Waste or want not?

I want to report a wasted evening.

How? I played computer games for a while - just little ones here and there. K.O.L.M. and Doodle God. Nothing fantastic (except for the music in K.O.L.M., which was pretty cool). Doodle God is a complete waste of time.

I have the fortune, though, of tempering this sense of waste with the fact that my day was not wasted; that I had a nice time with my roomies this evening; before that, a nice time at the shelter and at the plaza; before that, a nice time with Any and Joe; before that, a nice time reading Four-Hour Body; before that, a nice time singing and playing accordion; that I am spending at least 10 minutes here writing about what I did and how I feel about it; that I will be returning to my practice of zazen after that time and will be resuming it again in the morning, like a book I never finish. I don't waste days anymore. Maybe hours, maybe sections of days, but not days. That much is good. That much is a good change I have entered into my life.

I wanted to write poetry this evening. It's been in the back of my mind for two weeks now, since Leonard. I wrote a tiny little bit, but taking that step to sit down and write - well, it doesn't happen. There is this constant tension; pulling me away. Why can't it work?

Because I don't entirely want it, of course. That's the truth of it. I am sold to the cause of the video game, the pocket world. The sense of... I've never been able to figure it out. The emotional value. It's something we all dance on, but no one has really explained.

A couple things. First, I think it's clear that it's not so much the content of the game that means anything - it's the mood that gets me playing. That is, it could be anything. It's not about the game, the show, the drink, the drug, the whatever. It's about having that hunger, having that need that's important. It's getting to that point where I feel a hole that needs to be filled.

This hole exists in everyone. We all deal with it differently. I think all people are addicted to something; it's just where you stand in relation to the hole that determines how it will affect your personality.

This hole stinks. It reeks with the grimy odor of human failure; need; desperation and all the pity, shame and guilt that go along with it. This is the feces of Selfhood. People don't want to face it. If they see it in others, the first responses are along the lines of fear, judgment, even anger. Finding it in yourself is often pure terror.

Bearing with it through all of this, and not turning away, not rejecting, just sitting with it, could probably work wonders. If this is all that's necessary, then my task is clear, and it is something I am well along the way to being prepared for. I'm not sure, however, if this is all that's necessary for understanding this weakness.

I can go dutifully to the zafu and do my work. But I want to know: what is it? It's a medium; it's a veil placed between me and the world; an emotional intermediary between myself and all the hearts in the space around me. I am impatient that it is still around me. I want to feel fully; I want to love fully; I want to reach out and grasp reality by the hand and not let it go; what's holding me back? Why do I insist on holding back? What do I have to gain by that?

I want to not feel detached and divided when I am sitting in my room, driving around down, doing errands, keeping track of my plants, my finances, my car. I want to feel attached and cohesive when I am talking to people, and not go to pieces, and not be afraid, and not try to be comfortable when it's not necessary, and to make things more comfortable when it is necessary. And let the stream of words emerge on time and focused and with momentum, not shirking conflict and dawdling and retreating.

I don't have enough time in this life for my heart not to be on fire.

Set it off, set it off, set it off, set it off.

Good night, all.