Tuesday, May 1

I cannot wed the sides of myself.  They are warring planets that have no language between them.  Nothing but fireworks and longing.  If we must not seek our completion outside ourselves, then what are we doing?The living and giving with others seems to be the only worthy contract, many an inspirational poster has told me so...so very good!  True happiness in actuality exists outside the self.  One's bliss is met, at long last, in the sharing with and giving to another after we hang in there, like a good kitty.

Monks are here to remind us to gaze inward and be silent, be still.  Other people too, but I like monks so lets talk about monks.  Buddhists monks are these orangey energy fields walking around shining light on everything.  It's splendid.  But if humanity wasn't such a glorious basket case they'd have no one to remind to be mindful of our own darkness.  They'd just be tapping the most annoying monk on the shoulder, the one they like the least, to be better at all his monk stuff.

I am not a monk.  I wish I were much of the time.  But not today.

I have felt for the longest time the most selfish of creatures.  I am so choosy with my love.  Love, the finest of things, should it not be given away always, often--as fully as any contract or commitment can be extended?  I realize that all humans are woven differently and thankfully our tastes and fancies are not all one thing or another, and even if set and chosen in any given month do change like air pressure...but I have always, if not any one thing, been...well changeable.  Changeable and somehow fixed with the desire to catch fire or not live at all.  How can such a person finish anything?  Even if I look really good in orange?

I rarely do.  That's why I get so excited for the small things I do on a somewhat regular basis: pay bills, floss, call people.  I tend to begin and begin, hoping the new road is right, the new one is the path, through the earth, the one I needed to dig for and only found what for all the starting and starting.

While one must burn, he may wish to have the substructure to support him; to rage as hot as he can.  Plant his feet in the earth!  Free from stray saliva from angry mouths ready to minimize him, even his most effervescent parts.  His smoke and shadow and ash...the good stuff, really.  The secrets about yourself you never admit to anyone and simultaneously realize are the very reason you are alive.  Damn it.

Going to a lecture about science stuff tonight.  Maybe I'll want to be a monk again tomorrow.  We'll see.

~ B