It all started when I choked on a Burrito Mexicano and I don’t mean a little. I’m talking blocked windpipe, stuck, stopped. It was like letting go of a helium balloon. Trust me. My kids, fighting over salsa verde, appeared in the vivid luminosity of lastness. Everything erupts in shining presence as the maw of death licks his hungry lips. Farewell, little ones. Don’t fight. It’s only salsa. The world is a rainstorm of salsa verde and free refills. Be good. Go light. Be kind and gentle stewards of the earth.
You know the sounds zombies make when they’re feasting and slurping on brains? It was like that. The sound. The Burrito Mexicano yacked from my throat, shot clear across the dining room, and stuck with a goopy smack on the window at Baja Fresh. All the people wondered what the hell. Life kept happening.
Fuck me, I thought, I need a free refill.
When a Burrito Mexicano almost kills you in a Baja Fresh, it changes you in your most deep and hidden places. Maybe you grasp this on an intellectual level but only the initiated can truly know in the heart of all their chakras. To make a long story short, blogging, Twitter, and Instagram were, just like that, robbed of their meaning. I was newly overwhelmed by an insatiable hunger to live life, do things, go outside, hit up the mall. There were innumerable bones from which to suck marrow. That might sound gross but have you ever tried bone marrow? Then don’t hate. Stop being a judge in a glass house who ignorantly disses marrow.
I found a place to live in the desert deliberately, or at least hang out for awhile. I needed a Bodhi Tree to sit beneath but I don’t live in Nepal or Bhutan and airfare is ridiculous, so I sat next to a cactus and called it good. I let my eyes go blurry and prepared myself for a direct confrontation with the true nature of suchness. If you can’t relate to the lofty nature of my ambition, try choking on a Burrito Mexicano at Baja Fresh and get back to me. It’ll fuck with your aims. Anyway, I’m trying to let body and mind fall away and dissolve into the ceaseless flux with neither beginning nor end but there’s these stupid birds going chicka-chicka! click! chicka-chicka! I mean WTF, birds? Don’t get me wrong. I’m trying to let things ride with an easygoing John Cage vibe but I need to speak my truth: these annoying desert birds—they’re pissing me off. First of all, they’re harshing my direct confrontation. The next thing you know, I’m musing on John Cage, a zillion miles away from the Great Matter. Then I’m angry and, worse, I’m getting angry about being angry because—dammit—a burrito almost killed me and my ardent attempt to enter the Treasure House is being thwarted by a couple birds and John Cage. Fuck it all to hell.
I’m not around much anymore. I sit still and quiet in the mornings until everything vanishes into the deep and empty oblivion of forgetfulness until Tingggggggggg, the world arises with a bell and nothing more is needed than the ever-strange thrill of being-this. There comes a time when the moment occurs with the force of all time and what an uncanny honor—to be a temporary expression of the unspeakable.
How will you express it? Smile, help, chew your food slow and careful.