There was a ghost or two for a short while, that lived under my bed when I was three or four.
My mother said they were not real, she couldn’t see them when she looked, so they were all in my mind.
I had to tell her that you don’t ever actually see ghosts, you just know they are there because you sense their presence.
Mother’s ghost visited me last night in my dreams, but I reminded her that she didn’t believe ghosts exist, and returned to the dream she interrupted and she . . . oh I don’t know what she did, but she wasn’t there and I suspect will not return, which is entirely fine by me.
Open to page 147 of your hymnals. There is nothing to sing there for the words of promise once found there have withered and faded, carried off on now toxic winds, so hold your breath or whatever heaven you imagine will be too soon be approaching at a speed exceeding imagination.
You don’t remember how you got here, things happened around you when you weren’t paying attention but, you say, what can you do about it, it’s not your problem so you are happy to let someone else deal with it, you are sure it will be dealt with if you stay out of the way, do nothing.
So while you are blindly waiting perhaps you can join the others just like you, in your final prayers.
He steps off the train. He looks around expecting her to be there. She said she would meet him. It is why he came. She does not answer her phone. As the night approaches, he gets a text message, waits patiently for the next train back to where he started.
I have decided it is now time and I am establishing a new field of study that blends mathematics and political science, which I have named idiometry.
Simply put, idiometry allows one to measure just how close one can take the statements or promises if any politician and square them with the actual facts.
Then you repeat this for all of the statements of that politician and you inevitably find the square unattainable, there simply are no perfect squares yet achieved in idiometry, for no politician ever seen on a public stage hews perfectly to facts, always veering off into self interest or blatant ideology, so perhaps idiometry isn’t worth it, telling us what we already knew full well.
If your teacher asks you to bring him all of the Dharma you have learned what will you bring him? If you begin to recite what you know of the sutras he will turn away and cover his ears. If you sit next to him in silence he will smile.
A reflection on Case 25 of the Book of Equanimity, 従容錄, Shōyōroku
That there is another shooting comes as no surprise, it is commonplace now, expected and there are only questions: how many this time, what kind of weapon was used, what motivated the shooter to do it.
What does it say when we define mass killing as requiring three or more dead bodies in one place.
The body of the single victim is no less dead than the mass killed but death by gun is so commonplace, we roll right by it unless we know the victim or the location holds special significance to us.
So we have ceded our humanity to the Almighty Weapon, all we have are prayers, for we are now too tired to be angry, and mass anger is our only hope.
Technology has afforded those of us with impairments the ability to more fully participate in the world around us.
However we can never lose sight, a painful use of the phrase in my case, of its imperfections.
Perhaps it is merely anticipating the future of our species, as when the phones captioning decided a somewhat elided Marsha and Barry was in fact Martian berries. As crazy as that seems at first, looking around at how we have laid waste to this planet exobiology and exobotany may be the last and only hope for our species, but I do wonder how they will taste.
He was nondescript, innocuous. He named his dog Dog. His cat was called Cat. He grew daring with his parakeet and named it Wings. He wore beige from head to toe. Even his Sunday best, his “weddings and funerals suit” he called it, was beige. People wondered if his underwear was beige. He swore that it was, but with just enough of a smirk people couldn’t be certain. His house was painted beige as were his roof shingles. His car was beige inside and out. All his furniture was pine or a light oak. When he died, they found a note with instructions on the funeral, the burial, every detail, on beige paper, of course. And they found the beige suit bag in the closet with the rainbow colored suit that he was to be buried in.
There are mornings when I wish I could be the cat, sit in the corner, close my eyes and watch the world suddenly disappear. The cat breaks my reverie, purring there is room for one and this role is all mine.