Tag: writing

Reflections

Breaking consensus as proof of love (#1)

!Epic Tomorrows

Last night I had a dream that I was sat at a table with strangers, as if it were a lunch table during a group retreat somewhere, and an older guy sat next to me and started talking to me about love. Somehow I understood that he was a Christian philosopher, and I told him I didn`t mind him talking to me, but I could assure him that he would not convert me to Christianity. He was unfazed by my words, and proceeded to explain that there are two ways to analyse love. The first is a cool intellectual way, observing that love exists between all of us. Which is a nice thought, he said. And the second way is by breaking consensus. He did not have time to explain fully what he meant before I woke up, but directly after I woke up, and was lying in bed, I started to contemplate this: How can love be analysed by breaking consensus? I came to the conclusion that breaking a consensus view (or putting forward an individual view that is different to the consensus view on something, held by a group of friends you are part of, or your family, or any other group) is a test of love because it is a potential source of conflict. But also it is a demonstration of love, that you love and trust other people enough to openly differ from them, though it should be done respectfully. It further could demonstrate a higher love of Truth and love of the truth inside yourself, equivalent to a high level of self-respect, because if you stay silent when you disagree with a group which you are part of, you are not being true to yourself or to the unfolding universe. But this is not always easy to deal with and practice. Sometimes we pretend it is easier to go with the flow and stay silent, even when going with the flow is actually blocking our private flow.

This post was originally published on Schemattic here.

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Caught in an irrelevant frame

!Epic Tomorrows

By Monica Wood

As was to be expected, the waiting room was clinically cold. I was alone, although I had expected to see other men there. The –what shall I call her? doctor, coach, fetishist, torturer?– appeared in the doorway. She was slight of build, very slim, not shapely, but sexy. She had on tight blue jeans, zip-up blue suede boots, a slim black jacket, and straight brown hair which reached a couple of inches below the shoulder. Jim?, she called, as if there were others in the room she needed to discern me from. She smiled warmly and I followed her down the corridor.

We entered a small square consultation room. In it was a tiny square table, and a chair. Everything was very white. My tormentor-to-be (it was clear) sat on the table and rested the toes of her boots on the edge of the chair. She motioned me to sit on the chair. I had to sit with my legs apart, to avoid her toes. She leaned in towards me, holding a clipboard (I could not see where it had come from) and asked me: How small do you want to be? I replied: I am not sure. She went on to ask: Do you find me sexy? I replied: Yes. She paused for a moment, looking deadly serious. So, very small then, she said.

She leaned in further and said: This frame you are in is shrinking smaller and smaller. I could see myself from outside the frame: it was true. Her head and her toes pushed against the air around me, so that I seemed to fade and constrict. I felt like I was being relegated to the back of a photograph. This is your true size and relevance, she said, small and irrelevant. Come back next week for an even smaller frame. I said: Okay. She said, You can go now Jim. Little Jimmy. I walked to the door. One more thing, she called as I had my hand on the handle, ready to exit. I turned to look at her. Do you find me sexy? she asked in a mocking tone. Yes, I replied, and left.