I’m going to tattoo myself. Lines like a subway map. Curved. Smooth. Dots for stations. Right next to the ape on my arm. People ask what it means. The ape. Or the lines. If there’s a story.
The best story I’ve heard all week came from an audiobook. The subtle art of not giving a fuck. Here’ a paraphrase. No intro required. It stands on it’s own two feet. Then starts doing the cha-cha. Speaking of, Kate and I are practicing in the kitchen on Sundays. We’re teaching a lesson at the brewery soon. Also also, ten days since a blow-up bash-out neck-vein marital spat. Check this out:
The desire for more positive experience is a negative experience.
The acceptance of more negative experience is itself a positive experience.
Apparently this is Alan Watts’ backwards law.
The YouTube yoga class has a Ganesh elephant painted on the main wall. Paradox is everywhere, the teacher says. She says reverse warrior, imagine your right arm is the elephant trunk.
The more you pursue feeling better, the less satisfied you become. Does this mean knock and the door shall be opened is bunk? More like DON’T knock and the door shall be opened?
What?!!!! This is what I hands-flail monologue to Kate. It’s all backwards.
At dinner I was trying to explain but the baby kept interrupting. Reaching for my chopsticks, trying to sit up, moaning. We were having vermicelli noodles with sautéed mushrooms, onions, garlic on top. Cilantro too. Beer bread on the side. The alcohol bakes off—AA friendly.
How do you get away from Target? And traffic. And still have wi-fi? I want to look out my kitchen window with my morning cup of coffee and not see any other human abodes. No tipi, no house, no bus of hillbillies parked in my front yard. Just trees and dirt and stacked wood and rain barrels and chicken coop.
Martin Luther King got shot because he had a dream.
I don’t know why I wrote that. But the thing we’re talking about has that bullet-to-the-brain kind of seriousness. Seriously.