Zen & Bruce Lee

“Zen is both something we are, our true nature expressing itself moment by moment, and something we do, a disciplined practice through which we can realize the joy of being. So, what is Zen? Stop trying to get an intellectual lock on something that is vast and boundless, far more than the rational mind can grasp. Just breathe in with full awareness.”~ Bruce Lee

Once again the mystery and simplicity of Zen. Bruce Lee. What a shame we lost him so young. Many theorize that it was no accident and that forces, perhaps from China, did not want him to continue in this world. Some photos of him are just incredible. He made himself into the cobra that represented him. Or that he represented. Where could he have taken himself in this world had he remained here?

The above photo is from the internet. I didn’t see a credit given though it does look as if it is from a movie. The photo I am thinking of shows him sitting on a meditation pillow—zafu—in a sitting cobra pose. It is beyond impressive. It is as if he becomes a cobra.

Field Notes

Some few notes on today. For a while. First, as spiders are part of my totem, I couldn’t pass this by. It was posted by “The Fabulous Weird Trotters and noted as· Camera Flash on a Spider Web 🕷️ Isn’t this an all time gorgeous?

Today I took Zeus (the cat) out for a bit of a walk. He’s slowly learning to tolerate the harness, not the leash so much. Anyway, he was out for a while. He is such a smart cat. I got a Christmas mouse for both him and Lisa Fig (one each) and they both adore them. Zeus brings his back for me to throw it for him. I become tired of this way before he does. The game could go on for hours.

I now have a cat on Prozac. No lie. This should be something to be ashamed of if it weren’t so funny. It does calm LL cool Fig down to the point where she is not so freaked out by Zeus’s very presence in the place. At least she has stopped hiding. And she does have her own sub-leased apartment as in my bedroom with bath and tub for her necessaries. Also a changing area and closet. Though she does not wear any clothes and doesn’t change anything.

I have been thinking and dreaming of Joel so much. One dream was so real that I actually said to myself that it was so nice for what was happening to be real and not a dream.

Sometimes cleaning and arranging and fixing are such lovely things to be doing. Comforting. Enjoyable. Once upon a time that could not be imagined. I think it has to do with your happiness. Your peace and being in the right place for the time that it is. It is this time now. And now I’m going back to cleaning. 42

Happy Birthday

Just a quick birthday update for the playwright Eugene O’Neill. He of The Hairy Ape, The Iceman Cometh, etc. Although I don’t believe he’s much produced these days. Nonetheless, one of the greats of the theatre.

Playwright Eugene O’Neill (BTD in 1888).

On The Edge…

…of things. As Pessoa said he was always. So it was for me today, and my view was distant as I walked through the morning events.

I had to take the cat back to the vet’s as he’s passing blood and pretty much peeing wherever he is. Not fun for either of us. This is the new rescue cat, Zeus, whom you have not heard about from me but likely will later. In any case, he got quite ill and was hospitalized so all of the current happenings are just the aftermath. I brought him home on Saturday. Now for today:

  • The med tech greeted us by calling my beautiful, handsome Bengal cat “Zoosie-Woosie.” And referred to us as an us for everything including how him was feeling for us. (Not even annoying, just observing from that very safe distance.)
  • After the vet’s, I took us through a Starbucks so I could get a mocha cafe = indulge, indulge.
    • Me: I’ll have a large mocha cafe, please.
    • A male-type person standing outside taking orders: One large mocha cafe. So are we hot or cold today?
    • Me: Pardon? (I have no idea what he is talking about.)
    • He: Hot or cold?
    • Me: Just staring blankly as I have no understanding and might have landed on another planet. Perhaps I went through a portal on my way to the outer world.
    • He: The drink. Do you want it hot or cold?
    • Me: Hot. (Maybe this is normal and I just don’t get out enough to understand the ways of the world. And here I was beginning to consider my body temperature to see if I was on the warm or cool side, heading to something more extreme.)

The cat himself has joined in this weird conspiracy by imitating the singing and dancing frog. He is normally incredibly vocal. He has a variety of sounds which I can usually decipher. If I’m not responding correctly or immediately, he will get louder and louder. Not only that, but he says actual words such as “Ma!” and “ouch!”. But not in the world. In the world he becomes mute. He says nothing. Not a cry, not a whimper. They think he does not complain and that I am exaggerating.

It’s all right. It’s all totally all right. It’s just a good day to get home and stay there.

“Most people learn to save themselves by artificially limiting the content of consciousness.” Thomas Ligotti


The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd: the longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. ~Fernando Pessoa

(Book: The Book of Disquiet  (Book: ‘Not to Be Reproduced’, 1937 by Rene Magritte)

Posted by Philo Thoughts

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa was born in Portugal on the 13th of June in 1888. He died in November, on the 30th in 1935. He was a poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher, and philosopher. Although when it’s all said and done, many writers are all of those things with the exception of translator and publisher. His books are not only well written but fascinating, and I’m always surprised by the few serious readers who know of him. He should be better read and more widely appreciated. He wrote a great deal, and not only in his own name, but under “heteronyms” as he felt “pseudonyms” did not capture the personas of the writers. He often spoke to the many personalities or persons that each human contains and often wrote from a different person’s consciousness—making a distinction from point-of-view, or narrative persona.

Perhaps his best known work is The Book of Disquiet and it was published after his death from papers found in a trunk. He said, “I am, in large measure, the self-same prose I write.” And he writes of unanswerable questions—but the only ones worth pursuing.