ON VACATION - BLOGGING WILL BE LIGHT - IF AT ALL
Tantra, Chakras, Kundalini & the Big Bang...
When you run after your thoughts, you are like a dog chasing a stick: every time a stick is thrown, you run after it. Instead, be like a lion who, rather than chasing after the stick, turns to face the thrower. One only throws a stick at a lion once. Milarepa “Just as it is known t hat an image of one's face is seen d epending on a mirror b ut does not really exist as a face, s o the conception of "I" exist d ependent on mind and body, b ut like the image of a face t he "I" does not at all exist as its own reality." Nagarjuna "Thanks to impermanence, everything is possible. Nagarjuna
pppppffffffffffffftttttttttt....waz this 'vacation' schtick? Youse probly just in the basement drinking beer and eating crackers and sardines.
ReplyDeleteGosh, how did ya guess? Planned to do that after arriving back home from the beer and sausage fest. :-)
DeleteIs it a VAcation or a STAYcation?
ReplyDelete1/2 and 1/2.
DeleteOr a praycation? Like not, given your stance on religion.;-)
ReplyDeleteI plan to pray to the gods of reason and logic over beer and sausage that republicans, democrats, conservatives, and progressives start looking beyond the absurd.
ReplyDeleteI know, this will happen when the god of lslam and the god of christianity start getting along.
Looking forward to the beer and sardines.
Sardines? Reminds me of this poem by Frank O'Hara:
ReplyDeleteWHY I AM NOT A PAINTER
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
--Frank O'Hara
I like the ones with mustard.
Deleteya, I like dem mustard sardines too, but Shaw, was alla dis Orange stuff?
ReplyDeletesee, I am not a painter, I am not a poet.... I am a jokester
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you going to let me in?