pancakes

Vajradhara

Vajradhara

One of Many
Messages
3,786
Reaction score
49
Points
48
Location
Seattle, WA
[FONT=&quot]i hate pancakes. it seems i've always hated them....and i can't eat enough of them... my grandmothers bent figure, nightgown hanging from her gaunt body preparing silver dollar pancakes at the stove, cigarette close at hand...near the glass of whiskey.... neither of us able to look at each other and her terrible, silent imploring for my forgiveness...at what i'm not sure... her inability to help me? her unwillingness to help me? i'll never know now but she died without it...knowing that it was impossible for me to forgive her even if she was the only one that tried to make it bearable for me... i suppose she was the best of the death camp guards that really hated that they were assigned to this job, it's not what they signed up for and, yes, he feels terrible about it all and so gives you extra rations or a thicker blanket in the snowy season.... but that's just not. it's an attempt to assuage their own guilty conscience for their participation and forgiveness cannot be.[/FONT]
 
If you love to eat what you hate, that speaks volumes. You can assume she would be happy to see that you have become an adult. Sounds like she didn't think you were going to make it.
 
we're all surprised that i did....something of a random bit of luck it seems. she was the first of the trio to die though so she had no chance to know how things turned out.
 
Woah. Vajradhara, I thought you were a boy. I should have figured it out from things you've said and the flower paintings etc., but I didn't. I always thought of you as a very soft spoken man in an orange robe, probably about 45 years old and who talked like like Quai Chang Caine.
 
lumpy bits of unmixed dough rise like small islands in the sea of syrup and butter.

i've endeavored to present myself as gender neutral, you know... ideas and all of that and, just so you know... i'm in my early 40's but i don't have an orange robe! (my school uses maroon ones! ;))

wooden mixing spoons and bent, old wisks vainly seek out the unmixed lumps but pass them by without ever disturbing their potential for pancake disruption.
 
I hate pancakes too.

They're just a bit of flour mixed with water. Yuk, yuk yuk. I just hate it when the flour monster comes alive and attacks me inside the mouth.
 
speaking of literary greatness, my mother achieved pancake greatness a long time ago; now that's a story to remember
 
i can't get that ****ing image of her making pancakes out of my head... i'm staring out the glass door in the kitchen which leads to the patio and watching the morning glories blaze their brilliant blue only to shortly close up and hide when the heat of the sun came upon them.

god...how i envied those flowers.

the stink of stale ashes and fresh cigarettes always gives the pancakes a strange flavor... another mystery solved... but a sea of syrup and lakes of butter can even drive away the drunken demon in the other room. only for a little while of course, but that little while is the bulk of the positive memories from that part childhood and even they are tinged with self-loathing and a towering, terrible, raging anger which would nearly consume the whole of my being.
 
...and yet those very morning glories that you envied are considered by many to be a noxious weed that will strangle the flowers you try to cultivate in your garden. Once you get even a piece of a morning glory root in your garden, it will keep coming back, again and again. {The morning glories we have out here are white}

However, the morning glories don't care much about pancakes. ;)
 
Now that my misunderstanding about Vajradhara has been corrected, I will no longer imagine them as Kane. As a construction of my imagination based upon my perception of their posts. I am relocating them from the Karate section to the section of my imagination where I keep the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Now they are more like an Arthur with a Towel than a Quai Change Kane character. Nuts and bolts of the mind, always turning.
 
the sky is purple today...i'm not sure but it's possible the sky has always been purple. i feel like a dream, unreal and ethereal floating through a misty anonymous world. the mirror doesn't reflect me back to me, there's a stranger staring at me from those eyes...and i have the feeling that the stranger resents me, begrudges me even a momentary autonomy to experience the life which i built.


Me Me is there today, like always, dressed in her nightgown...and i wonder if she has more than one of them or if she just wears the same one over and over day after day... stained with cigarettes, whiskey and shame. she sits on the couch or in the kitchen at the table staring at something that only she can see. i've often thought to ask her what it is that she sees...maybe it's visions of how her life used to be...perhaps it's hopes of how her life could have gone...but i think it's the starkness of the reality in which she lives which causes her to look away...to drown in whiskey and self loathing.
 
**looks up from playing with tan-grams**

hmm, is the mirror broken?

One thing I like about tan-grams is that they remind me of this:

A mountain is a mountain and water is water before sunyata experience, but after it a mountain is not a mountain, and water is not water, but when the experience deepens, a mountain is a mountain and water is water.
Click to expand...

There must be 88,000 or more possible configurations of tan-grams, such as this one:

seattlegal-albums-misc-picture1292-tangram-boxed-arrow.png


**wanders off to the kitchen to see if I can procure some tan-gram pancakes for the preta**
 
the mirror isn't broken it's the images contained therein which are malformed and misshapen, only partially reflecting that which appears.

...and i wonder what the point of it all is...what the point in the struggling is, what the whole value added statement is all about. perhaps acquiescence is a more amenable alternative... why worry about the fun house images in the mirror when we can just play and have fun with them?

there's an odor today...something strange yet familiar, like the smell of stale alcohol, cigarettes and cold. it seems strange to be able to smell cold as if i'm imparting some textual context to the smells trying to separate them from memories and currently arising experience and perhaps i am.

i'm afraid of the flashbacks today.

~jae
 
it's been raining for days... hell... maybe it's been raining for years, it's hard to tell and it's hard to tell if it's worth wondering why that distinction doesn't matter.

we have a brick wall that faces the afternoon sun and in the evening my grandmother and i would sit outside and let the warm bricks keep the nighttime chill away... we cherished that time together...that respite in the torrential downpour that awaited us indoors... i wondered if it would be possible to melt into the bricks...burn myself up and dissolve into the radiance of the evening sky.
 
was Arthur ----> now Marvin the Robot

Brain the size of a planet, and what do I wind up doing? Making internet posts. Life? Don't talk to me about life!
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top