Eating grass and doing drugs

Soleil Moon Frye as Punky

Soleil Moon Frye as Punky (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t understand me sometimes. I like the ocean, but hate the beach. I love flowers, but hate planting them. It’s like I always find at least one thing to spoil any special interests or passions that spring up.

But if I delve into these spoilers, I learn a little more about the girl behind the curtain. The girl who intertwines the delicate thread-bare webs of reason (aka my wacky brain).

I don’t like the beach because I hate mobs of people. They make me feel exposed, vulnerable and claustrophobic. Why? I don’t know. I’ll save that one for later. Oh and plus I think it’s ridiculous to lay out in the sun all day to fry your skin into “radiance”. To me it’s as senseless as watching people feed slot machines cash for hours on end. Senseless!

Think about it, you’re frying your skin in hopes of looking younger and healthier. When in reality you’re actually searing your flesh to look older and ruined. Same when you sit in front of the one-armed bandit at a casino – you give up your money in hopes of getting more, but you always end up with less in the end. Do only greedy people go to the beach? No, no I’m mixing stuff up again.

But hey, what the hell do I know? I don’t judge anyone anyway. I have my own defects to deny.

But just take a look at this truck driver. I’m sure he can tell you a little about UV rays.

truck driver sun damage

And the evil talking slot machine from the Twilight zone will teach you some hard knock lessons. (I can’t believe I found a picture of it!)

Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, flowers. I hate planting flowers because of the manual labor involved, the patience, the planning and know-how to plant something that will surely die in the end. I don’t want to plant something only to watch it die. There’s no permanence, so what’s the point? And besides, there’s enough beauty in the world already. I’ll BE the flower, I don’t have to plant one.

Buddhist monks in Tibet do this thing where they kneel on the ground hunched over for hours at a time for several days to create what is known as a sand maṇḍala. They create something so intricately beautiful and meaningful using patience and steady hands, only for it to be destroyed. In fact, the sole purpose in creating a sand maṇḍala is to teach the monks about the cycles of life and that everything material is only transitory in nature.

It reminds me of my Grammy’s old jar of pickled tomatoes from 24 years ago. This is one doctrinal belief that my mind can not adhere to.

To me, anything that has no permanence, is not worth my time or effort. But even if it was promising, I still have to deal with my commitment issues. I hate to blame my parents for my commitment issues, but hell yeah, it’s all their fault.

I am deeply flawed and deeply human. At my worst, I turn the spotlight on myself when dealing with my issues with permanence. I say things like, “I’m not worth the trouble, I don’t do anything meaningful or lasting. I’m not good for anything at all, really.”

But that’s only when I’m at my worst, and I haven’t felt that way in a while, well, not since Nepal anyway.

I wish I got to see one of these sand mandalas in Nepal, but there weren’t any around. It’s more of a Tibet thing.

If you look hard enough, spoilers can show you your fears. Mine being the cycle of life. Living only to die kinda takes the wind out of my bagpipes.

Wow I totally lost the point of what I originally wanted to write. The tips of my fingers are vomiting letters uncontrollably.

Okay, what I really wanted to say is that, I don’t get me. I have this sudden urge to plant grass. I may not like planting flowers, but grass is okay. Grass is replaceable without any attachment issues happening. And I love dirt, the smell of it, the texture, the dirtiness. And I love seeds. Hard little nuggets of life that just need watering.

So, my new project that I’m working on is planting wheatgrass in my bedroom. I bought a long flat planter, and all the stuff I need.

At heart, I’m a granola hippie girl. It’s in my roots. I like natural, organic stuff – even if it tastes dreadful, I love it. And now the granola in me is urging me to eat grass. This may stem from my staying out of the sun, I really don’t know, but I at least want to try it. Believe it or not, wheatgrass is actually really healthy and fibrous. It’s easy to grow in low-light and doesn’t need much watering. It’s the perfect project for the slouch that I am. And a good snack to nipple on when I don’t feel like walking upstairs to ransack my parents kitchen cabinets.

I’m growing the grass in the money corner of my baqua (anything green and growing symbolizes prosperity). Once the grass is ready to harvest, I’m going to juice it and take one ounce daily.

I don’t try to be healthy, but sometimes I do these things that make me sound like a health nut. Truth is, I just like eating stuff that I grow myself, even if the only thing I can manage to grow is grass.

I hung out with my little granola friend, Christian, the other day. He called me up out of the blue and we went out for a few beers. He has dreads now and wears twine around his ankles – he pulls some of these twine anklets up above his calves just for the heck of it. It looks ridiculous, but cool at the same time. Cool, yet uncool. It’s so my style. So Punky Brewster.

I don’t really have a style. My summer outfit this year consists of mens white T-shirts (bought in bulk at Wal-Mart), and my friend Stacy’s hand-me-down plaid pants. I have so many white T-shirts and those pants are always the first pair I see hanging in my closet everyday, so there you go. Everyday, same outfit. No fuss.

Christian smokes like a chimney, but he’s healthy in the same way I am. It’s oddly bizarre how similar we are. He was smoking his cigarettes and told me he bought them cheap at a place that rolls their own with chemically untreated tobacco – no preservatives, just plain old tobacco – the building block of America.

So today I drove over to that tobacco shop and bought 200 cigarettes for $44. I’m healthy and frugal.

Anyway, in other news…

I’ve been contacting advertisers to help me grow my business. I’m doing everything in poor-girl fashion, meaning free. Whatever the advertisers offer for free, I take it. It’s practically a full time job trying to advertise. It eats up so much time. Phone interviews, in-person interviews, how to work their website tutorials – I mean jeeze, come on now. I hate talking to rep’s over the phone. I’d rather see them in person. I’d rather give a free one hour massage than chat with a rep for 15 minutes about how to market my business.

The phone is my nemesis and I hate talking on it. People call me in the afternoon to wake me up. I feel like I have to brush my teeth before I talk to them. Maybe it’s a confidence issue. I’m more tactile than vocal. More visual than listening. The recipe for a dumbass? Perhaps.

Speaking of dumbasses, I’m going to Columbia next month to do drugs with a bunch of people who put the ‘strange’ in strangers and I have absolutely no money and nobody to call if shit hits the fan.

I’m going to be reading this post when I’m an old lady and wonder how the hell I managed to survive so long.

I’m going to eat grass and do drugs! Eating grass and doing drugs is in my near future.

You know, come to think of it, I would totally eat flowers too. I would grow flowers only so I can eat them. I don’t have to watch something die as long as I can kill it first.

Amen and Gods peed


Filed under journal, random thoughts, Self help

6 responses to “Eating grass and doing drugs

  1. Had to comment, I LOVE maṇḍalas. The large intricate sand versions are amazing. Since 2008, my children and I have participated in street painting festivals, and although we’re not monks, it has been a transcendent experience (mostly, the last one “harshed” my proverbial mellow rather badly due to the company I was keeping). The artists are amazing. At the best festivals, everyone gives and shares to a degree I’ve yet to find elsewhere. I find it addictive. Which is strange, because you wouldn’t think there would be a neurochemical reward pathway for sitting on the hot pavement surrounded by tourists and musicians, drawing something made only to be destroyed, until you’re covered in a sooty coat of pastel chalk, your body aches and your fingers bleed. It’s a beautiful nod to the transitory nature of art and life as art.

    You have to dance while the music is playing. 🙂

    Be careful with the drugs, but enjoy the grass.

    • I wish there were festivities going on like that in the streets where I live. It sounds like a lot of fun. I’ll be careful with the drugs. It’s in a controled environment and this is strictly a one time thing.
      I like that quote You have to dance while the music is playing. If life is music, than I should always be dancing. Sometimes its hard to keep up.

  2. V.E.G.

    Punky Brewster does indeed exist. Her real name was Peyton.

  3. V.E.G.

    By the way, Punky Brewster (the real thing) is a direct descendant of the Mayflower passenger, William Brewster. There is once a color stock called Brewster Color.

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