In bed last night. Air temp 64 degrees. Lights out. 8:34pm. I close my eyes and think think think. I spend so much time rush rush rushing. You know what I mean. Rush rush rushing. Not like a running back in the NFL. For yards or carries or whatever but doing thinking podcasting writing fermenting sprouting studying walking running cooking swimming yoga shipping shoes buying fit bit’s selling fit bits. All these things these thoughts these molecules in my head hacking happiness and such ahhh. I forget to just be grateful, forget to just take a breath. Huuuhhhhhhh. 


In bed last night. I close my eyes and think think think I NEED TO SLOW THE FUCK DOWN AND BE GRATEFUL. I tossed and turned. Melatonin not working. Damn this is important I should get up and write this down because I know if I don’t zip zip zap the bong bang bosch it’d be lost and I wouldn’t remember while my brain was consolidating and connecting and creating content. For writers it’s a content craze. Content content content. 


Are you content?


I tried to create a pneumonic for the word gratitude so that I could remember in the morning and to that end I figured if gratitude had 10 letters I could remember but it only has 9 letters. Gratitude gratitude gratitude. For being here gratitude, mom stepmom grandma gratitude. What else was going through my mind? Is The Alt Dad filled with this freneticism? Or is it chill vibes me like a monk wish wish wishing y’all well and holy peace. I wondered about the energy I was putting out like whether when I sat down to write good vibes going through my head. Magic moments of mystery or blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Monk mission or no real intention, just vomit my inner viciousness on the page. 


In bed. I think intention matters. 


Certain softeness be gentle be sweet because find the present. 


Sound like a load of abstract laundry detergent like Seventh Generation that says plant based and earth friendly but has the same unpronounceable bullshit like coco propyl butane hydroxy whatever.


I was reading The Power of Now by Eckhart tolle. That’s a lie. Not reading, just staring at the sentence, like you do when you’re ta tired, eyes on the sentence like it’s skip stuck in repeat. 


Now I can’t find the sentence so maybe I was imagining it. But this one’s good. It’s funny. How I can’t find the sentence now. 


“The Buddha taught that even your happiness is dukkha — a Pali word meaning “suffering” or “unsatisfactoriness.” It is inseparable from its opposite. This means that your happiness and unhappiness are in fact one. Only the illusion of time separates them.” 


How is happiness suffering? Well, I get pleasure running hills in 93 degree weather. My muscles hurt, the dog is thirsty, my feet hurt, my head hurts, my tongue hurts, but all the hurt vague aches into a semi automatic feeling of pleasure, but not quite. Just like sitting on the couch with my feet up is pleasurable, but it’s also mushy lazy uncomfortable. There’s this symbiotic yin yang of pleasure and discomfort in everything isn’t there? 


I can’t remember the passage and it’s a good thing and a bad thing, it’s both.