Golden White Nothingness

N.Y.C. (BK), U.S.A.

September 2011

In a field of golden rye, they sat together listening to the earth play the leaves of trees. The sun was regenerating the cells under their skin, and they both basked in this feeling of good, they felt. Neither one of them had ever had a thought, so when he thought about the sound the earth was making, he immediately said to himself, "Well, isn't this weird? I am thinking." So, he shuffled through the index of his mind. He opened the cabinets, and read the notes inside; they scared him. Very soon, nothing could satisfy his need to know. He no longer saw the suns power to restore. He frowned upon the sweat that provided life a way to surface. And as if in the blink of an eye, he could no longer feel her. He yelled inside, "But, why am I here?!" And without a breath, left in his body, he slumped to his side, and fell on the lap of his once loved.

At first she caressed his silky hair. She made her way around his whole head, giving attention to each one, as if they were precious instruments dependent on the oil from her fingers. She took a breathe, and then she thought (something she had never done before), "That doesn't feel like him." Then she froze. She knew. She felt nothing from him. She panicked, she held him tight, she gave her breath, she struggled, and fought to give her soul.

Nothing.

And when she knew that he would have no return, she opened his eyes and said inside, "Love? Love? Where have you gone, Love? Why did you leave me here all alone? Everything was so perfect. Did you not hear the sound of rye? Wasn't it beautiful? Didn't you feel the diamonds beneath your earthly suit, reflect who you really were? Didn't you feel me next to you? Didn't you feel my love? ... I didn't love you enough. ... I didn't love you enough. I thought I did. I felt I did. ... I felt. Well, isn't this weird? I am feeling again. I'm so used to thinking now. ... Come back Love."

But, he didn't. There she was in the solitude of her mind no longer concerned with, nor observing, the environment that surrounded her. The wind was still blowing, but the facts blew back and forth, of why this was all wrong. The sun was still out, but she was cold. Her anger grew, and her hair got white. She puckered her blue lips, so tight that her body sealed itself shut. Her brow came down, her shoulders went up, and as she lay beside him, in a static of white nothingness, she released one last thought, "Come back Love."

Night. Night. Night. 

There was nothing anymore- nothing except for the rarest of diamonds. It was small, and couldn't be seen by any eye. It had no scent, you could not smell it. It had no structure, you couldn't touch it. There was nothing to taste, nor a sound to hear; and yet there it was, undeniably existing () .

Merritt Hutyra

* * * 

I wrote this piece in an urban, yet rustic cafe in Brooklyn. I wanted to write something that would help me remember that, I often reduce life to, "Why?" In doing this I forget where I am, who I'm with, and why we came.

Pass the Passion

September 2011

Brooklyn, New York

I am much more interested in the spiritual experience that I am having, than the physical one. In fact, I don’t even care what happens to me, as much as the why it’s happening, and much more than that, I care about the how it’s happening leaps and bounds more than anything else in life it self.

That felt really good to get out. I feel like I have had that thought and feeling for a while now, but never allowed myself to acknowledge it. Confessions of the heart and mind, make me feel exposed, much like when I dance. I love to dance. Shall we?

This is an important discovery for/ of self, even if it involves a bit of the ego (though I'm not entirely sure that it does).

By investigating the ‘how it’s happening’ I’m acknowledging at least these truths:

1) I am more than physical

2) I believe that I am molding the physical, somehow

3) And that I can actually learn, what my part is and how I can best facilitate the construction process

I believe that it must be possible to learn how to co-create one’s desired physical experience. I know that this is a belief of mine, because I live my life according to it. I accept full responsibility for the conflicts in my head, between others, and within life. In fact, it would be really hard for you to convince me that we are not, in fact, co-creating our own reality, that everything is what it is, and that I am not personally responsible for my life.

I must breathe. I feel myself getting very passionate about this. Passion is good, but I have a previous habitual way of expressing things I was passionate about. Frustration, used to be associated with passion, because I didn’t really believe that I could actually achieve, that which I was passionate about; that there would be no resolution, or completion, and extremely hard work was going to have to be done in order for anything to be accomplished. I don’t feel like I’ve been passionate about anything in a very long time, but now that I am, I am able to transfuse the frustration, into it's polarized opposite; elation. 

It’s nice to see it again, especially through my writing. I’ve known it was inside of my body, but it’s been a while since I’ve said, “This, passion feels good. I like the feeling of being passionate. I would like to include this feeling into the work that I do here. I would like if I noticed, more often, when I am feeling passionate about something.”

Where had my passion been? Had it been lost amongst the other things that I had started and not finished? I think more closely to the truth is that it was going on the physical journey (with me) in the form of travel. I was passionately pursuing my desire to travel the world. We live on the greatest theme rock in the galaxy, and NOW I get to decide where I want to go, and what I want to see and do. I try to take note of the exotic environment, the plants and animals, and allow myself to notice their beauty, if nothing else, in that moment.

New York, must be so special to me because a majority of the people I meet here, have chosen to leave their natural habitat and environment, to live amongst others who have made the same decision.

Why? Why did we leave? Why did I leave?

Did I leave because I couldn’t see the beauty in it? Honestly, at that time I don’t think I could. I felt like I was being smothered by an imaginary cloud of doubt in self, others, and God. Leaving was the best thing I ever did for my relationship with God, others, and self. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and that is true for me and Texas, me and New York, me and myself, me and you, me and God.

Why am I here? More importantly, why am I back here- New York? I feel like it has something for me, like a gift that I have been commissioned to find. It’s as if it’s calling me, simply by it’s existence and I’m the only one who can reach it. It was meant for me, and if I don’t find it, no one ever will. It will simply go on existing, pulsating, and sending out it’s frequency into the vast nothingness of space.

I want … I want … I want to pursue it passionately. I want to be doing more things that make me think, and become aware, that I am feeling passionately toward life or the circumstances within it.

If I am aware that I am feeling passion, then I must already be feeling passionately toward something, and I like starting from that point of attraction.

It’s freeing to know that I can become passionate about something, someone, life, myself, my joy, your joy, our joy, our freedom within the joy of it all. This comforts me before a rest my head, after an American Labour Day Holiday.

Will Help for Work

August 2011
New York, New York

The rain is coming. I smell the static in the air. Everyone is preparing for Irene, but I'm crossing a bridge on foot because my feet prefer it. I've decided that concrete is pretty much the worse thing in the world for the human body to walk on.

(SOLUTION: Something buoyant, yet firm.)

And that the news is really good at driving the general public insane. Irene is coming, and everyone is mad, and scared, and worried. Political campaigns have already begun, and everyone is mad, and scared, and worried. Th*r* s**ms t* b* * p*tt*rn h*r*.

I prefer my sources to be people who watch the news. It takes a few conversations to get the major details, but I usually have most of the major pieces put together before it's too late.

NEWS UPDATE: Enough news talk. (This message is brought to me by the gentle reminder in my head.)

Focusing on the river between both boroughs (Brooklyn and Manhattan) I decide which view I prefer. I want the one looking at the city. I can see myself having a cup of coffee, on my patio, watching the sunshine bounce off the glassy skyscrapers, and shoot me with vitamin D. It feels so good. Just the thought of it is enough to make me want more.

I miss not drinking. New York is a drinking town, and it just seems bizarre not to be at a happy hour in this city, if I'm not going to be in an office. I've been in an office at this time before. I'm glad I'm not now, but I have been before. I've been money obsessed most of my life. I didn't grow-up with any and I wanted it.

CONFESSION: I still do, which is why I'm not allowing myself to chase it anymore.

Can I be happy without money?

I wonder. I wonder. I've decided.

I can be. The doing of something can bring me happiness, as long as I'm enjoying the thing that I'm doing. Will I ever really enjoy doing something (work wise) that isn't bringing me money- the kind of money I want to be able to play with?

I didn't think so. I really didn't. But, now I'm thinking, I'm rethinking, "Maybe so." I enjoy doing this- writing, sharing. I enjoy helping people.

In the past two weeks I've helped a drunk find his wallet, a stranger with her groceries, and a tourist with his luggage. I think it's the best I've felt since being back. Feeling good, feels good. Helping people with immediate needs feels even better. Providing solutions, and relieving stress in a practical way, with really no effort of mine (because I enjoy doing it) feels the best. I must investigate this further as I search for the perfect thing to do, in order to feel 'that' good even if it doesn't make me money.

Merritt Hutyra

HOME

July 2011
Waco, Texas (U.S.A.)

It's Texas hot. If you've ever been, you understand the sopping wet statement that, that is. I'm on my old stomping grounds. Home. Home, oh Home. I love you, but dang you make me feel like a 57-year-old grandma going through menopause. I am not a man that likes to run the AC. I much prefer to experience the elements of my environment; the wind blowing across my face, as I fly down I-35; the fuel from a diesel engine; and the flame of hell that singes my lungs past every church. All washed down with a nice cold Marty Light.

I smile. I appreciate this aspect of my life; that as I see the wrinkles on my mom's face, my sister become a mother and my brother become a best friend, I see the evolution of me. It started with my mother carrying me on her hip. She was rushing and I was awakened by her jolt or adjustment.  It moves to a dirt field in West, where my brother and sister taught me how to ride a bike. It takes a sharp-turn to the poor, skinny, big-puffy cheeked, thin, blond-haired junior-high boy. I hated that kid. I did. That kid sucked. That kid was scared of life and everything in it. That kid had no clue that he would grow-up to be me and I'm kind of mad at him for it. Had he known, I would most certainly be much different than I am now and you're right, I wouldn't want that anyway. Sometimes I want to be in different places or stages in my life then where I am, and that's frustrating, but I have no desire to be anyone else anymore. I'm quite content with the me that is on this journey. My need to share my experience I find odd. I think it is connected to my obsession in understanding my experience. What am I experiencing? Who am I experiencing? Why am I experiencing?

It must be for this moment, or rather it has all lead to this moment. I'm glad for it. I feel good here.

Home. This is where it all began for the man that types these words. I most definitely use to be a boy. I've grown. I have a beard. I kind of love it. It's true what they say, once you pass the itchy stage it's worth it. It makes me feel like there is a rock concert happening on my face and the best part about that is, I don't listen to rock music. But, I like to think that my face is rocking out, jamming, having a good time up there. My ego is exposing itself right now. It's probably because I'm home. That's probably an excuse.

The walls at Common Grounds speak their poem in a low elder vibration, and the Baylor students accompany them with their fine-tuned vocals. It's harmonious and encourages me to write, to be diligent and to focus on my goals. What do I want to do at 28? The year has already begun, so I had better find-out the answer to that question very soon. It will come. It's probably already here, I just don't see it. I'm not looking for it anymore. I'm taking that much needed breath after searching for something for so long that you don't want to find it, you just want to let it go. I can do that. I can let it go. I can breathe and I can let it go. Done.

Merritt Hutyra

I Think, I Thought A Thought

April 2011

Prague, Czech Republic

I love looking at a blank page. It allows me to see the thoughts that I am thinking. This paper gives the thought a means of manifestation. But what is this thought? It is mine. It feels like mine. It feels like it’s a voice. It feels like it’s my voice. It feels like it is my voice telling me how everything is going, and what everyone is doing, what I’m doing, how I’m feeling, what I’m seeing, how I feel about what I’m seeing, what I want from it, how I’m going to get it, do I even want it, does it even matter, why is it here, why is she here?

Do I love her? No. I don’t know how. I mean I love her, like I love all of you or me. I have a great big love for all of us, but, why is she here and where are you?

We’re sitting in a café in Prague. She’s freckled, ginger and elegantly smoking a fag as she drinks a small pivo. The size of her miniature beer contrasts the large glass of orange juice she’s already engulfed. She’s thirsty, I assume. My voice tells me that she is probably thirsty.

We’re both Apple users. Maybe that’s why were here. Our Mac’s are on the same wavelength, emitting the same signal and today they visually sync, if nothing else. I make us sound like nerds, but really I’m just faking it. I care much more about the mechanics of life, than the sources and codes of commands. However, life and machine and space and time are plush together, like pieces of carpet stitched so perfectly, our voices can only assume that they have always been One.

And just like that she’s gone. I wonder if she heard me. I wonder if she got it through the MacMail, that I don’t even have an account for. No, that’s not till the future. My voice is telling me to focus on something else, someone else- interesting. Why not itself? Why not me? Hmm…

I close my eyes in an effort to direct my focus and I type. I can no longer see the words on the page, but I know that they are there. I have great speed. My fingers are flying as fast as my thoughts can think. I have much to say to myself now that I’m listening. I imagine most do. We’re all silently talking to ourselves. This is true. The Greeks were not shy to explore this aspect of self and a relief they gave the men of the future with their candid self-exposure. A relief they gave to me. There is nothing before me. I can see a red cloud of nothingness. The red tent is caused by the light seeping through the thin skin of my eyelids, for some reason it reminds me to breathe. I’m going to take an intentional breath and ask, “How is life?” I’m asking myself, but that doesn’t make much sense because I’m going to answer as well. Why would the same voice ask a question to its self with the intention of answering it as well? If it has the answer, then it already knows, and therefore there is no need to ask. Asking is simply a formality. It brings the point of focus to something I want to think about. I want to think about my life. I want to think about all the good things in my life. I want to think about the desires of my heart. I love that without trying I have desires; things I want to see, smell, touch, taste, hear and expand upon. Desire is easy. What do I desire right now? It’s a funny question and makes me smile. What do I desire right now? A drink of water, a pivo, the sun to wrap me up in its shine, the cups to continue to clang, my smile to sizemically stretch, my eyes to imagine the intent of my heart and inspire me to walk in that direction, my life to bloom nothing but joy, my senses to perceive only the continual unfolding of everything that was desired and for my voice to tell me how good it all is, all of the time in every direction.

And just like that I am here, appreciating it all, even the fact that nor you or her are here. But, I am and as long as I am, I’ll think about it in a way that makes me smile.


Merritt Hutyra

Master of Windows

April 2011

Prague, Czech Republic

I wonder what's on his mind. A tenant is gone and windows need to be replaced, someone has to do it.  He uses a paintbrush to cause a world of dusty particles to fly, fly away. His hands are dirty, callused and swollen from the years of removal and installation, removal and installation.

I wonder what's on his mind. What does a middle-aged Czech man, with a ponytail, installing windows think about? Is it his family? Probably money. Is his daughter getting married? Is his oldest son ever going to forgive him? Is his wife going to at least pretend to be happy today? It would make things easier for him if she did.

Maybe, he's thinking about his job, his task. He seems to be good at it. Maybe he's really focused and committed to installing that window well. He's inspiring. He's a master at his trade and has focused on one thing for enough time to approach it from an infinite number of possibilities in order to achieve the most desirable outcome. That is awesome! I want to be able to do that. I want to master .... something. I don't know what. How can I not know!? I must know. I'm the only one who could possibly know. You don't know. You can only assume. I must know. I'm sure I do. I do. I do. I know I do. I do.

What do you want to master? I don't know. You must know. You do. You do.

Brief Me on Myself.

April 2011

Prague, CZ

April. Spring. Twenty-eleven. I sit indian-style on a burgundy rug, in front of a large mirror. I'm pleased with this. I'm pleased with myself. The T.V. is on the fritz so I listen to my music by inserting a Compact Disc into a Digital Video Dish player.

The eeriness of Prague's night has come out to play and I love that. I am alone. I am scared. I am excited. I am boxed in to a life- my life- my me. I refuse to go.

Before me is a man. I'm told it's me. That man is me. He has a little cotton-patch on top, stubble down below and a smile that grows and Grows and GROWS. Hopefully so will his knowledge about himself. I believe it will. I believe in him. I must. I am told, I am him. I am that man.

...

Who is he? He must be me and I find it odd to have a self, or be a self. I am myself. Nonetheless, I find it highly enjoyable to have a self that I can do what I want with. I want to ask myself, "What do I want to do next?" Or, better yet, "What do I want to do right now?"

Smile. I want to smile and see my panda size cheeks reflect that me, that man, that panda, that self.

Merritt Hutyra