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Spirit Vine: Ayahuasca Awareness Program
Morning Tumblr!
My article, "As Above, So Below: Mental Alchemy Through Mindfulness" can earn me the chance to partake in one of Spirit Vine Ayahuasca Retreat Center 's life-changing ayahuasca ceremonies.
http://www.spiritvine.net/…/awa…/mental-alchemy-mindfulness/
If it resonates with you - please share/like it.
Every social interaction counts!
Thank you <3
Pssst, Taxi? … Boyfriend? …Wifi?
My Cuban Chronicles
It’s been 56 years since the Cuban Revolution, and the spray-painted signs all over crumbling, yet vibrant Havana won’t let you forget. Yes, stepping out of the airport and into Havana is like entering a time capsule, but there’s something more complex going on. My friends & I immediately sensed that Havana housed parallel worlds. There’s the world of the ordinary Cubans struggling daily, and that of the yuma, or foreigner, in town on a vacation. They exist simultaneously, yet rarely collide.
Cubans don’t even use the same currency as tourists, they use moneda nacional (MN). It’s worth about 24 cents to 1 CUC. MN isn’t even accepted at any of the places tourists go. All Cubans who are not in tourism have a side hustle because even doctors and engineers make 25 CUC a month (what it costs to get from the airport to the city). Taxi drivers make more than professionals. As such, you’ll find a lot of ex-engineer cabbies. Almost everyone uses the black market to get by, to get things that Americans would consider basic necessities. Many Cubans receive weekly (illegal) USB “packets” with all the new movies and more, to compensate for the lack of internet access.
As part of the emerging private sector (20% of the economy), I found that airbnb hosts were at this odd intersection, straddling the parallel worlds described above. I recommend staying with an airbnb Superhost — they can help arrange taxis for you, get you additional services like a cook, bartender, or masseuse (often the same person), and they can also call in reservations for you, which brings me to a few tips I wish I’d known beforehand.
Top Tips:
Make reservations in advance if there’s somewhere special you want to eat, especially at the following restaurants:
El Cocinero
Los Naranjos
Doña Euitmia
San Cristobal (where Jay-Z & Beyonce & Obama went)
La Guarida
I found this a bit shocking but you really do need reservations even on weeknights. Old Havana is small and there are only a handful of raved about dinner spots - this makes sense considering that regular Cubans cannot afford to go to any of these tourist spots.
Exchange your USD to EUR at the airport in the states and then exchange EUR for CUC (1 EUR = 1 CUC) at the airport in Havana - once you leave the airport, there are very few places to exchange in the city (maybe 2) and they are very slow.
Bring more than enough cash. American money is ok, but you can’t exchange USD there without a 10% fee. You won’t be able to use your credit card or withdraw money from the ATM. Budget about $100 USD a day and that should be more than enough, not including accommodation. Most meals cost about $10 and cocktails cost $3-4, and beer $2.
Off the beaten path are really cheap local bakeries selling bread to locals for $.04 a loaf and street vendors hawking fresh fruit for $.50. Street food consists of sandwiches.
As always, confirm the amount with your taxi river before getting in. There are no metered taxis. A cab from the airport to Old Havana should be about $25. It cost us $25 to get to Santa Fe from the airport as well. Both trips take about 30 min.
Before you leave, download the Cuba App from iTunes - it will work offline & the map will combine clutch. The GPS will work while your phone is on airplane mode.
Be prepared to have absolutely no wifi. There is wifi in select spots but it's usually a pain to connect.
Take the time to learn a few key Spanish phrases like:
“Necesito ir a…” means “I need to go to…”
“¿Dónde está…” when you’re asking about where something is.
“¿Cuánto cuesta?” = “How much does it cost?”
“¿Puedo ver un menú, por favor? ” which means “Can I see a menu please?” You could also say “Necesito una mesa para dos, por favor” which means “I need a table for two, please.”
To order a drink at the bar, say “Me gustaria un/a … por favor.” So if you want a beer, it would be “Me gustaria una cerveza por favor.”
My shitty Spanish was enough to get us by, but it wasn't enough to ensure things didn't go wrong when trying to iron out the details. This trip solidified my resolve to become fluent in Spanish.
The Trip
Day 1: We arrived in Havana and had dinner at the house in Santa Fe, which is a suburb (consejo popular) about 15 min. west of Havana. I was there for one of my best friend’s bachelorette party & we wanted an escape from the city and not to have to split up the group. So our house was perfect for those purposes. It was right on the water and had a small pool. They are installing an infinity pool soon, which will be amazing.
After dinner at the house, we took a taxi into Old Havana and wandered by one of many bars that was playing music, dancers spilling outside onto the cobblestone street. That was the spot where we got inadvertently hustled by a guy named Lando who told us that, “today is the salsa festival” nah, dude…everyday is a salsa festival here.
He then took us to get the “best mojitos” at an Irish pub. We took one sip and it was apparent that we were being hustled. Soon his friend joined us and we noticed them getting some kind of commission for bringing us to this bar. Then there was the whole Buena Vista Social Club fiasco - we told them we were planning to see the band and they told us they knew where we could get tickets.
They took us to Legendarios del Guajirito. It was some bogus place, overpriced and full of older, cruise ship type folk. AVOID at all costs.
Lando was charming & polite, but definitely a hustler.
Day 2: The one good thing Lando told us about was Santa Maria, a local beach about 20 min. by taxi - free chairs and umbrellas. 2 CUC for a chaise lounge.
We drank plenty of coco locos (coconuts filled with rum, $4) and jammed out with our floatable speaker. Our driver Luis chilled with us the entire day and watched our stuff in exchange for a beer or two (but I think he would've done it anyway).
That night we showed up at El Cocinero for dinner, without a reservation, and it was impossible to get a table. So, we walked to the closest restaurant, which was 1830. That place had terrible “second wedding vibes” as my friend aptly put it. The interior had a retro colonial look. The service was poor and the food was lacking, especially considering the price. I hear 1830 is known for good outdoor salsa after 10pm, however.
Afterwards, we headed to the outdoor club Don Cangrejo, on the water. The band went on at midnight. The singer was so suave and grinded his way into my heart. Regrettably, I can’t remember his name but his selfies (flashing on screen behind him) are etched into my memory.
It was weird that there were all these tables instead of a clear dance floor- people just stood up and danced at their table, or right below the stage.
They say NYC is the city that never sleeps, but I don’t think the originator of that saying has visited Havana. In Havana, the party doesn’t get started until after midnight. The clubs are dead before then so plan accordingly.
Day 3: We explored Old Havana, had drinks and a tasty bite at 304. Then toured the city in an old hot pink convertible, wandered round markets, and stumbled upon a free art gallery with some interesting pieces composed of repurposed trash and used objects.
La Bodeguita Del Medio: where the Mojito was invented and a Hemingway hangout. They play good live music (so do most places) and the Mojitos are the best. People gather outside on the street.
La Floridita: Another Hemingway hangout, equipped with Hemmingway statue at the bar. This is the home of the Daiquiri. A lot of older people, but the tasty drink was worth it.
That night, we had an amazing dinner at Doña Eutimia,a traditional restaurant in Old Havana. It’s at the end of Callejón Del Chorro, an alley full of restaurants, to the right. The food is amazing and cheap and the frozen mojito is the specialty of the house.
We had all heard about Fabrica de Arte (FAC) which is a relatively new art space right next to El Cocinero. It’s a gallery plus music venue/experiential art space. Some dudes said it was 10 CUC to cut the line - I was with 5 girls & couldn’t cut the line without paying, which we opted not to do.
We consoled ourselves by agreeing it was pretty much like a Bushwick warehouse party.
Instead, we had drinks at El Cocinero’s rooftop - so many people from Brooklyn!!
El Cocinero is an old cooking oil factory in the Vedado neighborhood of Havana.
Day 4: Viñales day trip - countryside about 2 1/2 hours away.
Taxi there and back: 100 CUC
We went horseback riding through limestone hills and tobacco fields. Our tour included tasting honey made by bees underground, rum with a special type of guava only found in that region of Cuba, a coffee farm, a lake, and a cave.
(A 4-hour tour for 20 CUC per person; cave entry 2 CUC.)
We had a true farm-to-table lunch & the best piña colada i have ever had in my life.
When we got back, we had dinner across from 304, at FRENTE. Unfortunately, they had rude service. The food was good, but they’d run out of all the seafood on the menu (we got there around 10pm).
Although I wasn’t able to perforate the tourist parallel world and experience life like a local and I came away with more questions than answers, I still have a fondness for the self-reliance I saw and tremendous kindness I experienced.
No More Posts About You...
After this one (very “Jude Law & A Semester Abroad” - what can I say? My inner emo is still strong)
I cut people down with my words. I have a high tolerance for bullshit--I can become icy & ignore. That being said, when I’ve finally had enough bullshit, my rage is unstoppable. So, I impulsively composed the meanest text to you.
To be fair, you did lay out where you stood--in a position of cowardice--but you also acted the opposite. I romanticized you, but this was not due any delusional revery - this was because you held me many times at 3:00 AM & told me you “had me,” that you would protect to me and look out for me. You said your favorite part of the day was picking me up from work. You wrote, “Rachel is my favorite person,” on that typewriter in the high desert & a few weeks later we stopped speaking.
You do not say those things if you,“only meant them in the moment.” I want to educate all man-boys out there—this is the epitome of fuckboy behavior.
It was all a facade & I fell for it because I wanted to believe that someone could mutually fall for me as quickly as we did. I didn’t know that was commonplace for you.
And I thought I could change your mind about the future. It was a game to me and I was doing everything I could to win. My whole life, I’ve subscribed to the mantra: "Love conquers all things, so we too shall yield to love.” ― Virgil
Yeah, right. Maybe that was true before the age of Tinder & temptation at a guy’s fingertips.
I hurt myself playing a game I knew I would lose & then I turned against myself for losing. Blamed myself for being too dysfunctional. Part of me thrives on torture, especially involving males. Part of me is determined to encapsulate paradise. I deserve it. Part of me wanted you to prove me wrong and have a grand epiphany that you were not willing to lose me—you were so different in the beginning & our love seemed so pure.
All I know is that, “If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.” At least that Virgil quote withstands the cruelty of failed romance. The mean text I sent you might not be classy or mature, but I felt giddy when I hit ‘sent’ & that felt good.
I’m done writing about this. Done writing about you.
Gems from my no-longer-active Twitter
Cutting The Cord
In this celestial orgy, we are nothing more than endless forms at play--dancing & sparkling in the light.
Out of the chaos, he and I emerged, connected by an etheric cord that bound our love--sometimes the cord would stretch away, long and thin, but it’d always snap back, pulling us close to one another again.
But now it feels like a more permanent ending, which is fine by me. It gives me peace. I think I felt the final etheric cord sever when he asked me to call him because he missed my voice. He told me he was going to Peru for two weeks, alone. He knew I had longed to visit there my whole life & he nonchalantly booked a last minute trip just a week after ditching me on my birthday.
He really had me going again. In many ways he appeared to be devoted to me. I guess I really was wrong—you can’t always trust your feelings. He doesn’t know shit about devotion. Devotion is not comprised of telling your girlfriend she’s the one while simultaneously texting strippers.
Love can never last in this cruel world, but at least I had temporary glimpses of paradise with him & that’s enough fodder to monopolize my memory.
I was pretty deflated about our severed cord, even though I knew it would likely come to this, I just didn’t want it to. I dug my claws into the last shred of hope, the last remains of the once impenetrable cord. Now, there’s nothing to cling to.
So I’ve been thrust back into the celestial orgy, oscillating on crippled galaxies, hanging by twine. No one to hear my lonely plea, traversing across the void.
But I am content with myself, returning to equilibrium. The lyrics of Ms. Lauryn Hill serve as my elysian echo:
Father you saved me and you showed me that life Was much more than being some foolish man's wife Showed me that love was respect and devotion Greater than planets deeper than oceans My soul was weary but now it's replenished Content because that part of my life is finished.
--Rachel Celia
2014 - random poem I made
Trapped in a Kaleidoscope world With electric currents Beating thick like Blood in his veins.
He flows freely-- Though jerks, at times-- Stricken by a fear he can't name.
But he loves her And he knows it's a forever thing But forever seems so Impenetrable And now is the Purest form Of tangible harvest.
Moonstruck and Whiskey-struck, Hungover in lust. Paradise lost and found As easily as the sun travels Up and down the wide stage above.
He calls her the Most beautiful doll And she loves to believe That alchemy is possible And promises, unbreakable.
Her fingers are numb And her eyes lean low. His insatiable appetite keeps her up Late at night.
--Rachel Celia
“The Girl Formerly Known as Carrina Vargas”
I have a bad habit of following local bars and restaurants on social media to nudge myself into checking them out, but that rarely works. Meat Cheese Bread is one of those spots. I’ve been following them for about a year without having made an attempt to go. Usually, I scroll right past their sandwich posts on Instagram, but the other day, I did a double take. They used Noelle, or Carrina Vargas’s, image to promote a SuicideGirls event, “Blackheart Burlesque: Live Tour” that’s happening at a venue nearby. The only part of her face in the frame was her lips, which I recognized, and the pinup tattoo on her right arm was also confirmation. But I knew that Carrina Vargas would not be in attendance.
Seeing her in that promo made me want to look up her profile, which I haven’t done since she was found dead in her car almost six months ago. I wonder if the person who made that promo for the Burlesque Tour knows.
Her photos now serve as a historical record of her constantly-shifting kaleidoscope life.
Scrolling through her pictures, I remembered following my long distance friend’s life in real time and feeling concerned from afar. She used to show up on my newsfeed daily, multiple times a day in fact.
She possessed a sinister beauty—seductive and dangerous—that ultimately proved fragile. Her tiny frame was pierced and tattooed from head-to-toe. She was intriguing and terrifying. The photos mark phases in her life—a blonde phase, a short hair phase, a bangs phase. Yet despite whatever she did to alter her appearance, she always emitted a subtle Girl, Interrupted vibe.
Even though we often discussed the transient nature of things, her pictures made it seem that she had been utterly devoted to and invested in every job, every man, every life she lived.
Serpentine soulmate, shedding our skin so many times that the old versions of our selves are unrecognizable holograms, frozen in time.
Her relationships burned out in rapid succession and I used to feel embarrassed for her. I think I was embarrassed because it highlighted a sense of instability that I saw in myself too and wanted to banish.
Whichever guy she was with was always the love of her life. The pictures show her on hikes with the religious dude who worked out a lot. One of her captions at that time read, “blessed day” which was really odd coming from her.
Then there was the guy who owned a semi-famous barbershop. She let him give her an androgynous hairstyle. She worked there for a moment too.
Then there was the yoga dude with dreads who was a vet by day, stoner by night. She really liked him and he fucked her over big time. I think he was scared of her dark power.
And of course, there was also her on-and-off again finance, the crazy Italian painter/addict who’d pop back into her life only to sully it up again.
When I met her she was with a different guy. We were on the top floor of the Marady Hotel in Phnom Penh. Noelle and her dude burst into our welcome dinner about thirty minutes late. “Hey everyone! I wanna be friends with you all!” she exclaimed upon arrival. She was wearing a black American Apparel dress, no bra. It was April 2013 and we were all about to start our TEFL certification. Everyone else in the program was staying at the Marady except Noelle and her dude, who’d booked swankier accommodations thanks to her side gig selling nude prints of herself on Etsy.
She took a liking to me right away because she quickly surmised that just like her, I had no north star, no fixed way home in the dark. She always called us kindred spirits—it was more than our matching septum rings and penchant for skinny dipping in hotel pools after hours. She too had an emotional rawness and volatility that I see in myself and try to banish. She too had been used and abused by damaged boys who’d thrown punches and ‘I love you’s' around interchangeably.
A hummingbird soul, buzzing around restlessly, she didn’t stick with the English teacher thing long, and neither did I—I kept moving around to teach in different places while she went back to California.
Back home, she worked at a medicinal marijuana dispensary, a motorcycle shop, bartended, all in 3-month spurts, give or take.
We stayed in touch over the past three years, trying to coordinate plans to meet up. The last time I spoke to her on the phone was less than a month before her mysterious death.
She was a bipolar mess but extremely intelligent.
“The Girl Formerly Known as Carrina Vargas” was sometimes how she described herself by that point. She was a year into her PhD, which she funded through her work with SuicideGirls. But she was questioning her motives to pursue this level of academia - her gypsy impulses bubbled underneath the surface, provoking her guilt. She felt pressure; she was supposed to be the first doctor in the family.
I hated the way she spoke over me and tried to one-up my insanity. Oh, you had a rough few months? She was strung out on something, failing to cope with her best friend’s death.
We had finally set a date for her to visit me in Portland. She was going to take the train up from NorCal. But she went missing after Halloween and about a week later, her car was found at the bottom of a hill.
Intoxicated and incoherent, we kept getting disconnected on that last call because she would drop her phone. I got so impatient that I just turned off my phone and went to bed. I figured we would see each other soon anyway and it was going to be electric.
Now, sometimes I hear her voice, reminding me to fight.
I admired her resilience. Despite all the heartbreaks, health drama, and life shit, she always persevered.
The poem about death on her Tumblr seems so eerie now. She didn’t believe in death, that people’s energy could simply void. She believed that energy was transmuted. Even creepier is the fact that she wrote that poem on the same day she died, a year before her death.
The last picture of her I saw, I noticed the tattoo across her neck prophetically proclaimed: “There’s not much time.” She constantly told me that she would not let her struggles, her existence be in vain.
I am not sure she got what she wanted, but she is immortalized in youthful beauty, her image used in random “alt model” ads and promotions post mortem.
In her poem ‘on death,’ she wrote about the soul:
“we may lose the tissue the bones and the blood but you cannot dispose of something so full of life. each exist must be so violent- a soul screaming through this dimension, and onto the next. like an adventure.”
I recoil thinking about her exit and how violent it must’ve been when her car met that tree. But I am certain she’s onto the next adventure, raisin’ hell in heaven, setting the stars ablaze with her radiance.
by me
I wish I could capture you In a mason jar, Like I did with fireflies in my cousin’s backyard.
Because you are precious Like those youthful summer nights-- When the porch becomes the living room, When kisses taste like ice cream cones.
But I can’t find a lid And you wouldn’t fit into a jar that small.
.Rachel Celia
Magical Mystery Classes
AKA listening to the LibriVox recording of The Kybalion of Hermes Trismegistus while watching these fractal patterns (on mute, of course).
Or, watch the fractal patters on mute and listen to any music of your choice. Equally stimulating.
And I can’t lie, this recording is over 3 hours & I have not finished it yet (think it contains the Emerald Tablets as well, but it’s something I revisit from time to time).
Enlightenment comes when we have purified ourselves of holograms of ourselves that no longer serve us.
This is what mental alchemy is all about.
Quick notes for those who aren’t familiar with these topics:
+ Hermeticism comes from Egyptian teachings, which come from who knows where. Take Hermes for example, he originated from Hellenistic Egypt. The following “gods” are one in the same:
Toth::Egyptian moon god. symbol: winged serpent w/staff
Hermes::Greek God
Mercury::Roman God
Quetzalcoatl::Mayan quetzal-bird snake or serpent
+ “To define alchemy solely by turning lead into gold misses the real point - it is advanced spiritualism” - McKenna ---- All is mind, the universe is mental
+ “The goal of hermetic thinking and later alchemy is the concentration and redemption of this spirit, a focusing of it, a bringing of it together.” - McKenna
+ The Kybalion:: The book on Hermetic teachings
+ Mental alchemy:: transmutation, akin to enlightenment
+ Fractals:: “a geometrical or physical structure having an irregular or fragmented shape at all scales” basically never-ending patterns that are the building blocks to everything in this physical plane
Terence Mckenna INSPO: http://www.mysterium.com/tmalchemy1.html
As Above, So Below
“If the universe exists at all...” -Plato
Fire Signs vs Water Signs
I fall victim to the infinite waxing and waning of mother moon. Wading in the water, the tides she sends down dictate my mood, violently swinging me from misery to despair, from elation towards lunacy. I am at her mercy; often drowning.
But you, you are a flame that burns forcefully--so bright and new. You don't look back, you blaze forever onwards, scorching the earth underneath you with every step.
Ancient archetypes playing off each other--that's all we are.
At Least as Deep as the Pacific Ocean
A few months after we’d started dating, I was riding the bus from your house to work, shuffling through my iPod when, “I Wanna be Yours” came on, and I knew I was in too deep when I heard--”Hold your hair in deep devotion /(How deep?) /At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean”--and it gave me chills. I thought, oh shit, I’m in deep.
And you appeared to feel the same, but it was more than just appeared, you played the part so perfectly. I didn’t doubt that the feeling was mutual & so I assumed any fears that surfaced would be overcome in time. It’s normal for people to be hesitant or doubt their relationship sometimes. Relationships are scary things because they hold up a mirror to you, forcing you to confront your issues in one way or another. Some people aren’t ready for that psychological battle. But when I love someone, I feel like holding onto that magic, that precious feeling should be coveted.
By now, I don’t know what you really thought. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve started to see someone new. We went to a park by your house, but I didn’t mention that to my date. You and I had never been there. Wonder if you’ve been, if you’ve ever taken any girls there to watch the sunset on a wool blanket & shiver closely in the dark.
You took me to the Bluffs on our first date, but that was a different season. The air was warm & the grass was cool. I was so new to town that it threw me off to hear someone say Skidmore Bluffs so I didn’t think I’d been there before.
A few weeks before, I’d gone to a picnic at The Bluffs, with a little posse known as the gayborhood. That was a great day but for different reasons. Needless to say, I like watching the sun descend under your arm, sneaking puffs of a j that you had rolled, & sips of sangria.
I don’t know how to feel anymore. I feel a little bit lost, a little bit numb, but, maybe I’m transitioning into a new life.
There’s one lingering statement that will never be uttered: Darling, I wish you told me that you did not believe in forever. I never knew the Pacific Ocean was only three feet deep.
Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus: Part Two, Sonnet XIII
Be ahead of all parting, as if it had already happened. like winter, which even now is passing. For beneath the winter is a winter so endless that to survive it at all is a triumph of the heart. Be forever dead in Eurydice, and climb back singing. Climb praying as you return to connection. Here among the disappearing, in the realm of the transient, be a ringing glass that shatters as it rings. Be. And, at the same time, know what it is not to be. The non-being inside you allows you to vibrate in full resonance with your world. Use it for once. To all that has run its course, and to the vast unsayable numbers of beings abounding in Nature, add yourself gladly, and cancel the cost.
Finally My Hours Are Not Wasted
You want your life to be like “The Blue Room,” but it’s more like a room in a 2-star motel and the power’s constantly on the fritz.
We'll have a blue room/ A new room for two room/ Where every day's a holiday/ Because you're married to me.
Life resembles more of a Conor Oberst song. Maybe because you listened too him too much when you were a teen and now you’re hopelessly emo.
But as for me I'm coming to my final failure/ I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better/ But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be.
You can’t stop getting high & you hate yourself for it. You never thought you would turn out like this but now the thought of a sober life seems unbearable.
I guess that’s growing up. Discovering the world is actually pitted against you by institutions far more powerful than you. Like the spider trapped under the glass jar, crawling up the sides, indeterminably looking for a way out.
But you still believe in ‘forevers’ & ‘true loves.’
Because you’re insecure you still lie about pointless things, like being out when you’re at home, hiding.
Because your life is supposed to mean something but you keep forgetting what-- yet remain convicted in the belief that it is something IMPORTANT and worth putting up with all the day-to-day bullshit for.
You will be successful. You will be successful even if that means nailing yourself to the Cross.
Love can’t suffocate, love can’t suffocate.
Yesterday’s Thoughts
Walking down the streets in a haze of sickness, I am comforted by the flirty promises on the wind’s tongue--intangible West Coast vibes hinting at relaxed luxury--the same feeling I had in previous visits to Santa Monica,
The breezy west coast feel has been lost on me the past few months. Perhaps that’s because moving to PDX has steeped me in the charm I was so attracted to--the candor of swaying palm trees and Pacific gusts--causing it to lose its luster.
Maybe I do need to return to the East Coast (BROOOOOKLYN) to gain that contrast again.
Freezing concrete sidewalks that strike you back as you pound the pavement.
My, what clarity contrast can yield.
It’s unclear as to whether the vibes left and suddenly came back, or I’d been fabricating them all along and forgot to maintain the fantasy.
If I am creating my own reality, then I choose good health and to thrive.
Stoic Optimism
“It is not what you endure that matters, but how you endure it.” - Seneca
I noticed my friend toting around a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius and asked him about it.
“Oh, it’s a type of philosophy,” he said, “stoicism.”
I’d always thrown around the word “stoic” when I was referring to someone who appeared to reside in deep contemplation. I’d never heard of this school of thought.
My friend & I work together, & he said this philosophy was a good lens in which to view our work environment. Working in customer service equates to dealing with irate people on a daily basis and the need for acute decision making in ambiguous situations. With such high pressure, I’m game to try anything to alleviate stress.
Turns out stoicism echoes some of the anchoring thoughts that I already grasp onto in times of adversity.
Stoics urge against repressing emotions, and advocate for understanding them and letting them go - similar to Buddhist notions of not getting attatched or caught up in samsara. Stoicism is also a foundation for cognitive behavioral therapy, something I’ve been interested in for years.
I used to cling to the belief that I would finally be happy when I had the one thing I desired most. Now I have that one thing I desired most, but it doesn’t mean life is suddenly a breeze. And, more importantly, a new fear of losing what I cherish most has emerged.
Stoics purport that the problem with making our happiness reliant on external sources of desire is that these external sources are completely outside of our control and are inherently unreliable.
Believing that happiness is only attainable when you get *that thing you want* can lead you to fall victim to victim mentality, unaware that perpetuating this belief in external fulfillment is what keeps you unhappy.
This is constantly on my mind as I try not to get completely absorbed by fulfilling my worldly desires. Thinking like a stoic enables you to enjoy the things you do have without being anxious about losing them.
Stoicism can be a tool to cultivate inner strength and joy.
I grabbed my friend’s copy of Meditations and flipped to a random page: “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.”
Things are not inherently bad until you judge them; assume a different attitude and you can benefit from your troubles.
We can only control how we respond what happens to us.
This is a thought I continually bump up against. It’s a comforting way to accept the chaos of an uncertain world. .
As someone who used to have no control over my emotions, and didn’t even see it, I really believe anyone can change their mental patterns.
You can channel stoicism to make yourself into a warrior--who can handle anything.
When something seemingly undesirable happens, see it as an opportunity for a new path; be content no matter what happens - it’s akin to finding gratitude in everything, an active practice of mine.
The key to acquiring happiness is by virtue, excellence of character. attained by living according to nature
Our minds are subsets of universal intelligence which infuses all things.
This metaphysical aspect of stoicism conform our desires with this reality not the other way around.
Critics of stoicism argue that it promotes complacency and passivity but I disagree.
I see it as a rage against the absurdity of everything: train your brain to see an obstacle as opportunity. Be perversely happy for the chance to practice excellence.
~*~the void~*~
I fall asleep on the patio, drenched in sun. But it’s hard to rest when you’re dodging so many responsibilities, so even my dreams are fever-pitched. I should be writing - in a more disciplined way. I should be reviewing all the new shit I learned at work. I should be putting my room together, cleaning the bathroom, getting the clothes I need, anything but burning out on this mid-June day.
It’s exhausting to feel like a constant–and messy–work-in-progress all the time.
But why do I even care?
The sky is solid blue above me. My toenails are overgrown and I have to wear a scarf around my right forearm to protect my new tattoo from the elements.
Everything is a distraction from the void.
And after I Skype with him on the deck I feel even worse. He was being annoying and shattered my illusions of his sweetness. He’s so much better via text message, telling me how blessed he feels to have me, just the other night. On the phone, all he does is hound me to show him my breasts.
If confronted he’d say he was just being playful, but he’s not. He gets impatient if I decline his demands.
But why do I even care?
The sun is scorching my pale, prickly legs thanks to the unobstructed summer sky. My lips are dry and my sunglasses are too big.
Everything is a distraction from the void.
Will he behave when he gets here, does he ever? I just don’t want him to offend everybody around us.
I just want to be with someone–the best distraction from the void–and this is the price I’m paying.
-Rachel Celia
“You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!”
Tonsai, Thailand
Get Lost
Sandwiched between two monolithic rocks, rests a crystal blue bay, accessible only by boat.
The first few steps onto the beach aren’t very promising – trash is strewn everywhere. You can’t turn around because the boat is already gone. But if you continue along the dirt path, towards the cliffs, you’ll wend your way into a two-story bungalow bar, suspended between the imperceptible threads of time.
Whether this is purgatory or heaven, I cannot say.
I came here for the same reason as everyone else: to forget. To forget the socially fabricated pressures of the Western world.
I am watching everyone from a hammock perch atop the bar, melting into the cushions and the netting.
“I was supposed to be leaving on the 16th,” the Irish skinhead at the bar--a square island in the center of the hut--pauses and looks around, “but now…” He lets out a breezy laugh and shrugs.
The Thai Rastafarian behind the bar flashes a knowing smile and tops the Irishman off.
Looking down on the middle of the bar, it’s easy to imagine that this place spontaneously sprung forth from the earth: roots pierced the earth, branches protruded from the soil and began to braid themselves together like strands of DNA—crawling, climbing, creating everything in sight from the square bar, to the benches, to the stage by the front. The ceiling strobe lights look out of place when they flash upon the wood. Neon symbols are the only artificial adornments on the earthy surfaces.
Bartenders are smoking weed and eating shrooms. So are the patrons. Everyone’s trying to get right in the head.
The music is bad but no one cares--live Thai covers of Marley.
The Spanish girl leaning against the other side of the square bar is sweating and moving her head in a hypnotic trance. She’s had a shake or two, a joint or two, and a beer or two.
“It’s just a constant party…” The Irishman proclaims to no one in particular.
He slams down his empty pint. He walks directly up to the Spanish girl, grabs her by the waist and kisses her with gusto. I don’t think she even notices.
The Thai band plays on, slightly out of tune, slightly too loud.
-Rachel Celia