Carpark contentment

In this moment of quiet contentment whilst walking the upper carpark at work I realise I am in the most calm condition of my life.

I have achieved the truest state of the monkhood I sought long ago.

At almost 3:30 a.m., when the freeway traffic is at a minimum, sounding like ocean waves just over a sand dune, the cicadas and crickets dominate.

My thought set requires no external validation, the same every year at this time.

I know a few friends whom I will recognise on social media for their positive influence on me.

Other than that, my conscious self remains at rest.



Japanese garden bridge in the rain

A person on social media asked which the reader thought worse, emotional pain or physical pain?

Of course, they’re one in the same.

Emotions are not aether, miasma, or entities separate from the body.

Therefore, the question reworded: what type of physical pain do you least like to endure?

Sleep-derived tiredness is my least liked pain.

I don’t know what emotions are but I do know that personal relationship disconnectedness reduces my ability to fall asleeep quickly, same with misaligned body parts.

Sleepiness prevents fully living in the ever-changing moment, causes poor decision-making, affecting moments not yet lived.

What, then, my friend, is Love?

Love, like everything else, is physical, measurable, describable, with experimental results providing a method to create corrective actions.

Mourning glory

Foggy soggy doggy morning on the mountain whilst delivering packed red blood cells, transferring them from one hospital to another earlier today.

Back in the Sunny Street Cafe with the gray/white-haired crowd, hearing the laughter of children, the vibratory puffs of air we call voices adding to a random spoken poem or prose song by all ages.

It’s just me here, the random set of states of energy, a result of billions of years of energy states reacting to one another.

It’s just me here, wondering what to do next.

It’s just me here, no superpowers, no vast wealth at my disposal, just a friendly smile to create out of this set of states of energy to warmly greet other such sets which can interpret the smile in such a way that it prevents significant damage to my set.

It’s just me here, as it’s always been, figuring out what to do before I die of natural causes or other mishaps out of my control.

I fall back in my thoughts to my late high school years when I overheard two girls talk about me.

One: “So, are you going to try to get alone with Lee on the band trip?”

Two: “Not this time.”

One: “Why not? He’s cute. You know such-and-such wants to be alone with him, too.”

Two: “Well, she can go ahead. He wouldn’t know what to do if you were alone with him naked and he had an instruction manual.”

From then on, it was a challenge within a small group of girls to try to get me to make out with them.

Little did they know that when I was 16 I’d already gone all the way with a girl and separately with a guy, finding the experience thrilling in the discovery stage but ultimately disappointing. 

From then on I thrilled only in the chase, walking away when I got bored chasing or the person I chased wanted me to catch her.

Thus it is that I enjoy dancing, a more elegant and fun form of the chase.

I still don’t know what to do when I’m alone with a woman other than converse politely.

If I don’t dance, I write.

It’s just me here, after all, unable to support myself on my own, a taxi dancer on permanent retainer by my handler, a/k/a my lifelong friend socially labeled my wife, who reluctantly loans me out without complaining about my prolonged absence.

It’s just me here, wallowing in the mud of mediocrity, waiting to die, sticking his head up to smell the fresh breeze of those frolicking in nearby open pastures, dreaming I could be a horse instead of a hog.

Time to work on my dream writer’s cottage, where I can hide when I’m not working.


Summertime, what is summertime, when you’ve lived a good long life, felt thousands of generations of your species pass through you, when you feel old beyond your years, only energised when your marionette/puppet self is picked up and played with by others?

What is summertime when you work the midnight shift, sleeping all day, the weather a matte background on the stage of life?

What is summertime when you’re standing in awe outside a batcave whilst thousands of flying mammals exit the cave and a mother next to you chats on her smartphone complaining about her life to a friend, simultaneously yelling at her kids to be careful, caring nothing about the swirl of bats heading toward open waters?

Her reality is not my reality, our view of summertime completely different.

I avoid others when I’m unhappy and unable to pretend to be happy without the aid of alcoholic beverages.

I know that being the life of the party costs my mental health when I’m alone again, aware of the shakes and shivers of stage fright taking its toll on my wellbeing after entertaining others, my puppet strings slack.

Should I worry…?

Should I worry when I can’t taste the food I’m eating, when the coffee has no flavour, when the people around me seem like cartoon projections through a translucent screen?

Or do I know this is my normal state now, no longer a part of this world, just a passing stranger with only myself I’ll ever understand, if I know me at all?

I am tired, naturally so.

Time for bed rest, this five-year old in a fifty-five year old body wants to forget himself in his dreams for a while, maybe never wake up…

When one’s body is

The self-centred “I” does not exist, a journey one took from age five on, a journey one understood would test one’s determination, knowing one can, like Pinocchio, wander off a path, get pulled into others’ lives, more or less daring than one’s own, but pick back up at any time one wanted, from wherever, whenever, the path more a philosophical entity than a physical one.

Yet, because labels do not exist, philosophy and physical are terms, temporary pathways through one’s neural networks, comprising memory locations which may or may not trigger other parts of the sets of states of energy we call a body, which all in all are just fractal spinoffs of galactic-sized whirlwinds in the mesh we call a universe.

One can choose a place and time to withdraw from the Zeitgeist, satisfied with one’s legacy, logically concluding that living a quiet life in one’s backyard paradise is the primary goal one sought decades ago.

The emotional attraction to others fed one’s self-centredness, building belief in another path that one had rejected as requiring more energy than one contained or drew upon.

One had achieved one’s place, if such a requirement exists (implying historical social hierarchical placement, a false sense of identity), giving those who believed in such a healthy nod that they were associated with a “winner”; thus, one could step away from them and ensure that should one run into them, one’s identity was easy for them to greet with a friendly smile, handshake, wave, and/or hug.

Therefore, one was free to pursue one’s destination toward death, expecting no rewards at the end, avoiding emotional states one had no training in how to handle, able to focus on health issues that, although not debilitating, were nonetheless interesting enough to take away from paying attention to the needs of others within one’s social circle, real or imagined.

The wisdom complicit with growing older (or does one shrink older? lol) gives one a longterm perspective whereby the pursuits in one’s youth, triggering fond memories, are best remembered rather than relived with newer, young friends, leaving one to find/fund hobbies one enjoys with one or two people within one’s age group.

If younger friends wish to contact one such as this author, they choose to do so realising that one walks a path up the mountain of Insight often involving solo treks, leaving nothing more behind than footprints in the mud, a broken flower stalk, or torn sock threads on briars, seeking neither companionship nor solitude, simply taking off with no plan other than reinforcing one’s meditative trance in the midst of life.

One lives with one’s hearing loss, with deteriorating skin damaged by solar radiation, with internal organs subjected to poor dietary decisions, with body parts damaged in motorcar smashups and sporting events.

One meditates upon the acceptable limits on one’s life based on the conditions in the previous paragraph and future decisions concerning one’s changing bodily conditions, fully aware that death is closer than one’s birth at this point, choosing to believe one will unlikely live to see 6th May 2050, the date of one’s predicted actuarial death, a date one chose to also represent the possibility that our society will announce the successful colonisation of another celestial sphere, preferably Mars but also the Moon or other large object in our solar system.

Otherwise, one closes off the tendrils one had grown out into virtual social circles when one feared that a job shift change would doom one permanently (the fear of doom was greater than imagining how the word “doom” physically manifested itself).

Finding oneself actually close to true happiness, where social connections are at a minimum, where one does not have to worry about entertaining others because one is empty and without purpose internally (unless living a relatively quiet, healthy, monastically meditative life up to the end of one’s life is a purpose)…well, it is the truest path one knows.

One no longer competes with or tries to achieve social expectations for oneself.

When one’s body is, the act of being suffices.

Harrier, Unharried, Hurried, Hurricane

The scene was set.

A group of friends whose written descriptions would quickly set discussions in motion.

But the author claims no relation to Donald Barthelme.

Instead, the table was set.

A round table, or roundtable, ’round which one’s casual advisors sat:

The Frenchman, the Gunslinger, the Rocket Engineer, the Dance Instructor, the Sister, the Irishman, the Roller Derby Mom, the Running Dad, the Leader, the Follower, the Canoeist, the Classmate(s), the Strangers, the Wife, surrounded by a Peanut Gallery of Rogues, Ne’er-do-wells, Solid Citizens and Ghosts.

To the advisory panel, one posed a question, directly to some, indirectly to others, through observation of a few, through social media to the rest:

“Who am I?”

The answers consistently told the same story:

The author is a friend, more normal than strange, whose presence is more desired than rejected, whose influence is accepted without question.

Yet, the author felt something was missing. What of the One the author felt was key to opening the door to a future pushing the concept of retirement out of one’s thoughts for decades more?

The author approached the advisors with the same question.

The answers drew a different picture than what the author had drawn.

Which picture was more accurate?

The author did not know much about the One except through texts from the One and descriptions from others who had spent many moments alone or in groups with the One.

One’s thought of the One — were they necessary?

If the author always sought a mommy figure and the One always sought a daddy figure, what did they really have in common, except shared members on the advisory panel?

Perhaps that was it and all that was necessary to live in two futures at once, a life of leisurely retirement and a life of active participation in the raising of a generation of children who would inherit one’s desire to question everything while simultaneously accepting everyone’s opinions/beliefs without question.

That’s all this author desired — a handoff of one part of one’s set of states of energy in motion to another, leaving an imprint, however small or large, knowing one is quickly forgotten within a generation or two of being alive.

The author already achieved long-lasting influence, thus the reason for retiring at age 45.

Ten years later, essentially the length of the life of one’s girlfriend who died in fifth grade, the author wondered which direction one was going next.

The author had walked away from the One many times, never assuming that the One would respond, but the One always did, finding some way to contact the author.

The author stopped asking why they were connected to each other.

The author wondered why the mental image of the One differed from others’ mental image of the One.

Did the author too quickly, too easily simplify and sugar-coat everything?  Would that explain the image disparity?

The author never liked to offend others, looked for compromise to reduce conflict.

The author focused on activities rather than thoughts, mentally mapping out today’s activities within one’s control:

Pick up dead branches and rotten pieces of wood, clear a space to build a foundation for the next module of the backyard enclave — a writer’s/Maker’s studio, including a treehouse, greenhouse, sleeping loft and entertainment deck.

How many blogs? How many Facebook accounts?

How many social media entities does it take to spread one out over our species?

I am limited, having just five main email addresses I use actively, and maybe half a dozen blogs I maintain, only three Facebook profiles I update, not to forget the Pinterest and other social media sites that are updated automagically.

In the midst of that, I live and breathe.

What makes a greenhouse a living space or vice versa?

Can the word “punk” and the phrase “Waffle House” exist together? Yes, at Aretha Frankenstein’s in Chattanooga.

I say I want to be a hermit but I easily let a friend (well, not just any friend (the friend (she knows who she is))) get me back on social media with the only hesitation a five-hour daytime sleeping period to keep me on schedule with my night shift job, even on summer holiday.

I look down at my hands, observing the thinning skin, the early knotted knuckle signs of arthritis, the freckles and sunspots, wondering: will I live to 6th May 2050?

My thought structure passes through many phase shifts and subsets, pausing in Venn diagrams of interconnectedness, looking in all directions, asking myself: why am I asking myself questions, as if I’m not here with myself seeing me ask questions for which I already know the answers or already know I don’t know the answers?

Why do I pretend there is an Other/Not-Me which needs to see I already know the answers or already know I don’t know the answers?

Who am I? Who are we?

No, really.

When we know everything is grounded in reality but believe in magic/miracles/the unexplainable anyway…


We carry forward the successful thought patterns of our ancestors, regardless of its practical application today.

Sometimes as history (lest we forget the lessons our ancestors learned), sometimes as fairy tales/fantasy (as entertainment), sometimes as integral parts of our thought sets (because what worked in the past still works in the present/near future).

And if we could prove that thoughts do not exist in a vacuum, then what?

How do we extinguish the illusion of an independent person having independent thoughts?

How do we show that every one of us is just/miraculously a localised spinoff of stardust in motion?

How often should we tell, rather than show?

How long will it take for everyone to see the obvious?

And for/to what purpose?

Saving the species from/for itself, even if species is a concept that should lose it illusion powers?

What does a benign universe provide itself in the localised forms taken in our shapes?

Other than randomness?

We are random, no worries, there, because we also do not exist, despite ancestral teaching to the contrary.

It is here that a good joke is inserted to take our thought trails in a lighthearted direction:

Charles Schulz — “My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?”