Don’t work. And don’t try.
          Close your eyes.
          Something will arise; you won’t choose what that is. It just comes.
          Like breath.
          It seems entirely random.

          Tonight, I’ve listened to “Jump in the Line” by Harry Belafonte an embarrassing number of times.
          And I find myself writing this. I’m not sure I could name the why. I have this website, and my decision to create it—whenever that was, over a decade ago—plays on my mind. I feel I should contribute something. Occasionally my wife tells me that someone’s someone reads it, and I think, shit, I really should write more…

          But it’s not really a need; it’s more like, fuck, people actually read this shit? Okay, I guess… okay, let’s go.

          But I don’t care.
          I mean I don’t care as a compulsion.

          It is amazing the extent to which I am controlled, or directed, by something over which I have no control. For weeks I feel entirely content with my primary focus being some PC game, and then all of a sudden I’m like, okay, time to write something.

          I feel like I’m done with Christianity. That’s been on my mind a bit.
          This sense has arisen from exhaustion; it’s not a reasoned move, it’s emotive. I just have a sense that I’m done. Probably my intellectual curiosity has sustained my participation for a while now. And it’s still there. But I’m not convinced the myth does all that much for me anymore. Even as I write that, I’m not entirely convinced with myself—the myth is obviously doing a lot. But in some deeper way I’m not sure I know how to name, it feels redundant.

          I’m exhausted by the insanity. I think in the face of such chaos some may lean in; I’ve spent a lot of time leaning in, and it has exhausted me.

          I think curiosity is the purpose. I have two daughters; I don’t want them to try. It’s my prayer for them. I want them to listen to what is inside them, to be receptive to whatever that current is. I won’t even talk about purpose, because I think that is a kind of subversion—all I want is for you to find your purpose and follow that with all your passion—fuck that. Find your passion today, in this moment. And tomorrow, find your passion then.

          Hold petals in your mouth.
          Don’t try.

          That is the Charles Bukowski thing—the poet—what’s written on his grave: “Don’t try.”
          I aspire after that mantra.

          If it arises today, in this moment, follow it. This is what it means to be you.

          Can you not see it? I am a prophet of the new age.
          The one calling in the wilderness, calling you back to yourself.

          What are you going to do otherwise? There is nothing to do. I already know you’re tired. I think you should stop.
          I don’t think you should try. Breathe.

          Chill the fuck out.
          You’re so after it. And given that there is really nothing to pursue—nothing at the end of the rainbow—you need to stop. You need to just breathe right here.

          Something may arise, but maybe not. Just sit with it. Days, months. Just stop.

          There is nothing to find.
          There is nothing at the center.
          There is nothing behind the veil.

          And so what… I am here. Present to the now. Breathing.
          And something feels real. It’s a conversation, it’s a mountain, it’s a sip of cabernet sauvignon, it’s my daughter who finds me funny.

          What the fuck else? I am fucking funny.