I have a lot of miscellaneous, like, junk in my cerebral cortex today. Been typing it out, hoping to conjure a silk purse from a field of sow’s ears, but no banana.
The scary part is, what if I run out of pig-slop and there’s nothing left in there? I try to approach my words like house-cleaning; some thorough organizing of drawers and manic dusting will reveal a beautiful temple of brilliance, shining like a literary beacon out into the world. Hate as I do to admit it, this might just not be so.
There’s a silver lining, though, by which of course I mean that I have made one. In many Eastern religions the practice of meditation is supposed to lead you to divine silence. Silence of the mind, the ego, the subordination of the self; that is where you can commune with the divine.
So how great is that? If nothing’s happening, then something’s happening.
That’s a relief because I was going to spend the next half hour staring out the window, toying with that elusive triangle of hairs I always miss when I shave my legs.
This may be the best part of what I do today, you know? Explain to you how doing nothing is doing something.
Wasn’t that nice of me? Like, no problem.