9/4

Jesus couldn't keep them all straight, the disciples.  The usual impossible mix of contrary and competing qualities and habits, even those related to the very intimate matters of character related to the spirit within and the teaching.  There was a portion in all of them that could betray, but even that betrayal would or could be out of many many ways and means and things.  Choices.  What could you do?  Such a myriad of things that it was rather easy for Jesus to quip, three times before the cock crows, embracing the world's range of infinite possibilities that would then come true.  Could be for any number of things.  

And in the same he loved them all, as a teacher would, older, in some sense of the term, than they.  

That's why Jesus had striven for maturity, wisdom and experience of life, in every and all things.  He had given up much of his youth for this blind ambition of one standing as a full fledged teacher.  Now I'm old.  And I don't like that either.   What bride would take me now, at my age, Jesus pondered, with a sadness.  And he could have had that, and beautifully and happily.  But.  Where had the years gone?

Having a dependable trade in his pocket had defied Jesus for a long time now.  Sure, he could make ends meet, sort of, not really, in any lasting sense, with his trade of words and parables and understandings and recognizing the sinner in all people with kindness and in judiciously helping them, aiding them, with a few wisely chosen words, certainly helpful for their own ability to face daily existence.  Yet, he wondered, what about himself, though.  Surely, it was rewarding, to align words, to put them in such an arrangement that they reflected the truer nature of the vibrations that had wrought the world and made it all exist, just as it was, down to every atom and particle and inner resonance to the great tune.

It's like what Kurt Vonnegut said, to the folks at the Paris Review.  What we need is a reading public, to, essentially, support all us bums who go about musing about life as it really is, not some soap commercial, as is the expression, perhaps, about commercials, maybe from Papa Kennedy, selling Jack to the nation.  

I make a fresh pot of tea as I get up.  There's some in the mason jar, but it has a bitter taste from my forgetting to time the steeping of the leaves from yesterday, distracted by mom in the other room driving me crazy.   It's early for her to be up, but I hear the heavy footsteps, and at the top of the stairs, the open door of the bathroom there, windowless, with the tub behind the shower curtain, no window in there, above the kitchen, I see the purple heather sweat pants lying on the floor, not folded, just its own pile.  And on the bed, as I stand there with a BLT on Ezekiel toasted, fresh tomato, romaine leaf rinsed and dried, and Hellman's Olive Oil Mayonnaise, still with goddamn soybean oil in it for filler that fills and adds weight to you, just a little, as she requests, bacon extra crispy, and just the slightest hint of mayo, to a waitress, there she is, head on the pillow, a towel over her waist, bare legs, thick and peasant like, and I can see the Depends she has on, to the extent that she is even wearing them, are torn and inside out, which I keep at bay as far as the mind.  It would be time to shower her, high time, as always now.  

Soon some tomato, a little chunk, is on her shirt, and I venture to put the Baily's glass mug she likes, with ice water in it, now on the second trip up to tend to her, so she can take the first of the three morning pills, the tranquility one, what's it called, Venlafaxine.

I look out the window, the white doily curtain on the door, looking out at the golden rod evenly decorating the stand of ragweed at the back edge of the lawn with yellow.  The cat is doing his cleaning, his head bobbing as he sits, or stands, tall to clean the white of his chest and orange fur of shoulder, patiently and actively and systematically.   Back down in the safe quiet of the kitchen.  A little pot of coffee from the Bailetti a little Labor Day treat as the wind sighs outside through leaves that have performed their chlorophyll operations and given us good oxygen all season long as they lean into the wind of shorter days of daylight and the cooling off of early September in its wisdom.  

Mom, in her own opinion, is perfectly fine, nothing wrong it all with not wearing pants, with being a slob.  When I shooed her upstairs, she didn't even want to go into her own room last night, what a mess, as she cried foul over what a bastard I was for making her go, get off the couch, but I'm comfortable here, no, mom, it's better for you... why?  And then the agony of the stairs, oh, my knees, I can't do it, oh, my back, you bastard, why are you making me do this.  

I'll tell you agony, you stupid selfish bitch, Jesus muttered to himself.  The agony of being born and alive, even with all its joys.  Via Dolorosa.  Holy Mary, Mother of God.  Pray for us Sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.

Her obliviousness to deal with for another day.  The blind wants... What are going to be doing today... What are we doing for fun...

And already, Jesus is feeling behind.  Behind on his writing.  Behind on his meditation, always a toss up in the morning's light, too bright at first.  A sun salutation series, slowly, and then twists with legs apart to stand in a warrior's pose to support the trunk in its rotation outward on one side, then pulling through and doing a series on the other side, and then the cobra shoulder's back to improve the attitude for the day, upward not downward, preparing for sadhana, and breath to bring back positivity of attitude.

And these are the sufferings that one has to bear.  My father and his sister had to endure their mother, sturdy woman, who had supported them all through it, running her private speakeasy, dying slowing from the tuberculosis, as the Depression gained steam of permanence through the land, then FDR stepping up, to curb the greed of Men.  

Break down the little box of Woodbridge four pack of little cans of Chardonnay.  The bottles of her wine go back and turn even in the fridge.  The year of things placed carefully enough on a surface, but then the things falling, tumbling off somehow.  The clutter.  Hard on even a yogi's balanced aim.  Bottles of beneficial pills, mason jars of tea, cans and dishes for cat food, the on-going dish operations, the stove with its iron pans and kettle, a mini pot thing to measure cups and to hold the strainer when you pull it hot out of the iron Japanese black tea pot made in China with its zen.  

One Prilosec down the gullet, hopefully not, but probably, breaking the fast, the stomach best left empty of substances before the various exercises of breath and kriya practices.  

I write the posts, daily, pretty much, but I don't post them on the blog publicly any more it seems.  A writer needs a certain privacy to gather the first of the four movements of his Ninth, or whatever the number of the symphony he is writing.  The cloak of silence, so as not to be disturbed by outside opinions, as outside opinions are welcome, otherwise one wouldn't know if he even as an audience, and it would probably be the greatest percentage something blind like Artificial Intelligence cribbing your style.  Feed it all into the great mouth of the infinite number capability, the biggest and finest card trick joke, to make it seem like the computer is actually capable of writing, even one sentence, which of course it isn't.  

Contract the belly in from the diaphragm back to the spine, pushing the prana, energy, life, breath, up, up the spinal passage of nerve energy, up through the neck and into the skull's head caverns, past the eyeballs and the sinuses and other sensory elements of a person's body.   Sadness and depression not mattering for shit anymore.  Breath.  

Then a great exhale, leaning forward, before resuming a straight back as you sit however you sit, exhaling, and then as you rise back straight breath slowly like poured water or oil drawn slowly down into the lowest of the bottom chambers for air of the belly, then expanding the floating ribs outward in all directions 360, then upward to the tree tops of the lungs to flutter in the light within.  Then hold.  40, 50, 60, 70 seconds, sharing with all the cells, the blood pulling a little switch that rejuvenates it on a cellular level, and the slow waves of light sort of flowing pleasantly over the head in a kind of inward swoon, then, hold, release and then get all the old air out, for another fresh ocean running into the sea cave.

Grim, to watch a woman cough her lungs up, helpless.  Chickens in the backyard.  Empty glass beer bottles from the speakeasy home brewed days in the back that all four children will remember cleaning, another whole operation.  

Then, the counted breaths in, sitting up straight.  And mantras to chant, Aum... followed by a series of Sanskrit words to intone deep from where the resonant sounds we are able to make come from.  

Stagnant, in ragweed season.  Doesn't pay to go out and get the exercise of a long walk in, no.  

The white tea pot of lemon water nearing empty.  Cut a fresh lemon, kettle full enough of fresh filtered water from Mulligan tap filter to the Britta pitcher change the filter every three months.  Get the seeds out on the little cutting board, doesn't have to be quite perfect.  Still feels like there's nothing to do here.  Sad.  Go check on mom again, bring her the one hearing aid.  

Only half a bottle of wine last night, after dealing with the insanity of mom for the day.  The Seroquel half a tablet powdered up into coffee ice cream didn't seem to calm her that much, though it did the day before, but maybe she was tired from all the appointments last week.

And what pill can I take...  brainMD gaba calming support, maybe a propranolol.  yeah, why not.  Vegetable cellulose and whatever else won't break a fast, necessarily.  Not that I would know.  

Fresh water for the cats dish, and a sweep of the floor.  

Ahh, can of soda water, the first one, left by the laptop for a bit, an hour, longer, so a fresh replacement, by the sink, lid rinsed, go take a pee.  Can of soda water, kinkajou, kinky jew, word sound, rinse the top off, crack open, miracle, soothing fix washing down, letting the stomach in the belly have its word on a Labor Day Monday of blank calendar.  

If I show this to people, what will they say.

Them's that have eyes, let them see, thems that got ears, let them listen.  Bubbles, fizz, fresh can of Polar Premium Seltzer to lift the mood, all will be alright. 

A sweep of the floor wouldn't hurt.  Bits of cat foot, and one of those little plastic sort of wire things that holds a triad of new socks in a packet on sale at TJ Maxx.  Did I take my GABA pill already, I forget.  Is it worth it to show one's face... to what?  Another monkey baboon showing its own red ass.  A little spoon end of ashwangandha powder in my tea, I like the taste anyway.  A cup of Tulsi tea to brew along with the fresh pot of lemon water.  A lot of seeds in this lemon, here on the bamboo wood or whatever it is cutting board....

St. Francis, he did not betray me.  He got it.  Copacetic. Rebuild my church.  He did.  And he didn't really say, build a big church in my memory.  The little broken masonry falling down ones where the ones he liked to inhabit.  Everything is broken.  Buddha, everything is on fire.  

Change the water in the cat's bowl.  Does he prefer it washed, or just rinsed out.  Cat spit adheres to bowl for dry food after two visits to his own little cup of worldly sorrows and personal maintenance.  Hydration. Good for you.   Likened unto a plant, the kingdom of heaven.  Don't forget to water it.  Don't oversleep the tea leaves or there'll be bitterness.

Kitten scratching at the screen, the animating force of life.   Chuck has his mailbox keys now.  He's off to Walmart, with his son, unseen as I run out with hat and KN95 mask and barefeet down to the parking lot, suddenly invigorated by being outside, friendship restored after hanging out with him too late fresh back in town.

Scrap it all, who gives a fuck.  It is Nora who saves the manuscript of Ulysses from the flames, dear woman.  

Lots of seeds in this lemon.  Patience.  Paper bag of recycling, cans, largely, getting full to the top.  Lemon water steeps now.  A pile swept together on the floor, carpet could use a vacuum.  Boston Fern, a little water, same with the little stone pine.  The wine hampers the meditation.  Jesus did not mention this in performing the first miracle.  Are those mom's footsteps, yes...  Better go and head her off before she comes downstairs, maybe get her into the shower on the chair...