elephants never forget.

 there was a kid i knew way back at summer camp who'd go around asking if you wanted to see an elephant. and if you wanted to see, or even if you didn't, he'd untuck his pockets to represent the ears, stick two fingers through his unzipped fly to represent the trunk, wave them around and trumpet like a wild elephant. it was so stupid. still, to be perfectly honest, i thought it was the funniest thing i'd ever seen in my young life, and showed several friends myself. 

recently, like sixty-five years later, i just happened to come across a youtube clip in which a grown-ass man was doing the same gag, minus the ears. and i laughed. i laughed 'til i cried, watched it several times and shared with a few friends. i missed the ears, of course, which i believe are fundamental for the full effect, but i laughed so hard. and that made me wonder: have i grown up or matured much since those camp days? i mean, i was howling like an idiot young me. i really began to wonder. so i mentioned my concern to an old buddy who assured me that i have not grown up at all. he seemed quite definite.

legally around here, we're considered all grown by the age of eighteen. in many cases, as far as i can see, that's a stretch. at the same time, we all know kids who seem older than their years, ancient souls, so to speak. tibetan buddhists even go looking for them. and while we're supposed to respect our elders, they often act like kids. i know a guy over eighty who likes taking his dentures out at the most inappropriate times.

be that as it may, there seems to be an essential part of each of us that never changes even as we grow and have so many life experiences. there seems to be some essential, timeless, ageless part simply watching, observing, uninvolved, unaffected. tuning into that unchanging, pure, free and eternal reality is at the core of any true meditation practice. tat twam assi, that thou art.

but i don't honestly know about eternity. and frankly, in spite of all our talk of enlightenment, i rather doubt anybody has ever really known. i do know, however, that there's that unchanging, unborn, undying essence that was, is and will continue to be. and i know that if you're gonna do that elephant bit, you really gotta do the ears. it's just not the same without the ears.

why the long face?

 

'don't look for peace. don't look for any other state than the one you're in right now. accept your not being at peace. the moment you completely accept your non-peace, your non-peace becomes transmuted into peace. anything you accept fully will get you there, will take you into peace. that's the miracle of letting go.' adapted from a quote by eckhart tolle.

while stubbornly continuing to play basketball long after my best before date, a nasty and equally stubborn soreness in my back and side has sent me finally to the bench. the good news is that i've come upon quite an effective treatment. the procedure's simple, free, can be done at home and without any need for fancy equipment. best of all, it begins to  work almost immediately. it's called 'don't do nothin.' you simply stop doing stuff. 

to say it requires no fancy equipment might be somewhat misleading because a nice recliner helps tremendously with the treatments. and to say it's free is certainly misleading. there's no actual cost involved. that's true. however, you'll almost certainly subscribe to extra streaming services, especially sports channels, to watch people doing stuff you can no longer do. you're gonna need a larger and smarter television and you'll probably buy things off amazon you don't need.

all i can say is that the 'don't do nothin' modality has been working for me. and its healing power goes far beyond physical aches and pains. i highly recommend it. in fact, in the name of full disclosure i should mention that i've long been a practitioner of the modality. i've simply called it by a fancier name, sometimes even sanskrit, for marketting purposes. but, really, it's all about the fine art of letting go. 

'last night i lost the world and gained the universe.' anonymous.

if it's good enough for grandma.

 in the midst of a reasonably rememberable and arguably remarkable recent posting i admitted that my decisions lack critical thinking and are often questionable. you may recall me writing how a buddy likened my decision-making process to a squirrel crossing a busy street. so it might come as no surprise to learn that, in spite of being spectacularly colour-blind and unable to draw a straight line to save my life, i've decided to try painting wonderful and wondrous works of art. 

i'm obviously aware how ridiculous that might seem and how un-wondrous the paintings almost certainly will turn out to be. but i'm circumventing all possible criticism by calling myself a folk artist. folk art is defined as: 'art originating among the common people of a nation or region and usually reflecting their traditional culture, especially everyday or festive items produced and decorated by unschooled artists.' loosely translated, that means it's art created by folk who are often the result of multi-generational inbreeding and, while strangely decorative, their art's mostly terrible, even imbecilic. a folk artist is like a writer who never uses capital letters pays little attention to punctuation or even grammar but thinks himself a fabulous author. the truth is i absolutely adore folk art, always have. 

i once drove eight-hundred and forty-four kilometres just to attend an auction devoted solely to folk art. during the preview i jotted down several pieces i might be into bidding on and, as the auction progressed, i won a couple of small decoys for thirty dollars each, a large one for forty-five and a nice madonna carving for fifty-five dollars. so i went to the back room to grab one of the cardboard boxes and, as i re-entered the hall, i saw that a carving i particularly liked was being auctioned off. it was a charming little carving of a farmer being butted from behind by a goat. i heard the auctioneer calling: "fifty, fifty, i got forty-five, who'll give me fifty?" of course i immediately put up my hand. i was happy to offer fifty bucks for it. and then the auctioneer called out: "fifty-thousand, fifty-thousand, i've got fifty, fifty, who'll give me fifty-five?" well, that was probably the longest half-minute of my life until a tall gentleman standing at the back raised his hand. mercifully i lost that one, and the lady next to me whispered: "you're a real professional aye?" i just nodded coyly while secretly wondering if i had brought a change of underwear.  

anyway, reading recently regarding the life of grandma moses, who began her illustrious career at the age of seventy-six, i was inspired to give painting a try. most people believe inspiration's a fantastic happening. for me, that's not so clear. the last few times i've felt inspired, filled with an overwhelming rush of creativity, i lost friends. i lost a few following each article i was inspired to write during last winter's stupid reprehensible truckers' convoy protest. i lost a bunch after being swept up by an overwhelming inspiration to write a rather graphic memoire. and i'm often inspired by jokes only i find funny. somebody recently asked what my pronoun is and i responded by saying i haven't checked my pronoun for over a decade, not sure if it even works anymore. i thought that was hilarious while them and they walked away shaking their heads.

having said all that, i must add that it hasn't always been the case. many many years ago, i was utterly inspired after hearing about a way to peace, well-being and self-knowledge. and, although the self-knowledge part's certainly a never-ending enquiry, meditation's only ever been a gateway to the greatest of friendships. so, what the heck, i'll give this art thing a try.

the bad hair days.

"the only way to deal with an unfree world is to make yourself so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion." albert camus.

once we came down with early onset pandemic, fact-checking became the new normal. and yet doubts and questions personally persisted along the journey. much of what i heard or read from all sides of the gurney seemed questionable, slanted, planted, unreasonable, unfeasible, non-sensible and often indefensible. pundits and know-it-alls trucked in belligerently arguing even today over yesterday and tomorrow. was it necessary to shut 'er down? were the jabs safe, mandates fair and was it right to cut my own hair? i don't know. but i can report with a high degree of certainty at least that cutting my own hair was, unfortunate.

taking an old dull beard-trimmer to my mop seemed reasonable at the time. it was all well and good while isolating and peoples never got closer than two hockey-sticks' distance outside, where there was supposedly less of the bad stuff floating 'round, and anyway i religiously wore a cap. but i stopped wiping down bananas with disinfectant soonest whilst continuing on to cut my hair. long after barbershops and salons opened, as i began mingling with humans in shops, cafes and even the gym, i stubbornly wielded that evil medieval contraption. and frankly i'm looking a bit like i tried to fix a radiation leak at our friendly neighbourhood nuclear power plant without proper gear.

before we were strictly staycationing i'd visit my favourite stylist on a regular basis. she was, and i presume still is, a vietnamese lady and we got on famously in spite of my inability to understand a word she ever said. of course you can't make a mercedes out of a volkswagen, i used to say, only she courageously tried and i'd end up presentable, like maybe a chevy. i really should find out if she's out there somewhere. 

unfortunately, it may be a little late for me. my hair just doesn't grow much anymore. it used to. my hair used to grow quite nicely, before pfizer, the virus and all that screen time. all i'm saying is that one bad haircut now lasts months, months and months, and i don't know why. i'd love to know why, the truth of a lost youth, mindfulness or mindlessness replacing confusion, subterfusion and i'm not holding out a lotta hope. was it ok to shut 'er down, vaccines safe, mandates fair, cut my hair, and who killed kennedy? 

there are a thousand ways to die, but only one way to live and "the older i get, the more i find that you must live with those who free you, who love you from a lighter affection to bear as strong as you can to experience today's life that is too hard, too bitter, too anemic, for us to undergo new bondages, from whom we love. this is how i am your friend, i love your happiness, your freedom, your adventure in one word, and i would like to be for you the companion we are sure of, always." albert camus.

an issue revisit.

'dedicated to everyone who wonders if i'm writing about them. i am.' alex weber. 

all articles i've ever posted through the years on facebook were gone. gone. i started wondering if i still existed. i mean, it is conceivable that having a presence on facebook or one of the other main social media platforms will become a pre-requisite for deciding whether one does actually exist, if it isn't already. then, no, if a tree falls in the woods and there's nobody there to hear, it does not make a sound. all those yogis and naga-babas meditating in their himalayan caves, all those off-grid and van-life non-youtubers, they're not here. they're not actually anywhere in that case.

just to add to my growing sense of unease, i was told that my site may have been targeted intentionally. that felt like a kind of e-murder. and as i sunk deeper into my paranoid thinking, distractedly wondering who might've e-killed me, i very nearly pissed into a garbage can beside the toilet. how bad is that!? of course the posts miraculously reappeared after a few days, the world went back to abnormal. it was 'an immaculate correction,' according to one of my buddies.

be that as it may, it occurred to me that this would be a right time to write an article about writing an article. in fact it'd probably be a right time to write a book about writing a book, only that's not gonna happen. i've cobbled together a few books of articles, short stories, a momentarily memorable memoire, a blog, but no novels. i'm no salmon rushdie. but i've nevertheless managed to ruffle the feathers of quite a few fine feathered folks. and, the odd time my advice has ever been solicited, i've spouted off such platitudes as: "are you a writer or are you just writing?" or: "stand up on your hind-legs and speak your truth." now i realize i may have been unfair, even callous. 

the harsh reality is that by throwing caution to the wind, by being uncompromising and bold, one may well find oneself languishing in a dimly-lit cabin, fretting neurotically over who you may have offended most recently and then mindlessly pissing into a garbage can. i've always thought that if i lose a few friends along the way due to the drivel i write, well, so be it. wasn't it groucho marx who said he wouldn't wanna join any club that'd have him? i think that somehow fits here, just not sure how.

there was a time in india when i discovered that someone told our guru that i had done something kinda nasty. i hadn't and was outraged, fervently wanted to defend myself. but guruji was simply uninterested, kept sloughing me off. when i asked why, he finally turned to face me and said something i'll never forget. nor will i ever forget the way he said it: "you don't need to defend yourself," he said smiling lovingly, "because i know you." that's the sort of club you wanna join.

on the other hand, consider the fate of the aforementioned mr. salmon rushdie. i obviously do not put myself in his category. he's a real author. but, whether he purposely, glibly or simply satirically insulted the islamic faith by writing 'the satanic verses' is kinda irrelevant at this point. he's paid with an eye and the use of an arm. telling the world to for fuggs sake lighten up seems to be spectacularly useless. so simply be aware that, if you seem to denigrate family, friends or somebody's prophet, it probably won't go well. and if you do insist on foolishly following my example, then just stay calm, carry on and pick yourself up a sparkling stainless-steel garbage can. 'cause you may need it.

"i can shake off everything as i write. my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn." anne frank.