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What If Your Life Depended Solely on You?
creation myth

July 12th

It has been an unusually warm day. It looks like it’s going to rain later. I guess the weather guy will be right for a change. Oh, well. What do I care. I am lost. Utterly lost. I’ve been working on my mastery, cluelessly wandering around this college campus like an apocalypse zombie for almost two years and still haven’t got the faintest idea of what I’m going to do. I mean, I have a very faint idea, but certainly not enough to create a mastery masterpiece, something that will take me to higher levels of knowledge and acknowledgment. No. Certainly not that. I’ve been juggling a crap load of areas but simply cannot organize my thoughts. In fact, the academic variety has torn my initially coherent vision to pieces. Well, that’s not true either. I don’t think I ever had a coherent vision to begin with. I just knew I had to produce something. That’s all. Man, I think I’m depressed.
I go to dinner early so that I don’t have to talk to anyone. I need to dig deep into my thoughts. After all, this is my last semester and I’ve got to get my work sorted out, I’ve got to get something going here. My advisor is trying to keep her cool, but I know that deep down inside she’s feeling the heat. Deep down inside she’s afraid that I’ll fall apart and fail miserably. Well, dear advisor, have I got news for you. Your fears are about to be confirmed.
I guzzle down the usual kale ‘n’ pork hippie chow, try to cheer myself up with a hefty portion of berries and heavy cream (with no success) and leave the cafeteria just as everyone else is happily and chattily coming in. I grunt by the lively crowd, fill up my eco-conscious water bottle and exit through the help desk door. I guess all that’s left for me to do is go to my room and cry some.
It is late afternoon. The shining sun, now partially covered by wannabe-nimbus clouds coming from the West to spoil the party, is getting ready to once again give up its dominance to the spirits of the night. Who cares. I’m going to be in my room until hell freezes over anyway.
As I lazily walk across the patio and by the old clockhouse building, something to my left calls my attention. Ah, the green labyrinth. The leafy maze is looking especially beautiful this summer. Funny how I have been here for a while and have never really noticed it before. Funny, very funny. And now for some odd reason it is calling to me. I figure I still have a couple of hours before sunset. Why not take a walk through the maze. Who knows. I might even be able to take some nice pictures with my fancy smartphone. 
I leave the cement path that leads to my dorm and walk toward the labyrinth. Behind it I can see the old (and sort of creepy) manor building. That’s where, among other things, my colleagues spill out their horror stories on nightly reading séances. It doesn’t look too creepy with that happy cow white fence and under the late afternoon partial grolux sunlight.
I walk across the maze and see myself in a small grassy yard, with a pond surrounded by carefully groomed flowerbeds. In the middle of the pond a statue of what appears to be a small child looking down at its own image in the still waters. The whole scenery looks peculiarly sad, yet strangely beautiful. (Here I go reflecting my inner workings yet again). Amazing. A whole new world I had never noticed. I only walked by here once before, but it was February and the entire area was under the usual 5 feet of snow. Now I’m kind of happy I decided to take this stroll.
Late afternoon mosquitoes are feasting on my skin. Enough. Guess its time to hide in my room behind the window screens. While treading across the labyrinth on my way to the dorm, I notice it actually has a main entrance to my right. Great. At the miserly cost of a few more mosquito bites, I can enjoy an alternative route to my dwelling. You know me (or maybe you don’t, but that’s not important): always on the look for new and exciting experiences.  
 I make a sharp right, meander along the curved walkways, and soon find myself standing under some sort of pavilion held up by rock pillars. A portal, I think to myself. A magic portal guarded by immense scary creatures. Actually they are just spiders, smart enough to make their homes in rain-free territory. But they could be fantastic creatures nevertheless, guarding the portal to another dimension. I look around. I’m not afraid. Spiders have been my friends for a while now. Onward, I say to myself.
Ahead, I notice a set of stairs. I wonder where it leads to. My depression can wait. I cross the portal and decide to climb the stone steps to get a panoramic view of the surroundings. The entire area has an eerie, albeit nostalgic feeling to it. I soon reach a landing where, to my sheer amazement, a row of five ram’s heads set on a stone wall spit out water into a shallow pool. Facing steps on each side of the fountain rise to a familiar, yet unknown landscape. I’m thrilled. Which way should I head, left or right. In an unusually spontaneous burst of decisiveness, I choose to go right.
I soon reach a plateau where a magnificent upper garden surrounded by dry shale walls and tall rose bushes hides in plain sight. A round pool is the center of gravity of two completely different environments. To my left, a stone pathway shielded by well-mowed areas of late summer dark green grass and fern bushes lead to a long, richly decorated arched cement bench. To my right, a Hellenic-style fountain protrudes out of the wall with its waters flowing through a narrow ground-level aqueduct to the central pool. Awesome. Behind the round pool stands a mildly disturbing structure: an empty Tudor-style house with a huge fireplace, curious stained-glass panels, and guarded by funny-looking gargoyles on all sides (I believe one of them is a squirrel).
The fact that it is almost nightfall and the rain clouds have started to set in by the flock, blocking what little light the Sun could still lend to the waning day, make the already-somewhat-macabre cottage look all the more gloomy. I turn around, walk to the edge of the garden and quickly glance at the college campus below me. The dorms seem pretty silent. The clockhouse building outline, with its church-like tower resembles a witch-hunt era icon (in fact, I see a few activist witches hurrying through the lower garden, no doubt late for their next “academic” gathering). No one seems to notice my inquisitive figure leaning against the limestone rail above the ram fountain. I am invisible. I am on my own.
Oh well, time to go brush my teeth. I turn back to the supernatural garden scene one more time before dragging myself back to my room. Just as I am about to walk down the stairs toward the ram fountain, a very peculiar sight suddenly grabs my attention. To my left, up in the faintly multicolored Eastern sky, I can distinguish a bizarre silhouette, which appears to be coming down in my direction. It looks like a man sitting on one of the branches of what I can only describe as a winged oak tree.
I rub my eyes and look again. The image is still there. And now the man is cheerfully waving at me. I am in awe. I am in shock. I watch in disbelief as the winged oak lands and swiftly sticks its roots into the soft ground, as if in need of temporary nourishment. The curious man jumps down from the tree. He exhibits a soft, unearthly glow. He appears to be in his late 50s. He is dressed in a very stereotypically ancient Greek white robe and worn-out leather sandals. His long grey hair and untrimmed beard kind of gross me out. He reminds me of one of these neo-hipster types, only without the lumberjack outfit. A hipster-hippie. But he has a strange likeability aura. I feel an instant connection.
He tells me in a soft velvety voice that his name is Pherecydes and that he comes from Syros, a faraway land many a mile from here. I reluctantly approach the guy and say hello. I notice that although he is speaking some unintelligible foreign language, I somehow am able to clearly make out what he says. Just like in the movies. I ask him to repeat his name. Phere-who. P-h-e-r-e-c-y-d-e-s, he patiently repeats. Ah, too complicated for me. I tell him I’ll just call him Cyd. Yes, Cyd. Syd. Sid. Whatever. He smiles.
 Sid tells me he was taking a ride on his flying tree and heard my plea. Wait. What plea. Ah, he means all my whining. And since he had nothing better to do and his tree had to graze for a while anyway, he decided to come down and chat with me. He says he is here to help me sort out my confusing thoughts and come up with something meaningful for my mastery. That’s great. Just what I need. A hallucination to set my thoughts straight. There must have been something funny in that all-natural Vermont ginger ale I drank at dinner.
It is now completely dark (except for Sid’s calming and inexplicable glow, of course). I can barely see the gloomy rain clouds up in the sky. But I know they are there. Now that I’m all ears, I really hope it doesn’t rain. I don’t think I would be able to fit Sid and his winged oak tree in my dorm room.
We sit on the arched bench facing the upper garden. I start bitching. And bitching. And bitching. I tell Sid what he already knows. I tell him I am utterly lost. I tell him I don’t know what to do. I tell him I have studied hard. I tell him I have explored many different areas of human knowledge. I tell him my studies have led me nowhere. I am freaking out. No, really. I am FREAKING OUT.
Sid patiently lets me finish my victimized lament. When I run out of gas, he asks me to breathe. And again. And again. I feel a little better. He tells me not to worry. He says all I really need is a little inspiration to fuel my creative process. Yeah, right. How am I going to find inspiration if my mind is thoroughly flat-lined.
Sid explains that inspiration is a gift from divine grace, available to everyone all the time. All we have to do is allow ourselves to tune into the flow and let go.
I’m more confused than ever. Yeah, right. Easy. Abundant. No go. Inspiration is nowhere to be found. Sid smiles, asks me to sit straight, face the garden, close my eyes, breathe as deeply as I can, and hold my breath for a few seconds. I follow his instructions and immediately start to relax. I quickly feel a pleasant, warm feeling throughout my body. Then he asks me to open my eyes.
I can see his winged oak tree right in front of me. It too is glowing. I can see its inner processes, its inner arteries and veins exchanging some sort of iridescent fluid with the ground. I am hypnotized. I feel drawn to it. I instinctively get up and walk towards the tree. I touch it. I embrace it. I am one with that fantastic being. Our energies interpenetrate each other. Fire. Yes. That’s it. I am being consumed by holy fire. I start having visions of strange little salamanders swiftly crawling around my aura.
In the distance I see images on screens. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…I count twelve of them. Although they seem to be outside my personal energy field, I somehow know they are in my mind. I hear Sid (or was it one of the little lizards) telling me to float toward them. I move among deep-orange flames. I am spontaneous. I am strong. I am free.
By the time I get to the images they have disappeared. All I see are empty screens. I am bummed. They seemed interesting. Once again the sweet voice whispers to me. It tells me I can bring the images back by using the power of my intent. I think to myself, how the heck do I do that. The voice replies, wish for it, will it, want it.
The sky has cleared up for a few moments. There is a beautiful meteor shower tonight. The phenomenon is known to happen this time of year and even has a fancy name. Perseid or Percy or something. The shooting stars are beautiful. One after another, they burn across the sky and disappear. Some tread short paths, some insist on burning up in long trails, some are like skipping stones—kicking once, twice, three times before disappearing into the dark oblivion. I feel as if these meteors are neurons in my brain. I feel they are contained in my vast self. I feel gigantic synaptic exchanges. I feel explosions of lively electricity grow in intensity until they take up my entire field of vision. I feel a very strong burst of energy coming out of my belly (or at least the place where my belly used to be) and filling the previously empty screens with beautiful Technicolor images. I am irresistibly attracted to their content. They have interesting stories to tell. In each dynamic image, I see myself in different situations. For some unknown reason I know I must dive into these stories. As I completely let go I can hear a deep voice echoing throughout my entire being: imagination, imagination, imagination…


Something is trying to get into my nostrils. I quickly reach up with my right hand and grab it. It is some sort of glowing bug. A small firefly. As I release the harmless creature into the night, I realize that I am lying on the cement bench. I get up and see that Sid is right next to me. The oak tree stands tall in the darkness of the night. On the ground, a little steam rises up from a pile of paper. He tells me to pick it up. It is kind of hot.
How do you like that. Wow. I am amazed. As I glance at the loose pages, I see they contain twelve stories. The same twelve stories described in the images I dove into just moments ago. I remember. As I dove into each image I was taken through a succession of events, a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Cool. I look at Sid. He asks me how I feel. I feel great. He tells me I have just been in touch with the current of inspiration in a big way. He also says that I have been introduced to the archetypal world.
What the heck is the archetypal world. Sid grins and goes on to explain that many people believe the material world—the world we live in—is a reflection of an archetypal world. Say what. Yes, affirms Sid. He tells me that a few of his smarter successors noticed that there seemed to be a dynamic world of prototypes and blueprints, where all manifestations in this world were originated. I still don’t understand. Take a chair as an example, says Sid. Some say it exists because it was based on the idea of a chair, a prototype that lives in a world of its own, a model that has inspired and creates all the different chairs you can think of. Wow. That’s really far-fetched. But it kind of makes sense.
So how was I introduced to this archetypal world. Sid asks me what the overall theme of my experience was. Hum. No idea. Wait. Oh, I see. Imagination. The element fire. Apparently I surrendered to this archetype and it allowed me access to infinite inspiration. Hum. Fire. No wonder I feel kind of kinky. And what about the number twelve. I ask Sid why twelve, and not five thousand three hundred and eighty two images. Why twelve texts. I wonder if this is an archetypal thing too. Sid giggles and asks me to take it easy. Everything at its time.
I feel great. I feel spacious inside. I feel pleasantly empty. Well, I have indeed given birth to that pile of paper sitting next to me. Oh, I think I am starting to tune into something special here…
Sid explains that, in addition to imagination, there are other ways through which I can access the flow of inspiration. For example, inspiration can come to us is when we’re empty of excessive emotional content—things like unnecessary worry and confusion. Yeah. Easier said than done. Sid smiles and says all I really need to do is breathe (always breathe) and organize my thoughts.
He then asks me to tell him exactly what I have studied in the past two years. Wow. Really, Sid. Oh, whatever. I begin my spiel.
Once upon a time I was a scientist. Once upon a time I studied physics and mathematics and chemistry and biology…and I liked it. Once upon a time I wanted to know what went on inside the scientific mind. I played this game for a long time. I blissfully dove into endless pages of calculations. I philosophized to no end. I experimented and messed around with fancy equipment. I even taught the mind-bending magic to young souls.
The first semester of my mastery was a reflection of this phase. I spent quite some time reminiscing the good old days. I matured juvenile ideas. I expanded narrow pathways. And I blissfully dove into endless pages of calculations. I philosophized to no end. I experimented and messed around within the realms of my imagination. I taught myself many new mind-bending tricks. I was happy to know what went on inside the scientific mind.
I pause for a moment and look at Sid. He has got his eyes fixed on mine. He seems completely immersed in my story. It kind of pleases me. A sudden gust of unusually cool wind swirls around our bodies and whips through the garden, reminding us of the impending change in the weather. Sid slowly closes his eyes and sighs with a smile. We have been talking about the element air, and air has come to greet us.
Just as I hear his words, I feel a funny tingling in my head and hands. Sid says creativity wants to manifest. Again. Out of the blue, he whips out a peculiar feather pen and some paper (at least it looks like paper) and tells me to breathe. He tells me to let go. He tells me to start speaking. Whatever comes to mind. Just start babbling. I ask him why the heck he produced a pen and paper if he wants me to speak. Wouldn’t it be easier to produce a recorder. I can get my phone. It has a recording app. Sid tells me to shut my pie hole and do as he says.
Okay. At first, only gibberish comes out of my mouth. Then a few intelligible sounds. Words. Then whole sentences. Then entire lessons, speeches, stories. I can’t help myself. I am free-associating…and I am on a roll. Babbling and babbling and babbling. I seriously freak out when I notice from the corner of my eye that the feather pen has come to life and is automatically writing down every word I say. Like a scene from Fantasia or something. What is this.  
But I have no time to analyze anything. The endless chatter is just pouring out of my mind. I soon lose touch with my surroundings and immerse myself in an infinite gust of words. I am now in an ancient temple. Wind rushes wildly through the four corners of the building, the four foundation pillars. Delicate dark green and blue hummingbirds lift me up into the air. I am the wind. I am pure movement. I am detached. I am light as a feather. I am light as a feather pen…


After what seems to be an eternity I am back at the garden. I am dizzy. Sid has the look of a naughty schoolboy. He nods and directs me to my left. Across the bench, I see twelve short stacks of paper. Again. Each seems to contain some sort of logical text. I pick them up and start reading. Each makes perfect sense. Funny how in a way they all talk about me. Again. Sid gently takes the pieces from me and says that we have no time to waste. That’s air for you.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. What about the significance of the number twelve. Sid is not going to get away with the “everything at its time” business. Not this time. He shrugs his shoulders. Okay. Listen up. He proceeds to tell me that the number twelve is very significant in the archetypal world. Of particular importance here are the twelve constellations of the zodiacal wheel, which represent the twelve formative powers of life. Oh, my. More crazy hipster-hippie talk.
Think of the seasons, he says. There are four seasons throughout the year, each illustrating a stage in the great archetypal cycle of birth, growth, and death. In addition, each season has its own periods of birth, growth, and death: that is, each season is born, grows to full manifestation, wanes, and eventually gives way to the next stage. Hum. I know where Sid’s going with this. Four seasons, three phases each…twelve stages. Yes, confirms Sid. This twelve-stage cycle reflects the birth-growth-death cycle in every organic whole.
There’s more. Luckily for us, each stage can be represented by a symbol, which provides clues as to what they represent in our own experience. Wow, I say. I have never thought of it that way. Sure, continues Sid. Silly uninformed people have named this system astrology and use it as a fortunetelling tool, but in reality it is much more than that. I’m deeply interested. I ask Sid if we can talk more about this cycle. Easy, easy. Everything at its time. Oh, Sid…
We get up and walk around a bit. We reach the edge of the shallow pool in the garden. Sid tells me to kneel. Then he splashes my face with refreshing cool water. Suddenly I feel rhythms. I feel the rhythm of the night. I feel the rhythm of the Earth. I hear music. Water hits the pool down below on the ram fountain. We walk towards the fountain. It is iridescent. Beautiful. Magical. Tiny creatures dance and bathe and celebrate. Ondines, whispers Sid. I weep softly in joyous bliss. I start moving slower and slower. Frame by frame. I am more and more present. I sit by the fountain and sing out my odes while Sid does me the favor of writing them down.
In a fluid moment, I flow with the waters. I am pure emotion. I conform to different realities. I fulfill my destiny. I dream of distant places. I take part in profound ceremonies. I swim among colors. I drink from a fountain of light. I live life fully…


I am startled by a drop of water on my forehead. Then another. Then another. Then another. Heavy clouds have finally caught up to us. It starts to rain harder. Still sitting by the fountain, I feel like crying some more. I close my eyes and pray. Water runs through my emotional body, cleansing my sinful soul. I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I open my eyes and face Sid. He hands me a third pile of paper. Yes, you guessed it. Twelve distinct literary pieces. Twelve very emotional pieces. Weird. The pages are laminated. Of course, winks Sid. What did you expect. It is raining. We wouldn’t want the water to render these beautiful texts unreadable, now would we.
Water. Water. And more water. Another archetype. I see. No wonder I’ve been crying nonstop. No wonder even the sky is weeping. I feel terribly fragile. I tell Sid I am exhausted. I tell him I am through. Almost there, he says. For now, why don’t we get inside, away from the rain, and dry ourselves up a bit. Sounds good. Sid grabs my hand, we slowly walk up the stairs, cross the garden, enter empty Tudor-style house, and close the door. Okay, better. But not for long.
I look around. Distant lightning rays occasionally creep into the tainted glass panels filling me with strange anxiety. I think to myself, this place looks haunted. Maybe if we get the fireplace going…I turn to Sid to ask him if he has matches, but the man is nowhere to be found. Oh crap. This doesn’t look good.
I’m all alone. I hear howling outside. I think I see the outline of a coyote moving along the gloomy outer periphery. I hear a distant laugh. Then a knock on the door. I reluctantly open it. It is Sid. I’m relieved. No. Hold on. Sid is not himself. Sid has changed. He looks darker, gloomy, ghoulish, shadowy. He asks if he can come in. I hesitate. Oh, what the heck. As soon as he enters the room a blast mixture of rainwater and earthy debris rushes in with him. Outside, Sid’s winged oak is glowing in a very, very strange way. It seems to be actively exchanging some sort of luminous bloodlike fluid with the earth.
I am scared. I close my eyes but can somehow still sort out my surroundings. Strange, somber shadows circle the inside walls of the manor house. Dark Sid is standing in a corner. He is chuckling softly. Then his laughter becomes stronger. I start to levitate, lifted by the shadow spirits. I am about to lose it. An inner voice tells me not to resist. Let go. Let go. The shadows turn into memories. My pitiful memories.
I can see myself in all kinds of past trouble. Mistakes. Wrong turns. Regrets. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. I can hear thunder in the background. It gets closer and closer. The memories are also closing in. They hurt me. They confuse me. I am buried in filth. I am doomed.
Then an extremely loud bang. What seems to be a bolt of lightning comes zooming into the chimney through the fireplace and explodes inside the manor house. The spell is broken and I fall to the ground, along with numerous sheets of paper. They are all over the place. I pick them up, one by one, and see that they are ordered into pieces. Twelve l-i-t-e-r-a-r-y p-i-e-c-e-s. Wow. Not really sure what took place here, but I instantly feel uplifted. It seems that my memories have left my system and materialized in some sort of bizarre healing ritual.
Shadowy Sid is gone. The oak tree still glows softly in the garden. It has stopped raining. I run outside and embrace the tree. I start to glow. Once again we merge together in communion. I feel good. Really good. Then on the corner of the patio I hear a faint voice calling my name. I turn around and look. It is Sid. Good old Sid. Phew. What the heck has just happened.
He explains to me that coyote has come by to teach me a lesson. He was here to teach me about the earth energies. He was here to teach me about complementarity. We walk back to the manor house. I pick up the sheets of paper and place them on a neat pile.
Fire, air, water, and earth. I see I now have four stacks. We’re all done, says Sid. Twelve stages, each viewed from four different perspectives. I take a closer look at the pieces. In some weird way the angles are equivalent. In some weird way they make up a cohesive whole.
Fine. Now what am I going to do with this stuff. Sid looks at me like I’m from Mars. Here’s what I had been hoping to accomplish. Here’s my mastery, duh. All finished and done in a fraction of a night. Unknowingly, I spent two years gathering content. All I needed was a structure. Of course.
I notice the first rays of sunshine coming up from the East. My gosh, it is morning already. Rebirth is truly at hand. I also smell bacon. Time to go.
I thank Sid and bid him farewell as he takes flight on his winged oak towards the rising sun. Final product in hand, I swiftly cross the garden and head toward my room. I pause for a second at the top of the stone stairs. I look around and greet the beautiful day about to begin. I can still see Sid and his flying oak as they disappear among the thin morning mist.

Hum. I wonder what to tell my advisor. Last night I was utterly empty-handed and now this. Should I tell her about my magical encounter. After all anything can happen around here. Well, better not. My production methods were not exactly academic. I’ll probably have to change my area of expertise to “abracadabra studies” or “hocus-pocus sciences.” Nah. I’ll just tell her my desperation scene was a personal marketing stunt.

Perfect. I have completed my mastery. I can now be considered an expert in my very own Consciousness Studies trip. And nobody will ever know what really happened. I am safe. Sid and his flying tree are gone. No trace of their visit. No evidence whatsoever. No witnesses. That is, no witnesses except for you, dear reader…Well, won’t you keep our little secret? Pretty please?


fragments undergoing metamorphosis

dear friends,

please bear with me as irregular therapy is going through a major overhaul. many changes, plenty of new posts soon to come!

the pen is mightier than the writer

Hello friends! 

I wrote this as a guest post for Kate Evangelista's Coffe Bar a while ago 
and have reposted it here because I believe it is worth sharing...



the pen is mightier than the writer


Writing a preface is not necessarily an easy thing to do. You must entice your readers. You must make it interesting so that they will want to continue and read the rest of your book. In many ways, the preface is the book’s mission statement—and one of its major selling points. I don’t know how other authors do it, but I generally write my preface after the book has been finished. And let me tell you, it’s hard. You’ve just finished writing I-don’t-know-how-many pages and are completely saturated. You’re tired. You want to stay away from a computer screen for a while. But you have to move on. You have to squeeze that one last bit of inspiration into your work.

Let me tell you a funny story. It was late February. There I was, first draft in hand, trying to write the preface to my first book, irregular therapy. Although I was saturated and couldn’t wait to finish the entire thing, the view of the white snow contrasting with the beautiful, clear blue sky outside my window was truly inspiring. I sat down and wrote a few pages of what I thought was pretty good “wordsmithing.” Okay, done. Great. The icing on the cake. I read it out loud and liked what I heard. My preface was funny and concise and provided just enough information to tease the reader. Or so I thought.

Satisfied, I was now ready for the next stage. I sent my manuscript to a guy who evaluates books before they are out and checks for their potential. A few days later, he replied. He liked my book very much and thought it would sell, but he had a problem with the preface. In his own words,

“I found the book compelling and easy reading…the sex angle will bring lots of readers, and it feels honest…but there's less evident emotional growth, and unless you told me in response to my questionnaire I wouldn't have known that was the book's purpose. Thus my problem with the preface. It didn't really tell me what I could expect from the book nor why I should read it. To do so it must speak openly with me, the reader. Rather, it kind of wanders around…”

Needless to say, I was kind of disappointed. I mean, I felt great because I was actually getting overall positive feedback from an expert, but I had reached the point where I was just about ready to lay my brain aside and fly to Cancun for a few days. I really could not write another word. Enough already!

But I had no way out. If the preface needed changing, then the preface needed changing. I remained with that uneasy feeling for a couple of days, wondering what to do and waiting for inspiration to strike. How could I make it better? How could I address the issues pointed out by my evaluator? I thought and thought and thought. I changed a few words around. I added new ideas to try to address the missing issues. I tried and tried and tried, but felt I was going nowhere.

Finally, out of sheer disappointment, I ended up relaxing. I gave up trying. Just then, a funny thing happened. I spontaneously started writing about my frustration. I started writing about what the expert guy had said. I started writing about the entire process, just to get it all out of my system.

A few minutes later, after I had written enough to calm me down, I noticed I might have something there! I looked it over and thought the content was bold. I thought the wording was unique. It carried the same tone as the rest of the book—it was honest, fun, and straight to the point—and it addressed my concerns. (Well, it had to, since I was writing about my inability to write about them, and in doing so I was actually writing about them!) I decided to make it my preface. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t decide anything. I must confess that, much like the rest of irregular therapy, I didn’t write the preface. It just came out. And it came out the way it should. Okay then. After writing those few pages, I realized that that had to be my preface. And this is what came out:


Truth Be Told

Let me take you on a true journey. A man’s journey through the rough seas of relationships. A journey that led him to realize that real change must come from within. A journey with themes so archetypical, so universal, that although it takes place mostly in exotic Brazil, it may as well have happened in your very own neighborhood.

Wait. Hold on. What a load of rubbish. Permission to speak freely...

Shortly before finishing this manuscript, I had it evaluated by a hotshot in the book business. He told me he found it easy reading and compelling. He told me the sex angle would bring lots of readers. He told me the book was nearly ready to go. But he also told me he had a problem with my preface. He told me it kind of wandered around and didn’t really tell him what he could expect from the book or why he should read it. Shit.

You know, I’ve been working on this thing for a couple of years. I’ve reviewed it so many times I’ve almost memorized it. Yeah, you don’t have to tell me. Such is a writer’s life. But the fact is I’m completely saturated and can’t wait to see it published. So when the guy suggested that I rewrite the damned preface, I al- most fell off my chair.

But the hotshot fella’s probably right. And after all, I didn’t pay good money to teach my grandma to suck eggs. So here I go.

Let’s see. Right. I suppose I could dish out the usual plethora of clichés found in prefaces and tell you this is a “coming-of-age book,” a captivating truth-told sexual romp, an honest if not a bit single-minded story of a cure, and blah, blah, blah. Yawn. Boring.

I could possibly try to make you feel some sympathy from the start and say it took me many lost years to get my emotional cards in order or that despite the relentless fun and not too troubling approach, I saw a number of hard-earned lessons, over years, and changed accordingly to display the virtues learning those lessons brought. Well, these things are certainly true for me. But you might not see my story this way, nor do I think you will much care.

I could play shrewd, aim for the masses, and reveal that in spite of the bumps along the way (or maybe because of them), I’ve managed to find my soul mate and, with secret formula in hand, I can show you by example how to attract your own twin flame. Tacky, tacky, tacky.

Perhaps I could anticipate some criticism by posing as the conscientious writer and confessing that although my account may seem rather exploitative, especially from a woman’s point of view, it couldn’t be otherwise if it were to show my gradual emotional growth. Nah. Who am I to know what’s on a woman’s mind.

What if I appeal to your emotions by stating that through my troubled relationships, I’ve learned to respect and understand myself better, as well as others around me. Or that as a result of having had these experiences, I’m now able to see what was self- defeating and greedy and have been able to grow from and past it. Dear God. Too psychological.

Useless. I’m looking for something unique, something different, but the harder I try, the less comes to mind.

I hate to say it, but I feel I’ve run out of fuel. So much for telling you what you can expect from my book and why you should read it. Seems that this should be a simple enough task, but silly me. Trying to boldly write what no man has written before.

This is really getting on my nerves. And I’m going nowhere. Tell you what. If you don’t mind, I’ll just call it a day and you can go ahead and read the book. Deal?



I know you won’t be able to agree or disagree with me unless you read the entire book. But that’s why it’s called a teaser, right?

Inspiration is indeed a funny thing. If it comes, it comes. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But when it comes, it is like a warm feeling, it is almost an enthusiasm. And it always, always surprises you. Inspiration comes when you surrender to your own nothingness. It takes you over and you only become aware of what has hit you after it is gone….

irregular therapy: one man’s struggle to find meaning, money and a soul mate is 256 pages long and can be purchased on my website, www.irregulartherapy.com, in several formats: paperback, ePub, Kindle, or PDF. It can also be found at major online outlets worldwide such as AmazonBarnes and Noble, iTunes, and Smashwords.

Write on!

just do it

Dear friends,

After 20-some days completely off the air, I'd like to share a little insight with you on my way back into this whirl we call world:

Two monks were returning to their monastery. While walking ahead, the younger monk came to a river. On the bank there was a beautiful young girl. She was afraid to cross alone. The younger monk quickly looked away from her and crossed the river. When he was on the other side he looked back, and to his horror he saw the older monk carrying the girl across the river on his shoulders. The two monks continued their journey side by side. When they were just outside the monastery gates the younger monk said to the older: “That was not good, that was against the rules, we monks are not supposed to touch women.” The older monk replied: “I left her on the bank of the river, are you still carrying her?”

Enjoy life!!

a candid interview with Ron Wyn

Who is Ron Wyn? Please tell us about yourself.

Having formally plunged into the depths of scientific and psychological abstractions, I have both sides of the brain covered. Primarily a man of thought, my systematic mind insisted on a skeptical approach to life, a because-I-have-seen-I-believe modus operandi, but my troubled relationships ended up leading me to a path of action that opened my heart to new and exciting inner experiences.

I've been working with teaching, coaching, translation, music, and writing for over 25 years. Since 1998 my interests have expanded to include alternative treatments and therapies such as rebirthing, Applied Kinesiology, Reiki, shamanism, Kabbalah, and meditation.

What is the genre of your work?

The genre of my work is officially self-help / relationships / psychology, but I call it awareness. What this means is that my goals are to color the world with meaningful and inspirational words while effectively bringing out a wealth of down-to-earth knowledge in simple and understandable terms to promote practical solutions, and to demystify spirituality while guiding and supporting fellow humans on their journey to reconnect and realign with their true nature—awareness.

Why did you choose this genre?

Ever since I was a young child I have been entangled in my own thoughts, my own little world, trying to analyze the things I do and why I do them. I remember climbing up to the roof when I was 8 or 9 and thinking about life while gazing at the blue sky. Can you believe that? Having a psychiatrist father also meant that I spent much of my formative years around mentally ill individuals in mental institutions, and have thus become utterly interested in the functioning of the human mind and its practical development. Since that time I have been almost obsessed with answering questions we all ask ourselves, such as why are we the way we are? Why are we here? What’s this all about? Where are we going?

How is writing in the genre you write, different than any other genre?

I am pleased to say I have reached a stage in my personal development where I am able to see my life objectively, as if I were another person observing from the outside. Although this has been a recent achievement, I’m no stranger to logic or objectivity. In addition to psychology, I have a degree in mathematics! So the scientist in me contributes with a scientific-method approach in the way I write and in the way I observe and develop my own self, while the psychologist in me analyzes and guides me into the depths of my own being. And I have all the fun just watching the entire thing!

What are some of your books or stories that have been published?

Although I have been writing for quite a while, irregular therapy is my first published book. It is part of a series. The irregular therapy book series came to fruition in the aftermath of a storm—a storm I call the first four decades of my life. From wounded child to rebellious teenager and troubled adult, I eventually reached a point where I felt completely lost. I certainly knew what was best for me, but try as I might, I couldn’t overcome the old, repetitive patterns that ran my existence. Finally, I came to see I had to do something about my precarious situation. I had to do something to make things better. I decided to take quality time and really dig deep into my troubles and face my fears. Well, it so happens that I took notes as I went along. Hence comes Book One: the storytelling, the more subjective part, the emotional release. It’s a story about how my despair over broken affairs and damaging repetitive behaviors led me to look within and realize that by clearing my inner patterns, my relationships with other people improved as if by magic. Although it was written from a man’s point of view, I feel the book is beneficial to either gender—men will find structures and stories they can certainly relate to, and women will be able to better understand men and their issues, especially regarding relationships.

irregular therapy: one man’s struggle to find meaning, money and a soul mate can be purchased on my website, www.irregulartherapy.com in several formats: paperback, ePub, Kindle, or PDF. It can also be found at major online outlets worldwide such as Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

I’m currently writing the second book in the series, which should be out by the end of 2011. The second book in the irregular therapy series reflects the results of my note-taking process. It is an attempt to organize the knowledge I have acquired throughout the years—translated not only into techniques, but also into first-hand knowledge of human behavior and functioning. And, as a teacher at heart, I do my best to convey this knowledge in simple, understandable, and practical terms.

Where do you get your ideas for writing?

My ideas come mainly from my personal life experience: the events I have witnessed, my travels, my relationships, my thoughts and interpretations. I have found that I am able to express myself well in writing and this also helps me in my catharsis—I am able to expunge old habits and patterns, leaving room for new and improved ideas.

What is your favorite thing about your book?

I think it is just the way the words came out. Direct, honest, but from a place of pity. I also enjoyed fully exposing myself. It gave me the sense that my entire life is nothing but a story. And it also feels good to have nothing to hide.

Why and when did you begin writing? Is there any one person who had a big influence on you or encouraged you to write?

I have been writing ever since I was a teenager. No one really influenced me then; I just found I felt good, I felt lighter, after writing. It gave me a sense of relief. I have always been able to expel things from my system this way. Later in life I think John Lennon was a great influence. Not in terms of writing, but as a role model on self-expression.

What is your writing schedule? What atmosphere do you need to write?

I mainly write in the late morning hours. I enjoy writing when I’m wide awake. And I need peace and quiet. No music, no one around. Writing is almost a mediunic experience to me. It just comes out. Once I start writing, inspiration keeps coming and coming and coming. I just jot down whatever comes through my system, and when it stops I feel exhausted, but great. A few days later I come back and edit the material. It’s like I’m reading it for the first time….

What projects are you working on now, or planning for the future?

I have much more material planned for the irregular therapy project. In addition to the book series, I have been developing a website, www.irregulartherapy.com, and blog, blog.irregulartherapy.com, where I have placed much of my writing and intend to develop other areas of interest such as music, guided visualizations, and subliminal messaging, among other things. I have been exposed to many teachings and techniques on my journey, and now it is time to show others the tools that have assisted me. I’m positive they will help many people as they have helped me. Finally, I am also available for speaking engagements and life coaching.

What kind of advice or tips do you have for someone who wants to write and be published? Are there any other comments, advice or tips that you would give to beginning writers?

My advice is simple. Just do it. Don’t let your mind get in the way and sabotage you by saying your work is not good enough, the market is saturated, things of that sort. Other people will also say these things to you, you know. Don’t pay attention to them. But be realistic. Gather your energy and persevere. Make an inner resolve and go for it. Set aside some time every day for your most important work and stick to your schedule. Self-publishing requires a lot of planning, but it need not be daunting. You can publish your own work, but that does not mean you’ll have to do it alone. Establish your budget; be smart and honest about the stages you can complete yourself. For example, you might be enthusiastic about design, but unless you are a professional designer, I suggest you outsource your cover. You don’t want to look amateurish. In my case, I wrote and edited the book, then sent it out to an expert for his opinion (I was not going to commit my time and effort to something that was not good, or something that reflected some delirium of grandeur). I had a couple of people copyedit it. Then I invested most of my money in the cover design and text. The rest was technicalities. Setting up a website, finding a distributor, joining associations, submitting articles, marketing. It’s a lot of work, but it’s also a lot of fun. If you’re committed, you can do it. Or maybe your budget allows you to hire a book shepherd, who will do it all for you. I know I didn’t have the money for that. But the book is out, nevertheless.

What do you do when you are not writing?

I make music, sing and play the guitar, read a lot, meditate, and work out. I also enjoy computer programming. But these are all weekly activities. On weekends, I do as little as possible and just hang out with my wife and teenaged son (whenever he allows us to be around him). After all, as Bill Watterson so truthfully put it, “Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.”

What “Made It” moments have you experienced in life?

This is certainly one of them. Seeing my book published, holding it in my hands, seeing my website ready and people’s reaction to it. There have also been many other moments, which I consider stepping stones in my development process. Such as when I lost my last job and went on my own. That was a scary, but great feeling. And when I met my wife. That was the end of a lifelong search. Truly amazing. Well, no use elaborating here. You can check out these stories (and much more) in detail by reading irregular therapy: one man’s struggle to find meaning, money and a soul mate!

irregular therapy is here!!!

Dear friends,

It’s my pleasure to announce that, after years of hard work and dedication, my first book, irregular therapy: one man’s struggle to find meaning, money and a soul mate, is finally out. 


This book, the first in a series, and its companion website comprise the second stage of my latest project, irregular therapy™ .

irregular therapy™ is what I call my personal development path. It consists of the set of mind and body techniques—physical activity, visualizations, affirmations, meditations, sounds, and mind programming, among other things—that worked for me, and could surely work for you.

So whether you could use some much-needed relief in your turbulent life or are just looking to feel more relaxed, I hope you can take some time off your busy schedule to visit www.irregulartherapy.com and check out all the interesting and helpful information I have prepared for you.
And, if you like what you see, please recommend my work to your friends and family!

Best,

Ron