First of all, a hearty hello to the unfortunate soul who found his way to my humble corner of the Internet by searching for “my wife shits the bed”: Thank you for stopping by! I truly hope you found something of interest here to at least distract you from your current woes, if not anything that might actually help you and your sheet-befouling spouse. Keep your chin up! A discreet call to your primary caregiver might yield some useful tidbits, or even a cursory flip through a medical reference at your local bookstore might be of some assistance and/or comfort. You also might consider divorce, or, failing that, the services of a professional assassin. There are many options available to you aside from my blog, that’s the point I mean to get across.
So I wanted to let the seven or eight people who read this nonsense know that I plan on taking a beginner’s meditation class soon. It’s something my wife heard about, and wisely suggested to me. I am not 100% clear on my reasons for taking this class, but let me see if I can try to explain it to myself, and, by proxy, you.
I WONDER IF IT MIGHT RELIEVE, EVEN TO A NEGLIGIBLE DEGREE, MY CREATIVE CONSTIPATION.
You know how it is. You write or perform or build something at a relatively young age, on a lark, and receive unexpected praise, both from friends and from people you didn’t even think liked you. Thrilled and emboldened, you then bust your ass to produce a string of increasingly less impressive and well-received endeavors, all of which reek of effort and send you into an embarrassing funk that completely erases every vestige of your former accolades and acceptance. In almost giddy frustration, you briskly crap out something so spiteful and devoid of care that it can’t help but be warmly embraced by the same audiences that so readily complimented your initial success, and once again you’re primed and pumped to make make make! From there on it’s kinda touch and go, as you struggle to reconcile that devil-may-care nowness that so seems to rile up your “fans” with the would-be clever phrase turns and nods to kindred spirits within your chosen field, the flourishes that you fear are probably crappy and uncool but that you need to put in there because you’re you and this is what you think you do. Then you go to college and compare and contrast, paying tens of thousands of dollars for the opportunity to show off in a controlled and receptive environment. You enthusiastically share your work, rolling blissfully in the compliments and politely enduring the well intentioned but clearly wrongheaded negative feedback. Then you graduate and never do anything again, occasionally entertaining the thought of “getting back on the horse” during moments of drunken solitude. Then you get old and sick, and your last thought before dying is “It didn’t work out.” I’m not depending on meditation to magically jump-start my dormant desire to write, or , at the absolute least, blog. Well, all right, I kind of am, fucking sue me, okay? It’s interesting stuff that I don’t know a lot about, and maybe if I can key into it it’ll turn on a light somewhere. If nothing else it gives me something to write about other than “The baby diarrheaed on my thumb today” or “Remember ‘Dreamscape’? That sure was a movie some of us saw and some of us didn’t!” It’s hard to shit out creations with your head up your ass constantly obstructing the thought-shits, let’s put it that way. By clearing my head, perhaps I can clear my ass, by which I apparently mean my brain. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about; see why I need this?
I WISH TO SPY ON WEIRDOS.
Hippie crap like this can’t help but attract an interesting crew. Maybe they will make funny comments and not smell too good. Maybe they will relate experiences that they feel are essential to the class discussion but in reality have nothing to do with anything on God’s green earth other than their own alternately boring and upsetting freakishness. Maybe they will be cool people who want to learn about something interesting. At any rate, maybe they won’t ask me if I watched “American Idol” or “The Biggest Loser” last night. I’ll take what I can get.
THE STUDIO IT TAKES PLACE IN IS ATTRACTIVELY LIT, QUIET, AND CLEAN.
These are appealing qualities after eight and a half months of watching a baby suck blocks in a cramped apartment. I love my wife and child with all my being, but some quiet daddy time could make that love a little nicer for all concerned. Are there baby meditation classes? Can Fred get in on this?
ONE TIME I READ IN A WEIRD BOOK ABOUT TANTRIC FLYING; COULD I LEARN HOW TO DO THAT, PLEASE?
That and lucid dreaming are a couple of mostly foreign concepts (I’ve gotten the lucid dreaming to work on more than one occasion, although it’s probably been a few years since my last successful attempt) that I’d like to move on to if this beginner class is well-presented and inspires me to look into more hippie brain stuff that Woody Harrelson probably talks too enthusiastically about at parties. Hippie brain stuff: now that’s just the kind of glib, dismissive bullshit that’ll really help me see this thing through!
I WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO CLEAR MY HEAD EVEN JUST ONCE.
I have a lot of shit going on in my head at all times. I’m not trying to say that I’m a deep thinker or that I got ideas, man, ideas that could change the world if only it were ready to change. I’m just always either worrying about uncontrollable future outcomes, reflecting on largely inconsequential past events, idly playing movie-related games that are too needlessly complicated and uninteresting to get into here, or thinking about things that are just plain gross and stupid. Like throughout the day I’ve been imagining Grammy award winning country and western singer Randy Travis fisting himself, for example. Nothing I overheard or observed today inspired this repellent, albeit faintly amusing, image. My brain just thought it would be funny to show it to me every now and then to keep things spicy.
By the way, this is the exact facial expression Randy Travis is making in my head while spreading his legs and arching his back to accommodate his own fist as he carefully but insistently squoozes it into his anus. It may help you to know that he is seated on a porch swing while doing so. I don’t see how it could be any other way. Anyway, maybe time will prove me wrong, but I don’t see how it could possibly be a bad thing for my brain to occasionally purge itself of such material.
In the long run, it’s been a very long time since I took a class in anything, or went out of my way to do something other than go to work and come home, so I think this will be a good thing to do, even if it sucks and is stupid. Effort: so potentially rewarding, yet so crappy and horrible and the worst thing in the world and I hate it so much.
Bottom line is I’m going to learn to meditate and I am going to tell you all about it! Let’s do this stinkin’ thing!