Site-Wide Caveat

That the posts of this site contain and express, on the whole, more dysfunction than health, more blindness than wisdom, more ignorance than knowledge, more of the juvenile and childish (in the pejorative senses) than the mature, and more, generally – and perhaps a great deal more – of demerit than merit may well be assertions with which many, perhaps the great majority, of this site’s visitors would readily agree.

We would hope, nonetheless, that this site’s posts – which, in some sense, may be viewed as one mode of this site’s creator’s search for liberation from the most severely repressive of those shackles, cognitive, emotional, and physical, that were placed upon him by sexual abuse experienced during his childhood – may provide, to at least some visitors, at least some small measure of entertainment and, if only by negative example, edification. But if for you, the person now reading these words, they fail to provide either of these benefits, please accept our apologies for having wasted your time.

Rocks on Fire

Just learned, experientially:
Do NOT apply peppermint oil, even partially diluted in a carrier oil, to one’s privates confident that it will, at one and the same time, cover up, before going out, incipient malodor as a result of not having showered for more than 24 hours (which it did) and provide, as well, a bit of brisk invigoration to said privates, which it did far more than “a bit” – to such an immense degree, in fact,  as to readily evoke this post’s title. 

Lesson definitely learned! 

Non-Buddha Status Confirmed

Good to get it confirmed early on, on this the third day of the new year, that I still, by the start of the two thousandth and seventeenth year of the Common Era, haven’t attained Buddhahood, that is to say complete enlightenment; not even close.

Confirmed thusly:
I enter a neighborhood drugstore with a ten pack of the el cheapo brand of toilet paper I always buy there (since the paper looks clean enough and I don’t need my tp, in fact prefer it not to be, perfumed), wait for the customer already at the register to be processed, and then step up to the register.

The cashier rings up my tp, which comes to 199 yen, tax included, and drawing two 100 yen coins from my change purse, I extend my hand to place them in her own. This is a tendency of mine – to want to place my money directly in the hand of the cashier – maybe because I feel doing things this way is warmer, friendlier than putting the money on the small plastic money tray, with its raised rubber grid, that Japanese stores almost invariably have placed for use on the register counter.

In most stores, this one included as best I recall,  most cashiers are fine with doing it my way, but not this one. As I extend my hand holding the coins between thumb and fingers, the cashier raises the plastic tray, indicating I should place the coins on its rubber grid. I raise my hand higher and extend it again; she raises the tray further, signalling unequivocally that I’m to put the coins on the tray, not in her hand, so I do. She then places the tray on the counter takes the coins from the pad, and processes the transaction.

But then she holds out the one yen in change, along with the receipt, as though to place them directly in my hand, and that’s where I feel the anger, along with a dark satisfaction of revenge, as I say, “Please put that” – meaning the money – “there” – indicating the tray, which, after a moment of hesitation, she does. Then she holds out the receipt and I say, “That too,” so, after another moment’s hesitation, she places the receipt on the tray as well.

I take the yen coin and the receipt and our eyes stare directly at each other briefly, hers looking as hard as one yen coins (couldn’t say about mine though they more or less feel that way), as she says “Thank you” and I say “Thanks” back, then leave.

. . . facades . . .

How so so very difficult it can be to get at the truth behind all the facades! The facades that we manufacture for others, and those that we manufacture for ourselves.

story snippet

. . . He felt as though he were riding the pornographic crest of a carnal tsunami, but always with the hope of something more, infusing, he could almost feel, the sheen of sweet that glistened their bodies – with a hope for spiritual healing . . .