I have been reading a fair bit lately, just jumping between books. I haven’t had much to say. If I was going to say anything it would be:

Your friends are always with you in some way even if not in physical proximity.

If reality were a simulation, which is too complex, it could be a badly designed stage set for capitalism. I was with my ex the other day and we were going to a family gathering. We were early and went to a tea house. Eventually she said to me that this was not the reality for Indigenous Australians.

I didn’t know what to say but it reminded me of Shakespeare and a short story I wrote where I say it is all just a prop, like everything is propped up. One of the characters in the short story realises that everything is fake and made to trap him. I am sure a thousand writers or more have made a similar statement in their work.

Then you think, what is reality anyway? It is at times a place you find yourself. It could be anywhere but it is the place you contend with. The Tea house wasn’t real enough. It is just a little bubble, a momentary fluff. As important as being there for that short time.

It is also cultural, the great Indigenous Australian movie ‘Samson and Delilah’ captures the cultural differences, the chasm. The cliff for many. The most important stories will sadly never be read by hordes. The most telling cinema will just enlighten a few. The things you read in books. The stories. Humanity. That’s mostly non fiction too. 

Really I was thinking about a lot but it just kind of jumbled around in my head. Reading about art and art projects has been great. Then a little bit of fiction. I grabbed a book on sound art projects which was a random grab but it was slightly calculated. I wanted to know more about field recording equipment and sound projects.

I read a book on writing and failure and how success is just an attire writers get to wear briefly if at all. Most great writers ended up in the gutter or were ridiculed in most cases. Only to die, mostly at their own hand and find their work in a literary canon.

When my mental health improved after years of ups and downs I suddenly lost my desire for success. I was whole again. I could function. As far as I was concerned I was a success. I made it out of the deep dark hole I had been stuck in. 

I remember feeling stifled, like I had been buried alive and all I could see was a faint light far above my head. When I got back to reality my gratitude was profound. I could live. I could enjoy life. I could speak, write and even think. People take thinking for granted.

When your mind is taken away from you, your self control is taken and you being you is not something you can be guaranteed in extreme cases. If you get anything back from that you have won. When you get it all back you can only thank the complex mechanisms at play.

It isn’t just Nature, God or whatever you can describe but also chemistry, research, and the things you at times hate. The Tao though perfectly captures it all. The swirling mass of interrelations and complexity from the myriad of simple forms and interactions. Nature and the Tao encapsulate everything.