First, I assume the position. My version of the lotus. And as I sit, I allow the horrors to beat over my head. Primarily self loathing, but Suzuki says, to observe your breathing, and just let it be. So I let it be. I step outside and look at myself, a piece of scrap on the junkyard of life, and just...let it be.
Of course, the mother of all hangovers doesn't seem to work. I'm just thinking about my next drink.
But instead, I take my laptop and start typing. I have to do the various morning (afternoon) chores and then I'll write some more of the "history" section of my book. Flawed, but then, what is editing for if not to correct flawed copy?
Wish someone would edit me, but I resist all editing from anyone, however close or distant. If I had a guru I would probably kick her in the balls.
The screaming keeps on screaming. My head is a cage of spiders. I spit out a large glob of green silk and watch as I weave my phlegm from one point in the window to the next.
Pretty webs. Pretty pretty webs. Why should spiders have all the fun? For that matter, why should cockroaches?
Sit. Breathe. Observe calmly.
Never mind tonight.
I won't think about tonight.
And last night is just a blur. We are supposed to forget. Memory is not our friend.
Let me rephrase that.
Memory is not MY friend.
2 comments:
And I would like to be able to let go and drink.
If you let go, you'll fall, over the edge of the cliff, into the arms of an angel (who looks suspiciously like Bacchus).
We were born for the Bacchanalian revels.
Post a Comment