There was only the urge, the urge to write. Contents akimbo, they flew at me without substance, and without a single element that would otherwise grasp my interest. Nothing was aesthetically pleasing enough. I just saw a movie on TCM channel called "Darling," a 60's B&W movie by John Schlesinger. It drew me in. It was fabulous. Oh the ennui of the girl, Darling. Mundanity. Boredom. The wait.
There are three modes of being. One is that of waiting in the in-between. One is neither here nor there. This is the lower mode. There is the middle mode, which is that of grasping one side. Then there is the high mode, which is nondual, fully assimilating and embracing complimentarity. The low mode makes for ennui. The low mode makes for Limbo.
The thing I liked about the movie Darling is not only because it reminds me of my childhood. There is something archetypal about it. The mundanity of those days, the sleepiness of everyone. How caught up in the doldrums of the present they were, so fully ensconced in their phenomenality, their corporeality. And how confined they were. How confined we all were.
It made me think of the romanticism of smoking non-filter cigarettes and drinking cocktails in Paris, or perhaps somewhere in Italy. In Capri. Because the name sounds so romantic. It sounds so 60's, so black-and-white. I like the striped shirts, dark, thick shades, and motor scooters. I like the rain. I like the busy streets with neon signs, people milling about everywhere. People sitting and sipping coffee. Talking to each other about sheer crap, as if any of it mattered. Yes, I too can embrace Samsara as Nirvana. That very corporeality too, can afford me ambience, and I can relish this ambience as an aesthetic module, a thought-candy, as a salve in the time of boredom and perhaps dissatisfaction with the cultural vortex that is Lincoln County.
I so want to write something, and nothing is coming to me. I want to sit and write, just like that guy who supposedly wrote three days straight, without stopping.
I wish I can drink coffee and never get headaches, and never get dehydrated. I wish I can eat minimally, and sleep minimally. Everything in life fulfills me. So I must explore my current feeling of boredom, of Limbo, of craving.
Yes. It is a feeling of craving, of wanting. It is a feeling of being in between, and not being anywhere. Not doing anything, not saying anything, not going anywhere. That everything momentarily is flotsam and jetsam, and that none of it inspires. I am not lacking inspiration. I am tired. I am just tired right now. I did a lot of work in the last three weeks, and now, I am tired. I am in between because I am between work and relaxation right now. But I can't seem to sit and relax for long.
I wanted to read. I have a sore throat. My body is achey, so I took two aspirin. Even taking two aspirin scares me, because I feel that I am trying to escape. It is the tug of guilt. It is a thing that comes from the past. And indeed, it is all past. I just don't like feeling this way.
Has anyone made the observation that the movie industry's box-office hits are mostly movies with explosions, guns, and guys? Of course, it is because quantity lies in the common denominator. Quality belongs to the subtle. They say that a rubbing together of noses is equivalent to orgasmic intercourse in the highest heaven of Desire (Takejizaiten). In the same way I can relish a movie for its feel and ambience, and extract the world into myself that it is trying to evoke into noumenal existence.
The ambience of the move Darling makes me think of my childhood because it reminds me of my parents and their travels atround the world. They were narrow-headed and foolish. They were so corporeal, they were convincecd of their separation and alienation from everything around them. And thus they alienated me and all others. Including themselves. That kind of corporeality is a low corporeality. It is one side of the totality; it is mundanity only. As such, they thought of day-to-day life. The sun rises, the sun sets, and they never pay attention. A space exists above their heads so vast they cannot imagine, and they don't give it a thought. Not a moment's reflection. Not a bother. In fact, to them, it was all rubbish. That was a word my father used. "Rubbish." Anything in life was rubbish, which didn't yield profit or subjective entertainment (only for a little while). It's appalling. How could they go on like that? Day after day, year after year, decade after decade.
I hear a drizzle outside. It is now 3:38AM. No calls are coming in tonight, except for a couple of short ones, and one for Cantonese. Oh the time is passing so slowly tonight.