Tinkenfeiler

Where is the mind?

Lately I have been calling my ... self ... to attention. It's a check-in procedure. How am I doing? What's going on? Do I need a tweak or some other intervention?

I say 'the' mind rather than 'my' mind. I don't want to be fooled about being in control. And, 'my' mind sounds so singular and individual. Who am the I that argues with me over the second piece of cake?

When I realized that mind is not alone here - poof - the heart pops in. Think and feel.

Late one night I invented the Tinkenfeiler; a German sounding Rube Goldberg machine that captures and compresses butterfly farts. Ha!

Now I ask, in my best fake German,
"Was ist mit der Tinkenfeiler?"
Never fails to get a grin. How's it going with you?

This Morning

This Morning

At 3:25 this morning
lying in bed in the dark
my feet are chilly and
I am thinking about shit.
Thinking. Mentally.
About shit.
Am I an excrementalist?

Do I have to get up
and make a note of that?
Or, will I remember?
If I get up I could put
socks on and maybe a
sweatshirt.

Then I hear the voice
in my head that I use
when I am talking
to you.

That's the signal.

It's now 3:40 a.m.
I've written it down and
turned off the light.

The birds have started chirping.
Maybe their feet are cold.


4/17/12

Curious?