His shirt says, “duct tape can’t fix stupid, but it sure can muffle the sound”.
I’m on a plane to Tennessee to see what “is beyond the wall” of the illusion or what we call Maya in Buddhist/yogic scripture and the silver backed hefty man standing over me’s t-shirt is cracking abduction jokes.
I better not take the red pill while he’s around. Too late.
Im reading Eve babitz talk about her love of taquitos and I’m reminded of the passion I once felt for writing. “With sauce so good you could eat your father.” Those must be some damn good taquitos. She laments that if Janis Joplin had gone for taquitos instead of shooting up that faithful Sunday afternoon in Hollywood she’d probably still be alive.
I must be doing something right heading into the Smokey Mountains to do an ancient sacred ceremony with a man who looks like an Indian Santa Claus because hey, I’m writing again.
My orientation on the spiritual path feels like I’m reading a book where I’ve lost my place. I don’t know how far I’ve gone or how much left I have to go.
Maybe, If I can just spin fast enough I’ll careen out of orbit and land somewhere new.
Two steps forward.
One step back.
And do the do-si-do