Sunday Morning Thoughts: 6.25.17

I wanted to say the soul is meant for labor. But it’s not quite that.

Maybe we can just try the words in another way. A mild effort, in and of itself.

Perhaps the word is better as work. But it seems to me to be something other than that, as well. Something not seeming so mandatory, whilst still being the best method of finding fulfillment. Though, I may just be thinking from my own personality. It is a habit I have. Everyone has a few bad ones.

But it is not quite labor and it is not quite work. I wouldn’t say it is a job, or a career- though those all can be part of it. It is certainly not about money, though that comfort can help in Zen seeking endeavors. As can anguish and disparity.

It is an effort, this thing that I have yet to find the way to say. A conquest of some sort of passion. Granted, there are varying degrees of prominence and position. But the soul, rather, my soul craves accomplishment. A vicious hunger to tinker and play with existence. A desire to make made the unmade, if such a thing were even possible.

Labors of passion.

How does the saying go?

‘Love what you do and you never work a day in your life?’

That is a good one. I’m sure you’ve heard it. With how smart you are. Reading something like this.

And I agree. With the saying. For the most part.

The issue I have is with two words going together.



And whatever led my mind to see strife within that combination, I cannot say for sure. But. I can tell you that if you have never become frustrated with working on something, the investment in that something does not exist. And that is not something you can fabricate.

So, dig.

Humans have this wonderfully poetic, yet horribly dangerous method of learning new things. At least in what I consider the most effective way of proper human education.


Our failures often teach us more than any of our successes do. And I know it’s a nice morning and all, but you should never forget that all over the world there are a bunch of your fellow humans getting hurt or dying by means of the mistakes around them, or of their own design. All the time. Since a very, very long time ago.

And that does not mean doom and gloom, at least not for the future. Sure, it can suck the life from the present easy enough, but, those that survive now have the ability to navigate effectively. That’s why we have fire alarms and flashing lights on school buses. Seatbelts and guard rails. Erasers, and such.

And not all mistakes are fatal. In fact, though I have a life littered with horrid and glorious mistakes alike, I haven’t had one kill me yet. To the best of my knowledge.

I know someone saying something like that tends to send the superstitious type of soul into a nervous bout, but you’ll have to just forgive me. I’m not much for superstitions, outside of fiction.

And this is not fiction. Though, I cannot quite say it is the truth either. It is, one of those indefinable labors. Something that is now required. A self-commandment, if you will. As the consequence of not, is something that is at least slightly fatal. My body could survive, but it may kill the rest of me. And what is the point of going on with a dead or dying soul?

But, rejoice! For a mortal soul is easier to save than a mortal body. And that is not to lend any effort to any religion or god (another one of those things that I don’t like to do).

Rejoice, because for a mortal body, you might need a doctor or medicine. And that stuff can be expensive.

But for your mortal soul, you may not need to go beyond thine own self. Though it doesn’t hurt to adventure in someone else’s. And some folks need to, or at least believe they do. They thrive on being part of a duality, with some other specific soul.

I suppose I can dig that. Just something I cannot quite comprehend. Yet or ever. Who knows?

I do have decent grasp on the works upon which I satisfy, at least vaguely, my needs. Upon study of the mistakes and failures of those before me, I have made my models. Gathered my heroes. A ragtag crew of half-assed saints and full-blown sinners. Some dead, some dying, and some, somehow, still very much alive. Because their intimacy went outward, into it all. And for some it cost all that they had. Shaped by darkness and light, in order to shape dark to light, and light to dark. And live grander in the shades between. To grow. As they grew. And some grow still.

Because it isn’t about narcissism. That is only an ingredient. And it is about deprecation either. It isn’t about being satisfied. It’s about chasing satisfaction. And finding hints in places that become unintentionally searched.


This not the whole way of the world. There are dying souls and they or they around them hold no goals to make a whole.

There are folks who talk through a whole concert and complain about the noise. Folks who hate the dramatized recollections of interactions with others, yet discuss nothing else. Drama, as they say. There are hermits who don’t study. Preachers who hate. Fools who tell others how dumb everyone else is. And there are the fools who listen.

And though it seems as though this has all turned into discouragement, I urge you, read on. For it is not the ignorance of woes that makes for happiness. It is the resolution, even if just partial. To put it simply, don’t hate the haters. If you do, they fester and grow and leech the will of anyone willing to hear. The folks who find the need to stop fighting. The tired.

But I say nay. I say be closer to the persuasion of sleeping when you’re dead. Be a bit of a mad man. Mad woman. Find yourself beyond your expectations regularly. Good or bad. Just find yourself new every day, if you can. For as many days as you can. And then go further. For the best effort you can make for anyone of the future, is to screw up. Just don’t keep in the way that they had in the past.

They did, so you don’t have to.

So, you do, so the later them can make all new mistakes. In all their glory. In radiated colors. In dances, and dives, and demons. In anarchy and fallen angels. In warmth and gardens. Hills and holes and whorehouses. In the eyes of someone else. In love. In friendship. In a total stranger.

Make those sacred mistakes wherever it is that you might go. Just don’t forget them. And if you can, find a nice digestible way to share them.

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