it was tuesday the first week in august. it was the fourth day not taking my meds. kicking it the slow way. it was the fifth week of being (almost) sober and now i'm sitting on the toilet with the runs. my ears are hissing and buzzing. i didnt sleep hardly at all last night. sat in a sauna later trying to burn it out. drank water. showered, drove home slowly.
ive been in a dry spell for some time. i sit and look through old photos, admiring some of it, embarrassed by most of it. bored by all of it. some of it's intolerably dull. i dont know what i'm expecting. i dont know what to do about it, if anything. maybe theres nothing to do. maybe its time to quit the game early, see if i can get away with it.
when i stop working long enough to listen i can hear how really useless it is. a lit cigarette burning a hole in a rug is just as useless. but as long as i can stay busy.... as long as i have something to work on, the meaningless insult of it escapes me. it stops becoming dangerous, insane and vicious as soon as i step back and get away from it. the pointlessness becomes even more obvious, as obvious as people who pretend not to be afraid of homosexuals or who go out of their way not to appear to condemn them.
doing something, anything seems to mask the futility. i want to hide from it. hoping i can get away with it, i try to keep busy working on something to stay blind to how empty it really is, but that never works. the busier i am, the more empty i am. the more empty i am, the more i want to work to fill up the emptiness. it's a vicious circle filled with smoke blowing out the ass of a buddhist cow.
zen is all about the thick layer of dust and ash covering everything in life. as long as that dirt stays there i can avoid seeing that it doesnt mean anything. if i keep thinking it means something, i keep working, like walking out of the house one morning and going a little insane. well, all that dirt? those are the photos i take. if i stop taking pictures or writing about them then i'm face-to-face with nothing. a big zero. it makes me want to throw cold water on my head because ive got nothing to say but vague and unimportant things that are being said by somebody else in a more inarticulate way.
so its better for me to keep busy. although photography doesnt shape the nothingness that lies beneath the nothingness in the closet of life, this must be the state of consciousness from which all things arise. if i could get away with it, nothing from nothing would just be a bad dream.
like wet rags over a leaky faucet, dry spells are periods of rest when i can get my edge back without having to do much, without banging my head against the wall. photos are just another form of nothingness like anything else that doesnt matter or make a difference. making something happen or not: one isnt better than the other as long as i can get away with it.
ive been in a dry spell for some time. i sit and look through old photos, admiring some of it, embarrassed by most of it. bored by all of it. some of it's intolerably dull. i dont know what i'm expecting. i dont know what to do about it, if anything. maybe theres nothing to do. maybe its time to quit the game early, see if i can get away with it.
when i stop working long enough to listen i can hear how really useless it is. a lit cigarette burning a hole in a rug is just as useless. but as long as i can stay busy.... as long as i have something to work on, the meaningless insult of it escapes me. it stops becoming dangerous, insane and vicious as soon as i step back and get away from it. the pointlessness becomes even more obvious, as obvious as people who pretend not to be afraid of homosexuals or who go out of their way not to appear to condemn them.
doing something, anything seems to mask the futility. i want to hide from it. hoping i can get away with it, i try to keep busy working on something to stay blind to how empty it really is, but that never works. the busier i am, the more empty i am. the more empty i am, the more i want to work to fill up the emptiness. it's a vicious circle filled with smoke blowing out the ass of a buddhist cow.
zen is all about the thick layer of dust and ash covering everything in life. as long as that dirt stays there i can avoid seeing that it doesnt mean anything. if i keep thinking it means something, i keep working, like walking out of the house one morning and going a little insane. well, all that dirt? those are the photos i take. if i stop taking pictures or writing about them then i'm face-to-face with nothing. a big zero. it makes me want to throw cold water on my head because ive got nothing to say but vague and unimportant things that are being said by somebody else in a more inarticulate way.
so its better for me to keep busy. although photography doesnt shape the nothingness that lies beneath the nothingness in the closet of life, this must be the state of consciousness from which all things arise. if i could get away with it, nothing from nothing would just be a bad dream.
like wet rags over a leaky faucet, dry spells are periods of rest when i can get my edge back without having to do much, without banging my head against the wall. photos are just another form of nothingness like anything else that doesnt matter or make a difference. making something happen or not: one isnt better than the other as long as i can get away with it.
