the little minx's diary: the day, the night.
(previous entries) (email the minx)




6:52 PM *
“Final job of teacher: free student of teacher.”


6:50 PM *
Furthermore, when we speak about people based on what we think, feel, or hope rather than on what we observe and experience, we deprive them of their humanity. We have replaced what they are, in all their fluid vitality, with our own crystallized ideas, opinions, and beliefs.

Buddhist teachings are fun!


6:07 PM *
She was exceptional because she was deeply connected to the present. She was Present. She made Unreasonably wonderful statements and demands. I chose to respect her a minute after she spoke.

Yet she was also harboring formidable ambition, and made inside jokes with her employees about her nature, implying that she may be irritable. She could be a nightmare. All of this, I admire.

I also have the capacity to be extraordinarily Present, when I am not choosing to be lazy, and that not-of-time connection is what triggers creative acts. I notice it in my boyfriend. Once he chooses his Being, there is no stopping him. Yet the two of us also share her other qualities. Perhaps this Presentness also has another side. Perhaps it sets the stage for disappointment in others.


10:54 AM *
This is my first post from my handheld device. Thank you, blogger!


10:36 AM *
I am picking the skin off of some peeling calluses. One of the conditions of my rugby boots is difficulty with my feet. I am in Being with my feet. As I sit here, the ocean hums and swells a short distance away. I will end this sentence and look up at it. I will Be with it, for a moment.

I just did that, and then I went away. Mind wanders.

While I was picking my calluses, as I marveled at how torn up my feet had become in one intense day of rugby, my mind slipped away from my feet, like skin off my instep, water off the sand, and ninja mind took up an assassin’s stance, on the roof of the house, against my rugby boots. It was creating a gorgeous story about the boots, and I could hear myself do it, clearly see the black-clad ninja’s edges against the black asphalt shingles, edges as sharp as the sound of a bell against the waves: I was willfully ignoring my responsibility in playing rugby, how much I enjoy sprinting and tackling and kicking, and how much i was responsible for actually putting on my boots in the first place, and actively blaming the boots themselves. Those inert assemblies of leather and aluminum studs, avec la marque aux trois bandes.

What happened:
When I was ten, or twelve, my family and I were all in Wapakoneta, at a shopping center adjacent to the Neil Armstrong Air And Space Museum. About an hour from home. It was the early eighties. I was struggling to convince my parents that my next pair of shoes needed to be a pair of all-white Nike high-tops. It was the early eighties. My parents had a very effective argument against these shoes: high-tops would cause me blisters.

I really need a pedicure. So says the ninja. Right now.

Ninja back. Yet I had recently invented a weapon against their irrefutable Ohioan pragmatism: that they were completely wrong about this, as they incidentally were about most things involving my good-looking-ness. I wanted to look good, and this was the very first test of my will toward that end. All that stood in the way was parental guidance. This time, I succeeded. They mildly resented this fact, I could tell. Mind worried. I wore the shoes for less than a day. In fact, that very night, when we returned home, I began to ninja-imagine (ninja was smaller and younger when I was ten, or twelve) the complete absence of their love, due to my will, and felt the blisters emerge on my feet accordingly. My new weapon turned against its creator, and my feet became a mess of imagined sores. My parents made the long drive back to Wapakoneta the next day to return the shoes.

I’ve not worn a pair of Nikes since. Or high tops. Of course, it’s not been the early eighties since. Despite what one might think when visiting the east village.

Earlier today, I was astride the pitch in my aforementioned Adidas boots. Ninja does what it damned well pleases, going from roof to roof. My boyfriend and his dog were watching. I was playing my second half ever at the fullback position. A large opponent, one of their forwards, broke through our defense. Like most large players, he was slow, and decided it was easier to run through me than to dodge me. I would not need to worry about him cutting around me. Yet I chose to ignore every piece of coaching I’ve received on my tackling and looked at his upper body, willfully forgetting to focus on his knees, the one part of his body I can wrap and tackle him with. I was between him and the try line. It was my responsibility to prevent a score. I could hear my mind’s bell ring out. Try to keep up:

if I miss this tackle, I will look bad, and my coach will sub me out, and my co-fiend will have woke up at 6am on a Saturday and come all this way out on Long Island for twenty minutes of me playing, and he will break up with me, and I’ll be alone and then I’ll really look bad.

And so, his outstretched forearm plowed into my chin, and I bounced away like a meteor off of atmosphere, as I would have done even if I were his size. My coach subbed me out.

But my co-fiend didn’t break up with me! He laughed at the missed-tackle story I told him: he could hear my bell ringing from the sideline.


9:41 AM *
i've been testing my gmail account, and getting coached, and taking a stand for beauty in the lives of every new yorker. i'll be back very soon.


Powered by Blogger

ps all work in this domain is copyright chad the minx.