And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
I threw away some old shoes. Now there’s a small empty space in my first-room closet. This is good.
This round of space-making is now complete.
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
I threw away some old clothes. Now there’s a small empty space in my closet. This is good.
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
I threw away some used paper products. Now there’s a small empty space in my bookshelf. This is good.
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
Thinking about:
The coffee dilemma.
The solution to many of my problems might have been the removal of coffee, all along.
But… but… it tastes so good!
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
A nothing day.
My life is undergoing a complete reset. This is what I call it when my life changes so completely that everything that comes after the reset turns into a “new game”—one with a completely different set of rules.
In-between complete resets, mini resets might occur. But I think this one is a big one, the one that is happening to me right now.
And a reset (of any size) really happens to me, because fundamentally—very truly deep down—I don’t choose its timing or its nature.
A reset involves a combination of the following:
I don’t believe that “owning what happens in my life” equates to “controlling my life.” In so many ways, I have ZERO control. Some things just happen to me, period.
I can decide to act on a desire or refuse to act. But fundamentally, I never know where the desire comes from.
The chain of questions can go on endlessly. And at the end, there is always, “I don’t know the answer.”
Thus, fundamentally, yeah, things happen to me.
I’m not saying that my core is immutable or predestined to be the way it is. In fact, I’m saying the opposite. After any given reset, I get a different core. (A new set of rules, remember?)
But while I have a specific kind of core, it seems that this core has a will of its own. Meanwhile, I don’t know if what I think of as my free will is actually mine or my core’s. Or neither’s.
Even if I were to make a habit of not listening to the stuff that my core surfaces to the conscious, what I do would still be a reflection of desires that I cannot comprehend.
I’ve spent the past ten years or so trying to maximize the time I spend on doing things I must do, because if I don’t, I get physically sick.
I don’t know why I need to write. (Or why my core needs to write.) I only know that it is about survival. This is why & how I do not pay much attention to external factors, when it comes to writing. The only thing I care about is whether I wrote on a given day and whether this cure succeeded in making the sickness go away.
I could attempt to start a chain of endless questions like the XYZ school example above, but what’s the point? Unless I want to quit writing, I’d say it’s a pretty futile exercise.
It’s much quicker to just write. I don’t mind using a quick panacea for my life, because hyperanalyzing the root causes of my desires might only lead to some other version of a “problem” that needs “solving.”
I mean, if I weren’t writing, what would I be doing instead? The answer is, “I don’t have a fucking clue and whatever the options may be, I don’t see how they are inherently better than writing.”
And thus I write. I am just one of many who do this.
The last big reset in my life was the above: me accepting that maybe I should just write.
This was after the rashes, the hair falling out, and in general, being miserable for no “scientific” and “medical” reason. No doctor could have possibly told me that the solution to my sickness was writing. It was just too out of the blue.
But one day I just knew. “Oh gosh darn. I should start writing.”
Yes, really. That’s how it happened.
Maybe all things fundamental—all things very truly deep down—happen this way. Basically, if there’s any kind of love, I don’t know how one might explain that love logically, scientifically, medically, rationally, measurably, analytically.
And the resets, big and small, are basically the big coming and going of love. In hindsight, that was what the resets were. They were a reconfiguration of my core, for love.
Anyway, all this, because the next reset seems to be coming. Maybe in a year or two I’ll know for certain.
I’m just glad that this time, my hair is most definitely not falling out. In fact, it seems thicker and darker than usual? Why? No clue. More exercise from all the golfing might be the surface reason. But why did I suddenly, after all this time never making any serious attempts to partake in any sport, suddenly start golfing? No clue.
Listen, I failed my middle school gym class once, because I refused to do backward rolls. I just couldn’t see the point, and there was definitely no love, because the PE teacher was a grabber and I didn’t like the idea of rolling backward in front of him. So I just refused. My core was telling me, fuck this guy, I’ll take the F.
I think that was the only F on my transcript, ever. But I mean, who fails PE?
Me.
But now I am here, having overcome that F (!) and with my hair healthy and long. Also, no rashes. I think this is the healthiest I’ve been all my life, even with the sleeplessness. In fact, I used to sleep A LOT when I used to be sick. Sleeping tends to be my go-to medicine when I’m truly stressed.
Maybe my current sleeplessness is a way to compensate for all the time that slipped through my fingers back then. Maybe, overall, I’m just too excited? Looking forward to the next reset? Whatever it might be?
Anyway.
Yeah.
Wow, this was a long excuse for a nothing day.
#daily #health #writing #2022archiveQ3
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
Recently, a kind soul shared some methods that might help me fall asleep more easily. One of the methods was this breathing exercise:
Today is the third day I am following this video. It’s the only breathing exercise that I’ve done for three consecutive days without looking for a different breathing exercise. 😁
I thought about why this might be.
His voice is firm and straightforward.
No over-breathiness. No “I will force you to relax” air.
This was the first time I’d ever heard about this gentleman and thus I don’t know much about him, but I sure do appreciate that he talks about breathing in just the same way he talks about his dog.
The first time I did it, I was surprised by how fast he told me to breathe at the beginning of the exercise, as opposed to immediately claiming that I will feel deeply relaxed.
(This is usually what happens with breathing exercises and guided meditations. YOU WILL FEEL RELAXED…! YOU MUST…!
For the same reason the “Law of Attraction” affirmations don’t work for me, such proclamations of my undoubtable relaxation do not relax me one bit. I know I am not relaxed! I’m not gonna be convinced by some random voice who tells me otherwise!)
After the fast part comes the slow part. And surprisingly, the slow part was actually relaxing because of the fast part.
Then comes the fast part again. And then the slow part.
Then the third cycle. Then THE END.
It won’t make you sleepy directly, but it won’t make you too alert either. It’s just a reminder to breathe.
So, it’s useful for any situation, really. For balance. In my case, this meant that I felt okay doing whatever I was gonna do after the breathing exercise: sleeping, eating, reading, etc.
Not directly related to sleep & mental health but definitely obliquely so: this might help improve my golf swing.
Something about not taking too much time between the inhale and exhale feels applicable to my swing. I feel awkward at the top of the backswing. 😅 Actually, to be honest, the entirety of my backswing feels (is) awkward. Feeling more natural in both my backswing and downswing will improve my mental health, for sure. Maybe that will be the solution to my sleep problems!
Ah. Why do I even bother with golf. It’s stressful. But my thinking about golf while doing breathing exercises proves that I like it.
Anyway. Thank you again to the kind soul who recommended the breathing exercise above.
May you always sleep well. You and everyone else too. Me included. One day. Soon. Hopefully.
#daily #tools #health #2022archiveQ3
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
I got myself a huge paper notebook and journaled in it by hand. It felt good.
The thing is truly huge. It’s A4-sized and 320 pages. A monster doorstop. The biggest, heaviest notebook in my possession. If a robber were to break in, I could use it as a weapon—just smack the bastard in the skull. That’s how enormous it is.
Writing in it feels like painting, because the surface area I must cover is so large. From the left edge to the right edge of one page, it takes me 20-30 seconds in cursive.
Also, merely moving my fingers and wrist doesn’t suffice. I had to move my entire arm, very gradually—as in a big, slow brushstroke.
It was a fun writing exercise—genuinely, an exercise. After 2.5 pages of handwriting, I felt strangely refreshed. Less stress. And somehow, I felt like I’d accomplished something. (2.5 pages of handwriting looked like a lot, maybe because I don’t write so much by hand anymore.)
This was stress relief in a form that I hadn’t expected. I had literally covered a lot of surface area, and that felt nice.
#daily #tools #health #2022archiveQ3
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
I firmly believe in people’s right to destroy themselves. I am in the camp where I don’t think suicide is necessarily bad. I believe in people’s right to choose euthanasia. Nobody can demand pain from another person.
But for fuck’s sake, if you want to die, die alone.
Like, don’t drink and drive.
And also, don’t smoke right into my face.
Especially don’t smoke at the driving range. Have some common sense. Like, where am I supposed to flee to? To the field toward which people are hitting the golf balls?
These men are basically killing me—only, very gradually and slowly, in a passive manner, so they delude themselves that it is okay. Nobody can put them in jail.
If I were to hit them with my golf club, I would be the one ending up in prison. And my claim that it was self-defense wouldn’t stand in court.
It is maddening.
I look forward to my death, but I hope I won’t have to die painfully. And people blowing smoke into my face just doesn’t seem to be the way toward a painless death for me.
I don’t care what other people’s preference about death (or life) is. I don’t care if they have an open invitation orgy at home. So long as consenting adults are involved, I do not care what drugs they do, what stuff they watch, I really just don’t care.
But I care about me and my painfree life and death.
I should think this is common sense—that people should have the right to care about living and dying painfree.
And yet these smoke-in-your-facers loudly laugh at the golf range and get all “social” and everyone overlooks what they are actually doing: killing everyone else right there.
This is why I do not “believe in” the law. What kind of any valid thing with any value lacks consistency to this degree? Allowing this?
Btw, one thing you notice with people who smoke while “practicing” golf is that they lack consistency.
Big surprise. Maybe if you didn’t cloud your judgment while practicing, you would do better. Not necessarily better than other people, but better than you while you are shrouded in a thick cloud of smoke.
They are also the grunters. As in, for 9 out of 10 shots, they are surprised at how much they suck, so they grunt.
I mean, I suck pretty badly at golf, but then I am not surprised 9 out of 10 times at my own sucking. I think it is probably because my judgment isn’t clouded by all the toxic smoke.
Also, this:
What the hell.
All they leave behind are reeks and this mess and a whole lot of smoke in my lungs. 2 hours after their departure, I still feel like throwing up.
These people take up space in the center of the driving range. Meaning, from the very beginning, they have no intention of being considerate toward others. Their smoke floats in all directions. Everywhere. All over the place.
By all means, smoke. It’s none of my business. But it becomes my business and everyone else’s when you do it around someone else’s face.
So have some fucking common sense.
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.
And then this entry here, which doesn’t count.
Done well:
Other thoughts:
I take care of my body the best when I am already feeling well. This isn’t necessarily a problem, but it becomes a problem when I am feeling not so well and stop taking care of my body.
This was why the occasional big trips in the pre-2020 years used to be so great. They were like reset buttons. Whatever I’d messed up body-rhythm-wise, I could fix along with the jet lag.
But alas, in the past 2.5 years, I haven’t done any big international trips. If there is one thing I want to remove from my life, it is bureaucracy and the accompanying hassle. So I didn’t travel at all. I lived like a woman peasant from the 13th century, never leaving the 5mile radius of her home. (I also work from home, so…)
The big (relevant) difference here is that a woman peasant from the 13th century would’ve been surrounded by nature (which is pretty exciting, especially after that fungi documentary I watched) and I am not. I think this is why even the activities that used to be reliable routines are breaking down.
My still-reliable routines include:
My half-ass so-called “routines” (but not really) include:
That’s about it.
So maybe what I need is a reliable set of evening routines? I think this blog is a good start. Blogging is healthy! It is different from completely-private journaling, because theoretically, everyone can see this, but very few will.
I strongly believe in public privacy. It is the kind of privacy you get in a big open park in a big city. (Another thing I haven’t experienced since 2020.) You can sit there and nobody will bother you. I love that about cities. Nobody cares about me. But theoretically, everyone could see me and care.
The idea that if something is put out there (like a blog post on the internet or a person at a big city park), anybody can come along and do whatever they want is utter bullshit. You know, like how pirates think that everything on the internet is for them to take. Or when people think that because you’re at a public park, they can assault you.
Something like this really happened in my neighborhood. A crazy person came along and assaulted a person at our local park. That same person also had a history of assaulting people at other places in the neighborhood. And yet, this crazy person got out on a $1 bail.
Yes. $1. It happened post-2020. That’s why. Because, safety for the people who go around assaulting other people in the park, you know? Because, how dare you expect privacy at a public park? There’s no such thing as public privacy! As soon as you’re out of your home (heck, maybe even inside your home), you should expect that other people could come along and hit you in the head. It’s your fault for thinking that people will leave you alone in public. The public is public. What else did you expect?
So…
…and what do I have left?
Online public privacy.
Hopefully. Of course, just as it is perfectly possible to talk to a stranger at a park, I could talk to a stranger online. By public privacy, I only mean the right to not be bothered.
One can approach another. But when that person doesn’t want it, then one stays the FUCK away from that person. As simple as that. One does not go around harassing the other, one does not go around giving “feedback” to the other, and one most definitely does not go around assaulting the other.
I used to think this was common sense.
I don’t anymore.
Common sense can be waived with $1. Pretty much everyone I know has $1, so it might as well be that common sense does not exist.
So anyway, hopefully, soon, I will get my offline privacy back and return to a big city. I actually think that I will be safer in a big city, assault-wise. I have been fortunate that way. In my life, not a single person whom I asked for help in a big-crowd setting refused to help me. (ex: Asking someone for 50 cents at an airport because I want to use the vending machine, asking someone to help me haul my luggage off the baggage claim belt, etc.)
But when there’s no one to ask for help while some crazy person comes along and attacks me—that’s the worst. There’s only so much self-defense I can do without using actual weapons. I’m pretty small. Sometimes I get my shoes from the Zara kids’ section and my Converse size is 3. That’s right. THREE. Converse has an incredibly weird size chart.
So… yeah.
Anyway, writing is therapy. And this particular therapy is costing me $240 per 5 years for 10 ongoing sessions (blogs), of which I am not even using half. I would say that is pretty darn affordable.
So, maybe the cost of living isn’t so bad after all.
$240 for therapy that works? Brilliant!
$1 for waiving common sense? Splendid!
Maybe, with enough public-private writing therapy, I will one day forget that once upon a time, it was possible to waive common sense at whatever price at all.
#privacy #health #daily #2022archiveQ2
P.S. “You can't edit or delete posts yet. We'll add this soon, and you'll be able to edit and delete your posts then — but be aware before posting.” on the Remark.as first page. But it seems that I can edit this post?
P.S.2. Maybe it’s the comment post that can’t be edited or deleted.
🌊 Call me Ithaka. Everything I do is organized here.