I've been plodding here and there through The Artist's Way since mid-July and doing the "morning pages" somewhat consistently. Although sharing excerpts seem to be against the spirit of the practice which is a sort of anti-productive stream-of-consciousness, whatever man. I have decided though that anything that is shared should be left as-is.

At lunch at home yesterday, sat for 15 minutes in the grass with the idea of the word: "shikantaza" (sp?) or "just sitting" (I think?).

The approach was in pure beginner's mind (abject ignorance) so I was left with the forms of what was arising.

How does one "just sit"?

We are being dragged in all directions, that we make any determination of the road or clear course of action (true intent) is really fucking wild.

In this window, everything that is. Well, everything that I am attuned to and prepared to receive. And so, brushing off the tiny spider and wandering ant, I experienced coming in and out of "just sitting".

Sometimes the transitions were graceful, thoughts in accordance with the base action (non-action). Sometimes they were jarring, slipping in clandestinely and unceremoniously slamming the screen door on their way out.

I'm just sitting and then I'm imagining some catastrophe and then I'm just sitting, several times aloud to myself, "wow this is insanely hard."

Back to sitting.

Now, I am writing and thinking about tuning in to "the show," that which in not attending to becomes confused for life and living.

Even in sitting in no special orientation at no particular time appraising the grass-stained vinyl and dusty water hose, the thought occurred that even this is enough, just this. Were this my lot, the whole of my experience, I could be satisfied.

It was, as it almost always is, just another thought.

A bird wretches in the tree above the leafy pool. I left the yoga mat outside last night rolled up next to the blanching fern. The guitar is scritched to kingdom come... this is the "just sitting" of writing, one at a time in whatever quantity arrives consistent.

Silver ring, the silver ring and football, the oxidized caps of nails, citronella candle long abandoned, eucalyptus and mint bodywash glances longingly, how will the pump instruct me to its maintenance when its sticker finally sloughs off?

That tiki torch slouch, posture be damned.

We have arrived once again at the end of this transmission.