e GETTING CEREALS

It is raining this morning, the kind of wind-driven rain that will last all day and make everything gray, silver and glass. Fresh from the meditation chair he pops to his computer table trying to remember the thoughts he was discarding from his meditation exercise while thinking about LA to see if any were worth writing about. But the blanket of meditation still lies on them and they will evaporate with the rest of my non-breathing thoughts. So we go from nothingness to nothingness. When LA started I thought the challenge was going to be to keep substance out of it. That, it turns out, is not much of a challenge at all. Nothing fascinates me and I have an endless supply of it to dole out. There is a meditation expression that says when you want to talk about meditation, shut up and meditate some more. That could be equally relevant here-- when you want to talk about something talk about your feelings about talking about something rather than the something itself. Where do you feel the something? How big is? Does it make you happy or sad? I feel like I can put my nothing in cruise control now and not worry about anything untoward sneaking in. I can rack up the miles without effort. I sporadically wonder how it will end-- whether I grow tired of it, die, or it just peters out. But if it is truly nothing it really doesn't matter. There is a page filled with drivel about nothing or there is a blank page. Is there a substantial difference? If there is one, I suppose it is the writer's stance toward the nothingness---in this case an embracing one. The writer feels gloriously free to word through space avoiding anything he does not know anything about, periodically stopping on stationery asteroids, surveying his turf and picking a new piece of empty space to inhabit and describe. There is a restless feeling about some kind of psychological or editorial apology that should accompany these pages since it feels that they are violating spoken and unspoken rules about each. I remember one of the thoughts I had while I was meditating now. It was about the connection between LA and music-- how in both cases there was no way or reason to describe the emotional reaction you were having to things that transcended "reality." The same is probably true of religion but we will not go there. Are there passages of transcendent beauty in LA that make it worth continuing even when neither you nor the author know what the point (if any) is and how it is being communicated? The blacktop whizzes by. I can make out silvery gray outlines of houses and listen to the rhytmic tapping of the wiper blades. I do not know where I am or where I am going but I feel secure. Whether there is a there for me to end my voyage at is still moot, but I am still learning much from the journey, which is really just beginning.THERE IS SOME PROMISING MATERIAL HERE--FOR HERE- IF ONLY THE AUTHOR HAD THE CAPACITY TO THINK ENOUGH TO MAKE THE MATERIAL COHERENT BEFORE HE WROTE ABOUT IT, FIFTY PERCENT OF THIS SHOULD BE EDITED OUT. BUT THE PART ABOUT WRITING ABOUT NOTHING IS ACTUALLY SOMETHING. I DON'T KNOW WHAT RAIN AND WINDSHIELD WIPERS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING. IT OCCURS TO THE EDITOR THAT THE EDITING CAN BE A WAY OF EXTENDING THE BLOG UNTIL I GET TO THE LAST ENTRY AND I CAN ADD ENTRIES ABOUT THE EDITING SO IT REALLY NEED NEVER END. HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT?