![]() ![]() ![]() I am glad that I don't have to hang out in my head. So long as I am pouring coffee, cooking eggs, cleaning toilets and trying to find another ticket book, I get a break from having to pay attention to the machine-gun of my own mind. There were people waiting to get in at 6AM when I unlocked the doors this morning and they have been stumbling in steadily ever since. All hell is popping and the cash register is playing my favorite tune and I think maybe we'll be able to keep the place open another week. When my hands are busy I don't have to listen to the shit factory at work between my ears. Old Ma used to say Idle Hands Are The Devil's Playground and I believe today that she was closer to the truth than even she realized. ![]() It's the closest I ever get to meditative states, when the rest of me is busily preoccupied with some immediate task at hand and my head just shuts the fuck up. This is probably why I have always been happiest beading or weaving or doing any other kind of mindless repetitious work. Between the cobwebs of old grudges and the firestorms of bad ideas, there isn't much room for anything even closely resembling sanity. My head's like a bad neighborhood and no one should go in there alone. For years I was told I had a drinking problem and then I got sober and found out I had a thinking problem. Thinking has always been dangerous for me. A novel of intrigue and murder most foul. ![]()
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