Hi Kuba,
I appreciate your honesty that “there is a reluctance to give up that claim to it all”.
However, the only “pivotal part” ‘you’ play – in this ultimate game of becoming actually free – is agreeing to get out of the way, permanently. Claiming the credit for something ‘you’ didn’t do is cheap subterfuge; there is no dignity to it at all.
Here is a wonderful story with a takeaway to imitate –
Richard: Many years ago, back when I was a normal bloke and making my living as a practising artist, a minor art gallery in a major city approached me with a proposition to stage a one-man exhibition of my idiosyncratic ceramic work – with the selection to be entirely of my own choice – complete with metropolis-wide advertising, an opening night with the usual razzamatazz (wine and cheese, etc.), invitations to various art-critics, quite liberal terms of commission, and a guaranteed-to-be-exclusive three-week run.
I was a big frog in a small provincial pond, at the time, and this was an opportunity to be a small frog in a large urban pond – to put one foot on the bottom rung of a potential ladder of national success – so the rather generous offer with its opportune entrée into the inner-city art establishment was readily accepted and a firm date was set for three months hence.
Without any thought at all it was obvious to me the exhibition would comprise entirely of fresh pieces – even though there was already more than enough high quality items at hand (which the art gallery had in mind) – as that way a cohesive body of work, with a yet to be discovered theme, would bring about the integrity necessary to carry the day.
Now, with ceramics there is normally a five-to-six week lead-in time (due to the process of making, carving, drying, first-firing, glazing, decorating, and second-firing) yet the days became weeks until, despite the frequent reminders and promptings of my then-wife, only three weeks remained before the big night.
And three weeks was the absolute minimum time-span; if the eighty-odd pieces were not formed today then the afore-mentioned hodgepodge stock-at-hand would have to be pressed into service.
Not that the art-gallery would mind, of course, but I would.
For most of the morning I wedged, kneaded and balled the highest quality (the most-aged and ripened) clay from my extensive stocks of hand-dug and hand-mixed local clays; it was one of those quite marvellous days of lightly overcast skies and a gentle, misty rain; there was no wind at all, not even the slightest zephyr of a breeze; the quietly gleaming hand-made copper kettle was sitting, steaming gently atop the cheery pot-bellied stove in my studio; music from a nowadays-superseded four-track cartridge player was piping through all its strategically placed speakers; the dank, swampy aroma of the well-matured clay was filling the nostrils as it began to bounce elastically beneath my well-practiced kneading hands; and soon all was well, within my world, as any and all stress from time-pressure softly ebbed away.
Settling myself onto my home-made pottery wheel, and kicking it into action, I swiftly and easily formed a few small throwaway pieces so as to get my hand in.
Then, without any further ado, I reached for the first of the eighty-odd different-sized balls of finely-prepared clay; dropping it onto the still slowing-turning wheel-head I kicked up the momentum of the heavy wheel beneath my feet; moistening my hands in the bowls of warm, muddy water to either side I then centred the clay ball and began throwing the first of the many individual pieces which would eventually comprise the whole.
Being well-dug, well-prepared, well-aged, well-wedged and well-kneaded, the clay, whilst supremely elastic, was taut and springy beneath the hands; there would be no slumping, no sagging, no bulging, just this easy pulling up to maximum height; just this graceful setting of bellied form; just this elegant rolling of lip; just this effortless forming of the base; just this ready pass of the cutting thread detaching it from the wheel-head; just this gentle placing of it on the ready-to-hand shelf-tray nearby; just this regular reaching for the next ball; just this easy kicking keeping the momentum rolling.
Upon placing the third or fourth newly-formed piece alongside its predecessors, and whilst reaching for the next ball, it is evident the clouds are clearing a trifle; the sun is shining fitfully through a gap onto the translucent full-height screens immediately to the front; some chickens are clucking and scratching around in the ground just beyond them; ducks are quacking and nosing into the mud of the small pond nearby; off in the near-distance the pigs are snorting and snuffling for roots; one of the goats is bleating; a couple of the geese are honking; and … and a by-now-familiar and oh-so-subtle shift is occurring in the brain-stem.
All-of-a-sudden there is a vast stillness – there is absolutely no movement of time – and in that perfect peace the piece of pottery is making itself.
The foot is kicking the massive wheel of its own accord; the hands are dipping themselves into the warm, muddy water; the eyes are eying the bellied form all on their own; the hands, one on the inside and the other on the outside just below the former, are gently coaxing the perfect shape without command (or is the perfect form gently coaxing the hands to its bidding); and the whole world – nay, the entire universe, itself – is a magical fairytale-like wonderland where nothing, but nothing, ever ultimately goes wrong.
*
And then, with the sun sinking spectacularly in the west behind banked clouds, the one-hundredth pot has made itself (so much for the planned eighty-odd) and the one-man exhibition is in the bag … guaranteed to be a fantastic success.
*
It is now three weeks later: all the pieces have been carved, dried, first-fired, glazed, decorated, second-fired, packed, transported, unpacked and selectively placed upon their pedestals in the major city art gallery.
It is opening night and the place is packed with peoples from many walks of life; all milling around, glasses in hand, seeing and being seen. Being the star of the show I am, accordingly, a trifle late in arriving (as is the fashion). With orange juice in hand I mix and mingle; a word or two here; a tilt of the head there; a small chat here; a wink and a grin there; a murmured response here; and all the while noticing those little red stickers appearing, first on this piece, then on that piece, more on those pieces, until almost every single piece is snapped-up.
It is shaping up to be a sell-out … and all on opening night!
The curator is tapping on his glass, calling for attention, and the speechifying begins; soon it is my turn to speak and every eye is turned toward me, every ear is listening to me, everybody’s rapt attention is directed towards the … well, towards the star of the show, of course.
But I am not the star of the show – the pieces made themselves, remember, back in that magical wonderland – and yet all of the accolades, all of the applause, all of the (yes) adulation, is centred solely upon me.
It was at that moment I understood something so profound it is permanently etched into the memory banks … to wit: I did not and could not value their collective/ individual opinions one iota, one jot, for they knew not of what they spoke.
And even if they were to be told, that the pieces magically made themselves, they would lavish praise for being so gifted/ so blessed/ so whatever.
Moreover, they did not, and would not ever, comprehend that the esteem they bestowed so lavishly slid straight off me like that proverbial water off a duck’s back … as, at that very moment, self-esteem and all its associated vanity and humility vanished out of my life forever, never to return, even unto this very day. (Richard, List D, Rick, #wonder-land-tale).
Isn’t this something that appeals to you?
Kuba: But at the very core of it this makes no sense at all, because those experiences are only possible because of ‘my’ virtual absence. It is because ‘I’ have allowed life to happen of its own accord that the magicality of it all becomes apparent. How could ‘I’ possibly lay a claim to that which is possible due to ‘my’ absence?
So ‘I’ the controller am still reinserting ‘myself’ and laying claim to it all, rather than to marvel at what is possible when ‘I’ get out of the way. (link)
Yes. And the expression ‘I’ “am still reinserting ‘myself’” is not quite accurate because so far you have shown no intent to not reinsert yourself. You have become so apt to temporarily get out of the way to then be able to claim the credit for what was achieved when ‘you’ were absent. Hence “’I’ the controller” became more powerful with each temporary absence. It is fortunate you avoided a more serious condition with this scheme of ‘self’-exaltation – as Richard said about his own experience –
Richard: I found out where I had been going wrong for eleven years … self-aggrandisement is so seductive. (Richard, AF List, No. 16, 8 Jan 2001).
It was three days ago when it dawned on you that there could be another way –
Kuba: I am wondering if the connection to pure intent is the critical component which is missing. (link)
Isn’t it time you start sincerely looking for pure intent and forge a lasting/ongoing connection via the golden clew to your genuine PCE (before ‘you’ reinserted yourself)? Here are the instructions again –
Richard: Incidentally, just before/ just as the PCE starts to wear off, if one unravels (metaphorically) a ‘golden thread’ or ‘clew’, as one is slipping back into the real-world, an intimate connection is thus established betwixt the pristine-purity of an actual innocence and the near-purity of the sincerity of naiveté.
At least, that is the way it worked for the identity inhabiting this flesh-and-blood body, all those years ago, inasmuch ‘his’ recall of PCE’s was a naïve remembrance [i.e., rememoration & presentiation; see Message № 19775 (Richard, List D, No. 32a, 19 June 2015) for context], rather than a cognitive memory, and ‘he’ thus experienced a constant pull, each moment again, into the immaculate perfection of the actual world … and thus away from the contaminated imperfection of the real-world.
Being a ‘fatal attraction’, so to speak, it rendered the entire process virtually effortless. (Richard, List D, No. 13, 21 May 2009).
I know some intent is there somewhere but only as a potential in the background and not yet your number one priority else we wouldn’t have all these conversations which you summed up nicely –
Kuba: “… I have already tried most of the doors with the booby trap on the other side. So now the lack of choices left actually makes orientation a lot easier haha” (link).
It is not just the “orientation” you need; you are looking for the courage (and its accompanying thrill) to succeed this time around –
Richard: Yes, one has to want it like one has never wanted anything else before … so much so that all the instinctual passionate energy of desire, normally frittered away on petty desires, is fuelling and impelling/ propelling one into this thing and this thing only (‘impelling’ as in a pulling from the front and ‘propelling’ as in being pushed from behind). There is a ‘must’ to it (one must do it/it must happen) and a ‘will’ to it (one will do it/it will happen) and one is both driven and drawn until there is an inevitability that sets in. Now it is unstoppable and all the above ceases of its own accord …one is unable to distinguish between ‘me’ doing it and it happening to ‘me’.
One has escaped one’s fate and achieved one’s destiny. (Richard, List B, No. 19d, 3 April 2000)
Cheers Vineeto