Tag: bodhidharma

I woke up to the same painful pulse in my foot. The joint at the right ball pivot is fucked, and I do not know the cause. It would cost money to have someone see it. Instead, I imagined the same scene from a day dream of several days ago: my bloated body loping along with a strong cane in hand. A pain grimace when I slip and put all of my weight on the wrong place. Years ahead to an uncertain future and an untreated condition. When I inspected the right foot as compared to the left, there was no discernible difference. Both were extraordinarily fat. A hint of a bruise, perhaps, but not enough to warrant the strain of closer inspection.The change I selected was to eat a heavy breakfast. A common three-meal day, with a heavy base and refined peak. I still find myself craving a hit in the evening. My mind becomes clouded, and my bitterness wells up into anger. It subsides as I arrive at home and sit in silence. If early, I find ease at work, which serves as a sedative. The rules are clear, and it is easy to be comfortable.I noticed, while reading further along into a book on the train, that I can see the tops of my cheeks when I look down. That is also new.In this book, the protagonist had made a life of fraud and deception. He is often overwhelmed by the weight of his lies and stories. The life he leads is unappealing: he crashes with friends, lies when convenient, and plays the fool when he feels he must. Privately, he feels as I do. He leads  a despicable life. Thus far he is 25 years old, and it forces me to contemplate my own time at 25. The things I could have taken advantage of. However, I like one thing about the way he lives. He has a friend with whom he can be completely honest. Cons, lies, stories. She loves hearing it as much as he loves telling it. She expects nothing, particularly physical tenderness of any kind. No hugs, no kisses, no come-ons. Just the thought arouses day dreams of a simpler existence and somebody comfortable.The author, Patricia Highsmith, has been of interest to me since I first heard a radio discussion about her. To paraphrase one of the participants: “If not for writing, she surely would have gone to prison for murder.” I traced the line of her life and found photographs of her as a young woman, nude, certain in a careless and youthful way; as an old woman, mighty hump on her back, and a scowl so embedded in her face that it looked carved by a knife. It was fascinating just then, the way a person can be young and beautiful and then old and sagging in all places. I found comfort in it. Lately, I imagine the women I cared for also growing old and abandoned as their surface beauty degrades. My only hope for success in their lives is bitterness channeled into an art.Foolishness, of course. Winsome foolishness. Highsmith’s story is compelling, and I continued to read even as I paused to compile such mental notes.I stopped my reading shortly before arrival at work to consider Bodhidarma. It was said to me that he could channel energy through his stomach and into his hands. He sat in a cave and looked at a wall for nine years when he was denied entry into an institution. He was a furred barbarian, belligerent, and generally unpleasant toward his fellow man. I found comfort in this as well.

I woke up to the same painful pulse in my foot. The joint at the right ball pivot is fucked, and I do not know the cause. It would cost money to have someone see it. Instead, I imagined the same scene from a day dream of several days ago: my bloated body loping along with a strong cane in hand. A pain grimace when I slip and put all of my weight on the wrong place. Years ahead to an uncertain future and an untreated condition. When I inspected the right foot as compared to the left, there was no discernible difference. Both were extraordinarily fat. A hint of a bruise, perhaps, but not enough to warrant the strain of closer inspection.The change I selected was to eat a heavy breakfast. A common three-meal day, with a heavy base and refined peak. I still find myself craving a hit in the evening. My mind becomes clouded, and my bitterness wells up into anger. It subsides as I arrive at home and sit in silence. If early, I find ease at work, which serves as a sedative. The rules are clear, and it is easy to be comfortable.I noticed, while reading further along into a book on the train, that I can see the tops of my cheeks when I look down. That is also new.In this book, the protagonist had made a life of fraud and deception. He is often overwhelmed by the weight of his lies and stories. The life he leads is unappealing: he crashes with friends, lies when convenient, and plays the fool when he feels he must. Privately, he feels as I do. He leads  a despicable life. Thus far he is 25 years old, and it forces me to contemplate my own time at 25. The things I could have taken advantage of. However, I like one thing about the way he lives. He has a friend with whom he can be completely honest. Cons, lies, stories. She loves hearing it as much as he loves telling it. She expects nothing, particularly physical tenderness of any kind. No hugs, no kisses, no come-ons. Just the thought arouses day dreams of a simpler existence and somebody comfortable.The author, Patricia Highsmith, has been of interest to me since I first heard a radio discussion about her. To paraphrase one of the participants: “If not for writing, she surely would have gone to prison for murder.” I traced the line of her life and found photographs of her as a young woman, nude, certain in a careless and youthful way; as an old woman, mighty hump on her back, and a scowl so embedded in her face that it looked carved by a knife. It was fascinating just then, the way a person can be young and beautiful and then old and sagging in all places. I found comfort in it. Lately, I imagine the women I cared for also growing old and abandoned as their surface beauty degrades. My only hope for success in their lives is bitterness channeled into an art.Foolishness, of course. Winsome foolishness. Highsmith’s story is compelling, and I continued to read even as I paused to compile such mental notes.I stopped my reading shortly before arrival at work to consider Bodhidarma. It was said to me that he could channel energy through his stomach and into his hands. He sat in a cave and looked at a wall for nine years when he was denied entry into an institution. He was a furred barbarian, belligerent, and generally unpleasant toward his fellow man. I found comfort in this as well.