I teach meditation and yoga to kids in juvey, rehab, shelters. I'm learning how to be there for them as a social advocate/activist and friend.
And now... For something completely different:
I contain multitudes.
My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink. He would make outrageous claims, like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds—pretty standard, really. At the age of 12, I received my first scribe.
I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row. I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I cook Thirty Minute Brownies in forty minutes.
I am the subject of numerous documentaries. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. The laws of physics do not apply to me.
Maude Lebowski: What do you do for recreation? The Dude: Oh, the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.
The Stranger: Do you have to use so many cuss words? The Dude: What the **** you talking about?
Why I'm a vegetarian:
Vincent Vega: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops tastes gooood. Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie but I'd never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy mother****ers. Pig sleep and root in shit. That's a filthy animal. I ain't eat nothin' that ain't got enough sense to disregard its own feces. Vincent: How about a dog? Dogs eat their own feces. Jules: I don't eat dog either. Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal? Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call a dog filthy but they're definitely dirty. But, a dog's got personality. Personality goes a long way. Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, it'd cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true? Jules: Well we gotta be talkin' about one charmin' mother****in' pig. I mean he'd have to be ten times more charmin' than that Arnold on Green Acres, you know what I'm sayin'?
We’re no longer called Sonic Death Monkey. We’re on the verge of becoming Kathleen Turner Overdrive, but just for tonight, we are Barry Jive and his Uptown Five.
~~~~~~~~It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it, right? And this bag was like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.
David Duchovny: Sometimes I think that the dream is reality and life is the simulacrum. Dr. Katz: It certainly is.
I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life … to put out all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. ~~~~~