The big word is dropped: available! That’s what we have to be, all the time, whatever happens. Always ready, the little finger on the seam of the pants, standing to attention. Yes it is. That’s the life we live. Available and smiling. Amendment. Ready to serve them all. Get out of the way Or bending low, it depends. We all depend.
Never quiet. As soon as you are alone, the muzac thoroughly, screaming TV, screen dance, you come out of you. No time for the only valid trip, the inner journey. It never happens. Huh? Are you laughing? Well, it’s a laughing puff.
A very nice position of the assemblage point that makes you see all the colors of the laughter. The crazy laughter, the gentle laughter, the strong laughter, the laughter with the splinters, the laughing under the cloak, the yellow laugh completely black. Like me.
Am I drunk? Not at all. You’re kidding. I dont drink. Alcohol, coffee, black tea, mate, I used and abused. It’s past. No exciting, no medicine, no going back, no need. I am already so high. Up in the sky. When I drunk, it made me sad. When I was blue, I saw life in black. And when I was down and out, I did not want to live anymore.
In those moments, through these low depressed neighborhoods, I had the easy philosophy. Detachment. Beware of Maya. Everything is illusion. Méfiage, distrust, hell and distrust. In these conditions, as dying seems easy. I only want to live by a thread.
In front of me, close to my feet, the chasm. Darkness, doom and depth. How sweet. The void calls me. All rather than this life of suffering and failures. To sleep. With no harm, no alarm, no worry, no problem. Ah, the beautiful death! How sweet it looks! Stop the traffic! I’m passing through.
A mug of moody mourn. It was before. Here comes the ineffable, the adorable. Before I was in the devil’s bag, and here I am in heavenly flight. Small feather. You have sown on my life like thousands of roses. Alight. I want to look at you too.
I kiss you. You surround me. My heart of ice melts on the place. Living ! I am alive ! Happiness to love thoroughly. To love without counting, without telling lies, without understanding why. To love without keeping, without looking, to love without waiting.
Love. So respect. To know how to protect the intimacy of others, and my own. The warrior is not available, says Juan Matus, the benefactor of Carlos Castaneda. Moreover, he adds that the warrior must be unavailable. Cry of the heart in the face of agreed proprieties. The diktat of “be available” takes a slap in the face. It is important. It breaks. And then it goes. A drastic way to set the record straight. The good hour, that of the awakening.
I’m not here for anyone. It surprises you? The warrior must be unavailable. He must consider those who invade his space and devour his time like little tyrants, and treat them as such. With respect, sweetness and distance. The warrior’s path of light is not the pretty lane of holiness. A warrior is not a saint. The agreed morality is not the Rule.
The Rule is not written, while the well-thought morality is rehearsed. We have a hard time with it. So many reflexes conditioned since childhood, school, TV, the web, social sites … So many refrained refrains that eventually confused with the Rule of the warrior. Why is it so important to be unavailable? I am going to tell you.
To want oneself wants to believe oneself to be indispensable. Hence the risk of strengthening the ego. Being available means accepting to interrupt any action on demand. Any interruption creates confusion. Take the example of the smartphone. Wherever you go, wherever you are, his screen reminds you to order. You are his stooge, he rings you, you go. Formidable. Certainly, we can cut your phone. We could. Who did it ?
Which means that at any time, the phone has priority. Even in the evening. Even on weekends. But are there weekends for the Light Warrior? Is his quest in parenthesis from Friday night to Monday morning? It’s not a wizard during office hours. We do not knock on the door of a nagual without having announced. The availability is in the camp of the one who imposes itself. Is there not lack of availability of mind, the one that demands that one is always available for him? Does he have a heart? Does he hear his belly? Is he concerned about the time of others?
Light heart changing heart heavy heart
The time to dream is short
What should I do with my days
What should I do with my nights
I did not have love or stay
Nowhere do I live or die
I passed like the rumor
I fell asleep like the noise (Louis Aragon)
We will be available when we are dead. The survivors then do what they want with the dead. He always agrees. The dead are cool. We make them what we want. They might be used as a repoussoir or an oriflamme, it is up to you. And when fashion changes, we change their lives. Or we change the dead. Grateful dead.
We dress the dead differently. Other. We come out of the old papers, written in a moody day, blackened in agony. They say, “See? it’s him” . Who dare making fun of? Not only of the dead, but of the whole thing. And worse.
Now tell me what you’re looking for
We must decide for the body
You know we all agreed before
You better stop looking at me
So many ashes in my brain
Down in the square it looks like rain
And in a softer shade of blue
It looks like angels passing through (Xavier Séguin)
My life long, I was an unimportant warrior. All my life I knew my death. We both agreed, my death and I. To sleep in its arm. With no alarm, with no shame, with no problem. Ah, the beautiful death! How sweet it looks! Hold on ! I’m passing away.