my favorite american contemplative tradition
is something called a highway
LIFE RX 30 SEPT 24
the eight of swords, and a paragraph from Tove Ditlevsen’s The Copenhagen Trilogy:
“The next day I begin my doctor odyssey. I can only do a couple of visits a day, because they all have consultations at the same times. I sit across from these white coats in my worn-out trench coat with my red scarf around my neck. They look at me coldly and in disbelief: Who in the world took it upon themselves to give you my address? Dear woman, there are women who are much worse off than you. You're married and you only have one child. One of them says, You don't want me to commit a crime, do you? There's the door.”
the aleatory
My favorite American contemplative tradition is something called a highway.
It is a long gray flame that you stare at until you see an ocean, and along the way, you meet many walking grimoires and see what is essentially raw poetry, torn poetry, poetry in stacks in fields and painted by hand on the backsides of billboards. You can stop in stores on the way, and in each store you can/could buy a kind of caffeinated mango drink that could kill you, and a blue crystalline hound dog.
It is my favorite American contemplative tradition because within it, I remember how much I love it here.
There should be a name for the positive accumulation of independently disagreeable elements: decaf coffee, motel TV with the sound off showing Con Air, someone who was supposed to call you but didn’t, a sign on the side of a gas station in Wyoming that says either YOU ARE NOW HERE or YOU ARE NOWHERE.
Oh, right, there is a name for that—it’s called a story.
Any time a collection of woes become a mood, there is a story being told. If you travel on a highway, you will see so many stories that their beginnings and endings will overlap into one empty moment, and you will be aware that everyone you see is ending, and they are beginning. Whenever I drive by a house in the middle of nowhere, I can sort of feel the things that you would write in that room.
I feel great pity for anyone who thinks that writing is about thought. Thought is, in my mind, usually the most impoverished part of writing. It’s the desperate, clutching part that wants to be taken seriously, wants to seem wise, wants to hide behind nothing.
There should a name for the thoughts that arrive out of silence, as opposed to the thoughts that arrive out of effort. They are so different in quality and purpose that calling them by the same name causes, I think (stop), a lot of problems. One untethers you, one locks you in place. One insists on nothing, one insists on logic. Not the same thing at all. The thoughts that arrive are like horses. The effort thoughts are like a sad sculpture that keeps falling over. (This newsletter, if you couldn’t tell, is generated from the former. The latter wanted to teach you, instruct and scold you. It didn’t even know about the highway or Con Air, just the classical interpretations of the swords suit and the eight of the progression [doubled stability makes instability, like trying to stand on two stacked chairs …].)
In one mood, I wish very much to be believed. I wish to find a doctor who would not turn me away for suffering insufficiently. I think, I should do the laundry. I think, but won’t that take too long? I think, I hate Taylor Swift. I think, but you can’t say that kind of thing. I think, I hate that you can’t say that kind of thing.
In another mood, I think, What do I have in common with the bird of paradise? We both seem to like the breeze, but I don’t know if I could ever wear a hat like that ….
The American contemplative tradition known as the highway is so beautiful because it allows the moment to arrive and arrive and arrive. There is no time for effort. What’s your horsepower. There’s a tiger in your tank.
the assignment
be silent for a moment before you decide what to do next
writing prompt
make a list of things that sound like the ocean
a chune
“This Old of Mine (Is Weak for You” by the Isley Brothers
I’m going to give you a hot tip if you ever need to take the aux at an impromptu dance party: This one will pack the floor, even though nobody’s ever heard it. Like any classic, it’s familiar from the first time, and it has a crunchy bari sax solo. This song should be sad (“the way you treat me leaves me incomplete,” “you got me never knowing if I’m coming or I’m going”) but in the grand tradition of it being better to love than be loved, you wouldn’t notice that the first dozen times. Totally a fact: if you cook something while dancing around to this in your kitchen, it’s going to taste so good that people will say you are a genius at cooking things. And you are.
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
The Copenhagen Trilogy by Tove Ditlevsen
“This Old Heart of Mine (Is Weak for You)” by the Isley Brothers
dear diary, trend report: zoomers like western wear. That's right: tooled leather, mixed metals, and rhinestones. I know because I have a tooled leather purse which gets me the most regular compliments from those whomst would tragically consider me an elder. And I also have a cute little western wear belt that spices up my otherwise crushingly anonymous Uniqlo high-volume trousers. (Once you become a Lady of a Certain Age, someone hands you a pair of trousers. The pant, it is no longer for you. Have some dignity, ma’am, please, and an enormous blazer.) These are my two most frequently complimented articles of clothing, always by people were probably born during my black hair dye daze of 03-05. I don’t know what it means, but I think it’s very cute. And yes, I am aware that the young people who work at Trader Joe’s are contractually obligated to talk to me. I’m not a fool. Anyway. It bodes well for the next look I’m developing for myself, which involves Ray-Bans and high-volume trousers and bolo ties, or as I described it to someone I met at a party, a sort of “Is she in ZZ Top?” moment. Which always makes J laugh, because the build up to actualizing this look has taken me a long time. But sometimes it takes you a minute to become Your Best Self. Can’t hurry love! XS
thought is the most impoverished part of writing (!!!)