Teachers

When I was but a wee blogger, I was a student of the now defunct Dad Gone Mad. I asked him questions like: How often should I post? How often should I post? How often should I post? As you have by now discerned, I was a very ardent wee blogger.

Thus spake Dad Gone Mad: good blogging is not about the quantity of blog posts; rather, it’s about the quality of blog posts. This sounded good to me, like something Ben Kenobi might say, catchy. And so, since my daughter’s birthday, I haven’t posted because I’ve been muted with not shit to say. I still don’t have shit to say. I thought about writing a post that said a bunch of things with a strikethrough that crossed it all out, essentially unsaying itself in a way that’s either mystical or postmodern, but decided it was too much work and also pretentious.

So I said nothing. Don’t we all?

But I keep getting emails that ask me if I’m dead, which—nevermind—or drunk. And, no, I’m not dead, unless I’m Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, which would be so cool that it makes the hair on my arms tingle, and I’m not drunk. But I could be dreaming or in the Matrix, both possibilities that keep shit interesting. You should never be too convinced of what’s real.

I don’t know what else to tell you. If you’ve read this far, whose fault is that?

I’m not going to AA. I don’t want to talk about it.

I went to Baton Rouge to visit my buddy, Bryan. We ate sushi at this place called Tsunamis and I met a tiny woman with little bird bones who instantly smote me with her charm. She was all magic with pixie dust sparkling around her head and face, announcing her presence like some fated thing. So hot. She was a mere hair’s breadth away from me falling in love with her until she criticized Eminem. I challenged her to name one person who could spit rhymes like Eminem. ONE! The ho was speechless. I couldn’t even finish my spicy tuna. I’ll never find love.

I’ve resumed, after many years, my sitting practice, which, I must confess, makes me nervous. My friend Skip taught me how to sit. Skip taught me everything and then he killed himself, which makes a student pause, much like when the Dad Gone Mad scandal that rocked the Blogoverse called all my approaches to blogging into question. I’m not drawing some correlation between zazen and suicide because that would be shoddy science, but there’s strong feelings bound up in my folded legs and erect spine. The smell of incense. Listening to him tell stories. I’ll never shut up about him. Everything I say is just talking about him.

I like the way the stillness complements the mad activity of running. I sit and run every day and listen closely to the conversation between them. They have a lot in common. They both like tea. I can’t find love because love finds me.

Comments

As far as I'm concerned, Eminem is the best thing since sliced bread, and probably one of the only reasons rap/hip-hop hasn't totally gone to shit by now. That lady doesn't know what she's missing...

I wonder if Ben Kenobi sent pictures of his Lightsaber to women who were trying to be Jedi?

You have inspired me to run. Maybe, now, I will sit.

I also like how Miranda July wrote it, "What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real." But I humbly submit that you might have the Skip stuff reversed; maybe everything you say is him talking about you.

Jesus, man, the way you write. One day, I want to write half as beautifully as the way you write.

K.

Maybe it's in the water. Or the air. Or the lack of air. Not that I have much to add to the blog world but of late the only thing that's come out of my fingers is a derogatory commentary on people who can't see what really needs to be seen.

Like that woman speaking ill of Eminem. She should be introduced to him. That would make me happy.

your writing... man... your writing.

sometimes i don't know how to comment because i feel so inept but so grateful for your words at the same time. but then i want to comment because i want you to know that i am reading.

Oh my. When *you* find the Big Love? I bet I'll be able to see the fire in the western sky from my house....

I'm sorry to hear about your spicy tuna.

You say nothing really well. That's all.

If I had a handful of wishes, one of them would be to see the stuff you start typing but don't publish. I bet there's a lot of crap in there (because I refuse to believe in superhumanness), but I bet there's even more truth.

Even when you have nothing to say, you leak truth, and you do it beautifully. Only when we are raw and open can we really attract that fickle synergy that is love. There is a reason that love finds you.

Also? What Gwen said.

Skip should've been around long enough to have a blog. And, I miss Danny, too.

I don't know, I kind of miss seeing the number 7 at the top of your page when I clicked on your bookmark, oh, about 5 or 6 times a day.

"I’ll never shut up about him. Everything I say is just talking about him."

you must read this:
http://www.theatlantic.com/personal/archive/2011/02/love-hard-today-for-death-rules-the-avenue/70924/

"The Zen folks tell a story. Once there was one who played the harp skillfully, and a friend who listened skillfully. Then the listener died. The musician cut the strings, and never played again."

.

Hi, buddy.

It was weird when you mentioned Ami on Twitter this week. My worlds collided in a very strange way that I'd not yet experienced.

I wondered where the Rothko Instagram was taking you, but didn't want to be nosy. Travel is way fucking good for the soul.

someone once told me that love never dies, it just goes underground

If by chance you do find love, or the anecdote to feeling suicidal, would you please let me know. It seems to me one begets the other, so I have decided for the time being to speak incessantly on things that I have absolutely no idea about in hopes that I will forget both that I am lonely and without love and that I think death might actually become me. Note: this is not a suicide note but rather just some, hopefully, witty banter. What can I say? I'm desperate and pride is a wasted emotion.

I wish I could say nothing with so much between the lines so well.

I miss running. It was the closest to sitting I've ever gotten. I practised yoga for a decade with a constantly spinning mind, but somehow, the boring treadmill, the mirror, OCD and ADD conspired to keep me in a specific zone, so if I thought, I'd fall and if I worried about falling, I thought. So I just went, while I was still inside. It was so damn refreshing.

That's the problem with teachers, sometimes you learn everything they have to teach. Then what?

I was wondering what happened to Dad Gone Mad. I take breaks from the net and missed the whole craziness of it all. Completely missed that part. Maybe not such a bad thing I didn't know.

You have surpassed the teacher and have become the teacher. I

i hear you. i once stopped answering a guy's calls after seeing his keychain. it was janiter sized, all trinkets and shit.
i get the absense. it's been 3 months (to the day) since i blogged. less is always more, in my book. really glad to hear you are sitting. stillness is my savior. well, that and ativan.

peace, you.

Sounds like you live life in one big scene. There aren't any Act 1, Act 2's. You meet the girl, love the girl, lose the girl all before the audience gets to go to the lobby for drinks at intermission. The good news is that nobody knows the ending to this play including you. :)

k. sometime i am afraid to comment on your blog because i'm afraid you'll come look at my blog and say i don't need this moron commenting on my blog because her blog is stupid and that is all a long way of saying damn man i LOVE your writing. love it. love what you have to say and how you say it.

And maybe you are making a bunch of us fall in love with you. Bastard. ;-)