Monday, November 17, 2014

meditation on the Plains of Radiation

acrylic on paper
Ernie died in a bistro. He slumped over the table. His face sank into a plate of spaghetti. He died in the pasta, tomato sauce all over his face. He was soon forgotten. Leave the dead to eat the dead. More people appear on the horizon. Soon a whole crowd fills the bistro. Open a window. Body odor, pepperoni, old cheese, compost smell, plus body heat, open a window. The ventilation system in the old building is not so great. Like most buildings in the neighborhood, it was done on a shoe string budget.

    The builders skimped on material and pocked handfuls of cash, a racket, all about money. Hoard money. Stuff it up the ass. Fill the body cavity with money. The mind is a savings account. Spend carefully if you want to have lots of money for years to come. One day you might need it.

    You’re alive for a while then die. While alive, you maybe feel like a big deal. In losing all, in wandering across the Plains of Radiation, after months of ravaged countryside, toxic streams, lakes of poison, radioactive swamps, burning pits exuding horrific smog... Material that was supposed to stay buried a thousand years began to leak, bubble and ooze to the surface.

    Lohbado felt transparent, a vivid momentary phenomenon. The idea of self is based on blurring moments to create an impression of solidity and duration.

Each time he became aware of tension in his abdomen, Lohbado sighed and tried to relax. Relax the muscles, progressive muscle technique. Evoke pleasant images, for example, standing at the edge of the ocean, hiking through the mountains, camping in the desert, or admiring a rose.

    Don’t keep harping on a set of worries. That’s what Lohbado told himself. If worry happens and won’t stop, so be it. Don’t get moralistic. It is what it is. Just don’t wallow in it. To cry out in agony won’t reduce the pain, although it could provide distraction, or even entertainment. Write a lamentation. If it’s picturesque, so much the better. If it’s a bore, oh well, no harm done. Nobody has to read it.

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