When I was a little kid, I used to hang out in the our folk's garage and watch as my brother and his friends hoisted V8 engines out of cars using a hand-cranked winch. The winch was attached to chains that hung through holes poked through the garage ceiling. I remember questioning my big brother. Where do those chains go? Won’t daddy be mad that you poked holes in the ceiling? There’s a steel beam above the garage ceiling in many houses (in all houses?). That's what that chain was wrapped around up there. Later in life, I actually had a job in construction for a short time. I was working for my big brother, framing houses. When we were building the garage, we had to set the steel beam in the ceiling of the garage, a serious task, because that beast is really heavy. Everybody around would stop what they were doing and come help lift the beam into place.

Just keep asking: What is going through my head? What is going through my head? What is going through my head? And you will see what is going through your head, and these things will diminish like smoke as the breeze of your inquiry nudges these things along...and soon you are asking: What is going through my head? What is going through my head? What is going through my head? - - And there's nothing. Nothing but that question. And then the question goes away. And then you have those perfectly balanced, nothing gaps in brain activity where it's an absolute nothing in your head. Until something else comes and then you again start asking: What is going through my head? What is going through my head? What is going through my head?

Letting go by actually pondering the definition of 'letting go' and engaging directly in it, as you have just defined it: "Letting go means not holding onto this or that. Not holding on to this or that means your mind is not engaged with something from minutes ago, it is observing what is coming in right now: it is observing the stiffness in the back, it is observing the sound of the car motor down the street, it is observing the refrigerator compressor turning on. Letting go means not hanging on. Letting go frees me to observe what is happening RIGHT NOW. Letting go means your mind is a tunnel that things flow through, things do not become encased, they flow through and are gone, they may cycle back through, but then they are gone again. Define very clearly what letting go is and do it. Sometimes, if you repeat the words "Let go let go let go," the words start to loose their meaning, and your just saying the words and the clutter in your head remains and these words are there with the clutter. If you keep your mind on what letting go is...If you have let go, you are now observing the new things that occur because your mind is not occupied by the thing that you let go of. Whatever that was.

Lake Marion Boat Ramp Florida

"In a controversy the instant we feel anger we have already ceased striving for the truth, and have begun striving for ourselves." - Buddha

Tailgater, Gun etc

My brother always carried a gun. He didn't always need it. He didn't really need it much at all. In truth, I can only remember a few stories he told me where he actually 'needed' it. He never shot anybody. But he would make it known he was carrying it when he was doing his job, when he went to tow some junk car out of a rough neighborhood, say, and somebody was sneaking up or lurking, watching him, waiting for him to let his guard down, maybe, ...so that he could rob him. He had a few stories like that. Once he started carrying it all the time, he just got used to the feeling of having it on him. He got used to the feeling of security.

One night we were riding around for hours in my car, just driving...doing what we did on such drives... At one point my brother noticed that the vehicle behind us was very close. It was a big truck. The headlights were really high, and the beams were blazing on the backs of our heads. My brother got furious. We were on some desolate country road, in Suffolk, Virginia, I think. The longer the guy stayed on right our ass, the more furious my brother got. He had his gun on him, and he took it out. "Stop the fuckin car!"

I was extremely nervous.

"Stop the fuckin car, Bobby! Stop the car!" My brother was screaming at me as I drove.

I didn't want to stop the car. I was afraid of what might happen. I looked in the rear-view mirror at the blazing, big headlights getting closer and closer. I listened to my brother's escalating anger and screaming, right in my ear. I drove like that for a while...with the headlights...the screaming. I didn't stop at first.

I was afraid my brother would shoot at this guy. I was afraid of the guy in the truck behind us...or guys. I had no idea who it was behind us. It could have been six dudes with shotguns. It could have been one scrawny teenager. Finally I stopped the car.

"Okay. Now what," I said. The guy in the truck behind us also stopped. We are deep in the country, nobody around, no light, nothing. Just that guy's headlights illuminating us. I have imagined all kinds of alternate endings to that night. I imagined that I got out of the car and I sprinted back at the driver side of the truck, and I was greeted by a shotgun barrel. I imagined my brother getting out of the car and emptying a whole clip into the dude's windshield. I imagined myself...screaming back at my brother -- to get the fuck out of my car -- so he could walk his ass home three hours (the least likely of these scenarios).

So we sat there. The guy in the truck behind us just sat there too. My brother showed his gun to those big blazing headlights. My brother's raging body language, the gun shining in the headlights...maybe was enough of a demonstration for the guy behind us that...at least one of the people in my car was willing, apparently willing, to 'take this to another level' ...and end up on a police report or something.

We continued to sit there. Gradually, my brother became more still and quiet. He muttered stuff, that's right, motherfucker, you better not get out... So we sat there and we sat there and we sat there. I didn't say a word. Finally, my brother said, "Alright. Let's get out of here."

I put it in drive and began to drive away. The truck stayed parked where it was.

Today I saw a guy riding a bike carrying a rake, and because my brain is really racing lately, I flooded this sight of this guy on a bike with a rake...I flooded it with all of this mental activity. My first unfortunate reaction was to make fun of him... like he was a superhero..."Look! It's Rake Man! And he's going to save the day, raking leaves at the house of some unfortunate elderly woman. I think my brain just felt the need to analyze and emote... something... anything... intensely. Plus, when I first caught a glimpse of him, it looked like he was riding the rake... like he was a witch... man witches ride on rakes instead of brooms.

Then I felt guilty... for making fun of him.

Then I felt sorry for him. He's just trying to get somewhere to earn some cash. People don't ride bikes to work in Florida unless they do not have a car. Everything is too spread out.

The guy waved to another guy who is on a bike across the street. For some reason, my brain made an association, and I looked to see if that other guy was also carrying some kind of tool. Like maybe these two guys were going to go meet on a job. But the other guy wasn't carrying anything.

Today should be a productive day at work, if I can focus all of this mental activity on something productive that is.

The humans continue to confuse me.

Sometimes when I hear the way some people talk to their people on the phone, I think: no way you'd talk to me like that. It'd be out of there.

That's some people's normal though.

Being this picky about how I let people treat me has not done wonders for my social circles.

I know there must be a balance. I haven't found it yet, and it's probably too late.

I'm all out of whack. I will overcompensate and let people pull all kinds of crazy shit on me. Or I will flee like a frightened deer at the first sign of animosity or strain.

I haven't found that middle path yet.

Or I haven't found the right people yet.

I'm like a raw nerve walking around out there.

I made it I guess.

...all those times when I wished I could just get through ______ blah blah...(whatever it was). I remember having that thought so often, "If I can just get through this next...few days...few weeks...months. Whatever the particular stressful time span or stressful thing was: the obstacle, the trouble, the deadline, the upcoming scary event, the whatever.

I guess I got through. I'm sitting here typing about it. I'm not dead or dying. I'm not jobless or homeless. I guess I'm okay.

I don't even remember very well what any of those things were that I hoped I would get through. They are sooooo past.

Maybe I didn't get through. Maybe the damage was done. Maybe if I had gotten through whatever it was with a little more success, I'd have a 'better existence' right now. Who knows?

Proof that I'm Not Crazy (almost)

I used to hear bagpipe music at lunch time somewhere in the neighborhood around work. This is the kind of thing that could make somebody wonder whether they're going crazy. I don't really care whether I'm crazy or not. But, when I finally actually saw this person playing bagpipes, it kind of solidified my sense of reality. And it's pretty cool other than that too. Too bad I didn't get a closer shot. She really is there, playing the bagpipe, I swear!

Come Back to this Root Question ~ Mooji

Spacious

You name it, I got room for it. I'm saying yes because saying no sucks. Too many tunes to mention. Too much tech to document. Too many cravings to ignore constantly all the time always except for the rare times I succumb. This dumb blog sittin out here. It won't quit. It's all mouse clicks and gear shifts; stop recording and press send submit and execute - and guess who cares: nobody, least of all me. The song names in that playlist once again are:

Laughing at the Goofballs and then They Get Serious

Feathery ForceField

Scary News from Back Home

Sanity Vice Grip in the Looney Bin Metal Shop

Exactly the Right Amount of Sleep

Shunryu Suzuki Roshi