Change the Channel

When the TV has been on all day, and then you realize you've been watching commercials for the last 16 years, your ears are buzzing and a sagebrush rolls out of your ear, and then it bursts into flames. A this point, some clowns fall out of your mouth and hit the floor with a soft but firm little thudding noise. You were the Everest of clowns, and now they are on the floor, critically injured. The fall from your mouth killed the clowns. It's okay for the clowns to die, you don't even need to bury them. Just put them over in that empty bottle--they will come back to life. Wait a few days and the little clowns will be pressing their faces to the glass walls, and that will be a shame because the paint on their faces will rub off. As you bring the clowns up to your mouth, their ordinary little faces begin to sweat, there isn't any more makeup to conceal their perspiration. They go into your mouth and down into your belly. They will rest for 8 days.

Kids in traffic

You're enjoying the warm summer air. It's moist and pungent--there must be a dense population of exotic, flower-bearing trees in the vicinity. The car is running smoothly, and maybe you're sipping on a tasty fruit beverage. Either way, you've been lulled into a false sense of security. A million variations of catastrophic events are not running through your head, you aren't squishy, you won't break, and it won't hurt when the car collapses and traps you inside. Because those things don't happen, and instead of a terrible car wreck destroying your life in under 10 seconds, a wall of traffic slows you down until you're no longer moving. The air doesn't smell so sweet, and you feel sweaty against the car's leather upholstery. Confusion and terror set in. Sticky windows, roof-tops, smog and no way out. An accident? A collision? A spill of corrosive liquids, a cat, dog, deer, box, baby--on the road? Is it your fault? Did your parents guide you down the wrong road, are you prepared for the long wait ahead, and will you ever make it past the unforeseen obstacle? 15 minutes later, the traffic lifts and you're on your way. Your hair blows in the wind, you are free to move forward in your journey. However, you can't stop thinking about the traffic jam. Even when you manage to put it out of your mind, your path is still determined by those hours spent in traffic.

What the man sitting across from me must be thinking:

The asian woman eating an expensive looking salad, the fat man daydreaming about cake and childhood, the mother swinging her baby around like a little doll, a doll that she calls crazy, and also another fat man that grabs at his crotch or somewhere near it, wherever that is. What is it that makes me imagine these people as ultimately weak and frightened, regardless of their apparent wealth, happiness or meaningful existence? Am I myself so frightened that I project this state of being onto others, or am I so incredibly frightened that I am acutely aware of people's inherent fragility and fear. The elaborately detailed ceremonial robe, everyone wears one, even a baby, or an Asian woman, and despite the robe's many layers, I can only see one of them--the miserable and depressing one. I realize that it's an odd fascination, and maybe not even a fascination, because doesn't fascination imply desire? Maybe not... However, my obsession seems to be just that, an obsession, that is, a spiritual impediment, mental blinders that fail to keep me on track. Even if I wanted to view the individual members of society as being comfortable with themselves, would I be able to?

In the airport, a baby crawls near my feet, and I can't help but think that if he could understand my point of view, he too would pray that he fall asleep and not wake up.

If it be your will...

My favorite spot in the house also happens to be the smallest room in my home. The one that smells of musk. Without going into too much detail about what this room might be used for, I'd like to mention that I go there when my body can no longer hold me up-- when worries begin to bear heavily upon my soul. When I arrive, the loofah is waiting with my hair from last week. It seems they've been dancing in my absence, working up a froth of old soap that keeps them comfortably bound together. But now that I'm here, they're motionless. I feel like an intruder, like the loofah and hair are watching me, judging me, perhaps even plotting against me. Soon I'm standing before them, naked, praying for forgiveness. What will it take to move past this awkward moment of humility? If it weren't for me, this odd pair would never have met, and perhaps they would have gone their entire lives not knowing of their passionate dance partner. If only I had kept my shower clean, I'm so ashamed. The yellow walls seem so pale, this room so small. My 180 pound presence is absurd in this world of soap scum and lovers.

On the other hand, had these two creatures of the bathroom floor never met, I wouldn't have this moment of frightening clarity to reflect on their invariably sensuous and complicated resting positions. Like a tangled mass of twine in the gutter, or a barnacle on a pier, only much more elegant, and on my shower floor. I find it difficult to tell one strand of hair from the other. At some places the hair is wound tightly around the loofah, but at others it reaches out to the diffuse light emitted by the shower door. It's magnificent. The dark brown fibers are endlessly probing the porous loofah, and the loofah is willing.

The loofah is so willing, so free of volition, that I can't help but think of very steady hands cradling a very handsome scalpel. The awkward moment between me, the loofah, and my hair has passed. I'm sitting on the shower floor, my eyelids pleasantly caressed by the warm running water that reminds me of a mother's hand. Through a deafening roar of soapy anesthesia the loofah screams "Do your will!"