyfriend's eye tonight, I thought. But this has all happened before. It's happened billions, trillions, unfathomable numbers of times, throughout generations, centuries, eons. Some analogous event might have happened to an alien couple in another galaxy 10 million years before. Existence isn't quantifiable, but the breadth of our experiences is incredibly limited. It's all one story, one song with an interchangable melody, repeated by different peoples through all of time. And it is both wonderful and incredibly foolish that we all start out thinking things have only ever happened to us alone, that our feelings matter in the particular.
So, anyways. It was a humbling, existential experience, seeing this mostly nude 20 year old losing her shit like that. Tits bouncing and youthful, round, fae features distorted. And I'm not just saying that as an excuse to perv. Or maybe I am. Not like there's much else worth doing in the first, and we have all the time in the world to laugh about it later.
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Others have possessions, friends, lovers, careers, family, reputations, decorum. They would not risk venturing into the wilderness. It is me that life has chosen to strip bare and offer nothing to replace. God has chosen me alone for some grotesque, amazing fate.
"The Lord gaveth, and the Lord hath taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
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In anime I found sensitive, soft, beautiful conception of romance. I expected it to appear in real life. My parents did not love each other, friends did not believe in romance, it never happened. I found this at young age. I still hold this feeling inside, remind myself of it.
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On Love—"it would be the merciful deed of a protective divinity to rid us of love and to liberate the world from it"
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Solution to the homeless problem: incarceration for anyone found sleeping outside, unless they have applied for and acquired a "wandering philosopher" license, which comes with it the duty to engage passers-by in dialogue about matters of virtue, knowledge, and the state.
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My impression of women is that they are, on the whole, considerably less sensitive than men in all but one rather overblown (pun intended) part of their anatomy. They are, on the whole, less acutely responsive to sensory & emotional experience.
The question is not one of warmth or coldness, but of sensitivity.
Even in women of the most delicatate and feminine description, I see the same pattern: a certain robustness, a certain indifference to subtle disturbances which men, despite their pretensions of stoicism, frequently lack.
The same insensitivity manifests itself in a thousand small ways: in what many men describe as female callousness; in the apparent indifference of women to male suffering; in those extreme fluctuations of mood which suggest not excessive sensitivity, but emotional insensibility——as if ordinary feelings were too faint to command female attention, & only the more violent varieties could be properly experienced.
It is because women are emotionally in-sensitive that they require their feelings to arrive in their most extreme forms before they register fully, which causes them to move habitually between extremes. If they were more sensitive they would be less prone to mood swings.
Emotional insensivity also accounts for their reputed cruelties, and their curious lack of sentimentalism regarding a number of experiences over which men are inclined to become highly sentimental.
These are, at any rate, among the more familiar complaints.
None of the above mentioned female characerisics, incidentally, have ever troubled me in the slightest. I've never faulted womankind for possesing them; indeed, such qualities serve as a useful counterbalance to the excessive sensitivity which characteristics the male sex.
