Saturday night I was invited to test out the possibility if Pinot Grigio will cure one's meditiation hangover. That afternoon I was invited to a bonfire, and whisked away to procure some supplies. On the way to store, I looked down at my feet and noticed that I was still wearing my bedroom slippers. And yes, I insisted we return, because there was just no way of faking it. They are warm and fuzzy and resemble little of currently accepted footwear. Walking into the liquor store would just beg spectators to form a wide variety of interesting assumptions. And at that moment, I was not comfortable having those assumption applied liberally to myself and my slippers. So I opted for some non-descript sandals. The bonfore was jolly and there were many jokes about dancing naked. While nudity did not transpire there was zucchini salsa. I think my next culinary endeavor is going to involve 10 cups of grated zucchini. Stay tuned.
I am here to assure you that a real hang-over will not cure the meditation hangover when ylater you are to have intense and vivid dreams about being back at the retreat. Especially when the dream is so delicious that you just surrender and allow it to unfold in all its peregrine realness. Of course, as Murphy's Law states, the better the dream the more likely a child will jump on your bed. I woke with an immediate familiarity and decided that a real hangover in combination with a meditation hangover is a far worse combination than the culminating effects of shamatha. There is no harm in experimenting, however.
Yesterday evening I decided to take Owen and Harry to the movies. We were all in need of artificial stimulation and it would be a nice hurrah before the week creeps in and forces us all to wake at 7am. Zoom was playing at the base theatre, which would offer sufficient entertainment to our lot. A dash of surreality eddied into the theatre. The microphone kept appearing on film. It seemed that the cameraman, editor and director were all on crack. I started counting the scenes when the mic could be clearly visible, and stopped somewhere around 15. I was not the only one who noticed. Everytime it appeared, I could hear a collective whisper, and at times even a gasp. The mic would appear, sometimes poking into the scene, sometimes sticking there like a dangling phallus. There were even clear views of the boom. One step back and we'd be able to see the caterers too. I spent the rest of my time trying to figure this out. This, I must admit, was far more entertaining than the movie itself. This could not be the fault of the theatre. Aren't they supposed to just show the film and have no control over matters such as mics and bad camera angles? This movie had CGI. How hard would it be to edit this out? Why the hell are we sitting here watching a rough edit and not the finished product? I then imagined how much money was badly invested in this venture, and thought, gee...with THAT much on the line you would think that some attention could be paid to a clear view of the microphone. Its appearance really hampered one's suspension of belief, to an already bad movie. Then I wondered if this was done intentionally...but if it were, you would think there would be some overt reference to it at some point. This was not one of those kinds of movies. Weird.
Being thrown head first into routine, will no doubt, do me some good.
16 hours ago