notes from the nice side of the fence

‘Now I notice that there is an inner distance towards whatever occurs, whether what’s occurring is outwards or inwards. Sometimes, it feels like being in an empty house with all the doors and windows wide open and the wind just blowing through without anything obstructing it. Not always. Sometimes one gets caught up again, but now one knows that one is caught up again.’

While being like ‘an empty house’ may seen desirable to a meditator, to the average person, brought up on the notion that passion and emotional involvement is what gives life its colour and verve, such a state could seem vapid and remote. Was being an ‘empty house’ the same as being a ’shell’ of a person - cold and unfeeling? And what is the difference between detachment and being cut off from your emotions anyway? A study conducted at a London hospital among children who were left for weeks without visitors showed that it was at the point when they stopped crying and became in the eyes of the staff ‘good’, that the harm was done. Follow-up studies showed that those children had developed the potential for psychotic behaviour. The stage at which they stopped crying was when some vital feeling part of them had ‘died’. Was being detached being alienated?

Tenzin Palmo, as might be expected, refuted all such insinuations. ‘It’s not a cold emptiness,’ she stated emphatically, ‘it’s a warm spaciousness. It means that one is no longer involved in one’s ephemeral emotions. One sees how people cause so much of their own suffering just because they think that without having these strong emotions they’re not real people.

‘Why does one go into retreat?’ she went on hotly. ‘One goes into a retreat to understand who one really is and what the situation truly is. When one begins to understand oneself then one can truly understand others because we are all interrelated. It is very difficult to understand others while one is still caught up in the turmoil of one’s emotional involvement - because we’re always interpreting others from the standpoint of our own needs. That’s why, when you meet hermits who have really done a lot of retreat, say twenty-five years, they are not cold and distant. On the contrary. They are absolutely lovely people. you know that their love for you is totally without judgement because it doesn’t rely on who you are or what you are doing, or how you treat them. It’s totally impartial. It’s just love. It’s like the sun - it shines on everyone. Whatever you did they’d still love you because they understand your predicament and in that understanding naturally arises love and compassion. It’s not based on sentiment. It’s not based on emotion. Sentimental love is very unstable, because it’s based on feed-back and how good it makes you feel. That is not real love at all.’

I snuggle under the duvet in my sister and her husband’s spare room, pretty sure it’s late enough to doze off into sleep. they live in a remote Druze village in the north of the country. I can’t seem to get warm enough. it’s very quiet. my mind starts talking. it’s on the How Can We Fix It mode.

“maybe I should jerk off. sexual release would send me to sleep. it’s like the body gets in this kind of balance, and then it’s like I don’t notice that it’s cold anymore, and then it isn’t. like it preserves its heat better or something. I could do that. and I don’t even have to corrupt my sexuality with porn, I’ll just concentrate on the sensation. having sex with myself. it would be a feeding experience, not a draining one. sensual. if I need to I can conjure up the lovely people I’d had sex with. imagine one of them visiting me again. maybe a few.”

and so far, I like the story my mind is telling me. then it takes an interesting turn.

“I’ve always had such a weak libido. that’s always been what really held me back from exploring my sexuality. I just don’t seem as interested as other people are, as passionate. sometimes I even find the idea of having sex exhausting. it’s one of my unfortunate shortcomings, my lack of sexual appetite.”

a few seconds pass, and my mind silently asks itself, is that true? is it true that I have a weak libido? is my premise for all these evaluations even correct?

in response, I get images from high school, from university - years where I would masturbate almost every day, often via stimulation from pornography on the internet. “have I always had a weak libido? well, that doesn’t seem to be very true. it seems to be truer that I have channelled my sexuality in the ways that I found most comfortable, then. for all I know it was a very strong libido. but I’ve always had such strong fears of approaching men, of exposing myself physically, of hurting someone’s feelings or being hurt myself. that is what holds me back, not my libido.”

as I’m having these thoughts, a few hidden muscles in my body relax, and I feel myself open. actually, I’m amazed. this never occurred to me. my history is not what I thought it was. I suddenly feel like I just got to know me a bit better. but then it turns on me again.

“I wasted it. all those years, wanking in the toilets. my formative years. student years. by now, I could have explored every fetish imaginable. I could have stepped into many more relationships, and could have learnt so much more. I had a perfectly healthy libido, and I wasted it.”

my muscles contract again. I feel the sadness of mourning, and my face wears a strange grimace. and I don’t know where this is going, but I seem to be asking myself again - is it true? is it true that I wasted my libido, all those years? is it even true that I would have learnt and developed to a greater extent had I done differently?

“well, looking at what I believed about sex and about my body back then, it’s hardly surprising that I did what I did. and who knows, maybe if I’d had no sexual inhibitions whatsoever when I was still living in London I would have been seduced into some very tricky situations. I might have contracted disease, or developed serious addictions that would have burnt up months and years of sobriety. I might have been so sexually active that sex itself would have become an addiction, instead of porn, and I would have still come to the same point that I’m at - trying to find liberation. perhaps porn protected me from a worse fate, or from things I just couldn’t have handled. I sure learnt a thing or two from it. not least what addiction feels like. what I certainly know is that the frustration of masturbation coupled with the belief that I should be more sexually active is what led me to confront my ideas and beliefs about sex and about people, my fears. that was my path. nothing here was wasted.”

and then my awareness comes full circle and descends back into the throne of the moment. there is silence. comfortable. another page is turned, and the canvas is freshly blank, with not even a trace of denial of what came before. whether I have sex or I don’t, I know that my libido is perfect the way it is. increasing it, supressing it, channeling it or ignoring it has never been my job. I just thought it was.

I turn on the tap and check the water, then pour in some Dr. Bronner soap, Eucalyptus. if it came to that, I’d give up coffeeshopping to be able to afford my Magic Soap. luckily it doesn’t quite come to that. though who knows what I’m indirectly missing out on on account of my coffeeshopping (and soap). I check my bank account - if there’s money there I use it, if not I don’t.

I put my foot in and it tells me that the water’s too hot. I find myself thinking about the water and where it comes from. am I being wasteful? would taking a shower use up less water than a shallow wash in the bath? is it more important that I save up water in my home, or that the government explores alternatives like recycling and desalination, many of which are avoided for political reasons? I don’t know. I turn the tap off as soon as I have enough.

I soak in, and my mind drifts to the future day’s activities. I’ll write that email, submit that application form, work on that song, translate that book. all of which will involve sitting at my laptop, while something I tend to think of as “real life” will be going on outside; on the streets, in offices, in bars and cafes, in checkpoints and refugee camps. I am struck by how little I actually live. so many hours of my days are consumed by sitting across from a computer screen, and the ones that are not mostly involve maintenance and upkeep to that end, like cooking and making tea so that I can keep going. sometimes even meeting a friend for lunch is just a respite from this routine, a charge-up. I converse with people online, I do my learning online, I do much of my paid work online, I make my art online - I even do most of my political protest online. it’s all by proxy.

I live my life not in reality, but in representations of reality. is this significant? is this wrong, or unhealthy? did I choose to live like this? when was the last time something actually happened, I ask myself. as response, my mind gives me images from the events of the weekend - housewarming, clubbing, weekend papers, sex (with other people, for a change). surely, leaving the house and meeting someone is more sensual than talking to them on skype, and therefore more real, more meaningful. surely, ranting on the Occupation at a house party is more effective and powerful than doing so on facebook. it moves things. it makes things happen - faster, better.

but hang on a minute, I tell myself as I rub my scalp. what is this duality about? I mean, what is this “real life” I’ve so readily idealized? does it even exist? when I meet a friend and listen to them speak and watch their body movements, am I experiencing what’s “real”, or just a representation of something I can never have any access to in the first place? I hear the sounds coming out of their mouths and I attach them to words I’m familiar with. I then attach those words to meanings, and I go on to attach those meanings to stories from my experience that match them. I call this “understanding”. but what did I understand? I just constructed a story about what is happening in the moment of the conversation (“where did she get that scar?”, “why is he being so nervous?”, “how long have we been sitting here?”, “is it hot in here?”), and about the narratives that I’m hearing (“she’s taking too long to grieve”, “he shouldn’t have done that”, “she’s being too pushy about this”, “he’s so adorable”). not only that, but even when I’m relatively free from my own interpretations, I still rely entirely on my subjective imagination to relate to another person. someone tells me they’re upset about getting dumped, and I imagine what heartbreak must feel like. I conjure images from my past or theirs (which I can only imagine). I hear songs about breakups and see tear-jerking movie scenes. I look at their reddening eyes and connect them to all those things, and I say “oh you poor thing”. so what I react to is not reality. I react to my interpretation, based on an experience that can only ever be mine. much like I would to a blog entry or a status message. even when a hand touches my skin, when fresh air enters my nostrils, when my muscles ache from running - it’s all I ever do, all I ever can do. all my life I’ve been trapped behind these eyes. the internet, like everything else, is just another little reminder of this. it’s here to wake us up to what we already know - there is no world outside of thought. there is no pain or pleasure outside of thought. we live inside our own representations.

I get out the bath and look outside the window. I make tea and sit down to write. it’s a life.

in recent months I am finding that much of the stuff I thought I knew, I actually don’t. and that has been really liberating because I see that I cannot hold myself responsible for stuff I don’t really know about. it’s a shame that there seems to be such a widespread bias against not-knowing. but then I don’t even really know that such a bias exists. at least in my life it always did. for example, I always thought I had to make decisions. I thought that that’s how my life ran, and everyone else’s, by the power of calculated intention. it only took a closer look to realize that actually, in my life, things have a way of happening and then I either know what to do, or I don’t. when I know, there’s no decision to make, I just do it. when I don’t, there’s still no decision to make. I have my stand: I don’t know. and yes, to some things, especially those fleeting by, a non-yes is usually a no. not knowing whether to board a train usually means not boarding it, unless I notice that I’m on it. and not knowing might not be a good enough reason to board it. so there’s my decision, and I didn’t even have to make it. either I’m on the train, or not. I could torment myself for months over the need to make a decision about something, or I could accept that I just don’t know - either way, I’m not making it, and life happens. when I know, I know; when I don’t, I don’t. and it changes all the time without me doing anything. tomorrow something might happen, and suddenly I’ll know. or not.

so I was looking at my parents the other day, and then I heard myself saying: “mom, dad - just wondering, what would be the thing I did in my life that would bring you the most joy and happiness? what one thing would you be most satisfied with?”

it was a trick question, of course, because it assumed their own happiness can ever depend on something I do, which in reality would not be true. but I trusted them to know whether it was true or not for them, and had a strong feeling that it was. I did not expect a “son, you’re already so perfect and amazing that we cannot imagine anything you can do that would make us any happier than we are.”

it didn’t take them long.

mom said having children. dad said marrying a woman (and, he promptly added, having children with her).

so I said “hmm. okay. thanks.” and went back to my apple sauce.

I did not see a problem with this little exchange until I described it to a friend of mine who was slightly shocked: “how insensitive! they know you’re not straight, right?”

they do know I’m not straight. but insensitive? not at all, I said. I mean, what would be kinder, if they lied to me about how they really felt? at least this way I know what I’m dealing with here. if ever I went for selling a million records and filling up Carnegie Hall, well, now I know I had better not do it for them, because impressed they might be, ecstatic - hardly. in fact, they might even disapprove if my career deferred me from procreation. so now I know what not to expect. and in the less-than-likely event that I did feel like marrying a woman, I now know that my parents would be the right people to ask to cover expenses. it would bring them so much pleasure. and not only that, but if said impulse does arise it would probably be less of a muddle separating between my own passions and theirs, as subliminally conveyed through coercion over years of upbringing. until I just came out and asked right up. now I can be very clear about our differences: they have an ideology regarding my future, and I don’t. and only an ideology can make you disappointed with a particular outcome.

in my thoughts I travel today to one of the first boys I ever kissed.

not the first one. my thoughts don’t like going there.

but one of the first.

I wore a collar shirt that comfortably hid the hair on the back of my neck. I drove.

we sat on the lawn in a quiet park in a small Israeli town. it’s amazing how few of the details I seem to remember. few images. we talked about something pseudo-philosophical, my horses of sexual insecurity probably tugging the conversation is such convenient directions. I had more hair on my head back then, and less on the rest of my body. the longer the words I was trying to use were getting, the closer we edged towards each other. I don’t recall being scared. I had a strong confidence in my ability to muzzle my sexuality and lock it in a cage, you know, just in case it made me do or say something that could be seen to be… vulgar? animalistic? passionate? out of order. but I wasn’t getting my way this time.

“I don’t wanna wait anymore. can I?… -”

and at this, his head moved towards mine, and lips met, and even though my mind was still racing (where should I put my hand? what is he going to do next? what is he thinking about?), it was too late: the beast had been unleashed. and it was heaven. it was brilliance.

*

here’s how it works for me, sometimes: I start the day, no clothes. mirror. I cannot see something I consider sexy. so instead I zoom in on features I deem redundant. a zit. a hair. a small mound of fat. then, clothes on. mirror. I look at my face. I like my face. smile. go out.

I meet someone. we drink some wine, or not. clothes come off again. and, sometimes, he says: “wow. you’re so sexy…”

and I smile and I cuddle and I’m grateful. I make happy. “you’re sexy too.”

and all the time, in my head, it’s like - “liar!”. or worse - “stupid!”. not always entirely consciously. but it’s there. because, if someone defies my own judgment they must be either or both. and since it is my own judgment it’s also inevitably the better judgment - simply because, unlike the judgments of others, I have no choice but to believe my own. they’re mine. I make them. and mirrors don’t lie, mirrors aren’t stupid. I know what my mirror says in the morning. nevermind that mirrors never really say anything. only my mind ever does.

such are the powers of dictatorship.

I wake up, get up, and pull up the blinds. the world outside is not.

is not

I decide this is the perfect day for Really Long Emails. or at least one. here goes.

*

there is this widespread theory that if we accepted or loved reality, then nothing would change or improve. this includes external realities like war and rape and our own “negative” tendencies like overeating, depression, fears, etc.

what I found was that this is just a theory - and at that one that I had no way of disproving since I’d been taught from day one how to not accept reality and invest in future outcomes. I didn’t know how to do anything else. the rapture of wondering what things I could be when I grew up rapidly unravelled as the fear of not having proper income and security; the wonderment of connecting with friends was quickly imposed on a hypothetical future as the fear of loneliness. my parents and society, with the best intentions at heart, taught me my motivations, which are invariably fear-based. the problem with this is that the Now disappears in the intricate workings of a mind stuck in survival mode: even playtime is not just that, it’s really an insurance plan for old age. it’s an education, not an experience, and in that it is always stressful - because you know that if you don’t figure out the rules and follow them, you could get it wrong.

so acceptance, of the self and of the world, can be a terrifying thing - so much of our identity is built upon its opposite, and fortified through the fear that if we accepted ourselves, our children, our society and our world - we would do nothing for those things. but that is not acceptance - that is denial. I started testing it, and I realized there were many things that drive me to action other than discontent: creativity, intuition, service, joy, love. the difference being that when I am compelled to move because of love, I am free in that, because I already have my peace regardless of the outcome. when I am compelled to move out of discontent, the effects can only be temporary, and I can only create more dissatisfaction - because I believe for it to be the fuel that drove me to act in the first place, so that’s what I’ll be looking for again once my initial “goal” is achieved. what else is wrong? what else needs fixing? and I’ll either tell myself the story that I do this for other people (when in reality they may not need or use my help, and probably have not asked for it) or that I do this for myself (when in reality no external achievement can be good enough, because I believe myself to not be good enough).

here’s an interesting exercise: you know all those people whose flaws you think you totally accept, those friends who are so easy to love and admire without condition even though they don’t necessarily have anything going for them that you don’t? try to spend a whole week with them, a whole month. because “their flaws are more lovable than mine” is just another trick we use to keep ourselves down. for me it’s become apparent that I can only project unto others my own beliefs: I hate me, I hate you - I love me, I love you. and that goes for every moment, with no exception. and it takes that closer look to see that, because after spending a while together I notice that people’s habits begin to annoy me, and it can be very subtle. I become impatient, I start attacking, I indulge in visions of slightly altered versions of their selves I could REALLY live with - and this becomes very confusing because these are people I love. no wonder all this difficulty comes out in monogamous relationships - we just don’t spend as much time with friends as we do with our partners. but all I’m doing is treating my friends or my partner in the same way that I treat myself - believing I should change and improve, believing I am not good enough right now.

whatever I am is perfect and enough in the moment. I know this because that’s all there is - anything else is a projection of the mind from past experience unto a nonexistent future, and there is no presence in that. there are only conditions, manufactured: if I lose enough weight, I’ll find the right boyfriend. if I do that, I’ll be happier. if I stop the Occupation, the world will be a better place. if that happens, I’ll be happier. all theories. some will indeed lead me to actions I might consider loving or noble, but they stem from a place of pain, of not-good-enough. and when I manage to see the falsity of those stories (can I absolutely know that a boyfriend would make me happier? where did I pick up that belief?), I notice that I am still active in the world, I still respond to my heart, only I have a lot more space in my mind vacated from troubling and stressful concepts - and in that my body is happier too. I am more able, more flexible, more creative. when I don’t believe I need a boyfriend, I’m much more relaxed and confident around guys. when I don’t believe I need to end the Occupation, I’m much more joyful in demonstrations and a lot more approachable for people who hold on to fearful ideologies. what is more effective? what is more egotistical?

my sister came in my room one day, and I told her about this video I started working on on my laptop. before even seeing it, she sighed and said “I wish you didn’t waste your time like this when you could be fulfilling your real dreams. I want for you to grow and get what you want. I’m not one of your friends who would just sweet-talk you into false comfort.” and all I could wonder was: why do you want me to grow? what would that give you? why am I not good enough right now? how can being comfortable with myself be false? and she never got to see what I was up to that day. and because at first I believed what she was saying, that I should do things I wasn’t doing, I was left sad and deprived of energy. not a great place to start growing from. and this is how most forms of education work. and for some people that seems to work very well, with little perks and punishments along the way, until they realize that they’ve run their whole lives for someone else’s race, and they have no idea who they are anymore. I thought I’d first opt out of that, and see what life looks like without need, want or lack. this goes against the grain of everything that I’d been taught, and I figured that was ok. it’s a journey I’m happy to take.

what. the fuck. 

what the fuck. am I doing here. 

this is not for me. why now? everything was going so well. I’m missing out on life back home. parties. holidays. friends. family. fun. 

why this? why a week-long meditation course in some godforsaken kibbutz? 

am I that desperate? 

am I that clueless? 

so distrusting of myself I would tear away from everything I love just for another empty promise of salvation? 

this is not for me. I already know this stuff. I could be doing this on my own. I could be doing this better. quicker. without having to sit on a pillow for a whole fucking week doing nothing. this is a waste of time. 

I wanna switch on my mobile. I wanna sing. I wanna go back home. 

and then what?

then?… then I would carry on with my life. I’d be playing my music. take responsibility. I’d ask that guy out, like, on a real old-fashioned date. movie and dinner. he’s cute. we’d laugh. 

and then what? 

we’d rapidly get closer. after a couple of weeks sleeping alone would be unimaginable. I’d feel empowered and safe. I’d grow out of my annoying, needy, clingy, childish little habits. it would be like that actress in that interview I read years ago, who talked about how before meeting her partner she was like a kite and now she’s like a jet engine. I’d be a jet engine. 

and then what? 

life would be clear. I would be relaxed. I would stop biting my nails. 

I’d write more. I’d start performing again. raving reviews. my friends would love me more. I’d be more giving, more present when I’m with them. 

and then what? 

I’d do all those things I’d always been afraid of doing. I’d go backpacking with my boyfriend all over the world. big business meetings. family confrontations. fearless. I’d never postpone another phonecall, ever. I would live in the moment, utterly and completely. I’d find wisdom, and flow, and peace. 

and then what? 

then?… 

I guess then - I guess at some point something Bad would happen. 

my boyfriend would leave me. or someone would die. I’d get sick. or just addicted to something. I might lose all my money. 

and then what? 

I’d hurt. I’d be lost. I would be disillusioned with everything I’d been doing and just stop. I would see how foolish I’d been, to trust such transient things. maybe move in with my parents again. start watching TV. 

and then what?

my self-esteem would suffer greatly. I’d be snappy and cruel. I wouldn’t know how to explain it - everything was going so well. I’d be furious with myself for giving up so easily, but it would be useless - I’d already had it all and I’d ruined it. I’d try to cut off from my past. lose touch with old friends. go offline. sell my piano. 

and then what? 

once I find the energy, I would start looking for answers. a way to come back to something that resembles life. even a different life. anything. but every step I take in whatever direction would be painful. I’d be so distrusting, so clueless. I would attack people trying to help. I would write off every therapy offered, every opportune vacation. I’d seen life. I’d seen the pain. I know myself. that stuff is for desperate people. for people who don’t know.  

and then what?

at one point or another something would slip my guards. someone would grab be by the hand, and I’d be like, “whatever”. I’d arrive in a place with no distractions, no drugs, no alcohol. nowhere to run to. I’d be too exhausted to criticize others there. I’d be crying my eyes out one night, realizing what I’d forgotten - that I can only have a home in me. I can only find security inside. and that it’s always there. I would join the others, trying to rebuild my mind. forgive myself. make it a place I can live in, regardless of what happens on the outside. it would be, maybe, like a retreat. a vipassana.  

you mean, kinda like what you’re doing right now? 

um. yeah. 

well guess what. 

in dedication to Simi, Yonatan and Stephen, the wonderful teachers at Tovana. 

it’s already dark by the time we arrive. the Dead Sea. or, “Yam Hamelach”, the Sea of Salt, in Hebrew. as me and two friends unload the car I wonder which of these names is more descriptive. 

it’s quiet. 

very quiet. 

thoughts in my mind are like marathon runners. only this race is on a loop - someone tore out the finish line and painted the trails back to the start. no one knows. thoughts run the endless race until they face complete exhaustion, when they humbly cross the sideline into the cheering crowds who always accept them without question. there is never a sneer. everyone knows that each of them is always doing its best in trying to interpret the world, even when that interpretation is cruel or unkind. their nylon tops bear the names of their emotive sponsors: “Compassion”, “Ambition”, “Anger”, “Resentment”, “Self-Flagulation”, “Melancholy”, “Ecstacy” etc. they run with blind ambition, in complete oblivion. 

some thoughts run with abandon and bliss, endorphines flowing through their bodies. others face excrutiating pains at every footfall. new thoughts hardly ever join the race, only ones that are giving it another shot.

if this sounds tiring, well. it is. 

it takes a while for things to quiet down. given the right environment, everything slows down to a more managable pace. things become clear, movements less blurry. the crowds stop handing out water bottles from the sidelines - that endless barrage of rejuvinating stimuli that keeps the race going. suddenly each participant becomes aware of itself, aware of the moment - and suddenly a memory hits: I have been here before. I have run this course. it doesn’t ever end. how strange. 

and when this finally happens, I call it peace. 

in a place like the Dead Sea, peace is a bit of an inevitablity. 

as we spread out our picnic blankets, sleeping bags and a strangely random collection of foodstuff, I register shock in my consciousness. it isn’t used to so much quiet. I opt out of the fire-making arrangements and just sit there, wondering what my mind will come up with next to keep itself busy - to keep itself from experiencing the moment in all its glorified simplicity. I try to watch the race. after a few minutes, I figure it’s just more of the same old: money worries, romantic musings, people I don’t talk to anymore, countries I could be travelling to. situations I hadn’t handled all that well. notes for the future. comments on the past. lists. 

the next day I find a small pool of warm fountain water concealed by tall bamboos. a few people occassionally enter in the nude to wash off the mineral mud off their skin. through a manmade tunnel out of tires and wood, the water streams down and out into the sea, only several meters away. 

by the stream, two self-proclaimed Rainbow People are washing their crockery. one of them is from Bolivia, the other from Israel. 

after some small-talk (I learn that flying to Ethiopia is cheap and that a huge Rainbow Gathering is scheduled to happen there in March), we watch the water flow in silence. I see a small school of tiny silvery fish swimming vigorously upstream.

“wow! check them out.”

the Bolivian woman smiles. “yes, the water’s fresh. that’s their whole life, these little ones - swimming upstream. if they stop, they wash out to the sea and die, because of the salt.”

“that’s incredible. so much effort, just to survive. I wonder if they ever get tired of it.”