Walking up the city sidewalk, I realize I walk at an “average” pace. Inevitably, some people zip by me. Others block my way. Wherever I’m going, though, my original quest is inevitably sidelined in favor of the Slow-Walking Women.
Am I being creepy?
the path toward attainment is fraught with doubt and loneliness.
simplicity makes so little sense to those caught in opaque illusions. self mastery means changing one’s mind (often, at a certain level of detailed free thinking). this is mistaken for “being wrong” by most (rather than “growth of consciousness”). so they avoid honing their awareness.
thus others become strings of dna and bad habits. thinking habits. dietary habits. communication habits. artificial. intention is not action, and will seldom (if ever) be remembered in a positive light.
there is no natural/conscious intention beyond peace if you can master yourself.
A few days ago, my wife found a bed bug. This threw her into a panic. Me too. The only bed bug stories are horror stories.
We made an appointment with a bed bug specialist for the next day. We had to bag all of our clothing and linens to throw them in high heat dryers for an hour. We had to lock up (herd) our several cats in the basement.
Plus, not forget to safely transport my daughter’s hamster to my father-in-law’s place. Continue reading
I accepted the invitation to host with a heavy heart. The Thirsty Soul was closing, and it was the last open mic night. I was the first guest performer and the last host. I met many talented people. Some were just peeking their heads out into the world to share themselves for a night. Others were jumping from open mic to open mic in the city. And some, like myself, were reliably present each week.
This particular open mic was sparsely populated: It was Bongo Billy, Pete, and I. With an empty Red Room, I hooked into the Bluetooth and Bongo Billy and I jammed to the Alley Cat and Mama Don’t Allow It. I unremarkably rolled into the last Facebook stream and acted out my best open mic night host impression and belted out some tunes, followed by the others.
The furniture tapped their legs. The chandelier shrugged. The sound system reminded me how much it dislikes acoustic guitar pickups. And so it was. With Pete’s Taylor in arms, I eeked out Redneck Vacation and finished up with my final performance of Chinese Buffet in the lush, comfy, New Orleans-styled parlor to the applause of a small circle of friends.