Not even floating

My fitness watch tracks my sleep.
Not only did I not get enough sleep last night, I had no dreams.
I did not think, the world could be heaven if we would only help each other.
If we would only always be kind.
To ourselves, each other, to all lifeforms.
I did not think, being rich would be nice.
I did not think, capitalism replaced with kindness and generosity, not chaos.
Or peace, love and understanding.
Or if they only liked me.
Or having beehives would be nice.
Last night, sleeping, I just slept.
Mattress, head on my pillow, down comforter, cat on top of that.
Just existed there in the dark.
It was not even a great release, not a liberation.
It was nothing, not even nothing.
No thoughts of this is good or this could be better, or even this is the way it is.
No blessings, no curses.
Not rejection or acceptance.
Just floating there in the darkness.
Not even floating.
Just being there in the darkness.
Not even darkness.
Not even being.

Big Hero

It’s a nice day so Mr. and Mrs. Big Robot go to a Heurigen, a wine tavern, within walking distance of their house, for a casual meal and a glass of wine or two. They get a table in the shade and order and while they are eating and drinking an older couple come and ask if they may share the table and the Big Robots say, sure! And everyone is friendly and chatting and drinking and eating and the older couple seem to know the Big Robots but this is not mutual. I mean, they look familiar. At least the lady. But their names, where they live, all those details…?
They talk about kids, they talk about solar power and heat pumps, home renovations, all that old people stuff.
Things are sort of gliding along, Mr. Big Robot orders another glass of wine, lets his mind wander until he notices Mrs. Big Robot talking about all the people he has saved.
Mr. Big Robot is, like, WTF? People, plural?
So he is like, what? The guy in the snow… who else?
The mayor’s brother in the snow, you mean. Corrects Mrs. Robot.
Not the current mayor, clarifies Mr. Robot. Long time ago.
Then there was the old lady bleeding in the street, says Mrs. Robot.
Ah! Right, hit by a car or something. I got her to the curb…
And you saved me, says the old lady they are drinking with.
Oh, yeah, says Mr. Big Robot, although he has absolutely no memory of it.
Then they talk about something else besides his forgotten heroism which was anything but heroic, it was merely wondering “what is that person doing lying in the snow/in the street” and checking on them while someone else called an ambulance.
Walking home later, he asks Mrs. Robot wtf the old lady had been talking about. Had he saved her too?
No that was our friend Medium Robot. She passed out on the street or something.
What was he doing there? I live here, he doesn’t. Maybe he was visiting us. I may have been with him, which would explain her remembering me. Perhaps I assisted in her salvation.
He likes the feel of that.

No one is upset and nothing hurts

I was dreaming this morning when a cat woke me with a bladder massage.
In the dream, my extended family was celebrating my birthday at my childhood home, around a redwood picnic table my father had built, on a sunny summer day, in the shade of a cherry tree, a maple and some redwoods.
There was picnic food on the table, no animals were trying to steal it, the sun was warm but gentle and not blinding, the way summer sun used to be.
Everyone was happy at the same time, but not excited, there was no drama, no one was sad or mad at someone, everyone got along.
My grandmother was not there. I imagine she was in Montana, as a teenager, riding horses.
My uncle, who sometimes felt compelled to be weird at gatherings, I suppose due to anxiety, was not there. He might have been in the hills filling his green and white Ford pickup with scavenged firewood.
My parents (whom I remember missing yesterday) were there. They were younger than they had been when they died. 30s or 40s. My father looked fit and was not wearing a shirt, which was typical of him in the summer at that age. I talked to my mother.
I talked to my father. I asked him how Heaven was.
No one is upset and nothing hurts, he said.
My sister gave me a letter she had written for my birthday. It was written with a wide calligraphy pen in several colors. Each color said something else, and the colors intertwined, and tangled, and she had written it in her normal handwriting not calligraphy despite the nib she was using so I was unable to read it.
I asked her to read it for me.
She was about to read it when I woke up.

Musique concrète

A man walks down the sidewalk towards the Vienna Stadthalle, reading a Kriminalroman by Alex Beer, “Der zweite Reiter.”
Suddenly there is a big KADONGGG!!
And the man sees a few stars.
What a beautiful new sound, the man thinks.
KADONGGG, I love it.
He rubs his head. He focuses his eyes on the steel pole of a street sign, very close.
He steps around the pole, finds his place in the book, and continues walking, half of him reading, half thinking about the sound.
Half of him wondering how a Foley artist would reproduce it, the THONK of brain against skull against 4-inch steel pole, the ringing tintinabulation of the pole and the sign after being struck.
The world is full of beauty.

New cryptid just dropped

Allow me to announce that I have discovered a new cryptid, one so new it’s not on the Wikipedia List of Cryptids yet:

The Chupacapybara, a mysterious, slightly chubby, land-dwelling (but water-loving) creecher that sucks goats but everybody loves it.

Running up that you-know-what

I was racing a nun up a hill this morning, the final and steepest hill on my morning walk from the train station to the office – it goes past a nunnery, convent, something along those lines, the ground floor windows are barred and when you look in you generally see nuns, stamping out license plates, sharpening spoons into shivs in metal shop – and she was tough, despite the early heat – maybe she wanted to get a to a bus before the dogs picked up her scent – the scent of a nun – Al Pacino’s lowest-grossing film (at the box office at least) but I was doing pretty good, I was ahead, I was leading but then I had to stop to feed a crow because rule is, if the crow recognizes you and you have anything edible on your person you must share and this crow definitely recognized me – I even recognized it, black with a white spot, unmistakable – plus it said, Racing nuns now are we, Mig? And I was like, More like trying to get in my fitness points this morning – my wife gave me one of those watches that tracks your every move – And this is my best hill, the longest, steepest hill on my morning walk, here have a Frolic. Have five Frolics. And it went to work on the Frolics and left me alone. And that’s why I got fitness points this morning, just not as many as I had hoped for.

I just want to say

I just want to say
that it doesn’t hurt much
when a crow pecks you
trying to get the doggie treat
you are holding out for it
while sitting on the park bench
surrounded by crows
regarding you like acolytes
waiting for words of enlightenment.
It is scarier feeding a bagel to a juvenile seagull
than a snack to a crow.
This is especially true if you grew up
getting pecked by chickens all the time.
I just want to say
my thing with the crows
is not going unnoticed at the park,
a young family walked by
and referred to me
as “Professor Rabe”.
I just want to say
that I am still sadder
and more broken up by
my mother’s death
than I had expected.
But the crows help.
If someone asks me about them
I will say, “I have to come and feed them,
they know where I work and
come and shit on my balcony otherwise,”
but that is not the reason.
I know it’s just crows and doggie treats,
but it’s a comfort.