A newsletter about the stories we tell ourselves, have always told ourselves, and will continue to tell ourselves until it's all over.

Narita Landrace #10

Dec 4, 2022

Today I sketched the Buddha.

My children ask me my work,

now that my work is my home,

and I can’t explain it beyond providing comfort.

They ask why my job is important,

and I don’t know, but I am comfortable.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

the icons differ by tradition.

Mahayana. Vajrayana. Tantric. Esoteric.

I pronounce these words American

and want to cut my tongue out,

but the Buddha looks contented.

[Do I dare remind myself that he looks contented

because I made him look contented?]

Today I sketched the Buddha.

His earlobes are fucking huge.

How did anyone see past those?

The flowers that I put in his hair

are growing more elaborate each day,

and his nose looks real now.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Nothing can be created nor destroyed,

according to the Men of Science,

so my sketches already existed before I sketched,

even as it is unclear if Buddha was real.

But he exists now, billions of times over,

and nothing can be created nor destroyed.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

Today I sketched the Buddha.

When I die and my sketches are ash,

0ur essence will remain according to God.

You see Him now, don’t you? Around you everywhere.

The stories of His kindness are merely secondhand.