The Buddhist stuff is amazing because I keep finding it proven in my daily activities and experience; I have to work very little to convince myself of it's veracity. I also like a philosophy that has its roots in the truth of everyday life rather than seemingly arbitrary edicts and deities. Indeed, there's just enough of an unknowable, afterlife element to qualify it as a somewhat comforting religion instead of just a philosophy.

I'm still stuck on the prostrations I put myself through unnecessarily. Why can't I avert the hoops, mind games and overstraining and get right to the well-balanced enlightenment? I have a theory about that. (I know someone who would groan at those words.) Is it possible that somewhere inside I believe that the best way to enjoy the high is to sink into the depths of despair beforehand? Is that my perfect setup? You see, if I skip that particular setup, it's just possible that I won't even know when I've hit the moment of elation.

That would also explain why an identical situation feels so different on different occasions. It's the context, or what preceded it. This seems to go along nicely with the Buddhist philosophy I've been reading up on. Nothing is real; nothing is as it seems to be; all is impermanent in this life. The high that I think I am feeling is only thus by contrast to the low. The goal should be to bypass all of these swings up or down, and keep your eye on altruistic aspirations for all sentient beings. I'd like that.

I was listening to JS yesterday playing a Bach suite. It is so easy to listen to, so direct. It seems to me that his bow is always coming from the most convenient place prior to beginning a note. Whether above the string or beside it, the act of traversing from there to the contact point is simple and non-stop. Then I was listening to JdP today, and I heard an utterly contrary style of making notes. She coaxes them out of the instrument. The act of starting notes for her is laced in mystery and mist. And don't get me started on what she does with them once they get spinning. Hers is a heart-wrenching and sumptuous listening experience, plumbing the depths of the world's soul.

Last night we did the dangerous duo of operas, giving me ample time to test out my electricity theories. They were effectual for a while, but eventually I needed other tricks up my sleeve to retain any sort of left hand comfort. What seems to always be the outcome of nights like that, if I'm lucky, is a funny Zen state where everything just falls together in its own rhythm. All the theories which could sometimes seem contradictory - electrical connection, tiny spasms, only tensing the playing finger, breathing through things, non-interference (allowing things to just happen), and any of my other dissections - they all fall into the background of the magic mental state which I cannot plan for. Of course it's frustrating to think of why I can't skip the middle man and go right to the dessert course. Maybe I would get bored. I would have no mountains to scale, then. I would be content.

Often the Zen feeling comes over me after I have tried a few of my tricks, and I sort of give up. It seems nearly impossible to get that given up feeling before having given something up. I have tried.

I took a few days off (George Benson doesn't really count) and when I came back to playing, I was somewhat lost. This can be a good, refreshing feeling of newness. And it was in some respects. But I felt lost in terms of my left hand research of late. There was one thing that had stuck from the most recent investigations, though. I was noticing another option in how to make contact with the string. You could simply lay your fingers down on the string using weight or strength or something physical like that; or you can become sensitive to the electrical impulses traveling from the hand to the cello. Humans are actually alive due to some version of electricity, I've heard. Without it, we die. Like our heartbeat.

So instead of pressing on the string, I am buzzing through it. Zapping. Vrooming. Humming. It's fun. And easier.

I noticed tonight that I sometimes have mini-explosions in my left hand when I play. Little baby spasms. It's a good thing I think. It may be a road to more efficiency. It is the briefest length of tension possible, and then you instantaneously fall into relaxation. There are many gradations of the spike as well, depending on the material. You can request from your mind and hand that it be an extended, shallow hump, kind of like a long slur marking. I was also somehow having the image of a volcano, with different types of eruptions. Having this as another parameter in the mix of cello techniques is rather effective I think. It adds a far greater range of control over tension levels.

You may be asking what it means to grow up. The usual cliche meaning is to take on more responsibilities. But that's just a part of it I think, because many kids have fairly hefty responsibilities. The distinguishing characteristic may be how one perceives these burdens and tasks. If you understand the purpose of the tasks, then you can make informed decisions as to when to undertake them. You can mold your responsibilities into an organized lifestyle, a life unique to your personal traits and passions.

Another adult quality is appreciation. Adults learn to prefer the complexities and burdens of life to the simplicity of childhood via gratitude. In fact, it's even better because if we're lucky, we can still enjoy the simple things during the interim between our tasks.

Is it possible that I actually grew up when I was about 17, and have been fighting it off and on ever since? Scary thought. Such deep levels of denial. And such a deep distrust of adulthood.

What happens in that hole I fall into? It feels like a hole because I can't really see out of it. I am too far in.

Am I supposed to question this hole? Even though this is how I perceive my reality? To question my perception of reality is to have a high hope that I can somehow alter my reality. This is a difficult concept when one is feeling weighed upon.

If I am sunken in a hole, does it follow that I had been above ground beforehand? Like floating? Because it has been postulated that if you are on solid ground, you are less easily disturbed than if you are in an excited or ecstatic place. You have the best perspective if you are in a central position, rather than on one end or the other; the futility of existing on the edges of the spectrum is more easily seen.

Because if I try getting myself out of my hole in hopes of bouncing back to a flying euphoria, is it not possible I am again setting myself up for another crash and burn (bury)?

Self-sufficiency. What an odd concept. It seems so desirable. But its only use may be to allow one to bring something to the table of interdependency. Because once you have that ever-sought-after autonomy, what then? I suppose one thing you could do is continue exploring the vast nothingness of the soul and universe in perfect focus and isolation. I do fantasize about doing just that. But why am I so hard-put to actually pursue that path? One problem is that the fantasy of such supreme meditation never matches the reality. It could be that I am overshooting, imagining the final stages of a higher conscious state, when one only achieves that via hours and years of much duller and effortful sessions, lonely sitting on the floor. So, not surprisingly, I have not steadfastly endured such. I end up kind of weaving in between the fleeting pleasures of bonding with others and the similarly momentary high of a few minutes in solitude.

I wonder if good intonation for any single note is more dependent on the position and placement of all the non-playing fingers than on the playing one? Last week I surmised that the majority of the tension in the hand seems to come from the non-playing fingers, so this theory is an extrapolation from that.

I still wonder if I am the way I am because of different incidents in my life, or if I always exuded these traits. It's a funny mind-bent to take yourself back to those possible key moments when something external may have altered your very fabric in some way. I wonder if it is really any more odd than thinking about internal, inevitable human-development turning points, even though one may appear so much more organic and natural than the other. External changes have certain obvious events you can reference - birth, first day of school, first crush, first fight, first summer camp away from home, first concert, first love, marriage, children, mortgage, etc. - whereas internal ones have a morphing quality that's at least as deep but much more elusive.

I have also been an observer of the different levels of gentleness possible with any psycho-spiritual changes. It seems to depend how the new information is presented. Reading books is usually much gentler than being thrust into a baffling new social situation. However, these many intensities are important in crossing the various rites of passage, I believe. And even if they are not, they seem to be inescapable. I find the best way to truly figure out where the point of balance is on any philosophical pursuit, is to experience at least some of the edges that comprise it.

I am beginning to suspect I am a liar. You know, knowledge of one's capacity for lying may not be as easily come upon as you might think. Self-awareness of liars must have varying depths, all the way from the rationally scheming to the pathologically embedded. And it may vary day to day, week to week. I wonder if lying to yourself is a prerequisite for a perpetual liar. That may again be determined by the type of liar you are.

It occurred to me that I may be an overall unwitting liar when I began to realize that most people throw around the terms honesty and true self in ways that I haven't been able to realistically attempt since my young childhood. Somehow, to me there are generally too many layers to things not to have a sense of backtracking after every supposed honest statement I make. But the question becomes, do those layers represent an intricate reality, or a superimposed complexity resulting from my deceptive, duplicitous tendencies?

This notion oddly comes as a relief. Although it is somewhat tragic to think I am something of a lying bastard, it does help to settle some of the incomprehensible quandaries I have dealt with most of my adult life. Maybe I can begin to unravel the spools of knotted up philosophies and emotions.