There’s this story in a book about zen teachings. The story goes some dude argued that his appearance and behavior didn’t matter so much because his inner self was good. The other stuff was just surface. The teacher offers him a fine wine, and he enthusiastically says he would happily take some. The teacher brings out the wine in a jar (one that functions like a bedpan/urinal in that country). …
Just start typing. Enough of this thinking. Waking up to a whirring mind is not optimal. It would have been better to do a lazy turn and smile at my lover’s sleeping form. I would have taken being licked awake by Ripley. The intellect is resentful of this intrusion of work in my home. “Hi. What do you guys want?” Noot and Ripley are watching me type. Maybe they’re trying …
Every once and a while it is time to clean all the things. Part of it is leaving mom and dad’s place and seeing all the memory laden things there. Mom is talking selling the house in time. It’s okay, they are only things. We have memory enough. Makes my own place feel h e a v y. Too much. Still purging and rearranging.
Right. Tabla rasa. New Year. Figure out the title after I figure out what I’m doing. But then again, that’s a bit of life right there, isn’t it? Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone… Christmas was good. I mean, it really was great to hang out with my brother and sisters. We had a video chat with Beau and met …
What to say? I made longanisa the other day and found myself singing Longanisa…Longanisa…men have named you…(to the tune of Mona Lisa) And I remember dad singing that. He loved Nat King Cole. And it wasn’t sad — a happy memory. Thanks, dad. Wrapping my head around aging and mortality. Meanwhile, Jordan is 9 months old today. Beau and Emily; Andy and Kimberly are expecting babies any day now. Jake …
With the changing weather, the hip aches and the leg gives out in unexpected bursts. Holidays approach and I think of dad often. It sneaks up on me in the way I groan in the morning. Geez, just vacuuming the house — because that was his thing. Sometimes it is okay, but more often I am sad still. i chock this up to hormones, and weather, and a creaky body, …
The protagonist is the one from whose perspective we get the story. Just came back from Maleficent. Eye candy and a layered retelling of Sleeping Beauty. Someone I knew murdered his wife. He strangled her. It was one of those, “He seemed like such a nice guy” kind of stories. T said it takes a lot of anger to do that. I said, “He is terribly broken to have done …
So many questions…Is life worth living? What is a measure of success or a life well lived? What is the point? Who do I love? How will I be remembered? What is my legacy? Who loves me? What is enough?
Sometimes even a little is too much. When even some /sigh feels like a screaming complaint of first world problems it is time to turn everything off. No stream of other. No picture. No news. What is now? It’s breathing. It’s taking a dish to the kitchen and clearing a space. If I concentrate there is warmth where my blood goes. There is the cold of that part of me …
Music and savage beasts and all that. Stepping up scales hoping for my head to break surface. It’s closer. I can see the light. In the meantime, music. It’s a reminder of outside the self. Cool dat. The way it can play the spine, or run rills on the skin, move feet and I don’t even know I’m at it. I’ve been in my own head. This is a decent …
