The Pick and Choosen One

I'm tired of buddha. I don't know the man; I kinda know the myth, but I have no idea about the dogma. I'm tired of buddha not because he's done anything to me, but I'm not sure I trust the newly converted. These now semi-devout buddha mediatationist will rail against the born-again christians whose social-conversative-moralistic-homogenic politics are short-sighted. But wait, didn't these new openned-minded practitioners of the eight-fold path become born again. They embrace suffering and say we should as well. They say this with an aloof smile and a rolled-up name-brand yoga matt tucked between their arms and torso. Hell if they want to suffer, they could spend an afternoon with me.

Frame(d)

After sitting around and reading the New Yorker, I said I needed to do something active. I imagined escaping to the mountains, or starting boating as a hobby. I wanted to join the ranks of the glossy. An activity where I could drink micro-brews afterward and talk about how gnarly or epic of a day I had. Instead, I took the girl to soccer practice, dumped (I mean donated) items at ARC, had a long conversation with a neighbor, and took the dog for a long walk. Nothing for posterity, just another day. Even the mundane deserves a picture frame.

Pushing Back

I have an intense fascination with online personas. Maybe it's because I never felt comfortable in my own skin. Strangely, I feel even more awkward disembodied online. I write simply. I live simply. Yet, it is the simplicity that leaves room for interpretation, conjecture.

Nerve Endings

Family (however you wish to define it) never ceases to amaze me. They are ever present yet hardly noticeable. Sometimes the slightest movement or comment can send the entire nervous system into a complete spasm that sends one flailing. But I am greatful.