Looking for the ultimate bathroom reading book? Look no further than Shen Ku: The Ultimate Traveler’s Guide Of This Planet.
Somewhere around 300 letter-size pages of how-tos, each illustrated with charming drawings. Topics as diverse as numerology, how to entertain children, body sculpting, breathing exercises, knot-tying, marine navigation. Foot reflexology, math ‘reminders,’ recipies. Yoga. Chain combat. Beating allergies and parasitic infestations.
Allegedly, the whole book was researched and written by one person, but there’s NO POSSIBLE WAY. Or maybe I’m just selling short the learning capacity of humans.
Be that as it may, get this book and put it in your bathroom. Who knows? You might remember what it said the next time you need to give CPR or survive after a nuclear attack.
Month: January 2002
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Once upon a time, two people who barely knew each other, and who lived on opposite sides of the planet, decided to fall into something akin to love.
(Love is need, love is desire, love is growth and pain. Love isn’t about the heart; love is about the whole body, the whole energy, the whole being. Love is a chemical reaction between mutual sets of covalent needs. Sometimes people need lessons they can’t get any other way but through romantic love. We have something to give those poor souls: Compassion.)
They anguished over their geographic locations, caught in the abject frustration their situation induced. They wanted love-ness so badly that they were willing to become upset when they didn’t get it.
Then, one day, one of them went to where the other one was.
(Buddha says there is no other, there’s just… something… and it’s separated into pieces, and all these pieces are trying to find each other, motivated by their dukka, or painful ignorance. All the pieces have to do is to decide not to be pieces any more and they’ll be whole again, but the pieces are strange in that they choose to be separate.)
And when they did this, they discovered that what they’d both been doing all along was this: The gaps, the pieces they couldn’t possibly know about each other… they’d been filling in those gaps with their imaginations. And of course everyone does that all the time anyway, whenever they meet anyone, but the gaps had been so many and the imaginations had been so fertile and desirous that this particular set of delusions was quite a force to be reckoned with.
(I once knew a woman named Kat, I once knew a woman named Xara, I once knew a woman named Karen, I once knew… I mean, well, I thought I knew a woman named Hilary. I guess I didn’t really know any of the others either.)
When they met, these two freaked out. You’d freak out, too. Well, they freaked out, and didn’t know what to do, because they were unprepared for real, live, 3D truth. Truth In Three Dimensions.
After the freak out, one of them said, “Hey, this is actually good. We get another opportunity to discover each other!” The other one said, “The one I thought I loved would never say that.”
They parted ways, and even though the one tried to stay in contact, the other resisted, such can be the strength of tightly-held truths, no matter how deluded.
I had just turned 30 at the time. We still talk. I’ve since jettisoned that set of deluded truths. I have yet to discover what other deluded truths I hold tightly. Pray for me that it’s easy to figure out. -
So last night was another Complicated Dream Night. Here’s the funny part:
Throughout this dream, there’s been a recurring riff: David Bowie, looking really old and washed-up, standing on a street corner outside a bar, holding up a can of Diet Pepsi and smiling. After a little while of mugging like this, he wanders back into the bar.
So finally I walk across the street to follow him in. I shout after him, “How much do they pay you to hold that can up and smile?” He says, “Not very much. But it’s OK. The can is empty.” I lose him in the crowd, but keep following where I think he’s gone.
I finally run into him and make up a story about being a journalist. What does he think about this and that, who’s his favorite new artist, that kind of stuff. I just want him to feel important, because it’s hard to be a washed-up Pepsi spokesperson.A very, very, very lovely young woman in very revealing black leather with fringe made of bright yellow climbing rope approaches and does the same thing. She’s a journalist, wants to know how much he gets for standing around holding Pepsi products, who’s his favorite new artist. I excuse myself by pushing them closer together.
A few yards away is a bevy of college boys who ask me if they’ve seen the yellow fringe girl. “You mean the really attractive one?” “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” “I think she’s talking to David Bowie. Good luck.”
Just then she comes around the corner and even though she’s obviously trying to get away from them, they shout things like, “Who’s your favorite new artist?” and “What paper do you work for?”
She looks at me and says, “Paper? I don’t invest in paper stocks. I invest in yen.” One of the college boys says, “That’s a worse investment than stocks!” I say to her, “Well, good luck with it.” She gives me a look that says she wants to leave, but this doesn’t feel complete enough. So I add my white-boy saying ‘Yo!’ thing. She smiles and turns away, off to find another rock star.
As I wander off, two things occur to me: First, that she was only placated by irony, and that’s sad. Second, that I could have said something like, ‘Well, I’ve got a yen for you,’ and gotten laid.
Then more happened, but it’s not as amusing. -
The sad part is that I’m using a dialup in Houston, but I’m in New Braunfels.
The happy part is that I’m doing what I want to do for the rest of the year: Reduce distractions and WORK ON STUFF.
Last night I drank coffee and ate Tex-Mex with anole, who’s a sterling chap. Tonight I code, code like the wind, code as if my life depends on it.
And to answer Nampambulisti’s question: I’ll be in Houston a few days, then it’s back to the left coast. Wordjazz tapes sound really attractive, indeed.
Have a great year, folks.
