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y0gurt reblogged teenagerslut:
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Swimming in the river
Day 11.
Elia woke up before me. It’s the second day in a row it happens, and while he often sleeps to 8 or 9, I’m becoming anxious he’s getting a new habit. This time in the morning is becoming precious to me, a real gem of my own time, and it automatically becomes something I think I need to defend. I own this time, it’s mine.
Elia, on the other hand, is happily unaware of his father’s sorrows and strained body. He’s sitting in his bed, chewing almonds, singing his favourite songs. He’s a star.
When do we start believing our thoughts? When do they become more important than dealing with the moment?
Every single time I consciously give in to the moment, to what’s here, I experience some kind of flow. When my resistance disappears, I automatically align with … nature.
Fascinating enough by itself, the real fun starts with the consequenses. Because things happen! Great things! When resistance is gone and the moment is allowed to unfold, the world moves. What happens may not always be the same as what I expect, or even imagine—it always seems to go beyond that. And thank god it goes beyond that!
I’ll give in to the moment now and put some clothes on my little dude. And then, then we’ll just see what happens.
Wish you a great day without resistance!
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collaborativefund reblogged kickstarter:
Kickstarted: my conversation with Kickstarter co-founder Perry Chen.
We would like [Kickstarter] to be a fundamental tool for the liberation or the acceleration of our own creativity. I think that, when we’re younger — whatever that means — we have ideas all the time. We embrace our ideas. We say, ‘Oh, I’m going to do this. I’m going to throw this event with a friend. I’m going to have this play, this movie, this thing.’ You have not yet been taught the realities of life, that, “You can’t do that because of this and that or the other thing.” Very often, that other thing is money. Over time, because of the constraints, with money being the biggest one (or the most common one) we start to squash down our ideas.
We don’t have to squash down our ideas because of the harsh realities of the real world. From a very emotional level, that’s the dream.
That’s the dream! -
Painting horses
Day 10.
A 10 days experiment will inevitably come to an end. But I don’t think the end is here just yet.
Writing this blog feels like something I’ve longed for, for years, without knowing. I loved writing as a kid. I remember 12 pages of machine written text about a friendly house robot gone ballistic. Writing it was such a blast, figuring out all the crazy stuff a robot would do. He would obviously have a big gun and go on a killing frenzy, and my mum, bless her, got really worried and didn’t know what to do with me.
I remember trying to find a way to answer every homework with fiction. All the Norwegian-classes, analyze this, analyze that, and all I wanted was to write stories. I even failed a final exam by writing a story as my analysis. Is there anything more boring than an analysis? What comes alive when you write one? The 14-16-18-year old rebel in me can easily awaken. Fuck analyzing!
A dear friend said something interesting yesterday:
The more you burn for something, the greater your internal and external need to explain it will be.Suppose he’s right, isn’t that strange? Is there not something fundamentally…eh, paradoxal about that? I do understand it, it’s how the world works, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels like 7th grade, wanting to write stories.
Imagine you’re an artist, and you just love to paint horses. Through painting horses you tap into something real deep within you, a movement, a force so strong yet totally unexplainable—until you started painting horses. Then an art critic comes to your exhibition. With a grave look on his face, he walks with determined steps in your direction and asks: “Your work is interesting, but tell me, why don’t you paint dogs instead?”
What do you mean, dogs? I paint horses! That’s what I do, that’s what I am! I’m a horse painter! It’s as absurd as asking the horse itself why it isn’t a dog, claiming it should be.
And that’s somewhat how I remember school, at least with my rebel glasses on. 12 years of teaching horses to bark.
Imagine, just for a second, a school where you get guidance in figuring out who you really are, wether you’re a horse painter or a horse rider. Where the school knows that if one kid finishes school without having found her passions, her talents, what makes her come alive, then the school has failed. Where the sole purpose of the school system is to support your process of becoming the best version of yourself, expressed.
Ahhhhh. What a feeling. I bet it’s possible! I bet it’s inevitable!
I wish you a great and rebellious day! -
Who am I when I write about money?
Day 9.
A friend asked me yesterday how my blog is going. I told her I feel vulnerable. It’s 6.33 in the morning, I’ve been sitting in silence for a while, after trying to wake my body up with something that should look like qigong, but probably isn’t. It feels good, that’s what matters.
My post about money from two days ago has made me realize I’m visible to the world. It feels terrifying, and behind that exciting. It feels like standing in front of a full auditorium, only to realize I forgot to put clothes on.
I love money.
I love money when I get value for cash. I love it when money flows, when it’s a natural consequense of doing what I love. I love what goes around comes around, I love crowdfunding, I love the potential of crowdfunding. I love money when I’m not afraid of it, when I keep it neutral, when I don’t pay attention to it.
(That’s peculiar. How can I love something only when I don’t pay attention to it?)
Writing this blog, as well as living this life, is for me a travel in self-inquiry. Who am I? What is this “I”? How do I experience being me, here, now? But I don’t have a goal of enlightenment for my self-inquiry, I don’t have an idea that it should bring me anywhere else than deeper into the experience. It simply gives me joy and meaning.
Who am I when I write about money? I do feel some muscles tighten up. A little unrest around solar plexus. I see I have a history here, stories. Culture. Upbringing. I have an idea that something isn’t right, that money, or how it works in the world, is wrong. And I have an urge to do something, to change it. And then I write about it.
And there comes the feeling of fear. It’s well known stuff—self confidence, vanity. But underneath is a different fear, of not being able to express what I really, really mean and feel. Although I can find great pleasure in discussing stuff, finding intellectual and rational arguments, building a case for what I think we should do about money, which hopefully is stronger than every other case, I also find it utterly uninteresting. Or at least beside the point. Who are we when we talk about money? When we use it, spend it, save it, discuss it? What does it make us do? Can we be free from it? Why make a concept such a vital part of our lives if we ideally want to be free from it?
Freedom, and meaning, are experiences I believe can be achieved and experienced completely independently from circumstances. Nevertheless, we do live in a world of circumstances. And choices.
And just like I can choose to be for or against money, I can choose to look at it, and try not to judge it. A rose is a rose is a rose—and here I am, naked, with choice.
What do I do?
What do I find valuable, and how do I relate to it?
Who do I choose to be, next?
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Organic economy
Day 6.
Counting money. It’s 13.06 and I’ve counted 897 Kroner today. That’s how much was left in our old, Danish chocolate milk bottle, our reservoir of coins. Money is somehow present these days, as a concept, as potential, as constraint. Here’s what I feel about money, and how we use it, or let it use us:
Money feels old. Money feels like wearing the shoes today you used to wear in 7th grade. Money feels like riding a draisine, when you could actually be driving a Volkswagen Hover Car. Money feels like a clamp on Usain Bolt’s foot.
The thing is, I believe we’re all pretty good sprinters. If anything, we’re born to run.
The Occupy Movement, the Arab Spring, Los Indignados, all the rest of us who’s not part of one specific movement, but who also feel the fire burning inside. We want to run. And not only do we want to run, I believe we want to run together. Side by side, leaving nobody behind. Using our different, but unique skill sets and abilities to run better, more smoothly. Not to win, however. To further enhance the experience of running.
Money, or the way we let money define our lives, is more often than not keeping us away from even starting to walk. But as you can only keep water flowing uphill for so long, I believe it’s only a matter of time before we as humans and societies create new structures to support our running, our natural being. The old structures have finished their task of defining our lives, it’s time for something new and more organic.
So how is it going to look like? How do these new structures take shape? Who has the answers?
The real question is this:
How do you run best?
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Love Sunday
Day 7.
Life is too short for only one cup of coffee and today is Sunday and it’s Day 7 of my blog and when I tried to write earlier this morning my peanut head was full of critical and judging thoughts and be my guest, head, knock yourself out, but I ain’t listening.
I’m on a date with my beatiful, beloved girlfriend, we’ve been away since yesterday and it’s our first, real overnight date without kids since three and a half years. About time, one could argue, and one would probably be right, but life is full of choices and ours have lead us here. And I love it. Here and now is waking up with someone I love, here and now is being excited like 14 yet calm like 84, here and now is time for her and me and that’s why I’ll stop writing and turn off the computer right now.
Wish you an exquisitely beautiful Sunday!
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c0mpromise reblogged c0mpromise:
