the quiet mule           The QM Companion

For some reason late at night when the chance of sleep is unlikely, thoughts begin to shape. Suddenly I find myself conversing with John Stewart. This is strange in more ways than one, but especially odd because I have not watched the Daily Show in years. Early on in the shows existence, its intention I believe was to mock television news and to point out inaccuracies. The present Daily Show is held as the beacon of hope for liberals desperate for positive reinforcement and easily digestible information. Though it isn’t enough of a train wreck to warrant criticism. This all has to do with my habitual desire to be acknowledged by liberals as a hero.

The interview is spent being praised by Stewart. The audience applauds my every word as I explain the way to a Utopian future, if they only follow my advice. I come off as a modest holy man with a sharp wit. Then the image slowly fogs up and my consciousness slaps me. I realize then that I am not Gandhi Jr. Where there was once childish hope of fame, now lays the truth. Disgruntled, I whine of injustice done to me until I fall asleep.

I can only speculate as to why my mind has chosen John Stewart and his audience as my comfort zone. All I’m saying is I wanna save the world. Doesn’t everybody? Doesn’t everyone that looks into Stewarts little eyes and indulges themselves really just want to save salmon? But no one does, and no one ever will. We are locked in, afraid to take off the sweet embrace of Stewart for security. It is time to let go of John’s hand and walk on our own. Come on, you are responsible for this. Can I be the next Gandhi but have sex?

Finally the woman upstairs turned on the heat. But I am still not satisfied. The heat bores me now.

Today the skin split open on the knuckle and started to bleed. When washed with soap it turns purple, or appears purple. Every winter I stare at the old man hands, and I am reminded that I am an old man. Ive heard it before, from different people, and it especially insulting coming from a girl. So my life is spent trying to convince myself of my relative youth. I forget it often.

Last night after returning to my room I picked up my laundry receipt and ran out the door. I ran because it was raining, but that was only my excuse. I have not ran in a full month or more, and it felt good. I jumped over the puddles, ran onto the leaves when someone stood in my way. The breaths are fast and heavy, but still I try to keep track of them. Breath in, pause, breath out.

The laundromat's name approached me. ALL AMERICAN LAUNDRY. The FREE PICK UP was crossed off, but the FREE DROP OFF on the other side wasn't. One blond girl in the back was folding clothes as I stormed in, wet and trying to exaggerate my aggressiveness.

"Hi. There's a mistake on my order...it says twelve pounds but my bag of clothes was only like seven pounds. You can measure it if you want."

She then explained to me that twelve pounds was the minimum order, to which I responded, "Oh, I didn't know that." My masculine anger was deflated and I gave her my money.

She handed me the change and a penny dropped somewhere. "Where'd it go?" I asked. It was on my pants.

I made a mistake, but it's OK. I ran back through the rain with my tattered tan-white laundry bag, faster this time so the clothes wouldn't get wet.

I suppose all the old folks are trying to search for things that make them feel young, and look young. Running reminds me of my age, so I would like to do it often. But it's the winter, and I have to protect my hands.

I spend most of my day feeling cold. The landlord has not turned on the heat and presumably will not turn on the heat for some time. I spend most of my time alone. So, there I am, cold and alone. It is not a very uplifting situation. And I think back to home, where I was warm and inexplicably irritated by my family. But still, If i was back home I could lie in my bed, in my room, with a blanket and some chocolate, my back propped up with a pillow wedge, and engage in creative activities, like writing, drawing, and reading...Now I only have time cook and write essays, before I have to walk through the rain to the train.

It is somewhat painful...the cold is a striking pain but the sense of time dissipating is like a deep punch to the stomach that is dragging on for years. Sure, I admit that if I had decided to stay home for the fall my life would not be the picturesque creative journey in my bed. I would probably just eat a lot and go on the computer, and check and recheck my email. At least now I am cooking for myself, watching my portions, getting out of bed at set times, etc. Out of the order and drudgery I will attempt to find something worth capturing.

Today I did feel some reassurance as I walked through the basement of a bookstore. I was out of the cold and my sweatshirt was beginning to make me sweat. There they were. Books. Books can be a very beautiful thing, especially when you feel low and need something to hold. In the hands the book is brought to life.

There is abstract potential in an unread book, and I was surrounded by hundreds of them. All ideal worlds that I knew nothing about, that I would never open. But what mattered is that they existed. I don't know if a real book can ever reach that level. Everytime I open one up to read something is destroyed. The same feeling occurs when I write on a blank page. The writer ruins the page with his words, but there is nothing you can do. You sell the book, you buy the firewood, you stay warm. That is the way I want to live.

I am returning home from a three day visit with a friend. On the drive back I have nothing left to say to my driver; we already exhausted all concievable topics on the way there. Every couple of moments I look up and gaze at the colored hills and grass that forms the landscape, divided by highway and electrical polls. The scenery fills the emptiness. Since yesterday I have been plauged with a vague feeling of regret, for deciding to go to college in a city.

Me and my pal went to a park to kill time, and there I remembered that I can't live without nature. It was the only time in my memory that I've felt overwhelmed by nature. Usually a walk through the woods instills bored, gentle happiness, but that day I was estatic. I thought I could live without it, of course, everyone thinks that, but that depends on what you mean by living. I have not felt alive standing on the escalator, or even yelling until my throat hurt at demonstrations. I realized that even if you eat good food, and meditate twice daily, it will take a long time before you feel good in an urban setting, before you can live without trees. I have not reached that point. I need to find a place that feels untouched before the winter sets in, or else I will sit in my cold room without any memory of something to look forward to in the spring.

Some part of me warns that there is nothing that lacks artificiality in the city, that I will never find some secluded place, even in the parks, by the water. It seems as if the city is swallowed in definitions, boundaries, names...so that the real thing is never visible. I stand around downtown and a man asks for directions, I tell him where to go. But where he goes is not even important. In my view, this street and that avenue is not a proper destination, because you can never really get there. Our lives are made up of movements that go nowhere, and we need to accept that. The city puts on the impression that you can take a train and transfer and walk to the sushi bar and have eel wrapped in rice, but you can't. You really can't, unless you grow up.

I watch people waste food and drink from plastic containers, then sport a "green" bag around town. This will not save anything. Even if the world doesn't collapse into environmental chaos, nothing will be saved unless you save yourself. It is like evangelical doctrine, except much more real. You will never see the sky open up and watch the pious float towards the clouds, but you can go sit and sit by the water, and just sit there. And you have to be open to the boredom, the feeling that nothing is being accomplished, in order to grow.

The countryside is slowly evading me as I write. I fear the end of growth, the return to spiritual decline, boredom, death. Staring at the harmless ads underneath the ground and wondering if I'll have time to buy old chicken from the salad bar. Wondering vaguely when I'll have sex. Searching for a place with wireless internet. Are there really that many things to do here? I just want to sit on a bench, and I can't even do that.

Traditionally the transition from fall to wintertime is representative of aging and finally death. That's how I feel in the city. When I come home to a cold room, there is no happiness. Just a feeling of oldness, cold bed sheets...Walking through the rural park I did not feel frustrated, even though it was cold. I forgot about the cold. Winter is about rest, not about death. I hope I can remember that.

I am in one of the Western states right now, and my stomach is reeling. It is not used to the bad food, it no longer has a tolerance for it. Fast food, late night chinese buffet, complimentary bacon and eggs. My body is starting to shut down.

Did you know that ghosts exists? I have heard many stories from this family I am traveling with. Ghost ladies in the woods letting out screams, the same scream every time, spoons flying out of the sink, shadow men in the windows. It will be happy times when I'm a ghost. I will enjoy the fall foliage alone.

For the past month or two, in order to rid myself of painful social impurities, I have taken up the habit of meditating with chakras. I attempted to research this subject, but only found very vague websites and new age books which explained the seven chakra centers in full, but failed to go into any detail on how to actually utilize these.

At first I said some Lams. Lam is a chant you make in order to stimulate the first chakra. But when I moved, I had to stop chanting because it would disturb the roommates. In reality, it would probably not disturb them, they would just think I'm kind of weird, but in any case I'm too scared to do it anywhere other than my home. Yes, I still call it my home. I find it endearing in some ways, so it still deserves the name. When I moved I realized there were some everyday things I enjoyed:

- having a dog greet me
- trees surrounding me in every direction
- stars
- warmth
- bad memories

But I do dislike the folks, so I prefer to stay here. I wonder if (or when) I will give up and go back. I heard boy from Michigan moved back home last week. It is tempting to go back home, but I know I would just waste away there. And eat a lot of granola.

Anyway, I had to find some other way to stimulate my root chakra. The root chakra is located at the base of the spine, and is home to the emotions involving security, safety, food, the basic needs of life. It is the chakra of the physical world, which many spiritual practitioners skip in order to reach the higher, out-of-body realms. This is not advisable.

So I began experimenting, and I created scenarios that I should play out during meditation based off of things I had researched. Each meditation started with sending the energy of the earth up from the ground through my feet and legs to the root chakra. So I did this five times, gently tracing the energy with my fingers. Then I would sit cross legged and try to relax, focusing on the breath. For three counts I would imagine a red flower appearing, the root chakra flower, and then for four counts I would imagine it opening. With each breath one petal of the flower would open.

After it was open I would send "roots" down into the earth from the flower, through the pillows I was sitting in, through the floor, the dirt, the pebbles, the mud, the wah-wah, the sand (?), recently I added the roots going past potatoes, then through bigger rocks, until these rocks turned into mineral stones the deeper I went, bedrock, limestone and quartz, I cut through it all with my roots. The roots of the root would then approach a glowing red light, and I would imagine sinking these roots deep into it. This was the core of the earth. I went deep into the core.

Then a sort of meditation would begin. I would send "bad" energy down the roots, transform it at the core, and send the "good" energy up. For example, "send down the insecurity, transform, send up the confidence." I would do this for 10 or 15 times with different keywords each time.

I would finish the session by whispering my Lams, which wasn't too effective overall. Of course, to finish I had to go through the laborious process of pulling the roots back up, closing the flower, making the flower disappear, then sending the energy back out through my feet.

Tonight I did all of this, until my meditation was interrupted. After sending some bad energy to the root, I suddenly began to feel as if the image in my head of the core connected to the root was frozen. It was all white. White is yin, as you know, and I wanted yang energy, because I'm a male. I need the confidence, man!

And then I began to feel someone else breathing in me, like a gentle wind howling or something, and I began to get scared, and go into a existential panic about my ego. I tried to calm myself but the sweat built up and I started to feel tingly. So I opened my eyes, and closed my root.

I think the breath I heard was just the asthma developing from living in a big city and having a room next door to a heavy smoker. But it was scary. And now I am scared of the root. But the chakra must not die.

Today I am sitting on the 6th floor of a building, looking out on the high rise patios of new york city. I'll tell you what I see:

- four flowerbins on the edge, two flowerpot on the ground. pink flowers.
- a large hanging orange butterfly, spinning from the wind. (mohican?)
- a gray watering can
- something sitting that looks like a gray owl

There is not much to see. My friend communicates to me about where and what he is eating, but he is too far away to feel any connection too. I just know that I love libraries, and I am glad to be in college because big colleges have big libraries. But then again I could just go to NYPL. Fuck college.

Hey, I can't tell you my name, but you probably already know who I am anyway. And even if you don't, a sense of mystery keeps the kids entertained, and that is why you are still reading. All I can tell you is that I'm not The Quiet Mule. He is hibernating, but he will return shortly before Christmas.

No, no, QM is not some mythical creature. He's not even a real Mule. But he is quiet. In fact, you'll probably forget that he even exists because he never says anything. But his subtle actions keep this place together. People go through their life after coming here, and whenever something good happens they think, "I did it myself." But they didn't do a thing. It was him.

A cult? I'm insulted! What makes you think this is a cult? It is just a stupid website.

I am getting confused, and it's getting cold out. Anyway, just keep stirring the coals, man. We'll get there someday.