Friday, 25 February 2011

Real Life


Walking past three of my colleagues this morning, I see that they're absorbed in watching an episode from some television series or other on a computer monitor. Outside on the balcony, the talk is of online computer games - quests and battles, feats and killing. And I realise why none of the available mass media, with the possible exception of printed books, has ever captured me to the degree it seems to have taken many humans.

 It is just this: none of it ever measures up to real life. No TV series, no Hollywood spectacular, no multi-player adventure escapade contains the unlimited potential that sitting in front of my altar of an evening, candles lit, fragrant oils burning, holds for me.


I can go anywhere and experience virtually anything from within this divine/mortal entanglement which is Life, right here, right now.

Yes, I enjoy the products of another's imagination, when it's set forth in writing, or in music, or in visual art. And I enjoy the occasional (very occasional) film, for the length of time that it takes to watch it, that is. Then it's gone, ephemeral as most of civilisation; soap bubbles in the larger stream of Life.

Life lived in depth and with real connection to the matrix of existence-our convivialists, or matching parts of God swimming on this plane at this time, whether rock or plant or animal or quark-is unmatched in its variety and ability to fulfil. Why chase the candyfloss dreams of others made electronic when your own rich store of that-which-is-possible is so largely untapped?

Perhaps this is why I'm so much happier, on the whole, than most of the humans I live among.