Friday, July 8, 2016

On the Old Black Zafu

So the point is I am not going to kill any pigs nor be responsible for the deaths ever again, is that it? Ma doesn't care one way or the other, having her own moral dilemma to work through. Bad news comes in many forms but almost always with a price tag. "One way / or another / I'm going to find you / I'm going to get you." A night on the couch in part because it's cooler downstairs in hottest summer but in part because we are struggling again with money. When you cannot meet your true love's eyes it's time to try another form of writing, like maybe fairy tales or ad copy for Jesus (or do I repeat myself). Once again I am bottled up in arguments, preceding as always from judgment not discernment, and once again it eviscerates my capacity for attention and lovingkindness, already in such compromised supply. Tara Singh is happy to see me back, listens carefully to my questions, asks I give attention to what occurs on the old black zafu. God will not meet you in the world as you understand the world nor as you understand the one who longs for such a meeting (nor as you understand God). It's that simple, which is way of saying it's that fucking hard. Black coffee at the gates of the Kingdom? If you kiss my throat I'll dissolve into moans and then we'll really be in Heaven! But my mother's handful of paintings were an exercise in longing and repression, not unlike the work of you-know-who. Thus this. This this.

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