Meditating today is like sitting in hell. After 10 minutes of kinhin, walking meditation, it’s time to go back to hell. The pain in my left leg is a taunting gremlin, daring me to keep my mind on my breath.
Ruby saw graffiti on an elevator door once that said, “Boredom is rage spread thin.” What could be worse than boredom and sore legs?
I read a story once about a zen student who complained that following his breath was boring. The master grabbed him by the back of the neck and plunged his head into a tub of water, pulling him out just before the son-of-a-bitch drowned. “Now how boring is your breath?” he asked.
But you know, while I was sitting, following my boring breath, I was wishing someone would drown me and relieve my misery. My only fear is that death would be even more boring than sitting meditation. Maybe I’d better just try to get used to it.
I am so unevolved!
Ideas and Random Ramblings:
So, Dan from the writing group told us that Hemingway used to write every morning for two hours standing at the refrigerator with his papers on top. I think the pen must have left a huge lump on his middle finger. And I also think that must be why he wrote such clipped sentences. What would his words have been like if his pages spanned the top of an ornate art-nouveau dining room table with eighteen leaves and hinged sideboards? Would his words have been softer on a table cloth or a placemat? With salt and pepper shakers and other condiments nearby? What else could have been on top of that old refrigerator that inspired his imagination so?
If it were me, well, for starters I’d have to stand on a chair to even reach the top of the refrigerator. So I’d be balanced a little precariously in the first place. I’d then have to move the cookbooks and pens, restaurant menus, cereal boxes and bags of cheese curls out of the way. Next, I’d probably want to wash off the accumulated dust and grime with a yellow sponge. At which point, I’d have to climb down and rinse the sponge out, or replace it completely, depending on how black it had become. I’d climb back up only to find the top now too wet to set papers on. So I’d either wait until it dried off or get down again to retrieve a paper towel.
Once dried and smooth, the frig top would be ready for a visit from my muse. It hums along quite pleasantly as she skates in, her wool scarf like a flag behind her. I rest my head on an outstretched arm and wait for a few minutes. Watch. She does a few pirouettes. Her matching mittens clap for my attention. Her blonde curls spin out from her cap like plastic Barbie hair. I rub my eyes a couple of times and she dissolves into a reflection. I pick up my pen to write.
Here are some ideas:
That time on the beach in Nags Head this year when we (me, dad, and ellen) tried to save the sand castle from being washed away.
Stories of the Drapers. Listen to Mr. Draper’s stories more. Get the character down. Don’t tune him out anymore.
Listen to Ruby. Try not to tune her out.
Listen to Rose tomorrow. Get her to tell a few stories. Try to hear the rhythm of her speech. Try to then hear the same rhythm in Ruby’s speech.
Bookkeeping -- I bet not too many people have written creative stories about bookkeeping and accounting and why it is so much fun. Book Keeping. Keeping. Keeping the Books. What does that mean, Keeping the Books? Where did the expression come from? Find out.
Keep -- tr. 1. To retain possession of. 2. To have as a supply. 3. To provide with maintenance and support: kept a wife and many children on a small salary. 4. To store; put customarily: Where do you keep your saw? 5.a. To supply with room and board for a charge: keep boarders. b. To raise: keep chickens. 6. To maintain for use or service: A city dweller who didn’t keep a car. 7. To manage, tend, or have charge of: keep shop. 8. To preserve (food). 9. To cause to continue in a state, condition, or course of action: attempted to keep the patient calm. 10. a. To maintain records in: keep a yearly diary. b. To enter (data) in a book: keep financial records. 11. a. To detain: was kept after school. b. To restrain: kept the child away from the hot stove. c. To refrain from indulging: keep a secret. d. To save; reserve: keep extra money for emergencies. 12. To maintain: keep late hours. 13. To adhere to; fulfill: keep one’s word. 14. To celebrate; observe. --intr 1. To remain in a state or condition; stay: keep in line; keep quiet. 2. To continue to do: keep on talking; keep guessing. 3. To remain fresh or unspoiled: The dessert won’t keep.
etc.etc.etc.etc. FINISH TYPING THIS LATER.
Keeper -- 1. One that keeps, esp.: a. An attendant, guard, warden. b. One who has the charge or care of something. 2. A device for keeping something in place.
I am the warden of these books. I keep the numbers in line. I keep the figures from getting away. I attend to them. I guard and care for them. Because figures have a way of not making any sense at all if there is no one close by to reign them in occasionally.
This burning acid thing is just too much. Yes, I’m allowing the acid to burn up into my throat. Why? To shut myself up? To silence the voices once and for all? I haven’t even found my own voice yet. Am I looking for an excuse to stop looking? Don’t worry. It’s gone. I burned it.
What? Do I want sympathy? Do I want an excuse to stop working and let someone else take care of me? Will I end up in an institution on drugs before I’m fifty? I walk such a tightrope every day. Jesus Christ! Who was foolish enough to want to have me?
This is pointless whining drivel. What if I wrote a story about someone like me? And how everyone hated her because she was so whiny and argumentative and couldn’t get along with others and just sat around all day on her ass and did nothing but considered herself to be so smart and above everyone else that they all could just go to hell and suck on her fucking asshole. What about that? Huh?
This is the thing that I have to do...I mean that SHE has to do...write in her journal all the time every week. For the class. But also so that she will become a better writer. But she has so little faith. I think she is getting more faith little by little. A friend just called today. Greta. She is going to be the editor of the Blowfish on-line catalogue literary section, and as such she will buy two of Beth’s stories...the Violent Fantasy and the Curse Might Have Helped story. They will pay $50 each. Well, that WOULD be something, wouldn’t it?
Shit. That’s nothing really though. Beth wants to get a lot better. She wants to write things that make people notice and think she is a worthy human being after all. She knows that is all bullshit. She knows that what she writes has little to do with who she is. And she knows that any talent she has is not of her own doing. She doesn’t really know where the words come from... she only prays that they will continue.
She sits at her computer. The first thing she does is dial up America-Online and check her e-mail. Then, she gets on the web to do some necessary “research.” She spends about 3 hours on the web searching for information that she could probably get cheaper and faster by making a few phone calls. After giving up on her research task for the moment, she plays a few games of hearts, then moves on to mine sweeper and finally solitaire before she turns off the damned computer in frustration and goes to bed for a few hours. That is Beth’s Saturday afternoon. It makes her really sad and depressed.
That is why she eats.
That is why she drinks.
That is why she watches bad TV talk shows.
That is why she is never in the mood to answer the telephone.
That is why she is afraid to go to sleep at night.
That is why she contemplates coma.