“It doesn’t seem to be working … “

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We get this basic question, in the widest array of versions, most every second. Accordingly, our PR team has urged us to provide a long, definitive, and completely exculpating answer.

First, we must pose the question:

It doesn’t seem to be working. I thought it was working, but now I think I was just kind of hyped up on myself and getting ahead of myself and showing off and carrying on.
It doesn’t seem to be working. I keep finding myself being shitty to other people and hating on everyone.
It doesn’t seem to be working. I feel my own sexuality like a fire and just want some hot body to burn up. I mean: I feel an overflowing energy and enthusiasm, but I fear it is mostly because I’m insanely greedy with lust and pride.
It doesn’t seem to be working. I felt sweet and pleasant and generously-disposed towards all my fellows, but then somebody crossed me and I got all dark and reckless.
It doesn’t seem to be working. I just want to escape. To be rich and young and run off into infinite health, freetime, and luxury with a beautiful somebody who rubs me right intellectually, emotionally, and physically. No, but seriously: this is all I think about!
It doesn’t seem to be working. I feel so lonely and hurt all the time, and the hurt is pulling on my shoulders and my pelvis and knees, rolling me up into a little ball of give-up.

Now to answer:

OK, so, we’re really sorry it didn’t work.
And yes, we take full responsibility for this failure (we believe that’s what “exculpate” means; we’ll look it up after this confession and apology).
We really kind of thought that maybe somehow it would like kind of work.
Of course, we’ve also kind of maybe supposed that the angle at which the newspaper landed on our front stoop had perhaps you never know hard to see how it all fits together some kind of special cosmic significance.
And then there’s the one where we seem to think that because some girl’s name keeps popping into our minds, we must or maybe could be although it is kind of weird since this has happened before and more than once — anyway, there’s how we sometimes think that so and so’s name came into our head apparently unbeckoned just now and so she and I are intertwined from before and will soon meet and culminate and flower and burst open and join together in a torrent of madcap-delicious joy-leaping spraying love-rapids.
That is to say,
not all of our schemes pan out.

But, you know, with Pure Love, which is already there surging eternally and infinitely forward like a blessed sea of sunshine that floats everyone up into the sun, into the light, into an explosion of kind joy — well, in such a case, you don’t really need us anyway.

Remember Dorothy?
All along she wore the ruby slippers, all along she had the ticket back home. All she had to do was click her heals and wish upon a star. Likewise, we all must have this seed of infinitely creative and delightful compassion within us, longing to sprout and overtake us and all we touch. We just need to turn towards the Love; to turn up awareness, honesty, clarity, accuracy, competent productive creative loving kindness, and shared joy. Right? Isn’t that what we all — no matter how pathetically overblown our rhetoric and sad-sack our results (and, again, we’re sorry about this, and once this nostra culpa is done, we’ll ask the PR team to help us formulate a fuller one) — know deep within, deeper than our ideas and feelings, deeper than our faiths and doubts?

Ah well, let it be, and now we take the long road home, watching the little bending stream roll dark-flickering-glass forward, carrying our lonely apologies somewhere better, somewhere that knows how to help us all together.

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Author: Skullvalley After Whistletown Exculperations Division

Copyright Andrew Mackenzie Watson