The mind is amazing. I need to be up at 6.30. I rarely drive home, but I did last night and I need to move Esperanza before the extremely efficient Dublin City Council parking services start waving their wands and making cars disappear. The reason I say the mind is amazing is because it is waking me on the hour, every hour. Don't forget, you have to get up at 6.30. That's what it seems to be saying. It's 4am now.
I have to be very wary of my mind, sometimes. It likes to remind me of things best forgotten. Do you remember the time you did this, Michael? Yes, Michael, I do. Do you remember the time you did that, Michael? Yes, Michael, how could I ever forget? And what about the time ... and I be like - will you please fuck off and give me a break. It's almost always the bad, mad, crazy shit. I saw a video clip about Wabi Sabi, about owning our Wabi Sabi, but this was one concept too many and too late to interest me. Tbh, it sounded like utter bollocks.
Awe, I wanted to write about Desiderata, about going placidly through the noise and haste and remembering what peace there may be in silence.
Dammit. Wabi Sabi is about us being made up of our flawed experiences. It's a Japanese concept. I kinda fancy myself as a bit of an old wise man these days. I see lack of wisdom at times and it's normally from a younger source. I feel kinda like the Kung Fu lad who went from town to town sorting out stuff. Grasshopper. I don't know Kung Fu, so I normally sort out my own stuff. When I find myself - and it's rarely - helping someone out with a word of advise, I be like, well would ya look at me, Mr. Kung Fu, Grass Hoppa himself staggering along with the big blazing pot burning deep into my arms and as I lay in the icy snow, allowing the cold to heal and tattoo my arm simultaneously, my mind is there telling me to get the fuck up and get back to the real world and asking me if I remember some other piece of useless crap from my past, some other long forgotten rubbish that is part of my Wabi Sabi and I be like, final answer, Chris, I don't care anymore.
Then I give my mind a perfect karate kick in his imaginary balls and I pick up my belongings, head to the next port, look at the artwork scalded into my arm and I tell myself, Michael, it seems you do know Kung Fu, after all. Here's the thing, you knew it all along.
Imaginary Kung Fu. The only kind that matters.
Good night and good morning.
PS. I think I'll risk sleeping again, but I'm tempted to get up and get back to one of my next two novels. I have two alarms set. Fingers crossed. I don't want to see Espe like this, again -