jest post it!

dear friends,

The act of compressing my jest; a joyous process.

My input of creation has significantly increased on the digital webby platforms. The act of compressing my ideas and emotions into daily three minute windows has been a juggle that I have been enjoying.

The fly-wheeling wheelhouse compounding on itself?

I fall back in love with the process of creation itself.

My routine of content creation:

i. one weekly live life letter

ii. one weekly proof of life video log on YouTube

iii. one daily mini-log; no cut, no edits on Instagram

And now looking to add these:

iv. one weekly cho's life podcast episode

v. one daily cho's life short (3-5 per week?)

vi. one weekly newsletter from pod transcript ???

I have been finding my stride in the great content creation arena; of jest getting the damn words out the mouth. I am in a frenzy, a stride, a stubborn obsession, a patient pursuit. What am I?

My mind is moving fast, my body must follow. My soul, where do you go?

I set the pace, I set the initiative, on my own volition.

Yet, at times, I must surrender and accept what unfolds before me. God, the Universe, the Infinite Substrate sets the pace. They set the initiative. They set the volition of the Way. Who are thou?

In each season, in each pass, the volution of space and time?

volution, revolution, evolution, jest·volution

temporal disintegration; no perception of passing time, in the infinite scroll, the flow of space-

When you accept the fluidity and flow of play, you worry less of trying to be authentic and you jest become it; you find your natural way in the space you allow for yourself. Thru play, you break the lines and boundaries of your own self-image; you play with yourself!

"The new will be built on the old and the meaning of what has become will become manifold."

your friend(ly)

jakester

Aim & Intent: confronting, navigating, and accepting the chaos of life while juggling the jest of self: creative flow and free energy?

"I accepted the chaos, and in the following night, my soul came to me."

Existence is innocent. It is I who stains it with my folly; in my search, in my inquiry, my dance. We do not create this life. Life is given. My life, who does it belong to?

What do I give my life to? What do I attach to; this madness?

In A Mad World, Only The Mad Are Sane.

I was going mad, searching, frantic! A frantic manic, I was searching for my dear thoughts all day, my red and blue journals. I could not stay sane. I almost lost it all-

My will to write, my will to finish the book, my will to express. My attachments had me trapped: trapped to my own thoughts, emotions, and feelings. How could I be so frantically manic; the panic had me locked.

I am losing myself, losing my thoughts, losing it all. I fear there is someone messing with me. A trickster looking over my shoulder. Something is taking a jest at my soul. This manic madness glazes over my eyes; I could no longer see-

Am I Crazy?

…

Where have you gone Charlie?

"I am here."

Where is 'here' Charlie? I am unaware and unable to see. Is it a place I cannot follow? Is it real? I wish to see with my monkey brain. The place you have gone.

"I have gone nowhere."

Nowhere? You confuse me deeply, Charlie. You say you are here. Now nowhere? Where is nowhere? What is there?

"It's been a year."

Ah, yes. It has almost been a year, since I started earnestly writing the tale we write, chasing my own tail, each day in spirit. You mock my primordial soul!

We have written fifty-one "live life letters" to this digital consciousness we call the Internet. In a loop, Jake has been. A spiral of thought. His Jester's Crux. Who am I?

"A memoir turned fiction."

The story whom describes the journey of the soul. In a world of pure? The Word came first? I must piece it together. Charlie, I hope I can connect to you. Your words are fragmented, distorted, and disintegrated; what are we to do?

"Be true."

…

I eventually found my RED and BLUE thoughts. My ego in shock. An overwhelming wave of relief. A spark towards joy. I am attached to these thoughts. I am attached to the love. I am fearful of losing this love; of letting go. Let it go, easy to say, hard to obtain: for there is nothing to obtain within the blankness but peace. Pieces given, pieces taken, what peace remains?

I have accepted I am in the arena.

The coliseum, the town square, the panopticon. Yet, I have retained my love foolosophy. Through this acceptance of what is, I have let go of my inhibitions. It prevented me from giving it my all because I did not want to partake in this "arena" as if it was below me. Nothing is below me. I am no less or greater because of this arena.

I just have a message to share, a message to pass through. Why do I block this love from flowing?

It's because nothing is certain. I am uncertain on if this love will land. I know this love is real, but I often feel the fool, as if my head was on backwards. Love blinds you because of its flames, an ablazed sun. Love does not follow a certain convention. There is no certain path to love. This is why we are so fearful of losing it because there is a chance the heart can be split to two, through loss and mourning. Every morning, the Sun does rise following the mourning of the night.

I want to connect and I thought this arena was preventing me from connecting. This was not the case. It was I who was preventing me from engaging.

You must engage to connect. You must connect to be engaged. It is not a binary choice, although some do choose one without the other. Yet, if you are to hold love, you must hold both. For love to exist in the arena, you must be consistent.

Your love must be consistent for it to flow consistently. Do not block yourself. Do not let your inhibitions create inconsistencies allowing for dissonance of self. You must detach. Detachment is not removal or erasure, but to feel fully so that you are willing to accept it when it must be let go.

One of the greatest acts of love is being able to let go, to fully trust in love.

"Do you trust me?"

Mom and I were having a heart to heart.

I expressed my frustration and anger with my past, on how its leading me to walk on egg shells when I express myself out to the public and on my digital presence.

I am frustrated because I cannot help but feel a burden when I share my vulnerable and honest self since it causes this worry for others who have cared for me deeply. I hate causing people worry. It's one of the few emotions I despise. I hate being a burden, of adding unnecessary weight onto others.

But I need to release this weight I feel. If I overthink, I overcurate, I lose the drive and the fire. I lose my voice.

…

After an hour of chatting, we eventually landed on my condition during those dark years when I was fourteen. Of when the light left my eyes. I had an urge to record but it didn't feel right. Here I am trying to capture these thoughts once again.

"Am I crazy?"

I feel like I am crazy because of other peoples' worry. I feel like I am crazy because those eyes make me feel so deluded. I feel crazy because no one understands what I am trying to express.

I am not crazy. I am just not eloquent enough (yet) to express what's within. In my writing, I feel much more clear. But the Book I have been writing has acted as a crutch for me to not explore my dialect to its fullest potential. I am relying on written form too much. My Mom called me out on it last night.

She assured me I was not crazy. She understood. She knows what I was like when I was "crazy" during those times. When she was not able to hold conversation with me because I was so caught in my own world. I was untethered and away from my own soul. I was sick and I lacked the ability to rest my mind. To find sleep. To catch sleep. But thank God I was not sent to those facilities in Richmond by the neurologist. Thank God for Dr. Dozier, the psychiatrist. Thank God for the Fourth Day. Those three days in the hospital felt like three months. As if time froze over from the cold winter nights. Time was frozen. Life was frozen. I hated this feeling of stagnation. I did not want to exist there. I did not want to exist with those thoughts. This overwhelming presence. It was so unbearable. It was so dreadful.

Everything I felt was cold. Everything I felt was numb. Everything was in constant flux. I was paranoid. I was afraid. I was gone. Yet, everywhere I moved, I felt small and constantly watched. I felt as if it followed. This unshakeable feeling. I wanted it gone. I wanted to go back to how life was before I discovered this unshakeable feeling. I did not want to exist with it. I wanted to be gone. This overwhelming fear. Those voices. Those dark voices. Those demeaning eyes. I had this new sense. An acute perception. I noticed it all. I could no longer unnotice it. I did not wish to see it anymore. I did not want to feel it any more. I did not want to hear it anymore.

"Slow down."

"You are not crazy. You are cerebral, Son. You are a thinker, you have a tendency to overthink, yes. But its because of your synapsis constantly firing. Constantly finding connections. You are a cerebral soul."

My Mom brought me back to the present. Back to the couch of our living room. Back to probing the source of my angers and frustration. I was frustrated with my past. I was frustrated how I could not escape it. But I control how I react. I control my awareness towards it. I am in control of these thoughts that pass. I may not control the emergence of when they arise. But perhaps I can guide these thoughts to pass. To transfigure and integrate them. This paranoia, this fear: it is a sign of life. It is a drive, a mechanism towards life. Towards wanting to live.

"I am frustrated because I want to finish the Book."

Another frustration I carry. The rush to finish.

"You need to stop carrying all your Books around, Jake."

I could feel my anger bubbling up. I can feel my defenses rising. Calm down. Mom has a point. She knows me well. Listen. Listen to what she has to say. Sure, you are growing sleepy. But do not miss this bid for connection. I listen.

"When you bring those books around, you get engrossed by them. You don't notice what's around you. You miss opportunities to talk with others. To hold conversation."

My anger starts to lessen. I nod

"You know how I know you are not crazy, Jake?"

"How?"

"It's because we are able to hold this conversation together. When you were sick, I could not make any sense as to what you were talking about. It was hard to find a path of understanding."

…

"I have this obsession, Mom. And maybe obsession is not the best word. But its this strong drive and desire to finish what I have started."

"I just have this fear of stopping. Of not completing the Book. I am afraid that if I stop, that if I keep procrastinating it into the future, it will never get done."

"Let go" said a voice within.

"Jake, I have a feeling you aren't going to stop. You shouldn't be afraid to give it space. Give it space to breathe. Give yourself space to breathe."

…

"I don't understand."

"I don't get it."

Phrases I wish to not hear. Phrases that makes me want to make you understand. To make you get it. But I cannot force it. I cannot force you to understand.

Jake, you must let it go. It's okay if they don't understand. It's okay if they don't get it. Wisdom is not loud nor does it whisper. Wisdom is gradual. Wisdom requires many return loops. Many seasons from new angles. It simply does not occur upon the first pass. It is foolish to think this way.

Have the wisdom to be a fool. Hold this wisdom to not be foolish.