The problem with meditation, at least in the tradition handed down to me, is that it’s not an escape.
Just the opposite—it’s practicing being right there with whatever turmoil, textures, boredom, bliss or devastation occurs. One practices staying with it when what one wants to do desperately is flee. It’s a practice of fearlessness.
Oddly, fear and anguish, in this light, can be considered extremely good news. They are the basis of the practice; they are what you sit with. After a bit of a dry spell, recently I’ve had no shortage of good news.
Well, even those who have just met Shannon know that she is kind of a lot obsessed with claymation. I got a Netflix recommendation for a claymation series and thought that I would do some recon and check it out.
Basically, there is an American and British version of the show which is a parody of “on the streets interview” shows. Only, instead of everyday people being interviewed about everyday situations, it’s claymation versions of animals being interviewed. Example:
You haven’t lived until you’ve seen birds talk about breast implants, hamsters discuss what constitutes art, and chihuahuas tell you about their favorite sexual positions.
The American version is on Netflix streaming. It’s at least worth an episode or two.
Creature Comforts is awesome! There’s a Christmas one too.
For those of you with female cats, do they ever hold their tail straight up and jiggle it? Both Trinity and Shasta will do it. It’s usually when they come up to me to be petted. I’m not exactly sure what it means.
It rained yesterday and today as I was driving home from the valley I could see the mountains covered with snow, and then “Nightshift” came on the radio. If you’re a DJ and you play “Nightshift” you really can’t lose: somewhere there’s someone who’s going to make the Ultimate Satisfaction Noise after they recognize the muted percussive intro. Oh boy, I reeled. If there’s one thing I hate it’s traveling out of Los Angeles. I’m like Jonathan Gold that way, I find absolutely everything I need here. If there’s one thing I love it’s coming home, seeing how big the city is, seeing billboards in Spanish and the crazy fat enhanced lips and the cat mural (Room 8) in Echo Park. I could go on and on: I do go on and on, nearly all the time! But imagine living in a place with snow on the mountains and bougainvillea growing wild in the hills, and The Commodores on the radio. We don’t have oysters en brochette, our clams are unreliable, Patti Page never sang about us and there are no jazzy bands on our streets, we’re not New York and we rarely run into each other — these things are true, maybe even regrettable.
There are stories about families who move and their cats run away to go back to the place they used to live. The families find the cats and bring them home, and then the cat leaves again to meow underneath the IN ESCROW sign until someone brings it a bowl of food and finds that they are unable to make it leave again. I remember carving my initials into the tree that arched over the balcony outside my window when I left LA for the first time, the one I used to fantasize about climbing to get into my room after a night out partying (I was too uptight to actually go through with it; I’m pretty square sometimes). I was a teenager then and teenagers tend to express themselves in embarrassing ways like that; I had been listening to “Walk Away Renee” a lot and am a very literal person.
The first thing you do when you come home is open the doors and windows and get some air into the house. You have to remind it that you’re back. It missed you, and it was holding its breath.