The Meaning of Inner Work

This is what it means work. For this moment, I understand.
The yellow lamp, the smiling mouth, the blue energy-all are open targets for my rage. Screams are close, ready to drench the space with red violence. And the tears, my steady friends remain on the lids of my eyes.
My daily exercises are preparations for this- when the pain sets in and I need every amount of will I possess to not destroy the surrounding spaces. Grasping onto the memory of ritual, I inhale. Slowly, the molecules fill my lungs and stomach.
Through the ache of being- I breathe. Inside, my body is collapsing, every learned expectation and image is being ripped, destroyed beyond recognition.
Piles of memories lay in heaps, my old self walks among them like a lost ghost in a junkyard. The familiar is painful, the new is excruciating, and I am not of either place. Both are foreign, possessing words and people from the netherworlds.
Slowing my breath, moving my hands in circular gestures, opening my eyes in exaggerated spasms…working constantly, I stay.

The Impulse to Finish

The human machine, at its most basic level, has as an impulse to finish- to end something; whether it’s a project, a sexual union with an orgasm, or our lives- with death.
Deep inside, beyond rationality, we want to be DONE. It is submerged, hidden among the many folds and crevasses in our subconscious.
It is the uncomfortable present that we wish to push beyond and get rid of.
The machine fears intensity, in sexual encounters, when all the senses are heightened, the machine- alive with energy and emotion, seeks an end.
More than anything else, it needs to release the mounting energy and pressure inside, and so, as a culture not used to sustaining heightened states, we orgasm.
The human machine has evolved to die- to finish this experience. It is the orgasm of the breathing machine. With the last breath, the machine impulse to be DONE has conquered.

This Machine is My Master

This machine is my master.
It is IT that cracks the whip over my pale skin, sending me to the earth with the force of a cruel god.
Moments of pure pleasure are quickly reversed, IT recalls my melancholy, IT reminds me of doubts and jealousies laying dormant.
"On no!" it screams, "you will not know stillness!"
The machine craves its sadness, devotion to misery and depression are recited like memorized prayers. Like an addict, it searches for pain.
It takes me back to this state, over and again, in an instant, I am whimpering with fears. Before consciousness understands the descent, my open heart, full of new types of tears can turn bitter, fearing the inevitable loss it knows will come…yes, my machine coos softly, "don’t forget, you are alone."

Beyond Words

Talking, words move in and out…free as breath. Syllables to the ear, melody rises and crescendos, sweeping across the landscape of my thoughts. My mind, wild with images and context, dredges up associations from my 27 years. Piece by piece, my word is sewn together, silver and gold strands suspend the symbols, they dangle in flight as synapses spark and converge.
All the while I stare, my mouth is free of rhythm or beat, my lips twitch in anticipation. The music of your body enters, your eyes voyage through the trappings of flesh, orbit my innards and depart with a brief kiss. Plunging within the dark, we leave the human form, changing within the space to something other.
Taking me in, you feel my attention enter like the sword of fidelity. While it taps the deepness of your organs, caressing the deep red of smooth muscle, the being emerges, entwined in blue. As the moments pile, and time takes our gestures and sounds into the eternal, we forget that it is ever another way. In this immortal moment, we are each other.

Everything Is Strange

Everything is strange.
My body is driving this car, motorized velocity takes me across this stretch of highway.
I don’t recognize anything, the shapes register in a part of my brain…I go beneath an underpass, a man is walking along the gated bridge, other cars pass me…red and blue, sometimes silver.
I know what they are, their function…but, what are they?
They are foreign to me, objects from another dimension that is far from my understanding.
The road curves… my hands clutch the wheel and turn to the left, my right foot touches the brake…my body has taken over, the mechanical movements of driving are smooth and known, the habit of checking my blind spot is observed.
Everything is moving forward- the cars, the moment…time. I am inside this body, looking out. Nothing is familiar, my hands are like those of a mannequin, my face is a pile of shapes-contorted and distorted.
I look around with the eyes of a foreigner while everything is strange.

Remembering to Work

Ahhh, why is this line moving so slowly? A disturbed frown crosses my face, lines show themselves, setting into the deep grooves of my forehead, road marks of all my years of human annoyance. Okay, wait…remember to breathe…Damn, I wish they would get some more people to help this line move quicker!…Why is there only one person working at this busy post office? My eyes squint as I am further disturbed- the misery of waiting in line shows, my shoulders slouch, my mouth frowns, a multitude of human manifestations arise like a dam about to burst. Seconds of clarity attempt to intervene among my descending awareness- breathe…from inside, I hear myself say, "breathe... in... out". Like an echo in a stadium of roaring shouts, I can barely hear the soft whisper… "stay calm, breathe with attention…this experience is a gift, a chance to use this energy. This is an opportunity to work…breathe, feel your body."
In moments of stress, the impatience or annoyance is really my energy run amok. It has escaped my control and reverted back to old machine habits- negative manifestations of pure energy. These are the moments to WORK, this is the time to grasp the small voice…triggering the memory, taking action, WORKING.